I wrote this for writer's club. Some of the things in this story are not exactly factual, but the feeling is real... I hope. Let me know if you have any feedback to improve my writing.
“Julie… Julie, wake up.” I hear a voice whisper to me
through the fog of sleep.
I roll out of bed, impossibly tangled in my Snoopy
pajamas. This is why I only wear real
PJs one night a year. I walk down the
dark hallway and emerge into the warm glow of the Christmas lights on the tree,
the only lights on in the whole house.
Although it’s 50 degrees outside, my sisters and I know in our hearts it
is the dead of our Southern California winter, so we cuddle up in robes and
blankets. One sister laying on the
floor, another sitting on the piano bench, two more snuggled on the couch. I sit next to the cold fireplace, closer to
the stockings and candy.
The fact that the clock reads four in the morning doesn’t
stop us from diving into our Crunch chocolate bells and bottles of Sunny Delight. I am already thirteen years old, yet I’m still
excited to see what trinkets Santa left in our stockings: a tube of
Reece’s-flavored lip balm, a new pair of earrings, a paperback novel. We check
to see that he ate his cookies and drank his milk from his special china plate
on the mantle. We’re happy to see the reindeer
enjoyed their celery and carrot sticks as well.
There is a mountain of presents waiting for us under the
tree, but touching them before the parents wake is punishable by death. Instead, we get as close as we possibly can-
without actually coming in contact- to see who got the biggest gifts, or the
most oddly shaped ones. Drat, Shelley
got the tall skinny gift wrapped in red snowman paper. The present shaped like a three foot prism covered
in blue snowflake paper is signed, “To: Carlie, From: Santa.” How suspicious
that Santa’s handwriting is exactly like our mother’s? But we chant to
ourselves the mantra we’ve heard since we were small: if you don’t believe, you
don’t receive. This is why I’m the only eighth grader to profess a belief in
Santa Claus, although it isn’t fashionable.
After we’ve been munching and snoozing for a few hours, Mom
and Dad finally join us in the living room.
Shouts of “good morning!” and “Merry Christmas” ring through the house,
then right down to the joyous business.
Mom takes her place by the tree as the official present
passer-outer. Dad sits on the creeky
rocking chair, equipped with a large trash bag.
He knows that crunched up wrapping paper balls and empty cardboard boxes
will soon be flying at him for disposal.
Holly is the first to receive a gift. We all watch breathlessly as she tears the
paper. A Walkman from Grandma! The first
spoils of Christmas. Kellie is next. A Barbie from Judith! Around and around we
go, watching as each person receives and opens a gift. We want to draw out these sweet moments as
long as we can. The room gets brighter
and brighter as the sun rises, shining is warm yellow rays through the
shutters.
As the pile of gifts under the tree diminish, each sisters’
personal pile grows. I have the honor of
opening the last gift- an art supply set, water color paper included. I set it neatly next to me, struggling to
keep my things separate from the other items strewn on the floor. Carlie
finishes the Future Thank Yous list and sets it on the piano, either to be used
during Family Night to crank out cards to far-flung relatives, or to be
forgotten forever.
Dad starts making waffles in the kitchen, leaving his pocket
knife in the family room. How else would
we rip through the impossible tape on our boxes, or slice through the fasteners
on our toys? Mom goes back to bed, exhausted from the anxiety she suffers every
Christmas, hoping that all her girls are having a wonderful time. Some of us may shower, others may eat more
candy, still others start a round of Uno with their new deck of cards.
But all of us are happily contented with the wonderful traditions
of a Chatfield Christmas.
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| I know this isn't about Chatfield Christmas, but come on. So Cute! |
