A handwritten sign for a tag sale on Meriweather Lane caught my eye as I drove home after some Christmas shopping. A tag sale? In December? Did I really want or need to shuffle around a chilly garage perusing someone’s cast-offs? Of course not.
But I took the left on Meriweather, pulled over to the curb in front of a brick McMansion, and parked. I silenced the radio and Perry Como’s jolly partridges and pears and pocketed my keys. As I walked up the driveway, a dog barked inside the house, and a male voice called out, “Be there in a minute! Just putting on a sweater!”
The garage door gaped open to admit me, watery sunlight, and raw cold. Tables laden with books, worn holiday decorations, tin cookie cutters, clay molds, stacks of vinyl record albums, craft supplies, and a battalion of miniature Eiffel Towers were set wherever they could fit. I had to inch past a folded wheelchair to view items toward the back.
Drawn by the cover illustration of a koala, I flipped through the pages of a children’s book. The colorful pictures of raccoons, owls, and bears were appealing, so I decided to buy it for my grandkids. Other than that, my browsing was done and when the homeowner appeared, I was ready to leave.
He was pale and slight of build, and his fly-away, graying hair was disheveled, no doubt from the tussle with his argyle sweater. He gave me a rundown on general pricing then added, “unless it’s something unique... like Susan’s wheelchair.”
He was clearly disappointed when I held up my lone find.
“Oh. Well. That’ll be $.25.”
As I rooted about in my pocketbook for a quarter, I remarked on his courage in holding a December tag sale.
“Truthfully, I’ve been holding them on and off since July. My wife – that’s her wheelchair – died in June.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry...”
“They wanted to put Susan in a home, but I promised her that as long as I lived, I would take care of her here. And I did.”
His eyes reddened as he spoke with admiration of Susan’s degrees, career, and command of five languages. “When I think of her at a podium, speaking before large audiences… or here, hosting parties for her students… yes, she was like that. We always had groups of students around. And then,” he paused, his voice wavering, “she had a stroke. So, take care of any little health issues you have: high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes. These took Susan down. ”
He pulled out a handkerchief and wadded it to his eyes as tears flowed. My own eyes filled as I imagined the difference in this man and this house when Susan - vibrant, brilliant Susan - was here as companion and hostess.
Christmas is poignant even in the absence of loss. The plastic bins hauled from our attic are filled with memories. Christmases past are layered between white sheets of tissue: popsicle stick ornaments made by my kids in elementary school, the velveteen Santa from my parents for Tucker’s first Christmas. Ornaments of bread dough and papier mache that conjure family craft projects in the early eighties. So many Santas, angels, and artfully decorated styrofoam balls given or created over the years by friends and family. I miss those days when my own parents were youthful and strong, when our kids, giddy with excitement, snuggled in bed to wait for Saint Nicholas.
But Christmas Present is richly blessed! The day itself is still weeks away, but the house is fully decorated. Dave and I attended a performance of A Christmas Carol with our daughter, Casey, and five-year-old Eleanor who was thrilled to see her kindergarten teacher onstage as Mrs. Fezziwig. We have gathered with friends over too-much food, joined the shopping bustle at craft shows and the mall, and listened, happily, to countless versions of “White Christmas.”
How many times have I looked over at my Dave through all these festivities and felt a prickle in my nose at seeing that dear, beaming face loving these people and cherishing these moments as fully as I am? Soon enough, these will be the days that make me misty even as now I miss their brethren past.
We recently discovered a treasure from 1982, a tape of our son, Tucker, reciting “The Night Before Christmas” with the help of a few cues whispered in the background by his dad. Dave and I listen and smile, eyes bright and damp as our little one’s childish sing-song voice announces, “BUMPF! Down the chimney Saint Nicholas came with a bound,” adding that ”BUMPF!” as we always did in reading the story to him, just as we add it now while reading to our grandkids.
Recently my sister, Rita, texted that she’d re-read a commemorative book she’d made with the hymns, readings, and eulogies from my dad’s funeral. “I had no idea it had been so long since he died,” she wrote, “I’m losing time! It’s been eleven years!” It’s hard to believe my big, solid, mischievous, boisterous, funny, beloved father has been among the ghosts of Christmases past for that long.
The other night, Dave and I were out to dinner at Molto, one of our favorite restaurants. Surrounded by the chatter, lights, and festivity of the season, I borrowed Dave’s handkerchief and tearfully confessed my maudlin musings. I mentioned my nostalgic memories, and touched on my clash of joy, guilt, and sorrow in the staggering contrast between our lives and the suffering people in Ukraine, Israel, and Gaza. Those who have lost loved ones in shootings. Those beset by floods and wildfires. I was on a roll, and I snuffled into his handkerchief while ranting about our poor country, upended by violence and political upheaval.
Dave regarded me, his brow furrowed with loving frustration. “You have too many black crayons in your crayon box,” he said.
Maybe. Maybe. But it’s not so much about shadows as wishing everyone had it as good as we do. And I want better from the rich and powerful. As he did to Scrooge, I want Dickens’s Marley to shake his chains and wail in fury at those driven by self-serving agendas and money. I want them to heed his remorse over his unfeeling pursuit of gold at the expense of others when he should have known that “mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business: charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!” And let’s add the health of the planet and well-being of our fellow creatures to the list, while we’re at it.
And oh, how I wish Susan were still here to celebrate Christmas with her grieving husband on Meriweather Lane.
After paying for the koala book, it was time to leave. Why would I linger longer in that cold, sad garage? In parting, I drew the man in his argyle sweater into my arms, and the two of us cried and held each other. Then I returned to the blessing of my cozy car and Perry Como for the drive home to my Dave.
Thank you dear Allison! I love that line too - Dave is a wise one! Hugs to you! XO
Thank you so much Alice. I love this picture too. So precious, so classic. Dear old Dad (as he called himself) and my (formerly) little ones!