Rare and Blue Christmas

You may have tangible wealth untold;
caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be,
I had a mother who read to me.
Strickland Gillilan 

This is my first Christmas without my mother. The picture above was taken a few months before she passed away last December 29. We are sharing my first book, The Twelve Days of Christmas in Minnesota. I'm so grateful she lived long enough to see it in print, as it was her love of children's books that inspired me.

Below is an essay I wrote two years ago after what would be our last real Christmas together.



Reading to My Mother

“Take another bite of steak, Mom. It’s your favorite.” My mother stops staring at the centerpiece of evergreens and cheery wax elves. She picks up her fork but she doesn’t do anything with it. She stares again at the candles. My mother has begun what President Reagan once called “the journey that will lead me into the sunset of my life.” My mother has Alzheimer’s disease.

I start to think that taking my mother out of her senior residence and bringing her to my house for Christmas Eve dinner was a bad idea. She has said almost nothing all evening—answering "yes" or "no" to questions, but showing little interest in anything except our dog who dozes at her feet.

My son and my husband have given up on conversation and concentrate on eating the dinner we have prepared with all her favorites in mind. Steak, wild rice, and orange-glazed brussels sprouts grow cold on her plate.

Brussels sprouts… I recall childhood days when I was expected to eat everything on my plate and Brussels sprouts held the number one position of most despised foods. One evening when my parents were distracted, I slipped three of the awful orbs into my glass of milk. After finishing the rest of my dinner, I asked if I could be excused to go outside and play.

“As soon as you drink your milk,” Mom said

I could not drink that milk! Not in a million years could I swallow milk tainted with Brussels sprouts. Clearly, I would have to grow old at the kitchen table. Tears dribbled off my chin and into the glass.

Finally, my mother picked up the glass and said, “You can be excused. Don’t try hiding food in your milk anymore, okay?” And then it was time for bed and a bedtime story. My mom wasn’t about to let a few Brussels sprouts jeopardize our evening routine.

I’m one of those lucky children who had a mother who read to me. She read to me almost every night, perhaps because she enjoyed children’s books as much as I did. Make Way for the Ducklings, The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes, Curious George, Ferdinand the Bull… We had our own impressive library of picture books. My mother had been a kindergarten teacher before she had her own class of eight children.

Years later when I became a parent I read to my children. And now as a new grandparent, I have a pile of books waiting to be shared.

On this Christmas Eve though, as my mother’s mind melts away like the wax elves’ smiles, I think I will start to sob if I don’t do something. I will not let what might be her last Christmas with us become a sad memory. I will read a story I decide, a children’s story with pictures. I select Great Wolf and the Good Woodsman by Helen Hoover. The book is a reprint of a story we read together when I was a child.

“Mom, how about if I read a story while you finish eating?” My mother looks up and her blue eyes that don’t sparkle much anymore suddenly flicker with interest. “That would be nice,” she says.

I don’t say, “Remember this story?” I have learned not to ask that question anymore. I tell my mother the book was written by someone born about the same time as her, and that this woman came to live in Minnesota just as she did many years ago. “The author liked to write about birds and animals,” I say. My mother’s eyes twinkle then. She was once an avid birdwatcher.

“Once, long years ago, Great Wolf stood on a high ridge and looked down at a deer, a squirrel, and a chickadee gathered together beside the log cabin where lived the Good Woodsman.”

I show my mother several illustrations—simple woodcuts depicting the efforts of woodland creatures to help an injured friend. She nods and says, “Oh yes, look at that.”

With each page turn she eagerly looks at the illustrations and utters soft “oohs” and “aahhs.” This is the most responsive she has been in weeks. I read with more and more enthusiasm. Finally, with all the gusto I can muster, I perform the wolf howl which ends the book:

“Some people say if you listen very closely to the howling of a wolf on Christmas, you will hear him call Noooooooooo-elllllll! in memory of Great Wolf and the Good Woodsman.”

Our dog jumps up and looks puzzled by this wild outburst. My mother laughs—really laughs at my crazy howl. For those few precious moments we are mother and daughter enjoying a good book again. It is her Christmas gift to me. I pop a Brussels sprout in my mouth and savor the bitter and sweet flavors.

Long ago my mother introduced me to the magic of stories. Now, at the end of her life, a child’s picture book story is still a means by which we can share pleasure. Books will always be magic to me—they have the power to triumph over disease. They are the last beautiful rays of light in a fading sunset.