I can remember a lot from those seven magical years we spent growing up back on Flamingo Street, but there’s one thing that I can’t.
Sure, I remember all the adventures and misadventures we had, and I remember all the neighborhood kids with those funny nicknames. And, of course, I remember my archnemesis, Down the Street Bully Brad. If I live to be a hundred, I don’t think I’d ever forget him.
But, if I’m being honest, I don’t remember any Christmas presents from that first year we lived in our new house. Then again, I was only six at the time. Still, one gift from that year I will never forget. But it wasn’t mine, nor any of my brothers’ or The Sister’s.
Like all the rest of the kids on Flamingo, we could hardly sleep the night before Christmas waiting for Santa to arrive. That first year in our new house, we were all surprised when Dad agreed we should stay up for Santa just to make sure he didn’t pass us over. After a mug of hot cocoa with marshmallows floating on top, all us kids sat down with our blankets and pillows on the living room carpet in front of the roaring fire.
A gonging sound pulled me out of my sleep, and somehow, I was in my bed. As the gonging continued, Twin Brother Mark and I jumped out of our beds and ran down the hallway. The way he was bumping into the walls, I could tell he was as confused to what was going on as I was. That or it was because we bumped into Older Brother Richard and Big Brother James bursting out of their rooms.
As the gonging continued to echo down the hallway, we piled up on the floor. It was Christmas morning, and we’d all overslept! Years later Dad admitted, “Yep, it was the hot cocoa. Works every time.”
Scrambling to our feet, we started arguing whether there had been three, four, or five gongs. Our argument stopped when we reached the end of the hallway. We saw two things we’d never seen before.
First, right outside our parents’ bedroom, Mom was doing a small dance as she giggled like a little girl. I knew the sound ’cause The Sister giggled just like that, and she was a little girl. The second thing was the most ginormous clock any of us had ever seen tied up with a giant red ribbon with a huge bow on the front. The note card read, “A gift from Santa.”
Mom was still dancing as another gong came from the clock. We finally agreed that it had been six, and with that argument settled, we started another. How did Santa fit the ginormous clock down our chimney when we had a roaring fire going?
Dad told us that Santa must’ve found the spare key under the door mat and brought the grandfather clock in through the front door. That didn’t make much sense to us kids. Mom was a mom, not a grandfather. And even though we thought Santa should’ve brought her a mom clock instead, our mom was downright giddy about it.
From that Christmas until the day she passed away, that clock was the only Christmas gift our mom had ever asked for. We asked many times since what she wanted Santa to bring her for Christmas. Her answer was always the same, “I don’t need any anything. You kids are the best gifts I could ever ask for.”
I understood how she could think like that about me. As a kid I was simply adorable. But my brothers and The Sister? Well, sometimes, they were a gift I’d like to return.
When we finally moved from Flamingo, the Christmas clock came with us. It was always placed just inside the entryway of the front door and chimed on the half and on the hour. After Twin Brother Mark and I left for college, our parents downsized and moved into an apartment. The clock moved with them and stood in the first room off to the left of the entryway.
After Mom’s funeral, Dad moved to Florida. Said the memories here were too hard for him. Though his condo was small, he made room in the entranceway for Mom’s grandfather clock.
After fifteen years, Dad made one last move into his house, and the clock moved with him, standing at entranceway ready to greet one and all with gonging on the half and on the hour. For ten more years, the clock stood there until my dad passed away and joined Mom.
When losing a parent, there’s a fog of war and things somehow get done, but you don’t actually remember how. Everything inside the house Dad had given to his longtime caregiver. The house was to be sold and the proceeds given to us kids. That was over four years ago, and I hadn’t thought about or seen Mom’s clock since.
Last week Big Brother James called me to say that he had sold his house. He’s moving with his wife into her mom’s house and will be there to help out so she can age in place. They can’t take a lot with them, so he asked me to stop by to pick up some china, silverware, and a dining room table and chairs.
After dropping off the Girly Girls at school, I arrived at his house just before eight. After packing up and taking the china and silverware to the car, I informed him that The Wife and I would pass on the table and chairs but thanked him anyway for the offer. He asked me to follow him back inside because there was one more thing he wanted to give to us.
As I walked through his front door, I immediately stopped, then listened. Could it be? A familiar gonging sound came from his dining room, just off the entranceway. I followed him into the room and James said, “I really want you to have this. We have to keep it in the family.” There in the corner stood the only Christmas gift Mom ever asked for … her grandfather clock!
As it finished chiming the eight o’clock hour, both of us were in tears.
The clock now stands in our entryway to greet all who enter with a friendly chime on the half and on the hour. When our granddaughters saw it for the first time, they were amazed and asked where it had come from. I sat them down and told them this story, and as I finished the clock started to chime. “The grandfather clock is gonging!” they cheered.
I smiled and said, “That’s not a grandfather clock. It’s our Christmas clock. One day it will be yours. After all, we’ll always keep it in the family.”
Then they started to argue which one of them would get it. They argue just like my brothers, The Sister, and I did so many years ago on that old familiar street not so far away called Flamingo.
And I smiled.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001.]
