Waiting for Light
Christmas is coming!
On our childhood farm, not unlike hunting season’s opening day, my mother declared the beginning of the Christmas season. It launched with housework.
Nestled among over a hundred acres of fields reached by muddy roads, our white-shingled homestead needed thorough scouring from top to bottom, inside and out. When Mom was satisfied that all was done to her expectations, then we decorated for the holidays.
My mother, a whirlwind fueled by unseen energy, assigned a variety of tasks to her workforce of five daughters. We spent several days and nights cleaning.
My young mind wondered why we had to prepare the house before Jesus’ birthday. For a few years, I thought He was coming for an in-person visit. Why else would we scrub every square inch of home?
Cleaning machines
And so, the process would begin. My sister Sheila waxed blue-speckled linoleum floors while Cindi shampooed dusty drapes and soiled sofa slipcovers. Cotton rag rugs were broom-beaten by my youngest sister Valarie and me. And my eldest sister Pat stood on a rickety wooden ladder rinsing windows in freezing weather.
Our house had undergone a much-needed partial renovation in the 1960s. In its transition, some rooms featured a tired mix of flea market finds while others proudly showcased the latest in John Wanamaker decor.
As kids, we had limited access to the “new” living room, a crown jewel in Mom’s furniture acquisitions. The “new” dining room — a recent conversion of my parents’ old bedroom — was reserved for holidays and special occasions.
That did not mean these areas were omitted from scrubbing. They were not.
On the dining room ceiling, a glittering crystal chandelier took center stage. It was hung too high, but that was so my mother could have a better view of my father. Perhaps to interrupt him without obstacles in the way.
When turned on, its beveled glass created shimmering prisms. It was beautiful, but an absolute pain to keep it sparkling.
Among the most undesirable chores was washing that dining room light fixture along with the truckload of antiques stored atop kitchen cabinets.
That was the line in the sand where bickering began.
“I don’t want to wash the chandelier,” grumbled Val.
“Or the antiques,” I added. Maybe if we took a stand in solidarity, Pat, always the one in charge, would cave.
She didn’t. “You have to,” Pat demanded, hands on her hips and brown curly hair spilling out from under her headscarf. “Or else!”
Val and I both stuck our tongues out, then quickly retreated.
The enforcer took no prisoners. Pat’s “Or else!” came with consequences.
Glancing out the kitchen bay window, I saw that the winter winds had flung the fallen black walnut leaves against the barbed wire fence creating umber drifts. The cloudless sky was steel blue.
Preferring to read while snuggled into my pink-and-white checkered bedspread, I didn’t want to start this overwhelming job.
I had finished Heidi and Treasure Island in The Children’s Classic series. The glossy hardcovers were cool and slippery under my fingers. The full color front cover illustrations were mesmerizing.
Nearly finished reading Black Beauty, I was deep into his years as a carriage horse — overworked, exhausted, and sad. With the Mr. Clean inspired twister whirling through our house, I could relate.
Val and I started with the green Depression glassware and antique porcelain heirlooms. Quietly collecting a year’s worth of smoke, airborne cooking grease, and black soot, they were as forgotten as distant relatives.
On tiptoes, face flushed with effort, I carefully balanced on the laminate kitchen countertop and handed each fragile piece to Val. Musty dust particles drifted up my nose, causing me to sneeze. A hand-painted rose porcelain platter started to slip from my grip. I froze.
“Got it!” she said, grabbing it before it fell.
Housefly corpses, scattered moth carcasses, and dried mouse droppings also gathered on the cabinet tops. We were farm kids, so this was commonplace and not particularly frightening. If they were dead.
Then we began washing, rinsing, and drying.
“How many customers do you think we served today?” I asked after some time, hands soapy, pretending we were running a restaurant.
“Too many,” she replied. “I’m hungry.” She was always seeking snacks like a stray kitten.
“We barely got started,” I replied with some irritation. She wasn’t going to get out of this. If anything, I should find an excuse. Black Beauty was waiting.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she whined, throwing down a threadbare kitchen towel.
I spent a lot of time with my youngest sibling. In fact, I spent all my time with her, unless I was reading. Those early years with Val had offered valuable insights, the most important being surviving our quarrels.
“I’ll give you 25 cents and make you a tuna fish sandwich if we get this done,” I added hopefully.
Val paused to consider.
“Okay, let me get you a couple of Fig Newtons now, 25 cents, and a tuna sandwich later.” My heart beat faster. This was not a solo job.
She inspected her miniature, chipped fingernails and then nodded.
I fixed her snack and paid up, then we moved onto the chandelier. After an hour or so, with our small fingers pale and waterlogged, we finished. Making several trips, we gingerly carried the many pieces back to the dining room. Sheila reattached each part.
When the last translucent crystal was hung, I flipped the switch. It was as though the light fixture had breathed in a tiny sun, then emitted a thousand glimmering rainbow-streaked beams. We sighed happily. It was almost like new.
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas
Finally, after days of cleaning, my mother inspected the house.
“Looks good,” she’d say in a tired voice. Our hearts leapt! She had proclaimed the house ready.
Christmas was near!
After a few days of recuperation on our overstuffed sofa, Mom brought the Christmas decorations down from the attic. Farm life meant more frugal displays — a plastic holly wreath for the front door, white plastic electric candles for each window, and plastic pine centerpieces for the tables — however, my mother used just as much care in arranging the holiday décor as she did with her new dining room.
Artificial holly and pine surrounded four brass candle holders mounted to a golden circle. This was our Advent wreath. She cut live greenery from the woods, tucked it around the forever plastic leaves, and then secured the three purple candles and one pink.
Christmas was here!
Decades behind me now, the blueprint of preparing for the holidays on the farm still lingers. Life scattered families and softened memories, but the days leading to Christmas still seem special.
As I wait for the 25th, I can’t help but think of our dining room chandelier. We gingerly broke it apart each year, examined the pieces, then washed and reassembled. It became whole again — countless ribbons of color glimmering from each faceted bauble. Refreshed. Almost brand new.
Maybe that’s partly what this season means. The scrubbing. The preparing. Examining what’s broken, what’s not. Shaking off life’s accumulated dust and letting the light shine through again.
Like the old farmhouse — revived, decorated, and a candle lit.
Eagerly awaiting what comes next.
If you’re finding you need some inspiration, check out After the Rain
If you like surprises, check out Pretty Girl
And to see what this is all about, check out the home page: About Between Business Cards
