The Christmas Pearl Read Free

Mother. First, we put long pieces of rope in the old tin washtub and soaked them in water overnight. The weather was usually mild enough to wear just a sweater. We wore old gardening gloves, asit was kind of a sloppy business. Working as a team, helping one another, we would construct thick majestic garlands, heavy with pine, cedar, and magnolia, discreetly tucking the small branches in between the twists of water-soaked rope. When the rope dried, they held tight. We were positive our garlands were fit for a palace.
    When Pearl or our mother measured, remeasured, and determined that one had reached the proper length, one of them would clip the rope and knot the end. Together, we would carry them inside, carefully, in a great procession, like long Chinese paper dragons, placing each one in some part of every room in the house. The staircase banisters were swagged, mantels were draped, garlands were hung around every doorway; we looped long pieces around the great-hall mirror that reached from the floor to the ceiling, and of course another one framed the front door outside. Naturally, there were wreaths made of greens and small pieces from a bush we called popcorn, because the small berries were lumped together and white. Sometimes we tied in baby pinecones, sprigs of holly with red berries, or lady apples when we could find them. We always had wide red satin ribbon, the same ribbon we saved from year to year, which Pearl would unpack and unroll. She would sing gospel music, like “Come en Go wid Me,” which was telling everybody toask for Jesus to come again. When she forgot a word or two she would hum while she gently ironed out the wrinkles from where the bows had been tied in prior years.
    We all had our jobs to do. I’ll confess, some were more pleasant than others. Gordie and I didn’t mind wiping the magnolia leaves with an old dishcloth spotted with corn oil to make them look like patent leather, but neither one of us enjoyed getting the sticky pinesap all over our faces and arms. Somehow we always got blotches of it on us. My mother would scrub us in our old claw-foot bathtub until we howled for freedom. Gosh! I haven’t thought about that in years! Gordie surely could howl like a wild man.
    No one makes garlands today. Or wreaths. Everything is ordered from the florist or a catalog or bought on the side of the road from the same fellow who sells fireworks in the summer. Or even more terrible, people use plastic fake things that give your home no fragrance at all. I find this very disappointing. You have to understand that the real fun of the season was in the preparation. The preparation fueled our frenzy of anticipation.
    Naturally there were gifts. Gordie and I would construct bookmarks for our mother and grandmother. They loved to read. Our home was well stocked with books of every kind. We’d draw a flower or a bird on a long skinny piece of stiff paper, color it carefully, thenfringe the bottoms with manicuring scissors. The other side was then signed and dated. The bookmarks were enclosed in handmade cards. We hid everything under our beds until the tree went up.
    A crisp morning would find us walking up King Street to Kerrison’s Department Store hand in hand with Pearl. With what little money we had earned by performing small chores like sweeping the steps or folding towels, we would argue and finally settle on a linen handkerchief or a necktie for our father. Later a card would be made for him, too. What to give Pearl was always a huge dilemma. Gordie or I would pester someone into shopping with us to find her a nice pair of gloves, a sweater, or a pretty scarf that would be from us. It seems to me now that way back then, the other adults made us work for their attention and affection. Pearl freely gave an abundance of both. Maybe there was a lesson there—a pearl of wisdom?
    Anyway, the whole business took weeks to accomplish! When it was over, the house was festooned to a fare-thee-well and we were