Another Christmas at Sawyer’s Peak
I wake to soft streams of light pouring through the window of my childhood bedroom, and the warmth of a small curled body that has taken liberty to climb under my covers while I slept. Feigning slumber, I peek one eye open to look out the slats of my window blinds, and glimpse a flurry of white fairies littering the crisp winter air. They settle on the lawn and patio like a coating of powdered sugar. I inhale with deep satisfaction. It’s Christmas morning.
The body of my baby sister stirs. My open eye has been detected, and our snuggling instantly becomes a ruthless tickle match before I demand she get off and go brush her teeth. She is the best of our siblings, but—being ten years my younger—is still at the bottom of the pecking order. She obeys, and I stretch my long limbs gleefully before slipping my feet into unbelievably soft slippers.
I descend identity-revealing stairs that creak to the beat of my limp, and enter the wafting aura of rich Hawaiian coffee. Mom is on her third mug by now, probably. I pour myself some and stand on the floor’s heating vent, which sends warm air up my calves and puffs out the legs of my pajamas, making me look like Aladdin. Having gone to Midnight Mass last night, we have no reason to change out of our PJs for the rest of the day.
I walk to where our foldable wooden Advent calendar, shaped like a Nativity scene, stands with just one piece missing. Gently, I hang the ornament of the baby Jesus over the number 25, completing the picture. Turning towards the living room, I notice Dad in his usual recliner chair, half-moon glasses at the tip of his nose like an aged wizard as he writes bits of his next science-fiction novel. Anatomy books are open on the coffee table: a bit of light reading.
When my parents see me, Christmas greetings are exchanged with affectionate hugs and kisses. Out the window, I witness my sister run like George Bailey through the white-crested grass in her flannel pajamas and egg-pocketed apron from the chicken coop. Our pug follows at her heels in the show trench. He beats my sister to the house, bursting through the dog door to “woo-woo” at me, wiggling and writhing his furry folds under my hands as I bend over to pet him. “Merry Christmas, Otis!” I coo. A blast of freezing air hits me as my sister swings the door open and gives me two of the golden spoils before my big brother can devour the lot of them.
I won’t be eating a balanced breakfast just yet, however. After last night’s Kūčios—a Lithuanian tradition of twelve cold (and often fishy) dishes—my siblings and I eagerly anticipate our flavorful reward. Our brothers join us as we giddily settle into the living room sofas around the fireplace, where there hang six holly-colored velvet stockings embroidered with our names.
Mom hands them out and we know she’s stuffed them this year. That means there will be a majority of practical, cute, and meaningful gifts, plus a reasonable portion of sophisticated candy—Dove truffles, perhaps, whose wrappers contain sweet little notes inside. If it had been Dad who’d stuffed them, we could expect weird and useless contraptions acquired at the dollar store (whoopie cushions, realistic rubber bugs, extendable claw arms, and silly putty, for instance), and one hundred percent more candy than we could eat responsibly, of the childish variety.
This year, glitter-coated fleece snowballs with snowman faces peek out from the tops of our stockings. We giggle and throw them at one another, splashing clouds of sparkling pixie dust over absolutely everything. I give my brother a snowball noogie which leaves glitter in his hair until two days later. After the snowballs, we uncover some wooden tree ornaments (likely bought at Linda’s Office Supply on Main Street), lots of chocolate, and pencils that say “To Be,” or “Not To Be” on their wooden sides, respectively.
The lingering flavor of a Gertrude Hawk peanut butter smidgen is still melting on my tongue when I notice that taped to the mantle is a folded piece of paper: a scavenger hunt! My sister strings us along with clever clues she’s written that have us pushing past one another through the house. Mom likes to win, but so do I. Due to fickle consciences, we bounce back and forth between seeking glory and being mature adults who always let the children claim victory—two thirds of the time.
The hunt leads to the expansive family room above the addition, where the Christmas tree stands tall under high ceilings. It’s covered in years of memory and white straw Lithuanian ornaments, topped with a golden, metal star that I’ve placed at its peak with the help of a ladder—since I’m too big now to stand on Dad’s shoulders. My sister’s last clue has us all confused and spinning in circles, until someone cracks the code and finds the prize. There’s something for everyone, and I get a crossword puzzle made especially for me, with words like “piglizard,” “Snuggle-bunches-of-oats,” or other family favorites no one else would understand. I have her time me and finish it in three minutes and forty seconds.
Next come the presents. At this age, everyone is more eager to give gifts than to get them, and before I can blink there are two pairs of arms handing me presents to add to a rapidly growing pile beside me. I do the same to everyone else, and watch eagerly for their reactions. My younger siblings giggle over the Shakespearean Star Wars books I got them, The Force Doth Awaken and The Empire Striketh Back. Prompted by impatient onlookers, I peel paper off my own packages, relishing the familiar sensation of its rip. The joy on everyone’s faces multiplies my own; I feel completely immersed in a pool of love.
When toys have been sufficiently played with and we are adorned with new scarves or other gifted attire, we complete the picture by bundling in snow pants and coats, ready to brave the winter tundra outside. My first steps into the untouched snow sound like muffled styrofoam compressing. The air stings my cheeks and freezes the moisture in my mouth and nose, billowing out in puffs like the steam of a train’s smokestack as I breathe. I blink away snowflakes that have settled on my eyelashes to gaze up at the maples and pines that stretch their bald fingers into the opaque white sky.
My mesmerization is broken as the first snowball hits my back. There is no time for idleness; this is war. I sprint to one of the snow banks on a corner of the driveway, where my sister and I rapidly carve a fortress to store our ammunition. Snowballs melt through my gloves as I pack them, gradually numbing my palms. The pain will pass. Our victory, however, will live on for years to come. I grin as I recall the epic battle fought with our neighbors, where it was decided that filling snowballs with road salt was a war crime. Wooden reindeer observe us from beneath the massive oak tree next door as we pelt our brothers to the sounds of screams and laughter.
It is not until our extremities are too purple to feel that we return to the house. The sudden rise in temperature has us racing to get out of our sopping wet garments, which we hang from the metal mesh barrier in front of the wood burning stove on the back porch. Nuggets of hardened snow stick like burrs to my hat. I shake them off and watch as they sizzle into nothingness atop the stove’s scalding surface.
When we enter the kitchen, there is hot chocolate waiting for us, lovingly prepared by Mom. The ceramic mug pulses life-giving warmth into my tingling hands, and I don a whipped cream mustache that would give Santa a run for his money. Having drained our goblets, the four of us return to the family room, where wrapping paper remains strewn all over the floor, to play Super Smash Brothers Brawl from within giant beanbag chairs lovingly dubbed the “Blueberries.”
No one knows what time it is on Christmas, and no one cares. It is only when the December sun begins to set and someone tells us it’s dinner time that I realize evening has come. I’m needed in the kitchen to prepare mashed potatoes with whopping amounts of butter and sour cream. Cutlery clinks from the dimmed dining room as my younger siblings set the table beneath our weary chandelier. When all is served and we’ve sat for our feast, we make the sign of the cross and Dad leads us in prayer, followed by the Italian intercession for the dead that our Nona taught us: Suffragio tutti che dormono. We then exchange Christmas wafers—pale, host-like rectangles depicting scenes of Christ’s birth, which we snap into pieces to share, wishing one another a Merry Christmas as we do so. Then we dig into mouthfuls of turkey, seasoned with love, and our laughter tastes like joy.
Before bed, Dad reads A Child’s Christmas in Wales to us by the fireplace in the library. We read along in our own copies that Mom and Dad got us a couple years ago, laughing at the lines and pictures we know so well, and lingering on bits we’ve overlooked in the past. Once again, my sister’s little body is curled up against mine, under a warm blanket that encases us like peas in a pod. We remain that way as we end the evening with the film, A Christmas Carol—the one with George C. Scott—quoting along the words we’ve memorized from years of watching the same movie.
As the credits roll, the Christmas tree’s lights twinkle and winter stars peek out to say goodnight, just as we do the same to one another. We make our way back through the house to our respective places of slumber, gifting countless hugs until the very last step through our bedroom doors. “Goodnight,” my sister bids in the dark from across the room. At last, I drift to sleep, thanking the Lord for another Christmas in this beautiful home, with this beautiful family.
