Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Parker Street and 12/24
The car slides a bit as we turn the corner onto Parker Street. I can see the lights in the window and all the cars crowded into the little space that the plow cleared in the driveway. More cars equal more presents I think to myself as I eagerly put my mittens back on and prepare for the cold. Familiar figures greet me at the door and I am devoured into a sea of hugs and 'sugars'. A treasured face seeks me out of this crowd and says, "Come to Grandma". Her cigarette is distinguished and her two free hands envelope me into a cocoon of familiar smells. Her soft cheek brushes mine. She removes my coat and instructs me to take it into Grandma and Grandpa's room and put it on the bed (because that's where the coats go!).
Muffled laughter and the voice of my favorite teenager cause me to pause as I pass the door to the upstairs. I spy the stretched cord from the telephone on the wall that is straining to make its way into the stairwell and I know who is in there. My little hand taps on the door and I stand tiptoe to reach the knob. The door creeps open and the scent of Jovan Musk fills my nose. A perfectly white smile invites me to climb the couple of stairs to where she is. I snuggle into her lap. A can of Diet Pepsi sits next to her and I sneak a sip while she continues to gossip.
Laughter and commotion catch my attention and I decide to investigate. Climbing down the stairs, my tights snag on one of the many nails peaking out from the paneling. "DaffyNeice!" I hear when the door opens. I stifle a giggle as I watch a wrestling match ensuing in the living room between two crazy boys in their teens. The comment is repeated, "DaffyNeice!" as he pins his little brother in a magnificent headlock. A tattooed man with twinkling eyes steps in and threatens the belt. His hair is unruly and his voice is full of laughter. He bends over and gives me a peck on the cheek.
I throw my coat up and it lands on top of the mound. I then make my way to the best place in the whole room… the foot of the bed where the toys are kept. I select the dog on a string and command it to follow, its red plastic tongue wagging behind me. The perfect spot in the living room is still unoccupied and I run to it with fervor. The warm gusts of air from the vent in the side of the wall blow out at me causing my hair to stand up.
Soon I am joined by my pal and we pick up our conversation from where we left off like no time has passed. We sit surrounded by chattering adults and an occasional cry or babble from a baby. Once in a while a word that we aren't supposed to hear escapes the crowd and makes us titter with eyes wide. The usual grown ups stand out in the dining room. We see them through the clever cut out in the wall. Draped over their heads, a garland made of plastic candy. They are splitting their attention between the happenings in the living room and whatever game of cards being played in the dining room.
My pal and I are oblivious to most of what is going on. We are too busy eying up the mountain of loot trailing from under the tree. Having been briefed by our parents on the virtues of being patient and not wanting to push our luck, we ask "when are we eating?" This is our trick. We know that after eating comes opening presents. The usual feast which always includes canned peas and bread and butter is devoured. The adults make a little assembly line in the kitchen doing the dishes in the split sink, one area for washing the other with hot water for rinsing.
We wait for the sign. And here she comes… the familiar sweatshirt, the familiar peach colored glasses, the familiar perm under the familiar hat borrowed from Santa. She winks in our direction, probably to push up her glasses, but to me it was the signal. She crawls around picking up prize after prize and handing them out. Most of them landing in a delicious pile in front of my cohort and I. Flashes from cameras go off threatening blindness, but we tear open each parcel and shriek with glee imagining the hours and hours of play each one will provide. When it seems like we are at the end, the Santa hatted angel crawls deep behind the tree and retrieves even more red and green donned packages.
Our cheeks are rosy with happiness and we sit like pharaohs in the midst of our treasure. Pausing only for a moment to catch our breaths and perhaps change into the new p.j.'s handmade with love by a generous relative. Toys, balls of wrapping paper, children, discarded socks and shoes all mingle together on the floor creating a blissful maze for us. Hours of playing, investigating and comparing keep us awake with excitement until the dreaded words are said, "ok, time to go home." A flurry of packing erupts as they struggle to get our new loot into giant orange Fleet Farm bags and into the car.
In the middle of it all, I find an afghan made with a crochet hook and several shades of brown. The fibers are infused with the smells of this house on Parker Street and curling up in it makes me instantly fall asleep. I wake up later still cocooned in the afghan but in the backseat of the car surrounded by presents and sleeping siblings.
Parker Street and 12/24
The car slides a bit as we turn the corner onto Parker Street. I can see the lights in the window and all the cars crowded into the little space that the plow cleared in the driveway. More cars equal more presents I think to myself as I eagerly put my mittens back on and prepare for the cold. Familiar figures greet me at the door and I am devoured into a sea of hugs and 'sugars'. A treasured face seeks me out of this crowd and says, "Come to Grandma". Her cigarette is distinguished and her two free hands envelope me into a cocoon of familiar smells. Her soft cheek brushes mine. She removes my coat and instructs me to take it into Grandma and Grandpa's room and put it on the bed (because that's where the coats go!).
Muffled laughter and the voice of my favorite teenager cause me to pause as I pass the door to the upstairs. I spy the stretched cord from the telephone on the wall that is straining to make its way into the stairwell and I know who is in there. My little hand taps on the door and I stand tiptoe to reach the knob. The door creeps open and the scent of Jovan Musk fills my nose. A perfectly white smile invites me to climb the couple of stairs to where she is. I snuggle into her lap. A can of Diet Pepsi sits next to her and I sneak a sip while she continues to gossip.
Laughter and commotion catch my attention and I decide to investigate. Climbing down the stairs, my tights snag on one of the many nails peaking out from the paneling. "DaffyNeice!" I hear when the door opens. I stifle a giggle as I watch a wrestling match ensuing in the living room between two crazy boys in their teens. The comment is repeated, "DaffyNeice!" as he pins his little brother in a magnificent headlock. A tattooed man with twinkling eyes steps in and threatens the belt. His hair is unruly and his voice is full of laughter. He bends over and gives me a peck on the cheek.
I throw my coat up and it lands on top of the mound. I then make my way to the best place in the whole room… the foot of the bed where the toys are kept. I select the dog on a string and command it to follow, its red plastic tongue wagging behind me. The perfect spot in the living room is still unoccupied and I run to it with fervor. The warm gusts of air from the vent in the side of the wall blow out at me causing my hair to stand up.
Soon I am joined by my pal and we pick up our conversation from where we left off like no time has passed. We sit surrounded by chattering adults and an occasional cry or babble from a baby. Once in a while a word that we aren't supposed to hear escapes the crowd and makes us titter with eyes wide. The usual grown ups stand out in the dining room. We see them through the clever cut out in the wall. Draped over their heads, a garland made of plastic candy. They are splitting their attention between the happenings in the living room and whatever game of cards being played in the dining room.
My pal and I are oblivious to most of what is going on. We are too busy eying up the mountain of loot trailing from under the tree. Having been briefed by our parents on the virtues of being patient and not wanting to push our luck, we ask "when are we eating?" This is our trick. We know that after eating comes opening presents. The usual feast which always includes canned peas and bread and butter is devoured. The adults make a little assembly line in the kitchen doing the dishes in the split sink, one area for washing the other with hot water for rinsing.
We wait for the sign. And here she comes… the familiar sweatshirt, the familiar peach colored glasses, the familiar perm under the familiar hat borrowed from Santa. She winks in our direction, probably to push up her glasses, but to me it was the signal. She crawls around picking up prize after prize and handing them out. Most of them landing in a delicious pile in front of my cohort and I. Flashes from cameras go off threatening blindness, but we tear open each parcel and shriek with glee imagining the hours and hours of play each one will provide. When it seems like we are at the end, the Santa hatted angel crawls deep behind the tree and retrieves even more red and green donned packages.
Our cheeks are rosy with happiness and we sit like pharaohs in the midst of our treasure. Pausing only for a moment to catch our breaths and perhaps change into the new p.j.'s handmade with love by a generous relative. Toys, balls of wrapping paper, children, discarded socks and shoes all mingle together on the floor creating a blissful maze for us. Hours of playing, investigating and comparing keep us awake with excitement until the dreaded words are said, "ok, time to go home." A flurry of packing erupts as they struggle to get our new loot into giant orange Fleet Farm bags and into the car.
In the middle of it all, I find an afghan made with a crochet hook and several shades of brown. The fibers are infused with the smells of this house on Parker Street and curling up in it makes me instantly fall asleep. I wake up later still cocooned in the afghan but in the backseat of the car surrounded by presents and sleeping siblings.
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