Between Christmas and New Year’s Day is a week I once eagerly awaited. More than December 25, more than January 1, the days in the middle were gifts onto themselves. When I look at the photographs from that period of time, I can remember whole days spent in the pursuit of nothing more than fun with my kid during those in-between days.
As a working, single mother, every day allotted to me as a day off from the 9-to-5 office routine was spent enjoying my child and our tiny home. Not to be forgotten was our faithful Labrador retriever, Zeb. That dog was the best friend a boy could have, ever ready for action.
I can hear Zeb’s name being called from the voices of a group of neighborhood children, and in that chorus, my son’s voice soared.
It’s winter, there is snow on the ground, perfect for sledding. But without a hill, the children aren’t sure what to do. My boy produces a rope, ties it to the dog’s collar and the other end to the sled, and off they go at full speed. The dog seems to be laughing as he gallops down the street with several small bodies hanging onto the sled for dear life. I call out the door cautioning them not to hurt the dog, but the dog seems to say with his eyes, “I got this!”
After a while, the boy and his dog come into the house, frozen but blissfully exhausted. I kiss my boy’s cheeks. They are red and cold; it creates a delicious sensation against my lips. To remember such a simple moment to this very day is really all the Christmas I need now at my advancing age.
On another of the in-between days, we awakened to find fresh snow had fallen overnight, sledding snow. Time for some real sledding down hills. We head to the bluffs in Onset, surprised to find we have them all to ourselves.
Of course, we had our pal Zeb in the back seat, where he waited quietly for the games to begin.
The bluffs are spectacular to us. My son uses a plastic sled that doesn’t allow for much in the way of steering capability. But he tosses his body left and right tearing down the hill with Zeb in hot pursuit. To stop, he simply bails out laughing and grabbing on to Zeb for support.
The first two days of the in-between time fly by.
Other days are spent playing with Christmas toys, reading new books, visiting with my parents, watching movies and a touch of just loafing around. We stay in PJ’s unless there is a need to go outdoors.
When we lived in California, Christmas felt rather surreal with lights on the trunks of palm trees and winter boots that were accessories versus necessities. One year, we had what could only be called a Charlie Brown Christmas tree that the school librarian let us bring home. We put it in his red wagon and pulled it to the house as it shed needles all the way. We didn’t care. We made paper chains and other cutout shapes that we hung on the nearly bare branches with yarn.
A transplanted, hometown friend came to visit one evening of an in-between day. Upon seeing our rustic little tree, she took us to a local dollar store where she bought two dozen ornaments. Back home amid the glow of Christmas lights, we placed the ornaments carefully on the tree’s sagging branches and declared it “perfection.” She’s been gone for a long time now, but the memory of her kindness is another gift that lives on and on.
While in California, we were introduced to Mexican hot chocolate. When we returned from our California adventure, I brought back a box of those thick, solid slabs of chocolate. I kept them in the freezer so they wouldn’t spoil and only made the dense, warm sweetness on special occasions like an in-between day. Those cold winter days after tromping through the woods with child and dog in tow or sledding or ice skating on bogs were followed by mugs of hot chocolate that smelled of warm spices and ancient secrets.
We always enjoyed going to beaches on mild, winter days, perhaps finding a very special stone or piece of driftwood. On an in-between day, we could spend an afternoon throwing sticks for the dog and running up and down the sand dunes at Sandy Neck Beach. When my son was around seven, his favorite superhero was Superman. With an old bath towel pinned to his coat, he was flying over the salty expanse where bad guys feared to tread.
Our mode of transportation for about 10 years was a 1971 yellow, Super Beetle Volkswagen. It was better than an SUV for navigating through fallen snow. So, on some in-between days, I’d take my son into heavily-wooded bog roads when the snow wasn’t too high and let him practice shifting the car. Seems rather reckless now, but we had grand fun, and no child was hurt in the making of these memories.
He would sit on my lap, place his hand on top of mine, and we’d slowly cruise along the deserted bog roads, transitioning through first, second and third gear. Much later on, we’d return to those dirt roads where he’d sit in the driver’s seat, nearly grown and master the clutch system. A forgotten skill.
As the in-between days slowly came to an end, we’d prepare to take the tree down on New Year’s Day, a tradition I brought from my parental home. It was a sweeping out of the old year and beginning the new.
I’m the type of person who tends to look forward, I’m so grateful my memories remain and are so vivid. They are gifts I can open anytime and relive, complete with cold cheeks, waiting for my warm kisses.
This Mattapoisett Life
By Marilou Newell