And joy suddenly stirred in his soul, and he even stopped for a minute to take breath. “The past,” he thought, “is linked with the present by an unbroken chain of events flowing one out of another.” And it seemed to him that he had just seen both ends of that chain; that when he touched one end the other quivered. –Anton Chekhov, “The Student”
For my two brothers and me, fidgeting or bored in the backseat of the Ford wagon, a change of plans indicated adventure–would we break our pattern? Usually as quickly as the question was raised it was dropped. To deny a preference was too hard; it was obvious that my parents, year after year, wanted Christmas at the Wallins’ and not the Larsons’. Why had to do with splendor. The Wallins had magnificent Swedish Christmases, with big meals, piles of presents, a ball-ornament-laden tree topped with a blue angel, candles in frosted windows, fudge on silver trays, hot cider in glass mugs–all of which, experienced once, set us boys up forever with November visions of gifts: electric trains, complicated games, detailed models, and if the stock market was good, those long, thin, flat white envelopes on which our names (“Master Thomas Larson”) were inscribed and where, inside, behind oval windows, we’d find the long-nosed, wild-haired Andrew Jackson. Promises came true for us in Rockford: we had a tradition of promises and fulfillment. But such a Christmas was not possible at the Larsons’. They were a working-class family; they splurged only on grape punch, a festive tablecloth, or two-colored wrapping paper. Their gifts, sent to us in a large, paper-stuffed box (which we hauled to Rockford unopened), lay unexamined under the Wallins’ tree until, Christmas morning, we finished off the other, real presents.
“We’re gonna have a good time, just you and me,” he said at a stoplight. “We don’t get to do too much together, do we?”
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
Outside, the gray sidewalks were darkening, and the snow was swirling on the stoops and in the doorways and gutters. People stopped, shivering and frustrated, to pull their coats tighter, held their knees close to knocking. Store windows, car and Christmas lights were growing dim. I was warm, for once sitting up front, my legs shaking with excitement in the red leather interior of the wagon. I watched a few flakes touch and bead on the side-view mirror.
But this day the snow was accumulating too slowly. It blew more than settled, and it had an eerie, wispy quality, like the dust of clouds. The bushes were ugly mazes of sinewy branches. I tried to climb behind a bush under a first-floor apartment window, but the sticks’ tips caught and tore at my gloves.
And there was Grandpa Larson, fidgeting by himself in the dining room. I hurried by him. He was a mean old man and I was afraid of him. I forced out a “Hi, Grandpa,” and he stared at me. He had baby-fine white hair on his head. He always wore navy blue trousers and a white shirt. He also always wore suspenders and a belt, and there was something beyond force of habit about this combination, beyond the fact that the old Swede usually dressed, summer and winter, in the same two sets of clothes. The suspenders kept the pants up; the belt was for another purpose.
I asked him where our suitcases were. “In the spare bedroom,” Grandma said. “They’re on the bed, honey.” I asked my dad if he would come with me and show me where. When he was mine he would usually do anything I asked.
