Memory of a Bygone Christmas

A very short Christmas story by review contributor, Pat Koelmel:

A DAY IN DECEMBER

My father was known by most who knew him as a mean and nasty man.

He usually walked around with a scowl, and when he spoke, he spoke his mind even if it was hurtful. Therefore, it was no surprise that people avoided my father if they were lucky enough to be in the position to do so.

He also had a terrible temper that could be set off by the most minor of events. Spilled milk could easily do it. So it would make sense that my mother, my brothers and sisters, and I feared him most times.

But one Christmas something changed inside him if only for a short moment of time.

I was about 13 or 14 … maybe even 15. My father was watching TV when out of the blue he said to me, “This year, I’d like to take you myself to buy your Christmas present, maybe something to wear.”

I looked up from whatever I was doing. It was important to give my father your full attention when he spoke. I didn’t answer. I continued to listen instead.

“I want to be there to help you pick it out,” he further explained.

This was not something my father had ever suggested before. My mother always did the shopping. I didn’t know what to say so I just smiled.

My father rarely smiled, but this time he smiled back at me. In fact, he smiled back with a smile that almost glowed. His smile made me happy. Suddenly, I felt safe. Suddenly, I didn’t fear him.

“We’ll go wherever you want,” my father went on. “You choose the store.”

I picked Daniels. Daniels was a high-end store back then. It had the kind of clothes I only dreamed of owning.

I knew about Daniels because that’s where my big sister Joan bought all of her clothes. She came home with something new every week, but Joan could afford to shop there. She had finished school and was working full time in a fancy office.

My father and I went to Daniels that afternoon. The store was located in Somerville, just a ten-mile drive from home. The closer we got, the faster my heart beat.

When we walked into the store, my father headed for a chair. From there, he watched as I searched through the racks and racks of beautiful clothes. I wasn’t even worried that I might be taking too long. I looked back at my father. He was relaxed, still smiling.

I finally settled on a pair of stretch pants, the kind with stirrups. They were woven with a small black and white check print. I picked out a black turtleneck to go with them. I tried on both pieces in the dressing room and came out to show my father.

He smiled that warm smile again and nodded his approval.

After I changed back into the clothes I came in, I proudly walked up to the cash register with my father. Mr. Daniels chatted with us as he checked us out. When he handed me the package, he thanked us both for coming. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

I don’t remember when my father changed back to his old self again. Nor do I remember when a young girl’s blissful love for her father changed back into fear. It could have been an hour later … or the next day.

Many years later, I saw a similar pair of stretch pants, woven with a small black and white check print. I bought them even though I knew they were no longer something I would ever wear again. I tucked them away along with my memory of that day in December.