Desert Christmas

Terry Donnelly

 

Wally Donovan has a rooster residing right in his head. Baby Wally rousted his parents from sleep at the earliest hint of daylight during summer months, which was okay on work days, but not so much on Saturday mornings after a Friday night party with only a couple hours in bed. That happened quite often in those days of yore when his parents were young bon viveurs. Unfortunately, winter, with its darker mornings, didn’t change anything on Wally’s internal clock. If there were something compelling ahead, sleep was always plan-B. Dad didn’t even like to talk to him about his early rising in the off chance he was doing it on purpose, as punishment for leaving him with a sitter, and, out of spite, would get up even earlier.

Throw in some anticipation and that cock-a-doodle-doo would sound in the weest of hours. And, the mother lode of anticipation for young Wally was always Christmas Day.

To kick-off this story with “Christmas Day 1955 dawned …” or “As the sun rose on Christmas Day …” would be false advertising. It must have been before five a.m., with nearly four hours of complete darkness and half a night’s sleep remaining before the sun had any intention of brightening the morning sky, when Wally awoke, clear eyed and ready to meet the day. Neither his parents nor his nearly two-year-old sister, had any such designs.

Wally simply could not stay in bed one second longer. His demons were driving him downstairs to see what was waiting around the tree. It wasn’t because he was excited about Santa coming––he didn’t believe in Santa Claus any longer. That crushing realization came to him last year during a tsunami of shattered illusions. Not just Santa, but also the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and the patently false information dished out about a stork bringing babies were all dashed in one fell swoop. Age eight had, indeed, been a monumental year. 

All that information notwithstanding, Wally knew there would be a surprise gift or two for him because his parents wanted to be sure little sister didn’t start getting any questionable ideas. Not that a two-year-old would, but there were precautions that had to be taken.

Wally also knew there would be a price to pay for this sortie into the perimeter around the Christmas tree, but there was no turning back. 

He got dressed, shoes and all, thinking if his mom heard him she couldn’t make him go back to bed with his clothes already on. Nine-year-olds think like that. He next thought about making some cereal in a bowl to bide his time while waiting for the others. After creeping downstairs and carefully avoiding the two stairs that creaked the loudest, he glanced at the darkened tree and the shadows of presents positioned around it. He couldn’t see very well in the dark, but there definitely were more gifts there than when he went to bed a few hours before.

Somehow, the cereal began to sound like a bad idea. What if he spilled the milk or dropped the box, scattering Rice Krispies across the floor and under the stove? Clean-up would be impossible. No. The better idea would be to sit on the couch and stare silently into the darkness. Wally moved two pillows to the far end of the couch so he could recline and look toward the tree. When he laid down all he could see through the darkness without uncomfortably craning his neck was the shadowy form of the star at the top of the tree.

“This won’t work.” Again, his nine-year-old mind went into action. “Mom and Dad’s bedroom door is open, but the tree is far away from them and it really doesn’t give off that much light with those colored bulbs. If I turn them on, I’ll be able to see without disturbing them.” 

He crept around the back of the tree, being careful as he could not to step on a package or cause any kind of rustling that would alert the enemy softly snoring in the next room. Now plugged in, the tree came to life and twinkled brilliantly due to the multitude of shiny tinsel strands meticulously draped over the branches. That was Mom’s domain. She didn’t trust either Wally or Dad, to tediously place them, one strand at a time over every branch. Wally always helped hang the ornaments, but he had to leave the house when Mom got started on the tinsel. It took way too long. It seemed simply tossing handfuls in the general direction of the tree would yield the same result. Mom did not agree––at all. 

The tree was the only source of light in the house and it looked magical. Okay, back to the couch to admire the vision before him.

Wally laid on the couch gazing at the tree for three hours. He started wondering if anyone were ever going to wake up. He looked at the Timex watch his grandparents had given him last Christmas. Remarkably, he kept it safely on his wrist and, as the TV ad promised, “it took a licking and kept on ticking,” for a whole year! Upon close inspection of his trusty timepiece, he discovered, in truth, it hadn’t been three full hours, it had been thirteen minutes. “Rats!”

The next step in this ill-advised saga was as inevitable as it was predictable. Wally convinced himself he could open just one gift and no one would be the wiser. He slid off the couch and crouched in front of the tree inspecting packages, seeking one tagged for him. He found a smallish, solid, fairly heavy for its size package that read “To: Wally.” In his excitement, Wally failed to remember that his dad was also Wally and everyone didn’t tag his presents “To: Dad.” He carefully unsealed the wrapping paper, sure he had the skills to put it all back together after his sneak peek. Inside he found a dozen, shiny, white, Titleist golf balls. “That’s an odd gift for me, all I have in my bag are a bunch of beat-up Po-Dos.”

There was a new presence in the room and Wally turned, purloined golf balls in hand, and looked up to see his mom towering over him. She simply shook her head and took the box from him. She gave the To/From tag a better reading than Wally had. “These are for your father.” She stuck the tape and paper back around the box and gave the bow a fluff. The repair job was better than Wally could have done, but still not convincing enough to fool anyone there hadn’t been tampering.

Wally kept a close watch on her to judge her mood and try to determine just how much trouble he was in. At least he hadn’t scattered Snap, Crackle, and Pop all over the kitchen floor. Mom didn’t give away any clues to what she was going to do next. She knelt down next to Wally and sorted through a few packages. She handed one to him, “Here. This one is for you from Aunt Gerry and Uncle Bob. Open it and let me go back to bed.”

With that, Mom was gone as quickly and quietly as she had arrived. Wally was once again alone in the soft glimmer created by the tree lights and tinsel strands.

Unwrapping revealed a copy of Walt Disney’s Living Desert. Wally liked books, but reading wasn’t his first choice of activities––too passive. However, with few other options that wouldn’t get him in further hot water, Wally began to read. He was heartened when he found the word “naked” in the lede. Never mind that naked was used to describe barren desert hills. He read on and discovered elf owls live in holes in saguaro cacti, bobcats and peccaries live and hunt in the desert, and was surprised to learn that barrel cacti have beautiful blooms. He thought they just had stickers.

The time reading and looking at the cool photos, many of them really gross, passed quickly and soon his parents had gotten his sister up and brought her down to check out Santa’s bounty. It was only then that Wally noticed among the dolls, a doll stroller, and a tea party set, there was also a football and a baseball glove for him. There would surely be other treasures in the wrapped boxes still under the tree.

Christmas Day was, at long last, getting up a head of steam.

 

Epilogue: In 1953, scientists studied plant and animal life in deserts around the world and created Living Desert, a true-life adventure movie. Disney subsequently released the book in 1954, rife with photographs. Who knew Living Desert would sell through several editions over the years and a first edition copy would become a rare and valuable find 68 years later? When “Wally” received Living Desert as a gift in 1955, first editions were the only editions. I still have that copy with the inscription my Aunt Gerry penned all those years ago. It is in very good condition. Don’t ask me how I managed that.

Worthy of note is that our dear aunt is also still around––she’s almost 103 and probably in better condition than the book.

In the spirit of domestic tranquility and preservation of life (mine), I must report that four years after this account a second sister was joyfully added to our tribe. I promise to write her story––there is plenty of fodder.

I hope you enjoyed this revised format holiday letter, perhaps with a chuckle. Even better, a quick trip back in time to relive some of your own Christmas memories. 

Card photo credit goes to our daughter, Sara.

Pat and I wish you the happiest of holiday seasons.