When she saw the delightful scene, Mrs. Griffin's eyes widened with pleasure. "You're such an artist," she smiled, "wouldn't you like to help us make some of these to decorate for Christmas?"
Wouldn't I?
It was true I was an artist in my own right.Three years before, my second grade teacher had given us a busy assignment just prior to Easter, and suggested we draw a lady in an Easter Bonnet. She had gasped when she saw my art work, and scurried off to find another witness to verify the discovery of a budding talent. But when she asked me to duplicate it for entry into a showing at the library, I was unable to satisfy myself with an exact replica. The nose wasn't perfect, the iris not identical. The joy of the first creation was lost in the quest for perfection in repeating the act.
After countless wasted starts on the portrait, the teacher had gently suggested it need not look just like the first, and I had sighed and produced what I thought was a much less inspired likeness. Neither picture ever made it home to my mother, and I never learned what might truly have happened to them. I had noticed, though, that no one else in the second grade drew the bridge of the nose along with nostrils, or the spokes of the iris when drawing the human face. And their flowers didn't look real, either.
It would be decades before I realized they were probably keeping me busy with the Christmas Project, and possibly hoping to pinch an early production of my work, whether original, or copied from an overhead projector. Since all the way through high school, my best work never made it home, I just thought it was the nature of teachers to snatch up the best portraits and renderings.
After several days of my need for perfection it became necessary to pull in a couple of helpers in order to complete the project before Christmas of that same year. While I lost artistic control, and exclusive credit for production, my eagerness to see the 3 stories of central stair railings populated by elves, my elves, made any problems caused by artists less disciplined minor.
Soon the vision of Santa's Helpers, tools and toys in hand, running up and down the school stairs against a backdrop of greenery was a reality. The season, in which no memorable academic was preformed, was celebrated, beginning with our return from the Thanksgiving holiday and a trip to the long basement lunch room that also housed the piano and a buxom, middle-aged redheaded teacher.
Her repertoire seemed made up entirely of military camp songs, some of which predated the Civil War. We dolefully sang with her as she took us into the foxholes with our grandfathers, and great grandfathers, "Many are the hearts that are weary tonight, looking for the war to cease--many are the hearts that are looking for the right to see the dawn of peace." Her time must have been spent during her younger years with the USO or she would not have taught us "Gonna Dance with the Dolly With a Hole in Her Stocking".
But approaching the Christmas Holiday, we could expect the full range of tradition and what Broadway had to offer. She banged out that chorus, "Ho ho ho, who wouldn't go" with finesse that Norma Zimmer would have been obliged to applaud from her piano stool on the Lawrence Welk set. And we were jovial and eager to do our part,
She led us in an endless procession of hymns and tunes that she played without a glance at the sheet music when we called out our favorites. For me, "O Little Town of Bethlehem" must have drawn its' scenic inspiration for beauty from the streets of our own little town. Blanketed in snow and dressed in street lights, it was the epitome of George's version of Bedford Falls. Everything good seemed to happen here.
After all the preparation and rehearsals were completed, we awaited that last, wonderful day before we would be dismissed for the Christmas break. Some semblance of work was made, using the numbering of ornaments on a page we had to color as an excuse for arithmetic. To facilitate our speedy exit from the building, report cards were handed out, and then we all gathered round the interior staircase that zig-zagged, looking down on the library at the first level.
The piano had been relocated for the occasion, the kindergartners gathered round on the library level, and our smiling music teacher awaited hands poised on the keys for the first chords of "Jolly Old Saint Nicholas." She looked up at us, gave a nod, and we were off! We sang through what must have been twenty carols and hymns before final announcements and good wishes were made. Then we were ushered to our rooms to await the coming of Santa.
By the forth grade, we knew perfectly well that Santa was not real, but we anticipated his coming with the enormous red bag over his shoulder. Inside were paper lunch sacks, filled by PTA and Room Mothers, each with a hand made red or green tinted popcorn ball, several hard candies, a single candy cane, and a hand full of peanuts, roasted in the shell. What a deal! We could take it home to enjoy later, or begin self-paced consumption of the candy cane or popcorn ball on the spot.
The volume of the shrieks of excitement were increasing as Santa and his Helpers made their way up the levels. Our wait was longer, but no less rewarding. When every hand held a gift, his work was done, and we were dismissed with the ring of that same bell that called us to the playground on balmy spring days. Today we would don our snow boots and stomp pathways through shoveled snow for the joy of going knee deep.
We burst from the building, a goodie bag in one hand and our hard-earned report card in the other. Snowball fights would erupt along the way home, and hot cocoa would warm our freezing wet hands, gloves lost or forgotten in the rush.
In the days to come, the Christmas songs we knew by heart played in stores and on radio. Nat King Cole and Bing Crosby competed on our televisions for the most beloved or memorable seasonal songs. At church we joined in hymns and listened to or participated in special choral numbers.. At home, we sang around the piano as my sister, Mary, played. Our father and mother looked on as warm flames danced in the fireplace, enjoying, truly enjoying some peace in their lives.
