A Treasury of Christmas Stories by Adams Media

Author:Adams Media [Media, Adams]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: stories, Christmas, holidays
Publisher: F+W Media, Inc.
Published: 2011-11-20T13:00:00+00:00

The Best Worst Christmas

By Doris Olson

PAPA WAS GOING to town — all by himself! In those days, when you lived twenty miles from town and the top speed of your car was forty miles per hour, a trip to town was a major event and usually involved the whole family.

Each of us had important reasons to participate. Papa was the driver. Mama was in charge of the cream can and the egg crate, bartering cream and eggs for groceries. My brother, Bert, and I had to go because the barter agreement with the creamery included two Dixie cups, a small paper container of vanilla ice cream with a tiny wooden paddle for scooping. It was a wondrous treat, well worth the long ride to town and the hours waiting for the eggs and cream to be traded and the groceries to be purchased.

But on that December morning, Papa came up to the house right after milking, took a bath and shaved, and put on his best bib overalls, still stiff with starch. Then he went out to the Model A and drove away.

Bursting with indignation, Bert and I turned to Mama for an explanation. Mama was turning the handle of the cream separator and appeared not to notice that anything unusual had occurred. If she knew the reason for Papa’s behavior, she wasn’t telling.

Papa got back about four hours later. Apparently, the urgency of Mama’s queries made them a little less discreet than usual. We overheard small scraps of conversation that we assembled later in our attic playroom: “something growing on the bone” … “can’t fix it here” … “hospital in Minneapolis” … “don’t cry” …

“Minny-apple-is?” The word was so long and unfamiliar, I struggled to pronounce it. “But how will he ever find it?”

“He’ll use a map. Minneapolis is a very big place and it’s on every map.” Bert’s bravado was intended for me, but it comforted us both.

Saturday, there was another trip to town. This time, we all went. Mama bought so many groceries there was hardly room for Bert and me to squeeze in between the flour sack and the boxes. We should have been pleased by the unusual plenitude, but there was something very disquieting about the change in routine.

When we came home from school on Monday, Papa had already gone. Mama was punching down the bread dough with a fierce intensity.

“When’s he coming back, Mama?” was as much as we dared ask.

“When they get the cancer out,” said Mama. She had said the bad word, the one no one spoke when Uncle Ted got so sick that children couldn’t visit.

After supper we lingered at the table to plan our schedules. Mama would do the milking. Bert would throw hay to the cows and to May and King, our gentle draft horses. And he would clean the stalls. I would pick the eggs and wash the dishes. Mama waited for Bert to complain about how early he would have to wake up to get all his chores done before school.

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