Nobody Reads This Page: “Hilltop Christmas”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

 

With my beloved sister having passed away recently, and the season changing in a damp, rainy cascade toward the eventual coming of winter and Christmas, I have been moved to reminisce about how both evoked lingering memories of yesteryear. At a time when my own household was in Munson Township, on a rural road made of gravel. A rustic homestead rented from Bass Lake Community, and maintained with the meager skills of my wife-to-be, and her young son, who was a grade-school student in Chardon.

 

Sometime in the early 1990s, we visited her mother, who had been widowed and relocated to a small, lavender, mobile dwelling. A humble, singlewide abode perched atop a hill outside of Chardon. The park was crude and ragged, but at least for a time, bustled with residents. Due to the boisterous economic development underway in Geauga County, affordable housing was becoming difficult to secure. So, despite poor amenities and management, Grennan’s Mobile Village continued to attract interest from blue-collar folk. My brother actually lived with a friend in an ancient, cramped trailer, painted pink, which had a design that indicated it must have been manufactured during the postwar era. Their tiny home cost around $2000.00.

 

Our mission during the holiday season was twofold, to offer comfort, and yuletide cheer. We knew that my partner’s mater was somewhat lonely in this new environment, though she was very active for a woman in her 70s. Still working and tending to the youngest of her seven children, and grandchildren with whom she had been blessed. I reckoned that our interaction would provide a diversion from the nagging, everyday cares of her regular routine. None of us had amassed any great amount of financial wealth, but that truly did not resonate with importance. We were a close-knit brood, bonded by a spirit of kinship. We shared a common journey, and outlook. Our purpose was simple, to make it through the day, and greet tomorrow with the hope of a better perspective.

 

I was working at a local supermarket, on a seven-day schedule. With starting times that included first, second, and third shift, every week. With extra duties after hours, on Thursday nights, when we did floor care. My common-law spouse held a position as the office manager and head of personnel for a department store in town. Together, we made enough to keep our bills paid, and her youngster clothed, fed, and attending school.

 

Our teamwork benefitted everyone.

 

Upon reaching the longbox residence at Grennan’s, we were greeted with holiday music, along with the sight of improvised decorations and piled jackets, sweaters, and boots. A classic film played on the television, but none of us paid attention. We were soon busy recounting tales from days of yore, while sipping ginger ale and egg nog.

 

Grandma Purple remembered growing up on a farm in western Pennsylvania. A friendly, pastoral environment. Where hard work, duty, and loyalty were the currency of life. She met the father of my counterpart because he lived on a property that adjoined their own. The union they created spawned a considerable bloodline. One populated by souls who were strong and smart, and willing to labor for the benefit of bettering themselves. Most had risen above this familial baseline in some way. Either through military service, or business endeavors. Only the latter duo veered from this set paradigm. They were good-hearted people, but more humble in terms of education and assets.

 

Our stopover might have elapsed without a hitch, but for some reason, my counterpart’s youngest sibling was in a depressed mood. He offered an emotional contrast to the glad tidings being expressed, with a quiet, fuming tirade about his own difficulties. Thoughts of poverty, unmet financial responsibilities, and other woes were expressed loudly. This dampened our celebration like cold water. And eventually, taxed my patience to its limit. I was on a tight schedule between shifts at my groceteria employer, and had to yawn my way through the experience. I did my best to maintain composure, but eventually reached a point of frustration that overwhelmed the moment, when her brother yelped about being destitute. A condition shared literally by everyone in the room. Not unique in any way.

 

“Christmas is ruined, its ruined! I can’t have fun being here! I can’t get even one day to be happy! My car needs work and the refrigerator is empty, and rent will be due in another week. Everything is awful, don’t you see? This is the worst holiday I have ever had!”

 

My face was burning, in a fiery shade of red. I leaned over to my future wife, whispered that I wanted to take a detour across the yards behind her mother’s lot, and then excused myself, politely. There was snow on the ground, but not so much that my impulsive jaunt was risky. I knew that only a short distance away, my sister was waiting. A homemaker with her own nest on the other side of that hilltop enclave.

 

My genetic kin had two kids of her own, and a husband who passed through numerous occupations, after failing to graduate from college. When I knocked on their door, the atmosphere inside was completely opposite to what I had been enduring, before. The kitchen was filled with homemade treats of all kinds. Sugar cookies, fudge squares, and pumpkin bread. There was a faux tree, lit with colored lights from Fisher’s Big Wheel and dotted with ornaments that must have been a classroom project. And a warm glow from the oven, where a ham was being prepared, with the skill learned from our maternal grandmother.

 

I took much comfort in this holiday refuge. A place where I was much more at home.

 

If judged on a basic level of dollars and cents, there was little difference between the two households. My sister made do with a minimal amount of support. Her clothes were old and out-of-style. Home furnishings had been acquired as castoff pieces from neighbors, friends, or other members of her church. She was not socially adept or notable. Yet the warmth of her spirit could not be more genuine. She lived her faith in an unassuming, non-judgmental fashion. One that closely aligned with the example given by Christ in the Holy Scriptures. She was caring and kind, and incredibly patient.

 

I might have felt guilty for my unexpected detour, but did not. It was a gamble worth taking. One that made my holiday encounter truly special in character.

 

In modern terms, I have pondered that the one who inspired such memories is no longer here with us, in our mortal realm. That reality makes me feel poorer as a result. Truly empty and blank. But with the aid of reflection, I can return to that point in the continuum. And revel in what was real, once upon a time.

 

Her body may have surrendered to earthly afflictions and fatigue. Yet the love she offered will never fade away. That potent force will last into eternity, a gift given forever.