When I was eleven I broke the butter dish. I had been cooking, making toast without permission. As punish my mother said I could not accompany her to the annual Christmas parade held the second Saturday of each December.
I loved going the Christmas Parade held in the town where we did most of our shopping and my mother and father conducted business. It was high even of the year. And I looked forward to attending.
Following the parade children, as did I, lined up to sit on Santa’s knee and tell him what we wanted for Christmas. Attentive parents stood within earshot and made not of what we said.
Even though I knew Santa Claus was not the person who bought and placed children’s gifts under the Christmas tree, my inability to attend the parade left me fearful I would receive nothing for the holiday.
I arose Saturday morning of the parade to gray skies and a bitter cold. As my mother and younger brother dressed and prepared to attend the parade, I lamented my actions of having made toast without a parent’s permission during which time I had broken the butter dish.
Some moments after my mother had left with my brother, my father came to me. “Get your coat and hat, and let’s go,” he said. And so we left.
It was nice seeing the parade with my father. I did not realize how peaceful life was away from my mother’s presence and school where girls of the in-crowd dominated the social scene.
I began to wish I could spend more time with my father. He held my hand, ushered me in front of him so I could see the parade clearly. Quiet as he usually was, he said little, but the silence communicated much between us.
Following the parade’s end he took me to the general store near our home on the farm in the countryside and I got some candy. It was a beautiful day despite not having sat on Santa’s knee and listed out all that I wanted.
(to be continued …)
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