....by D. Grant DeMan
On his last Christmas, Daddy and Momma remembered their daughter’s first
Why, a brand-new beautiful baby sister Sent from Heaven by God above. A tiny package. Our bundle of love. |
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Daddy’s Christmas Angel
....by D. Grant DeMan
On his last Christmas, Daddy and Momma remembered their daughter’s first
My daddy was ninety-eight. On his last Christmas Day Mom and I sat with him on our bench in Royston in absorbing the glorious Comox Valley majesty of season, pensively sharing our joy. “See that pine, son.” He pointed to a decorated young Candlestick. “The angel at the top. Doesn’t that bring back the memories, Mom. Remember that first Christmas with Marg. That little rhyme you sang.” “I think I remember, Dad. Let me see.......
What did we get for Christmas, Mister? Why, a brand-new beautiful baby sister
Sent from Heaven by God above.
A tiny package. Our bundle of love.
Picture by D. Grant DeMan
In 1937our log home stood back from the road near a bubbling country stream. Brooding pines, tenaciously rooted in rock and sand, reached up through a cerulean sky. Icicles stabbed down through the bank in front. Silence. Bears, weasels and pack rats lie slumbering, though now and then the bark of a wolf, the haunting hoot of an owl, or the high, braying croak of a Steller's jay echoed through the valley in chorus with the cracking ricochet of explosions as sap froze, splitting limbs and trunks. The whispering trail of white smoke from the galvanized stack and the inviting orange glow through the window spoke softly of the tender love within.
Daddy had gone off to fetch Momma from the hospital. In my second year of life I was home with Anna, the hired girl, eagerly awaiting the arrival of my baby sister. Every enchanted hand-hewn board, log and door in the house seemed to welcome Margaret Joan. With absolutely nothing but deep enduring love, great hope and sacrifice, they erected our home for their new family. For twenty years they had prayed for their first miracle - me. When Mom realized she was again pregnant, it was the miracle of miracles. And a girl no less! Hallelujah!
During the summer and fall parcels arrived regularly from such exotic places as Drumheller, Calgary and Vancouver, Seattle, Los Angeles and San Francisco, our pioneering family having spread wide across a continent. Pink and blue blankets, silver spoons and cups. I'd 'help' Mom iron new comforters and quilts, placed lovingly away as time went on, while she grew bigger and bigger. Repetitively she explained what was happening. Daddy took me for walks out in the backwoods initiating me in the responsibility of having a little baby sibling, sometimes choking in his joy. His children were to be the silver lining behind their hard-time cloud, that Cumulonimbus of the Depression, the dirty thirties were becoming the divine decade. They had turned the dark cloud inside out, and now the struggle was as nothing. A baby was on the way!
When December came, they took Mamma away to have the baby. Oh, how I missed her. Never a day of my life had passed that she didn't hold and kiss me and attend to my needs. I longed for the music of her voice, the lullabies she sang just to me. The touch of her hand.
"She'll be back. A little brother or sister for you. Don't cry. She'll be back to love you again." Such consoling. But I wanted my mama; and, although I found it exciting to expect a new sister or brother, at the age of twenty-two months, it was an elusive concept.
Now, the day had arrived. I perched on my favorite spot, the back of a sofa my folks had made from the old Nash car seat, one that offered a good view of traffic. Johnny Sugar's sedan rolled up the drive, the doors opened, and I saw people with steamy breaths carrying blankets and baskets. Where was Momma? Where was the baby? There was Daddy wearing his dark Fedora with a scarf around his ears, and in his arms he gently held a pink blanketed bundle. They were coming in. Right into the house! I wet my pants.
The following days became quite a whirligig for us. Mom explained the usual anatomical differences between myself and sister accompanied by bathing, powdering and lullabies.
"She must always be warm, but never cover her face; and always keep Mike, the cat, and other animals away from her." Totally awesome.
My first grown-up buddy, Bill Burton, dropped in dressed in red plaid lumber jacket and wearing hob-nail boots (which he exchanged for hob-nailed slippers at the door in deference for Momma's pine floors.) "What's her name, Joe?" He asked my dad.
"We're calling her Margaret Joan after Pearl's mom."
"A mighty fine name, hey Don? Donald Grant and Margaret Joan. Music to the ears. She's petite. As pretty as her Momma." He proclaimed, raising his tin cup, "And may she be as smart and kind as Pearl." Momma blushed. Bill was in love with her. He tried not to show his envy of dad, but now and then a tear would come to his eye. And Dad, in turn, carefully suppressed a mild barb of jealousy if Bill hung around a little too long.
When I looked in on Margaret Joan my little heart filled with joy. Corny, but true. This was my sister; for me to love and protect. The youngest part of our home. A Dad and a Mom, a Girl and a Boy. That's just the perfect family. Visitors came in droves to see the new child. To bring their presents; a dollar here, a blanket there; a silver spoon and maybe a cup, some soap and a washcloth. The celebrants drank coffee laced with Pacific Milk, toasted her health with Canada Dry, and tried not to smoke too near the baby. Margaret Joan giggled a little; but mostly she slept, smiling. So gorgeous . . . so tender.
Daddy still had the ax in his hand when he lugged the Christmas tree through the door. Magically up and decorated with real electric lights, and precious glass ornaments, tinsel and canes, it was a wonderment! I failed to realize that the stuff was old and worn, that it had traveled through thousands of homeless miles. The presents were carefully arranged under the tree, seemingly more impressive; packages wrapped in paper that had been reused for countless seasons by hands now long gone from us. The sight brought delight to my little heart. All this, and a sister too! I wet my pants.
Daddy cradled the top-of-the-tree Christmas angel in his hands; the time had arrived to place her in her rightful spot, but he looked down at the worn-out dress, the broken wing and the cracked cheek with a little frown on his weathered face. Those big hands with banana fingers holding that tiny wreck of an angel doll. In the midst of our joy, Momma and I could sense that pang of failure in Daddy. "It's not much of an angel. Is it?"
Momma went over and embraced him. They kissed gently. "Joe. I love you. And here with you, the family together and well, I'm the happiest woman alive. Put the angel on the tree, and look down in the basket at Margaret Joan. The Lord has given us this year a real live beautiful Christmas angel of our very own, an angel who will grow up, do good and have a family of her own. Our grand children, our great grand children, our family tree. All in our precious little girl."
I broke the silence of that poignant moment: "You mean Margaret Joan is our Christmas Angel?"
A chorus of two loving voices responded: "You betcha!"
I wet my pants.
And on his very last Christmas in Royston, a tear returned to the old man’s eye. “We surely were a happy bunch, Mom.”
“You betcha, Daddy. Happy as four bugs in a rug.”
This time I managed to hold back.
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