Of all the things in the world that Mom had in plenteous supply, it was opinions. She held to them stringently, never wavering from them even if they were proved to be wrong. One such strongly adhered to opinion was that, under no circumstances, should Christmas decorations be put up before Thanksgiving. And, if she’d had her druthers, never before December first.
“It’s indecent,” she’d said. “Decorating for Christmas in the fall is tacky.”
When Joel had reminded her that winter didn’t officially begin until December twenty-first, she’d told him to go jump in the lake.
So, when Mike and I made our way home to find the aluminum Christmas tree set up in the front window on that evening in the middle of October, we were both struck with disbelief.
“My goodness,” Mike said, shaking his head. “She just can’t help but outdo herself, can she?”
Stepping into the house was like a dream. Bing Crosby crooned carols from the record player, and on the floor beside the tree, the rotating color wheel sent blue, green, and red beams of light into the silvery boughs, making them glow. Mom had even hung Mike’s stocking over the fireplace, where yellow and orange flames made the logs crackle.
The aroma of a pot roast came from the kitchen, rich and inviting. Mom’s card table was set up in the corner of the living room, covered with windmill cookies and chocolates, no doubt made that very day by Oma.
Frank stood by the cookies, hands behind his back like a little boy who’s been told not to touch. Joel and Mom were in the dining room, setting the table. Bernie and Oma sat on the couch.
“Did you know about this?” Mike asked me.
“I had no idea,” I answered.
“You two never could keep a secret from each other,” Mom said, coming in from the dining room. Her smile was brilliant, wide. “Merry Christmas in October.”
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble just for me,” he said.
“If it makes you feel better, it’s more for me than you.” Mom winked at him. “We got you a present. Why don’t you go ahead and open it.”
Mike sat down on the floor by the tree, reaching for the single present that lay there. Carefully, just the way Mom had taught us, he peeled away the tape, unfolding the wrapping paper and trying not to rip it.
“Just tear into it,” Frank said.
“But she’ll want to use this paper again,” Mike said. Then he grinned up at Mom. “Waste not want not.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, I don’t care about thrift today.” She sighed. “Just open it already.”
For the first time in his life, Mike shredded the paper, laughing as if it was the most fun he would ever have.
But as soon as he saw the box inside, he stopped, his mouth opened wide.
“This is too expensive,” he whispered, holding the camera box.
It was a Canon and looked like a million dollars. Mike held it in careful hands, as if dropping it would be the end of the world.
“We all threw in a couple of bucks,” Bernie said. “It wasn’t too bad.”
“Will you send some of your photographs home to us?” Oma asked. “We want to see what you see.”
“Only if you promise to send me cookies sometimes,” Mike said.
“Of course, mijn schatje.”
Mike lost no time loading the camera with a roll of film that came in the box. “Let’s get a picture of us,” he said.
“I’ll take it,” said Frank.
“No.” Mike shook his head. “I want you to be in it.”
Frank’s half smile pulled up one corner of his mouth and the brooding left his eyes, if only for a minute.
“Annie,” Mom said. “See if Mr. Falck will take it.”
I ran out the door and down the porch steps. But before I left our yard to enter the Falcks’, I looked through the picture window. Mom was directing everyone where to stand, her voice carrying through the front door that I’d left ajar. She arranged them in the space between the Christmas tree and the fireplace, men in the back, Oma in front of Bernie, Mom beside her. Mike, of course, in the dead center.
“And Annie can stand in front of Frank,” she said. “This is going to be a beautiful picture.”
From where I stood, looking in from the outside, it already was.