Christmas Scenes

 

     My mom held up a large, plastic container of glitter. It was full of large, white flakes. "What do think of this one?"

     "I don't like the big flakes, and the color is boring," I replied.

     Then she picked up a small, glass vial of glitter. It was super-fine iridescent white with glints of lavender and green. "Do you like this one?"

     I could see so many possibilities open up with this glitter. It was so tiny, it could disappear into a crafting project, only allowing you access to its beauty by glinting at you flirtatiously as you turned it in the light. The lavender would appeal to my mom, who's favorite color was purple. The green appealed to me. "I love it. What's it for?"

     "You'll see," my mom announced as she continued to scan the shelves of the craft store. "Look at these miniature teddy bears. Aren't they cute?"

     "They are if you tell me what they're for."

     "Sorry, but it's a surprise." My mom grabbed a few packages of the teddy bears, some miniature boxes wrapped in foil and tied up with a gold string, several large slabs of Styrofoam,  a bag of large colorful beads and some green spray paint. "Let's go to the toy store next."

     "Are you expecting an argument from me?" I took the stuff from her and put it on the counter to help speed things along. "Hurry. I want to look at the new Christmas toys."

     The woman rang us up, and we were on our way. Once at the toy store, I headed for the fashion doll aisle, but I wasn't there long before realizing that my mom was not with me. I checked each aisle until I found her in the boy toy section. She was picking out toy cars and miniature bicycles. "What are those for?"

     "Stop asking, Deb. I'm not going to tell you."

     I threw my hands up in surrender and went back to look at my favorite toys. After a few minutes, my mom appeared and asked if I was ready to go. "Can I have some candy?"

     "One thing."

     I walked over to the register area to look at the choices. It was always a hard decision when faced with such limitation. Should I get the molded candy shaped like bones that came in a little plastic coffin, the tube of gel that turned into bubble gum or the candy necklace? I went for the candy necklace, and we made our purchases before leaving the mall.

     When we got home, my mom went out to what had once been my playhouse, but now served more for storage. She came back with a large basket of pinecones she had gathered from our yard. We had a long-needle pine tree, and it gave us pinecones three times larger than regular pine trees. "Go inside and set up with hot glue gun," my mom instructed.

     I went inside and got the glue gun out of its storage, plugged it in and set it on top of a piece of cardboard on the table to catch any stray drips. Then I headed back outside to find my mom spray painting the pinecones. I desperately wanted to ask her yet again what she was up to, but I knew it was useless, so I started taking her the unpainted pinecones and putting the painted ones on some newspaper she had set out.

     We let the pinecones dry before bringing them inside, and then my mom handed me some school glue and the new vial of glitter. "Make it look like snow."

     I felt my heart leap in my chest. I was in charge of the glitter. It spoke to my soul. I started dapped on glue and carefully sprinkling the glitter on and tapping off the excess into a bowl to be reused. After finishing the glitter, my mom handed me the bag of beads. "Decorate the tree."

     The craft project began to come together in my head at last. Using the hot glue gun, I decorated the tree with beautiful glass ornaments in various colors. These were not designer trees done a specific style or color but down home trees decorated by a child. As I would finish a tree, my mom would take it from me and glue it onto the Styrofoam base. Then she would glue down the toys.

     That year for Christmas, we gave friends and family a beautiful Christmas scene fit for any miniature child who would love to wake up to a toy car, a teddy bear, a brand new bicycle, and presets loving wrapped under a snow-glittered tree.

The Haircut

     "I'm starting to get shaggy," my dad announced.

     My ears perked up. "Are you going to get your hair cut in Banks?" I asked. I was more than just a little curious. Haircut days were special, and I loved to be a part of them.

     "Nah. I was thinking of getting your momma to do it." My dad had the mischievous look he got when he was messing with me. I pouted for effect. "Oh, alright. I think I'll go to Banks, but you can't go with me this time." I pouted more severely, letting my chin quiver and my eyes go big. "Oh, dammit. You can go."

     I jumped around and danced. Haircuts meant listening to guy gossip, the clean smell of shaving cream, the sound of clippers and a straight razor sharpened on leather, and candy. Lots of candy. I changed out of my play clothes and hopped in my dad's truck.

     The barber shop in Banks was a little room built about five feet from the barber's house. It was a small operation: one barber, one chair, a small waiting area with three seats and a large mirror. I liked to turn around in my seat and watch the action while looking at myself in the mirror. I never had to take anything to entertain myself with because the experience was always enough.

     I liked the barber shop better than the hair salon. It was quieter without all the hairdryers going at once. It smelled cleaner, too. Hair salons always smelled like hair dye and perms. The shop smelled like blue fluid in glass jars, shaving cream, and aftershave. I also liked the barber better.

     He was an older gentleman with gray hair. He always looked and smelled really clean, and I liked that because it reminded me of my Paw-Paw. He liked to talk and laugh, and I liked to listen to him. He would get my dad in his chair, put a collar and a cape on him, foot pump the chair up into position, and he was off.

     "How have things been?"

     "Pretty good. I went out fishing yesterday out at Lake Eufaula. I caught eleven bass, six crappie, and nine catfish. It wasn't too bad. How about you?"

    "You know, the usual. I did hear a funny song the other day. Have you heard of Ray Stevens?"

    "I have. I think he's funny," I interjected.

     "You don't know who Ray Stevens is," my dad teased me.

     "I do, too. Kay-Kay let me listen to him. He sings 'Mississippi Squirrel Revival' and 'It's Me Again, Margaret.' He's really funny."

     "He is," the barber agreed. "Have you heard his new one: 'The Haircut Song'?"

     Neither my dad nor I had heard it.

     "I really like that one. You see, ole Ray is going around the country, playing his songs, and he ends up having to get his hair cut before he can get back home. The first place he stops is a macho barber shop. This big ape comes out wearing a T-shirt saying 'I hate musicians,' so ole Ray, being a musician lies and tells this guy he's a logger. Guy cuts his hair, and shaves him bald.

     "Then ole Ray ends up in a punk rock barber shop. This guy has orange hair and tells him he's gay. Well that make old Ray nervous, so he tells this guy he's a logger, too. Guy gives him a purple Mohawk.

    "Just when you think it can't get worse, ole Ray ends up down South. He steps into a barber shop that's also a church, and the barber is part Baptist and part Catholic, and all preacher. He's preaching about the sins that surround the music industry, so ole Ray tells him that he runs a church for loggers. I thing his haircut turned out better. He didn't say it was bad, and it was done in the South by a Southern barber, so other than the preaching, it was probably the best haircut he'd had since leaving home."

     "I bet that's right," my dad chimed in.

     The barber put heated towels on my dad's face. It was time for my favorite part. He applied lather with a  bristle brush and reclined the seat. Then he got out the straight razor and began sharpening it on the leather belt hanging off the chair. Shick, shick, shick. He deftly shaved my dad, then applied a splash of aftershave, removed the cape and collar, and brushed bits of hair away with what I liked to think of as a tiny broom. "All done."

     My dad paid the barber, then offered to let him cut my hair in the same style. "No!" I screamed and ran out the door to jump in the truck. My dad got into the driver's seat laughing, "You sure you don't want your hair cut?" I stuck out my tongue.

     We drove up the road to the Bank's Buy-Rite, and I launched myself out of the truck, anticipating the junk food feast that awaited me. I grabbed peanut butter cheese crackers, chocolate mint patties, chocolate peanut butter cups, flavored granulated sugar sticks, caramels, orange fluff in the vague shape of peanuts, tart candies in round tubes, candy-coated tart candies in silvery round tubes, smaller tart candies in cellophane tubes, candy sticks with granulated sugar powder in three addictive flavor pouches, chocolate milk and a grape soda.

     "I don't think you got enough there," my dad snarked.

     "You're right." I placed my haul on the counter and headed back to the candy aisle. I added cinnamon hot candies, pieces of peanut butter in a hard candy shell, some small, colorful jaw breakers, a pouch of shredded grape bubble gum meant to look like chewing tobacco, and small chocolate candies coated in a shell not meant to melt in your hands but instead in your mouth. My dad placed a cherry soda, pack of crackers, box of caramel coated popcorn, chocolate mint patty, and chocolate-covered peanut candies coated in a colorful shell on the counter with my treasures.

     On our way home, we ate crackers, drank our sodas and listened to country music.