Christmas Potpourri...A Memoir

Christmas Potpourri...A Memoir

By Carole Shukle

All Rights Reserved. Copyright 1998.

When I was a kid, I used to love our family Christmases. I would look forward to the trimming of the tree, to Mom baking cookies and making cakes, and to the presents piling up under the tree. Like any kid, I would sneak under the tree and count packages, making sure my two older brothers and myself each had the same amount of gifts. I never shook the gifts, because I was afraid I might guess the contents and ruin Christmas morning.

I loved the colorful Christmas wrapping, the various sizes and shapes of packages, and each glass ornament which had some secret significance to my Mom. I enjoyed the blinking multi-colored lights, especially the bubble lights. I would lie on my back with my hands tucked under the back of my head and watch the bubbles pump and rise in the needle-like tube and wonder where the bubbles went when they reached the top.

One of my favorite things about decorating the tree was stringing the silver icicles. I remember yelling at my brothers for taking clumps of icicles and throwing them in the tree like big silver snowballs. I preferred to place the icicles on the tree one or two strands at a time, so they would hang straight and sway gently when anyone walked by the tree.

I could never sleep on Christmas Eve. I would always wake my brothers at about four in the morning. We would then start to make noise around the house, hoping we would awaken our parents. It never failed. Dad would yell at us to go back to bed until six, but usually Mom would get up and make coffee. The heavy aroma would wind its way up the stairs to my Dad’s room. In a few minutes he would make his way down to the kitchen still in pajamas and robe. Mom would serve pancakes smothered in butter and syrup, with bacon, and ice cold milk. I would always dip my crispy bacon in the excess syrup before I popped it into my mouth, a habit I still have today.

After breakfast we gathered around the tree. My brothers would just want to dive in and open all the gifts at once, but I wanted Christmas to last. I convinced them to let me pass out the presents one at a time, so we could enjoy all the gifts. I would try to find a present for each person in turn. I had a pretty good idea where they were because of my snooping. Before long, my brothers’ impatience overwhelmed my initiative, and they were diving in when I handed a gift to Mom or Dad. I finally gave up and dove in as well.

My Dad loved to take pictures. During the opening of presents, he would have his camera set up on a tripod and be snapping pictures as we happily held up our new loot. Later that day, when we were all properly dressed, he would set the timer on his camera and rush to join us for our annual Christmas family picture. It’s no wonder we always looked a bit surprised in those family portraits.

One Christmas Eve, when I couldn’t sleep, I crept down the stairs to look at the presents one more time and to check on the cookies and milk I had left Santa. To my surprise, I found Dad assembling toys as he happily munched on a cookie. That was the Christmas I found out there was no Santa Claus. Before Dad noticed me, I crept back up the stairs with the image of Dad with a milk stain on his upper lip chomping on cookies left for Santa. Christmas was a little sadder for me that year, but I realized I was getting too old to believe in Santa anyway. After all, I was six.

No single Christmas really stands out in my memory. Oh, I remember over the years the shiny new bikes that progressed in size, the blue and white record player complete with a 45 adapter, a chemistry set, and a kit for building my own radio.

Adulthood brought many changes to our Christmases. While Mom was alive, my family would always go to Mom and Dad’s for Christmas, but because my brothers were scattered around the country, we rarely had a good old fashioned Christmas with all the family together. Now, it is usually just my Dad and his wife, my daughter and her husband, and my husband and myself. Christmas comes to our home now.

My husband goes all out for Christmas. He handcrafts all of our outdoor decorations-- nothing store bought for him. This year he made a twenty-six foot tree of lights which he hoists upward by pulley, like the sail on a ship. We also have Caroling Cats with an arched sign in lights which reads, “Have A Meowy Christmas And A Happy Mew Year.” Each cat is a life-like representation of our own four cats. Santa sits in his sleigh, loaded with presents, while all the reindeer ready for take-off. Last but not least, the nativity star, shaped like a four-point cross, sits overlooking the road. He fills our home with the Christmas spirit making Christmas a true delight for me again.

Each year at this time, though, I get an empty feeling I can’t quite describe. It’s more of a longing. I would love to have a close family where everyone can be together for Christmas. I find myself wishing our family had grown closer over the years, rather than farther apart. When I think back to all of those childhood Christmases, I realize I had the foundation and security of a close family and many joyous times with my family. No one can ever take that away, but no one can give it back to me either.

Published in Memoir Writing, December, 2001.

A Second Chance - A Memoir

THE PHOTOS FROM DAYTONA. I AM ADDING TO THEM EACH DAY ON THE SAME POST.

THE HORSEHAIR BRUSH SHORT STORY

Carole Shukle

990 Words

A Second Chance - A Memoir

A Second Chance

Our mahogany speedboat skipped down the St. John’s river on a sunny afternoon in June. I had not a care in the world. I was a like a sponge soaking up the Florida beauty that surrounded me. Sleek, blue herons flew lazily along the river’s edge in search of a good meal. Turtles piled in a cascading waterfall of shells and legs on sun drenched logs, and alligators posed frozen with heads held toward the sun. Lush, tropical cypress created a dense, green backdrop to this exquisite canvas of nature. I remember thinking I had somehow slipped millions of years back in time to the era of the dinosaurs and lost worlds.

My husband handled the boat while he chatted with his two nieces who were down for a visit. We merged into the main river where boat traffic multiplied rapidly. The feeling of being lost in an uninhabited world quickly vanished with the noise of motors, the noise of laughter drifting across the water, and the noise of teens screaming as they zipped by on jet-skis jumping wakes. The peace and serenity of my private thoughts disappeared with the invasion of civilization.

A huge cigarette boat with twin 454s passed by us making me think of drug runners and the television show Miami Vice. I always hated those things, but before I could even complete my thoughts a huge wake back-flushed our small boat and lifted part of it out of the water. The boat tilted and then fell forward tipping to its starboard side only to hit an oncoming wake which stacked a moderate wall of water in front of us. The boat continued to flip. In that instant my life and thoughts plunged into the realm of slow motion. I wondered if my life was going to pass before my eyes before I died.

I had been sitting up on the back of the front seat when I felt my body lifting and flying over the windshield as the boat started into its slow roll and flip. I felt as though I were in a tunnel, because I was only aware of my own being. I saw nothing of what happened to the others in the boat. None of us was wearing life preservers, but we did have those floating cushions on board. The reddish-brown water made me think of blood in the water. I felt my leg scrape across the top of the windshield ripping my skin like a can being opened with one of those old fashioned up-and-down can openers, but surprisingly I felt no pain. Fleeting thoughts of the motor’s blades slicing into us were shoved aside when my head parted the waters. The water felt like jello closing around my body because of the dream-like sensation of time progressing ever so slowly. Each second was etched in my mind like a fine drawing.

I seemed to go deeper and deeper and wondered if my breath would last. My lungs ached from the desire to inhale and breathe in the thick, fluid water. I wondered if somehow I would sprout gills and be able to swim underwater in perfect peace and harmony with the world that existed there. I wanted to breathe, but something would not let me take that desperate breath. I remember looking around seeing nothing under water, but finally a glimmer of light like a faraway diamond caught my eye. I headed for it, but every second seemed like a minute of torture. A giant hand crushed my lungs with each passing moment. I ached all over. My arms flailed trying to reach the surface. I began to wonder if I was already dead and the glimmer of light was that bright light in heaven inviting me to leave this life to begin another. Finally, I broke the surface and gasped for air.

Apparently, I was in shock as I found out later, because a gentleman was on a party barge when our boat flipped. He saw me break to the surface gasping for air and swung an oar out to me. He told me later the oar was right in front of my face, and my eyes were wide open. I made no move to grab it; I began to slowly slip back underneath the water. I remember feeling the water close over the top of my head almost in a comforting fashion like it was saying, “It’s okay. I’ll take care of you.” I began to sink further and further down. Again my lungs ached, but this time I did not fight. I welcomed in the water; it filled my lungs closing out my oxygen. The water around me turned black as tar, and all I could feel was a sensation of sinking very slowly to the bottom. In my mind’s eye it was only a dream, a pleasant release from the trials of the world. I felt at peace and even happy. That’s all I remember until I awakened in a moving ambulance. I heard voices and felt hands pushing on my chest rhythmically and felt air rushing into my lungs.

Later, the gentleman on the party boat came to visit me at the hospital. When he saw me go under water, he let go of the oar and jumped into the water to save me. He dove two or three times before he was able to grab my floating hair. He pulled me up to the surface. I was unconscious. He thought I was dead. My husband had grabbed a floating ski that escaped from our boat. He was able to grab his two nieces who had their floating cushions, but apparently I was first to hit the water, and they were quite a distance from me. I will always be grateful to the stranger who cared enough to get involved.