As they circled, descending, hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer recognized the neighborhood as where she’d grown up, in a working-class section of the city, miles and miles of streets faced with row-houses, and in front of them, automobiles she recognized as being from the late 1950s.
Then suddenly they were in the kitchen in the back of her own childhood home, her grey drab tired mother sitting at the table wringing her hands, talking with the heating-oil deliveryman.
“I’m so sorry,†she told him, “but we were down to just two gallons, and Christmas is tomorrow, and things are tight, but the husband can pay you after the New Year’s. We know it’s always cash-on-delivery, but we’re hoping, hoping, hoping, you’ll carry us a few days.
“We just don’t have any money, and Christmas is tomorrow…..â€
“Not to worry, ma’am, the deliveryman said; “it’s Christmas, and the boss tells us to be a little easy on collections. Paying after New Year’s fine.
“And,†he added, “by the way, per instructions of the boss, because it’s Christmas, I poured an extra twenty-five gallons into the tank, no charge.â€
Mrs. Alfred Packer’s mother gasped in astonishment.
“God….bless…..you,†she managed to let out.
“Don’t thank me,†the deliveryman told her. “Thank the boss, a fine Christian gentleman.
“Oh, and…..
“…..in honor of your new infant daughter, the instructions were to pour in another extra twenty-five gallons, no charge.â€
Mrs. Alfred Packer’s mother began weeping, copiously.
“It’s Christmas, ma’am,†he reminded her.
“God bless us, everyone,†she cried, hugging the deliveryman.
- - - - - - - - - -
Then suddenly hippywife and her guide were in the living room, and it seemed a few years later.
Mrs. Alfred Packer noticed that her companion seemed to be growing with her, he still a child, but no longer a small child.
The family was gathered around the Christmas tree, the children on the floor, unwrapping presents.
Mrs. Alfred Packer glowed in delight when she recognized something, a Barbie doll she’d gotten when she was nine years old. And the wardrobe, full of miniature nun’s habits for Barbie.
And there was old Gram, sitting in the recliner, beaming upon her grandchildren.
Mrs. Alfred Packer shed a few tears remembering old Gram, of Italianate derivation and withered, mottled skin when hippywife was still a girl. She’d been a little woman, and her body was way too small to contain the love she had for all. Her spaghetti-and-meatballs, lasagna, and pepperoni pizza had been legendary.
“God bless us, everyone,†old Gram murmured, as she watched the children open more presents.
Mrs. Alfred Packer’s eyes wettened, and her guide noticed it.
“Oh, I’m just thinking of poor old dear Gram,†hippywife said; “the woman a font of love and joy, but during her last years I was mean to her, calling her an old lady out of touch with the new times and that I was ashamed of her and her silly superstitious ways.
“I never had the chance to take it back.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Now they were in the neighborhood church, and hippywife now 17 years old, attending Midnight Mass not with her family, but for the first time alone with her high-school beau, Johnny.
The church was packed, and Mrs. Alfred Packer sat glued to Johnny, adoration of his handsome face in her eyes. And he smelled so good, that cologne he was using. She slanted her head on his shoulder.
So handsome, so masculine, so strong, so well-dressed this night, so nice-smelling, Johnny.
Hundreds of choir-boys burst out singing “Once In Royal David’s City†as the priests bearing crosses aloft and scores of altar boys swayed canisters of incense back-and-forth, the bishop himself sprinkling Holy Water over the congregation as the long procession walked down one aisle, and then another, and then a third, in the candle-lit dark interior of the church.
It was a long service, about three hours, as the choir sang dozens of sacred Christmas hymns, and then the bells outside began to peal, loudly and gloriously in the dark night, “Christ is born.â€
Then they were outside, the snow falling in slow gentle flakes, decorating their faces.
“God bless us, everyone,†Johnny greeted passers-by.
- - - - - - - - - -
They were now back inside hippywife’s childhood home, but it seemed colder than it had been, and a few years later.
Her father and mother were talking in the living room, her father obviously angry.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into that girl,†he said; “we raised her right, gave her all the love and trust and guidance that she needed, and to have her turn out this way.
“She’s rejected everything that’s good and decent--God, family values, honesty in all things, hard work, substance over style, common courtesy and good manners, us her parents, and even dear old Gram.
“And now she’s even dumped Johnny, saying he’s not good enough for her. Johnny, who works at the tire factory so as to build her a suburban bungalow to house all the children they should have.
“There’s nobody who’d make a better son-in-law, than Johnny.
“There’s nobody who’d treat her better, far better than she deserves to be treated, than Johnny.
“Ever since she got turned onto drugs and women‘s lib, she’s turned bad. She’s not our daughter any more.
“Mark my words, dear; she’s going to end shacking up with an old hippie bum or something.â€
Mrs. Alfred Packer’s mother wept.
As did hippywife also, even though she and her guide were invisible to the two grieving parents.
next: Stave Two