Merry Christmas
I was
officially orphaned in 1999. Since then, my Christmas spirit has been spiked
with the bittersweet taste of melancholy. While I celebrate the season with
fervor, I can’t seem to quell the emptiness I feel in the pit of my stomach. I
believe it to be caused by “the sense of family” that seems to have lessened
since my parents have moved on to a better place.
My sister and I
My sister and I both admit
we don’t cut the mustard in the family unity department. We barely graduated
from the kid’s table before we were thrust into the position of matriarchs.
In our defense, we are geographically challenged. We
have sisters, brothers, daughters, granddaughters, and cousins living all the
way from Baltimore, Maryland to San Diego, California.
Mom and Dad with my daughters Kirby and
Dustan
I miss my
parents, the glue that held the family together. Every Christmas, my thoughts
always drift back Omaha, Nebraska, a time when all seemed right in my world.
(Mom and Dad always bragged they made life-long friends in Nebraska. We all
agreed that was the place we were happiest as a family.) My lips
curl up at the edges and my heart pangs with a combination of angst and joy
when I think of the Christmas mornings of yore spent in our happy Nebraskan
home.
Every year, Dad made my sister and I wait impatiently
at the top of the stairs holding back the dog while he set up his Super 8
camera. (Thank you, Dad, we still have the movies.) When he finally gave the
word, we would run down stairs, tear open our bounty of gifts, and then hit the
streets to compare toys with our many friends.
Feeling nostalgic as usual, and longing to open a window into the past
when my family was intact, and Christmases were magical and my dreams were
boundless, I hit the internet in search of one Nebraskan family that held a
special place in my heart.
The T’s
lived directly across the street. Mr. and Mrs. T had three children. I was
eight-years-old when the twins, two adorable towheaded girls with ice blue
eyes, were born, and nine-years-old when their equally adorable, sandy, brown
haired sister Nanny came along. I patiently waited for them to walk, and
then dressed them in ballet costumes and taught them to dance.
I took them trick-or-treating every
Halloween. I snapped many photos, for which they eagerly posed. I starred them
in my Super 8 movies and many, many theatrical basement plays. They were smart
little girls, willing actors, and always adorable. (I still have the movies and
the pictures.)
I
enjoyed the twins and Nanny’s company as much as they enjoyed mine. When I was
twelve, I talked their mother into allowing me to babysit while she ran
errands. And by the time I was 13, I was the T’s regular babysitter. Though,
I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. T were comforted knowing Mom was right across the
street.
The last time I saw the T girls, as I called them, the twins were 7 and Nanny
was 6. I remember that cold day in November of 1974 as if it were yesterday.
The early morning sun glistened off the dusting of the new fallen snow. I stood
in my front yard knee deep, with a smile on my face and a lump in my throat,
staring at the house I had loved for six years—a lifetime in my young
eyes.
I felt emotions ranging from excitement to remorse as the moving men
loaded the last box on the truck. I crossed the street to say goodbye one last
time to the little girls I wished were my own. I still remember their smiling
faces as they waved good-bye, them too young and me too naive to understand the
finality of our words. And then, my family drove off, in our blue Chevrolet
station wagon with woodgrain paneling, never to return.
My parents kept in touch with the T’s over the years. I believe I wrote a
letter or two, but boys and teenage things got in the way and I moved on with
my life. We all did. Although the three little girls, that I once wished were
mine, were ingrained in the back of my mind.
I began my Christmas Google soul-searches several years ago,
locating one friend after another, but the T family remained a mystery. I
almost gave up, when, like a Christmas miracle, two of the names of the little
girls I once wished were my own, popped up on
Facebook.
I consulted my sister, prior to pushing that friend request button.
She said, “You should definitely try, but don’t be upset if they
don’t respond. You were older and you really loved them, but they were so young
when we moved away they may not remember you.”
With butterflies in my stomach, I left a little note, enclosed a
vintage picture, and sent out two friendship requests. Within a day, my
requests had been accepted, and I received a message of acknowledgement from
both.
And now, not only do I have the peace of knowing their family is
well and intact, but to paraphrase Nancy, I also have this: “I remember you
dressing me like a mouse for a Christmas movie. You had the moms come to see
it, and you made cookie cutter sandwiches. I did that for my kids because of
that memory.”
After reading Nancy's words, just like the Grinch, my heart grew three
sizes. My mouth bowed into a smile, and something warm rolled down my
cheek. I had forgotten about my basement production of “Santa Mouse”
starring Nanny, and the cookie cutter sandwiches Mom taught me how to make.
Nancy's memory is one of my greatest Christmas gifts.
I am elated we have reconnected, but there is one thing I am finding hard to
fathom. The precious little girls that I once wished were mine, who have been
frozen in time for forty-four years, are now beautiful adults with children of
their own. I am slowly, but surely, getting used to the idea.
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanza, and peace and
love to all!
Susan Antony
