The holidays stir memories. Like Scrooge, each of us entertain various Ghosts of Christmas Past. I often think of the first year Ken was a police officer.
It’s ten o’clock Christmas Eve 1966. I’m relaxing in my husband’s lounge chair–the first chance I’ve had all day to sit alone and put my feet up. The tree lights add a multi-colored glow to the pine-scented, living room. Santa has delivered toys for our three–Linda, 6, Lisa, 5 and Kurt, 3, who are asleep upstairs. Carols play softly on the radio. Five candles flicker in the Advent Wreath sitting on a small table in the front hallway.
Earlier in the evening, my parents and my cousin, Doris, with her husband, Bob, joined the kids and me for supper and presents. I took over hosting my side of the family’s traditional Christmas Eve observance after we had children. It’s easier to just put them to bed than to gather up gifts and bundle up little ones to drive home from Grandpa and Grandma’s house.
Last week, when I stopped at my parents’ rural home to get eggs to do my holiday baking, I broke the news that Ken would be working instead of spending the evening with us.
Dad said, “How can you have Christmas Eve without Ken?”
I replied, “It’s something we have to get used to.”
Last October, my husband climbed down from a farm tractor and slid into a squad car. He will soon be home from working the evening 3 – 11 shift with the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Police. In anticipation of a romantic interlude, I’ve changed into a lace-trimmed, long, turquoise nightgown and peignoir. We will exchange gifts while he drinks a beer and I sip a glass of wine.
A large box wrapped in red and green, wreath-printed paper waits under the tree for Ken. It contains a burgundy-colored, wool sport coat that I made. His brother, Tom, who’s the same size, served as my clothes dummy for fittings so I could keep the garment a secret. During the last five years, I’ve learned a lot about sewing. With three females in our family, it’s cheaper to make clothes instead of buying them and I enjoy doing it.
I see no package for me under the tree, but a few days ago my husband made a big deal of going shopping. I have large expectations.
The back door closes softly–Ken’s home. I jump out of the chair to greet him with a kiss.
“What a night!” he blurts. “We got a call for a welfare check and found a man who had probably been dead for a couple days. It must have been eighty degrees in that house. The stink was terrible. Then the coroner’s people spread some sweet-smelling stuff and that was worse.”
My husband doesn’t need to describe the smell–the odor clings to him like fermented after shave. He strides into the bedroom to remove his gun belt and uniform so he can take a much-needed shower. My romantic ambiance is shot by the reality of being married to a cop.
What are some of your Christmas memories?