This week I watched an eight-episode 2007 Masterpiece series, Lilies, set in 1920 Liverpool. I also read Rosemary: The Hidden Kennedy Daughter, by Kate Clifford Larson. I'm now several chapters into David McCullough's The Wright Brothers. So I've spent a lot of time reflecting on how we existed in far less technologically-advanced times.
I've also enjoyed walking around the flowered grounds of my apartment complex, admiring the roses, marigolds and pansies. It's been a cool May for Southern California, a break after a warm winter and a hot summer to come.
Perhaps not so oddly, I have been remembering another time when I was without the full use of my left hand...and had to cope with Christmas! I'll always remember this particular Christmas.
The Offhand Christmas
Though it was still a week until Christmas, I’d already
addressed and mailed the cards, bought the tree, and hidden away family
presents in a closet that my husband never looked in.
“For once it’s under control,” I’d congratulated myself, as
Ken and I headed for bed. On Saturday I’d shop for a turkey, pick up oranges
and cranberries for relish, and bake pecan tassies. Ken enjoyed the tasty tarts,
and I could squish together margarine, cream cheese and flour and press it into
the mini-muffin tins a lot more easily than I could roll out a perfect pie crust.
Ken’s son, Rick, and his wife Angela, would arrive Christmas
Eve, and we’d spend the holiday walking the dogs in the snow, playing hearts,
and listening to holiday music, enjoying what we deemed our traditional family
fest.
I’d hoped to fall asleep quickly, but winds whistled around
the windows, and I covered my head with my pillow. I heard banging, and
remembered that I hadn’t checked if all the doors had been locked before we
came to bed, nor had I counted cats. We had three, and in winter we sometimes
experienced menacing overnight temperature drops.
I crept out of bed, and started down the stairs. About the
third step down my right foot landed on Harpo, my marmalade cat. Before I could
grab the railing, I tumbled, head first, throwing out my left arm to break my
fall. I landed, stunned, at the foot of the stairs, but when I finally
struggled to my feet I suspected I’d sustained a serious injury. My left arm
hung limply by my side and my shoulder felt lumpy.
I dragged back upstairs and woke Ken.
“I doubt anything’s broken,” he said. “It’s probably a
sprain. What were you doing wandering around in the dark?”
“I thought I heard the screen door banging. I wanted to make
sure the cats were all inside. Then I stepped on Harpo. He blended in with the carpet.”
 |
| Harpo, the villain feline. |
“If you still think something’s wrong when the sun comes up,
I’ll drive you to the hospital. Try to get some sleep. I wish the winds would
die down.”
I flopped down on my right side and drifted off, despite my
throbbing arm and the howling winds.
By dawn my arm had swollen to twice its normal size. Ken
drove me to the hospital. The ER doctor said x-rays revealed that the ball of my
shoulder had been knocked out of its socket and sustained multiple fractures.
He'd schedule surgery. My arm would be immobilized in a sling for several
weeks. If no complications developed, I possibly could return home by Christmas
Eve
Ken listened patiently to my concerns prior to the
operation. He’d undergone a quadruple bypass himself eight months earlier, so knew
I worried about the strain on him of trying to take care of the cats, dogs…and
me.
I nattered on about Christmas, how I still had gifts to
wrap, groceries to buy, tarts to bake, floors to mop, and tables to dust. With
an immobilized arm, how would I even bathe, dress and feed myself? I’d heard
the old joke about people who broke a hand, wrist or shoulder the week or so
before Christmas in order to avoid kitchen duty. Not funny.
“Calm down,” Ken finally said. “I’ll take care of
everything. I’m not incapable, you know.”
The surgery went well, so on Christmas Eve the doctor
discharged me with a long list of do’s and don’ts, heavy on the latter.
Once at home, I again peppered Ken with my worries:
“How will I wrap the presents? What about tinsel? The tassies?
Oh, no, we didn’t buy a turkey. There might not be any fresh ones left at the
market and it’s too late to thaw one.”
“All taken care of,” Ken said, with an assertive nod. “We’ve
got ribeyes in the freezer and I’ll barbecue. I’ll stick some potatoes in the
oven, along with a frozen apple pie, and we’ve got plenty of salad makings. Now
stop worrying.”
“The tinsel? The presents?”
“The tree has plenty of ornaments. It doesn’t need any tinsel.
Stuff the gifts in bags and stick a label on the outside. We don’t need ribbons
and foil.”
I glowered, but grabbed a fistful of grocery sacks and a pad
of labels and headed to the closet where I’d stashed the gifts. I’d ordered most
of the presents online, since we lived far from any department stores. Luckily,
I'd opened the boxes as they’d arrived. I never could have managed now with
just one hand. My forehead wrinkled with regret as I plopped each gift into a
plastic carrier bag. I hoped the recipients would forgive their appearance. I
scrawled names on stickers and slapped them on the sacks. Thank heavens my
right hand worked all right.
They sure don’t look like Christmas presents, I thought, as
I dragged the bags to the tree.
On Christmas morning Ken helped me open the fancy packages
that Rick and Angela had brought. We joked about the grocery bags but agreed
this was an environmentally green effort, since we’d recycle the bags, rather
than shove them in the rubbish bin.
 |
| Natty and Nami in the snow. |
It indeed had snowed and we took the dogs for their morning
frisk. This time Ken held the Akita’s leash. Later we played our traditional
hearts game, even though it took some time for me to sort out my cards and
arrange them in order with only one hand. When it was my turn to deal, Rick
dealt for me.
In the late afternoon as the sun began its descent, Ken and
Rick fired up the barbecue and set the table. Angela tossed a salad and chopped
green onions to top the baked potatoes. Then we took our usual seats and Ken
carried in his ribbies from the grill. Everybody else dug in. I picked up my
fork and stared at my plate.
I decided to adopt a light note.
“How am I going to eat this? Do I pick up the whole thing in
my hand and start to gnaw? Do I lean down like the dogs and nibble around the
edges?”
After they all shared a hearty laugh at my quandary and Rick
had said Grace, Ken cut my steak into bite-sized chunks, added a dollop of sour
cream to my potato, and filled my salad plate. He did everything but spoon-feed
me my slice of pie.
The trio even cleared the table and washed the dishes while
I sat in the living room in front of the tinsel-free tree, reviewing the day as
I sipped a nightcap of mulled wine.
The snowy stroll, free from a two-handed struggle to
restrain a 115-pound Akita, the slower-paced card game which provided more time
to chat, the novelty of a Christmas barbecue, and watching my capable Ken take
charge...I’d been delighted by it all.
I soon went to bed, still weak from trauma and surgery, but
glowing with contentment. Ken was right. Christmas needs neither flashily
wrapped gifts nor the shimmer of a tinseled tree…not even the tang of cranberry
relish, nor the scent of a roasting turkey. Christmas just needed us, willing
to share its timeless message of peace.
Posts
