Welcome to the 2020 WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour!
Featured Author for Sunday, November 15th, 2020
RWISA Author, Maura Beth Brennan!
by Maura Beth Brennan
After the concert, we wandered around the store, admiring the decorations. Mother was especially taken by the centerpiece on one of the tables in the furniture department. There, a pineapple, resplendent in a coating of golden spray paint, nestled on a platter filled with fresh pine boughs and sparkling ornaments.
“Oh, isn’t that lovely,” exclaimed Mother.
“I think it’s stupid,” said Father. Father was usually a cheerful person, full of jokes and funny stories, but that day he was grumpy, facing the prospect of having to eat lunch in Wanamaker’s Mezzanine Restaurant, where, as he put it, “They only have lady food.”
Mother rolled her eyes at me like she did sometimes, now that I was thirteen, and apparently had been admitted into the Sisterhood of Aren’t Men Silly. I rolled my eyes back at her, straightened my shoulders, and stood straight and proud.
Mother worked feverishly all that week to prepare for the holiday and finally, on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, we all decorated the tree. In those days in our house, the tree was brought into the house on Christmas Eve and not a day before. Father would spend hours groaning, shouting, and trying not to curse as he secured the tree to the walls. You read that correctly. Father was sure that the tree would escape its confines when left to its own devices, wreaking havoc, and so would place it in a corner and tether it to each wall with nails and the thickest string he could find. Only then could our tree, safely restrained, be adorned.
The tradition was that we would listen to Christmas carols as we all performed our assigned decorating duties. Finally, Father would finish with gobs of silver tinsel and, with a flourish, turn on the lights. After the “oohs” and “aahs” died down, we would head to the dining room for Christmas Eve dinner.
That’s how things usually went. On this particular Christmas Eve, though, as we were filing into the dining room, a loud shriek emanated from the direction of the kitchen.
Mother shot Father a look. “Aunt Alice.” she said.
I should have mentioned that my Great Aunt Alice was visiting. She was extremely old and, on holidays, came to stay with us. We kids loved Aunt Alice. She was funny, though not always intentionally so, told us fabulous stories which she made up herself, and she loved to curse. This was a great learning experience as I saw it. However, my parents had recently had a discussion with Aunt Alice about this behavior. I listened in, rooting for Aunt Alice, and it went like this:
Father said, “There are children here, Aunt Alice. Think of the children.”
“But you curse, and you’re my favorite nephew,” Aunt Alice replied.
Father countered with, “Look, Aunt Alice, that’s different. I’m a man, and I was in the Navy during the War.”
Aunt Alice, voice rising, shot back, “Oh, come on. What a crock of—”
“Stop!” yelled Father.
“POOP,” Aunt Alice screamed. “I was going to say POOP.”
Mother chimed in, “That was better, Alice. Crude, but better.” Then she swooped in for the finish. “Alice, Dear, you are so creative! Why, all those stories you tell, I’m sure you will have no trouble coming up with interesting things to say when you’re upset. If you want to keep coming here to be with us and the children, that is. It’s completely up to you.”
“Dag blig it,” said Aunt Alice.
So on that night, hearing that strange cry, Father rushed in the direction of the sound and we all followed. I, for one, hoped it meant a ship was visible from our kitchen window, though we lived nowhere near a body of water. That would have been a treat.
But there was Aunt Alice in the kitchen, crawling along one of the counters and opening and closing the cabinets, a fairly tricky situation. Father caught her just as she was tumbling from the counter, having been pushed off by the cabinet door she was trying to open.
“Aunt Alice, what are you doing?” Father shouted. “You could have broken your hip.”
“Forget my bleeping hip,” Aunt Alice shouted back. “Where did you people hide my flipping glasses?”
Father pointed to the glasses dangling from the ribbon around her neck.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, it’s about frogging time.”
Finally at the table, all proceeded well, although Mother seemed distracted. She cleared the dishes and started toward the table with our desert, at which point Aunt Alice laid her head on the table and moaned, “Oh, why won’t they let me have a beer?”
“You know why, Aunt Alice,” Father said. “You’re on that new heart medication and the doctor said you can’t drink.”
“But you’re drinking,” she said, pointing to Father’s glass of wine.
“Now, look Aunt Alice,” Father began, but Mother interrupted him.
“Don’t worry, dear, I’ll get you something,” she said, patting Aunt Alice on the shoulder, and winking at Father. She signaled to me to follow her into the kitchen.
“She’s been so good, with the non-cursing,” Mother said. “I better come up with something. Do you think we could fool her with some grape juice?”
I was honored to be included in this weighty decision and offered my solution. “Let’s add vinegar,” I said. That will make it taste like wine, I bet.”
“Hmmm,” said Mother. “Well, I don’t drink, because I think it tastes terrible, so I’m not sure . . .”
She filled a crystal goblet with grape juice and topped it off with a splash of white vinegar. She handed the glass to me. “How does it taste?” she asked.
I took a sip and immediately spit it out. “Yuck!” I said. “It tastes terrible.”
“Well then, that should do,” said Mother.
She took the glass to the dining room and handed it to Aunt Alice, who brightened up and took a sip.
“Ah,” she said. “Now that’s more like it.”
After we settled again, I noticed that Mother still seemed distracted, which I attributed to all the work she had been doing the past week. But suddenly, after desert, she threw her hands to her face and cried out, “Oh, no! I forgot to spray a pineapple!”
Father sat back, threw his napkin on the table, and burst into hearty guffaws. “Oh, Mary,” he said, “now that’s a good one. A pineapple! Heh, heh, heh, like that silly thing we saw last week?” He shook his head. “Mary, I have to say, every once and a while you come out with a good one.” He wiped his eyes and grinned in Mother’s direction, then stopped cold when he saw her face. “You were kidding, Mary, right? Kidding about that funny pineapple thing? Mary? Sweetheart?”
But Mother rushed from the room and we could hear the sounds of things being thrown around in our pantry closet—pots clanging, wrappers rustling, cans and boxes colliding. Before long, Mother emerged, a look of relief on her face, displaying the elusive fruit—one glorious pineapple. We all applauded, and Father sprang from his chair to escort her back into the room. But Mother glared at him. “I have things to do,” she said.
Father looked like he wanted to go after her, but Aunt Alice tugged on his sleeve. “Can I have more of this wine?” she asked. “It’s delicious.”
I washed and dried the dishes, and soon it was time for my brothers and me to go to bed. I heard Father call to Mother once, asking if he could help, but she shouted back, “You just leave me a-lone.” I imagine after that he kept what is known as a low profile.
On Christmas morning everyone jumped out of bed, eyes shining, faces bright with smiles, even Mother.
And what a beautiful sight lay before us. The Christmas tree glimmered in the darkened living room, surrounded by gaily wrapped gifts. And visible through the archway was the dining room table, draped with a golden cloth and graced with an arrangement of fragrant pine boughs and glittering gold Christmas ornaments. Nestled in the greenery sat the singular, spectacular, gilded pineapple.
“Oh, Mary,” said Father. His face flushed and his eyes looked a little watery. “It looks beautiful.”
“Well, I’ll be a son of a—,” began Aunt Alice, but Mother grabbed her elbow.
“Don’t even think it,” she whispered. Then she smiled her lovely smile and said, “Let’s all just wish each other” and we all chimed in--
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Maura Beth Brennan's RWISA Author Profile