Growing up, one of my favorite holiday activities was watching old Christmas cartoons with my grandma: A Charlie Brown Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town.
But my favorite of all time might have been Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I loved the way the stop-motion movie looked. It was magical, almost as if I were dreaming, and my entire life was a cartoon. Sometimes, I would fall asleep, and when I’d wake up, I’d be curled next to my grandma, a quilt over my body. If I’d wake up with a start, she would caress my hair and say, “It’s okay. I’m right here. I’m right here. Everything’s okay.”
My grandma made me—this part tomboy, part dancer girl—feel special. My grandma made me feel loved.
That’s really why I loved Rudolph so much: I often felt like I belonged on the Island of Misfit Toys. I felt cast away and unwanted by my own strict parents.
I felt for the Charlie-in-the-Box who wasn’t Jack, the spotted elephant, the train with square wheels, the bird that swam, the boat that couldn’t stay afloat, the cowboy who rode an ostrich and, especially, the two tin soldiers who wanted to be made of wood.
All we want as children is to feel safe and loved. Feeling like a misfit can arise for a host of reasons, none of which are in our control. Maybe we are born with red hair and freckles, maybe we have brown eyes instead of blue, maybe we like to climb trees and dance, or maybe we just want our mother and father to tell us they love us more than anything in the world, that we’re the center of their universe and they will protect us no matter what.
Too often, feeling like a misfit leaves a scar that never heals.
You grow up feeling like a water pistol that squirts jelly.
I stare at the nutcrackers.
Or a tin soldier that wants to be made of wood.
I have come home with a mission. I have come home to test my misfit-ness.
I am curled up on the couch, just as I used to do with my grandma. I have a cup of hot chocolate, stacked with a mountain of marshmallows. On my TV, ready to play, is the classic 1977 version of The Nutcracker with Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gelsey Kirkland.
Will I be moved by the ballet as I was a child? Or is my Christmas spirit already as dead as Jacob Marley?
I hit Play.
At first, I watch, distanced. Slowly, my fingers begin to dance on my mug, and then my feet twirl. I realize after a while that I am sitting up, spine straight, mesmerized.
I watch Baryshnikov and Kirkland dance as one, and I can hear the young barista’s voice echo in my head: “My grandma says nothing can stop the holiday spirit. But that sometimes holiday spirit is like a dance, and somebody’s gotta take the lead.”
When The Nutcracker is over, I realize I’ve had the story wrong my entire life. It’s not about Clara, first love or even the eternal fantasy of Christmas come to full life. No, this is Drosselmeyer’s story, the “sort of Santa” who makes everything happen. Drosselmeyer is the uncle of the nutcracker prince, who is then transformed into a wooden doll by the Mouse King. Every moment on stage is Drosselmeyer’s attempt to break the spell of long ago and bring his nephew back to life.
I stand up suddenly.
“I am Drosselmeyer!”
My dramatic exclamation in the quiet of my condo stuns me and then emboldens me.
“Only I can break the spell! If not, I will continue on, as wooden as I’ve always been.”
My laptop dings.
Do we have a deal? And how much for the other nutcrackers? I want them ALL! Please let me know ASAP! —nc59
Yet again, I do not respond.
Instead, I google Ingrid Wagner obituary.
Her death notice pops up. But, really, it’s the story of her life, all our lives: A family that immigrated to America for a better life. A woman who worked and sacrificed her whole life for her family. A woman who gave back to the community. A woman who loved heirlooms.
A life summed up in 250 words.
I find what I’m looking for at the end.
She is survived by a grandson, Stephen Wagner of Grand Rapids, his wife, Beth, and a great-grandson, Gabriel.
“Bingo,” I say.
I grab my cell and call Elaine.
“Merry Christmas,” she says when she answers. “How are your online holiday sales going?”
“I need a favor,” I say. “I need a phone number and an address.”
“You know I can’t do that, MacGyver,” she says.
I explain, for the first time, my story, my life, my love and my loss.
Elaine is silent for the longest time. For a moment, I think she’s hung up the phone.
“Do you have a pen?” she finally says.
I am sitting outside a stranger’s home. In the mirror, I can see the faces of the nutcrackers staring at me as if I’m about to drop my kids off at a friend’s home for a sleepover. They look excited, but a touch afraid.
“I feel you,” I say.
I take a deep breath, step out of my car, grab the box and head to the front door.
It is a lovely home in Ada, a gorgeous suburb outside the city filled with large homes on expansive lawns. I stop before I ring the bell. It is so quiet out here that I can hear the whisper of the light snow as it falls.
“You must be Debbie?”
There is a whoosh of warm air when the door opens. The woman before me is as rosy-cheeked as the nutcrackers.
“Just put everything in the oven for dinner,” she says. A man appears behind her. “Well, I can’t take credit for it. Steve cooked tonight. We take turns, now that we both work from home.”
They are both wearing jeans, black sweaters and wooly socks.
A Gap ad come to life, I think.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Beth,” she continues, extending her hand.
“Steve,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you. Come in. Please.”
I stop on the entry rug. The home is beautiful, a new-construction farmhouse meant to look old but eye-poppingly perfect: gleaming dark wood floors lead to an open-concept living room with a towering stone fireplace and a mammoth kitchen with two counters, white shiplap contrasted against black window frames.
“Should I take off my shoes?”
“No,” Beth says with a laugh. “We have a three-year-old. We wear socks to wipe up the messes as we go.”
I smile.
“But you already know that,” she continues. “Come, have a seat.”
She takes my coat, and I follow them into the living room. Steve gestures to the couch, where the most adorable boy is seated, eyes transfixed on a holiday cartoon on the television. I know it instantly when I hear the deep voice of Burl Ives.
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
“Say hello to Mrs. Hutchins, Gabriel,” Beth says.
His eyes skew in my direction. I can tell he doesn’t like the intrusion.
“Hi,” he says with a tiny wave.
But then Gabriel sees I am holding a box. When I set it on the coffee table and take a seat, he leans forward and glances inside.
“Toys!” he yells. “For me?”
“Gabriel,” Steve says in his best dad voice. “Mrs. Hutchins is here for a very special reason. I’m going to turn off the TV for a bit so we can talk.”
“No!” he says.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Rudolph is my favorite!”
Gabriel skews his eyes at me again. “Why?”
“Well, Rudolph saves the day for Santa. And I love all the misfit toys.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re all special like Rudolph.” I nod at the box. “Like these nutcrackers.”
“Would you like something to drink?” Beth asks.
I look at Gabriel. He’s drinking hot chocolate topped with marshmallows.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” I say.
Beth laughs. “When Harry Met Sally. Loved that movie. One cocoa coming up.”
When we are all seated, we chat for a few minutes and watch the last few minutes of Rudolph. Then Steve turns off the TV.
“I can’t tell you how surprised I was to receive your call,” Steve finally starts. “I’d actually forgotten my grandmother had all these nutcrackers.” He stares at the box. There is a long pause, before he looks up at me and says, “I had no say in the estate sale. I just want you to know that. I just...”
He stops. Beth leans over in the chair next to his and rubs his leg. “He has a lot of guilt over the way things went down.”
“My parents just wanted everything gone,” he says. “My grandmother was sick for a very long time. I think they just couldn’t deal with the memories any longer, but it didn’t sit well with me.”
All of a sudden, everything around me—the fire, the candles, the lamps—seems to take on a new light. His words make me recalibrate my entire life.
Is that why my parents got rid of everything, because they couldn’t deal with the painful memories?
Is that why I did, too?
“I come from a similar family,” I finally say.
Steve reaches over and plucks the rocking horse nutcracker from the box. He holds it up and stares at it. Then, like a kid, he makes a whinnying sound, before placing the nutcracker on his lap and rocking it to and fro.
“Daddy,” Gabriel giggles.
“I used to play with these all the time at Christmas when I was a kid,” he says to his son. “Here.”
He hands me the rocking horse, and I give it to Gabriel. He mimics his father’s whinny and then rocks it back and forth on the couch. “Ride, horsey, ride.”
Steve looks into the fire and then at me.
“My grandma used to tell me so many stories about the history of our family—and these nutcrackers—when I was a boy. She said these nutcrackers represented power and strength, and that they were like a watchdog guarding our family from evil and danger. That’s why they bared their teeth. They were symbols and protectors of goodwill. What was the quote she used to say about nutcrackers? Something along the lines of, ‘Don’t be afraid, though my look is grim. I won’t bite. My heart is filled with happiness.’”
He looks at his son rocking the horse.
“She told me that nutcrackers embodied the cycle of life. When a nut falls, it grows into a strong tree that lives for many years in order to nourish not only the land but also the legacy of our ancestral woodcrafters. In the spring, she would take me out to sit under the grand, old trees in her yard and make me listen to the rustle of the wind through their leaves. ‘It’s your history whispering,’ she would say.”
Steve is silent for the longest time. When I look at him, his chin is quivering.
“I loved that woman. I miss her so much.”
“Are you okay, Daddy?” Gabriel asks.
Steve gathers himself. “I am, buddy. I’m good.” He looks at me. “I’m sorry. It’s the holidays, and I’m a little more emotional than usual this year. You said you had notes from her? May I see them?”
“Of course. I’m so sorry. That’s why I’m here.”
I reach into the box and retrieve a storage bag, where I’ve placed the notes, and hand it to Steve. He reads the notes, handing each one to his wife after he has finished. When he’s done, he lifts his head and shuts his eyes, mouthing what seems like a silent prayer to himself.
Steve stands, picks up the box of nutcrackers and sits on the floor in front of the fireplace. “C’mere, buddy.”
Gabriel toddles off the sofa and tumbles into his father’s arms.
“These are from Gigi, your great-grandmother.”
“Gigi?” Gabriel asks. He lifts his shoulders very dramatically, not understanding.
“She was my grandma, just like Grandma Sue and Grandma Loraine are to you. I used to play with these nutcrackers at Christmas when I was a boy your age. Gigi wanted you to have these.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because she loved you, even though she hardly knew you.”
“Why?”
“Because she was a part of you, and you were a part of her. These nutcrackers are part of our family. They represent tradition. They represent home. They represent Christmas.” He stops. “They represent love. A love that never ends.”
Steve looks at me from the floor.
“And this amazing woman knew that. She found these and found us because she knew Gigi wanted us to have them, so love and memories would always fill our home.”
“Thank you,” Gabriel says.
“You’re welcome,” I say. “I used to have nutcrackers when I was a little girl. My grandma gave them to me.”
“What happened to them?” Beth asks.
“I...” I hesitate. “I lost them. But I know these little guys were meant to come here. They were meant to come home again.”
A buzzer goes off in the kitchen.
“Well,” I say, “I best let you have dinner. I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time, and I’m so grateful you allowed me to reach out to you and return these.”
Steve and Beth stand, and they walk me to the door. I put on my coat. “Thank you again,” I say.
“No,” Steve says. “Thank you.”
He opens his arms and hugs me tightly. Beth opens the door for me, and I’m about to step into the snow when I hear, “Wait!”
I turn.
Gabriel comes toddling toward me, all adorably off-kilter, holding something behind his back.
“You lost your...” He stops and looks at his dad.
“Nutcrackers,” Steve says.
“Yeah! And you found ours. So you need one, too.”
From behind his back, he produces the rocking horse. “It’s...”
This time he looks at his mom. She reads his mind.
“Special,” Beth says.
“Yeah! Like you.”
The pure innocence of this child’s gesture catches me completely off guard, and I am suddenly reduced to tears. I stand in these strangers’ home shedding decades of guilt, sadness, loss and regret. I cry even harder when the entire family embraces me as one.
“Thank you,” I say. “You will never know how much this has meant to me.”
“We can say the exact same thing,” Steve says.
On my drive home, the nutcracker horseman rocks back and forth, and back and forth, sitting on my dashboard. With the snow falling on the windshield, the nutcracker looks as if he’s riding wildly through a winter storm trying desperately to make it home for Christmas.