Christmas with Grandma

The year I turned eight, we spent Christmas with Grandma Long. She was my mother’s mother. She was very old, close to a hundred in fact. As a bride of the Great Depression, she’d birthed seven children at home and lost three of them to diseases I was vaccinated for. Mother said their deaths had changed her heart. 

I believed her, because the Grandma I knew was mean to everyone. Everyone except Boots, her big gray tomcat with white paws. 

She wasn’t the kind of grandma who held you on her lap, only Boots got to sit on her lap. She was the kind of grandma who held you to standards of adult behavior when you were only eight.

The only room of her house that was heated was the sitting room. It had a big gas fireplace flanked by two walnut rockers her brother had made her as a wedding gift. A daybed piled high with quilts sat against the back wall. When she wasn’t napping, that’s where the guests sat. Adult guests, that is. Kids were to be seen and not heard. While Boots sat on her lap, we sat at her feet on a hand-hooked rug. 

She was always baking something so the oven kept the kitchen warm. The bathroom was above the kitchen, and all the other rooms were cold as ice, especially the bedrooms.

She heated the beds upstairs with hot water bottles. She’d stick one under the covers at the bottom of the bed, which was really rather effective, once you stopped shaking and the shivers wore off. 

I hated sleeping at Grandma’s house, because I had to share a bed with Betsy, my baby sister. We fought so much Daddy called us The Cinderella Sisters. She had nails like razor blades and kicked like a mule. I snored, so neither of us slept much when we had to sleep together. 

We were always forced upstairs to go to bed before it was even dark. It always happened the same way. Grandma Long would let out a big sigh and say, “I’ve had my fill of you kids. Let’s get you off to bed.”

Long after we were tucked away upstairs, the grown-ups were still swapping stories downstairs. Their laughter wafted up the steps and laid down in the hall next to the aromas of butter cookies and strong coffee.

It was a wild night outside that Christmas Eve. Sleet slashed at the single-pane windows, mountain smoke drifted up from the river, and angry West Virginia winds were chasing gray clouds around the sky like a sheriff after moonshiners. 

Betsy and I couldn’t sleep for all the laughter, so we pulled the homemade curtains back to watch for Santa Claus and prayed he knew we were there.

Just as our eyes could stay awake no longer, a star, not Santa Claus, appeared in the sky. Betsy, who was destined be a pastor like our Daddy, clapped her tiny hands and said, “Look Sister! It’s God’s star and it’s so bright, the dark can’t cover it!” 

My sister died just before Christmas last year.

As I remember her words now, I realize that even at five years of age, she was a deep soul who had it figured out right:

 

When God’s light reigns in our hearts, the darkness cannot overcome it.