As I sat reminiscing about Christmases past, an incident involving an old friend began to form in my mind. Small elements of memory began assembling like pieces of a jigsaw coming together on the screen of my mind. First the edges appeared, then the middle filled in. As it became clear, I wondered if it really happened, or if my over active imagination had produced a false memory. You decide.
As a Christmas gift, we had selected a colourful set of stoneware for Bert. Like many bachelors, he had mismatched, chipped chinaware. I didn’t call ahead; just hit his place unannounced. I mean literally hit it; I slipped on a snowy patch and fell against the door. Not wanting to let go of the wrapped stoneware, I couldn’t save myself. Hearing the thump of a body against the door, he pulled it open. I stumbled inward with the opening door, rolled over to protect the gift, and came to rest on my back staring up at Bert.
He took the gaily wrapped box from me, carried it to the table, and said, “I suppose this is for me.”
He just left me on the floor, while he turned over the gift, shook and poked at it. “It’s breakable,” I called from my prone position, then added, “If you’d had your storm door fixed and back on, I wouldn’t be lying here.”
Bert turned and loomed over me. “No, you would have broken it. Are you hurt?”
“Not really,” I answered, staggering to my feet. “But I may need a chiropractor.” When I got clear of the door Bert closed it, but not before looking out to see if Anna was waiting in the car. “Where’s Anna?” he asked.
“Home. Having a nap.”
“Oh, if she’d been with you, you wouldn’t have fallen.”
“And how,” I asked, “do you figure that?”
Bert chortled, “Because you’d have made her carry that heavy parcel.”
A few minutes later Bert and I sat at his table for a cup of tea. He had pushed aside a pile of envelopes and Christmas cards. Only then did I notice the red and green decorations. “You don’t usually bother to decorate,” I said. “Why this year?”
Bert mumbled something, but I didn’t hear him. I also noticed another thing I couldn’t quite understand. Obviously Bert had been working on his Christmas card list. He had addressed five or six cards, but had about 50 more unaddressed and arranged in three piles. In the first pile I saw funny cards with cartoon characters or Santa. The second pile looked more serious with country or village scenes. The third pile had Nativity scenes I could see scripture verses on some of those. All the cards, regardless of the pile, had the words “Merry Christmas.”
None sported a generic greeting like “Seasons greetings.” Dumbfounded, I sucked in my breath, and sat staring, for I know Bert as a professing agnostic.
“You got a problem?” he asked.
Recovering, I said, “I don’t. I’m just wondering about you. You have a selection of religious cards, but you haven’t been in church for years. Have you finally seen the light?”
“Some of my friends are believers, some unbelievers. Regardless of what I believe, Christmas celebrates Christ’s birth. I don’t intend to get politically correct and practice personal censorship with a centuries old tradition.”
I felt embarrassed. I had misunderstood and underrated my friend.
Bert gave me a lopsided grin: “I had planned to send you a serious card, but after seeing your slap stick entry, you’re getting the funniest card I have.”