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Stuart Revercomb

Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays.

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"Thursday's Fare"

Mother's words rained down on us with the gentle finality that meant there would be no discussion: "We're going to Nanna and Grandad 's house for Christmas," she said. My brothers Jim (age 9), Randy (age 8) and I (possessing the wisdom of six years on the planet) knew full well what this meant. There would be no Christmas at 104 Wedgedale Ave. You might as well have extended an invitation to the Grinch himself for the holidays. This had nothing to do with Nanna and Grandad mind you. We were their devoted disciples and trips to their house were normally considered first rate fare, but during Christmas? Was this possible? How would Santa know where we were?

We traveled to the fair capital of West Virginia on average two times a year and it was at about the same rate it could have been said that our lives were at their closest to real and present danger. I am referring to the fabled twist of road known as the pre-1970s West Virginia Turnpike. Dad seemed to prepare for these trips in a much different way than annual sorties to the beach, which never involved back-up thermoses of coffee and double and triple checks of all vital automotive systems. He had the nervous appearance of an athlete preparing for battle and would silence us sharply as we passed the first black and yellow triangular signs that warned of the turnpike 's proximity. Even the dog seemed to somehow sense our location -- curling up tightly on the floor of the back seat behind mother. My brothers and I never took the ominous talk between our parents too seriously and would keep up our banter as dad struggled to keep his concentration and our '64 Ford wagon plowing ahead through the dark turns and swirling fog. We never quite understood as we leapt out of the car and raced for the house on arrival why Dad always looked so flat. In retrospect I suspect his moment of decompression was not unlike Neil Armstrong's having just guided the Eagle to a safe landing on the moon.

It was Friday, Dec. 24th, when we awoke -- Christmas Eve. Jim, Randy and I, having broken Nanna's slipper rule, were venturing down to breakfast for the second time. Although Grandad was a noted physician, viruses did not exist in Nanna's world, but the perils of uncovered skin most certainly did. We were led to believe that the scourge of polio was eradicated only after grandmothers worldwide finally provided ample persuasion over unshod youth. Arriving once more at the bottom of the light green carpeted steps, one of us took time to peer around the corner into the living room. "Whoa," exclaimed Jimmy, "Look at this !" We all stood frozen like deer in the proverbial spotlight. To behold Nanna's living room was to behold Christmas itself as defined by little boys. The card artists at Hallmark could have rendered no more perfect a vision.

Directly across from the arched entry way was a stately, full Douglas fir adorned in every manner of decoration. Hand decorated wooden ornaments painted in deep red, green and gold hung with antique tin figurines that danced gingerly beneath the branches. Bows of white lace and miniature needlepoint scenes of winter were tethered about with a light frosting of silver tinsel. Old fashioned colored bulbs spiraled lazily down, their strands meeting in a single tangled conflagration beneath the tree that grandad had not managed to totally conceal. The skirt was a wedding ring quilt -- snow white with red circles and sky blue diamonds that were mostly concealed by a great number of presents the likes of which widened the eyes of the three little does in the doorway.

To the left of the tree was the fireplace, its mantle trimmed and framed in boughs of white pine. A set of impish elves curiously like the ones we had at home peered mischievously from beneath the green sprigs. Bright red cardinals with wire feet perched along the top. Beneath them hung eight carefully arranged stockings, six of which had made the trip north. A young fire crackled and popped to life. In the corner stood a black baby grand covered in cards and greetings and objects that must have brought familiar memories back for my parents: a small stuffed Father Christmas carrying a full leather sack, two miniature wooden sleighs with worn out names etched on their backs, and a picture of two men raising glasses in front the fireplace next to which we now stood.

Across the room by the sofa was a much more detailed manger scene than the one we had left at home. The carved wood was worn smooth and the figures were large enough to stand easily in the cotton snow of Bethlehem. The baby Jesus lay centered amongst the familiar wise men and animals. Joseph and Mary knelt quietly at his head. Nanna called from the kitchen, "Boys ... breakfast is getting cold ... hurry up with those slippers."

I would like to be able to say that we spent the remainder of that day baking cookies and stringing popcorn within this Christmas wonderland and perhaps my baby sister, Anne, did just that, but the reality of the afternoon was a raucous game of football in Grandad's back yard where the Greensboro Packers handed the Charleston Chiefs their lone loss of the season that year. But the real thrill of that day came as we all piled into Grandad's car that evening as the snow began to fall and headed down Edgewood Drive across the Kanahwa River into downtown Charleston.

Often it is in the simple and unexpected experiences of youth that most powerfully influence us, and I suspect it is the rare occasion that we recognize them at the time, if at all. But suffice to say that walking through the snow that night, peering through the shop windows, listening to carolers, having pie at the drugstore counter and riding the bus amongst all the sights and smells of the city that Christmas was a defining moment for this boy of 6. The world was a much bigger and lively place than I had ever imagined, and the promise of it all fired my imagination and stirred a part of my being that had heretofore remained untouched. As I reflected on this Christmas memory in the years to come it brought with it the realization that our familiar rituals and traditions are only fully enjoyed when they are allowed to stand in the light of new horizons on which next years memories are built.

I can assure you, however, that if you had spoken these words to me that glorious Christmas Eve of 1968 I would have looked you straight in the eye and said, "You're from Mars, pal."

Later that night as I lay in the tub with my "early present" -- a blue and white boat powered by two AA batteries in a watertight compartment -- I was as close to heaven as a young boy gets. The warm water took the chill and soreness of the day from my bones. Steam hung heavy in the air and held fast to the windows, mirrors and heavy chrome towel racks. Down the hall I could hear my brothers in a giggling tussle on the bed and further still the music and soft drone of a grown-up party in the living room below. The towel on the sink was thick and warm. The air outside was alive with snow ... Santa would find us tonight.