My Christmas Bow

I watched a child sit on Santa’s lap last weekend.

Her intent face looked into his eyes and she whispered into the noise of the echo chamber they both sat in.

He bent closer and asked her to repeat herself, then responded with a comment that only she could hear.

She smiled and hopped down from his lap as he glanced up at the man who took the little girl’s hand.

I wondered how this chapter would end.

And I thought of my tenth Christmas.

My family had moved from town to a small farm in the Oregon Coast Range.

I loved the freedom of our farm.

The constant drizzle didn’t stop me from wandering down to the ramshackle barn, splashing in the creek and climbing the hills in the forest.

I was obsessed with a bit of my heritage at that age, too.

My mom’s side of the family includes some Choctaw and Commanche ancestors. I wanted to be like them.

When I sat on Santa’s lap, I asked for a bow and arrows.

Not a toy bow and arrow with flimsy rubber suction cups, but a bow that would shoot arrows with tips that would stick into trees, fenceposts and whatever other target I might stalk.

Even though I was a well-padded dough-child, my image of arching my strong back and pulling the bowstring, biceps rippling and elbows high, was crystal clear.

A couple of weeks before Christmas, a long, slender package appeared under our Christmas tree.

I was elated.

The tag noted that the package was from my grandmother.

Gangy lived far away so we didn’t see her often. She wasn’t a person who cooed over babies, but as my brothers and I had grown older, she had shown more interest in us.

Maybe Santa had shared my wish for a bow and arrow with Gangy.

My parents attended several adult Christmas parties that year, leaving my older brother, Mark, in charge of household safety and wellness in their absence.

Somehow, we managed to survive anyway.

Mark loved to carefully slit the wrapping tape and peek into packages before Christmas, then precisely stick new tape on to the paper and set the package back in exactly the same place.

I’m not sure which he liked better, knowing what was in the package or the sneaky game of peeking.

But as the household authority that night, Mark would allow each of us to open only one single package.

After all, self-discipline is imperative to life’s success.

I didn’t hesitate.

I could not wait another second to admire my new bow and arrows.

I don’t remember what my brothers unwrapped. I’m not sure I ever knew.

When I slipped my fingernail under that tape, peeled back the paper and slipped the box open, tears ran down my cheeks.

Inside the box was a blue umbrella.

Somehow, I managed to slip the box back into the wrapping paper and retape the package.

Then I crawled into bed and soaked my pillow.

There’s something to be said for peeking into packages before Christmas.

On Christmas morning, with all of us circled around the tree, eating our Christmas kuchen and choosing packages to open next, I managed to keep my composure and feign gratitude for the long, slender box under the tree.

When the presents were all opened and the bows collected to use next year, my mom encouraged me to take my new umbrella outside and test it in the rain.

As I stepped out into the yard, I heard a nicker from our closest pasture.

A beautiful paint mare hung her head over the fence, asking for a treat.