It’s Time

One Christmas, long ago, Santa delivered a giant chalkboard under our Christmas tree, but not the box of chalk. I lived with my mother and father and my two sisters in a small white house with four good climbing trees in the front and Lilac bushes framing the outhouse behind Mother’s vegetable garden.

“Let’s play mountain climbers,” said Karen. We pulled the yellow chenille spread off the rollaway bed tucked in the kitchen corner, where Karen and I slept. I scrambled to the top of the mountain and then squished down and down and popped out through the tunnel. “Me next,” said Kathy. Karen and I lifted our sister to the top of the mountain. Around and around the three of us scaled the mountain, tunneled onto the linoleum until Mother shouted “Enough!” Mama slid a pan of gingerbread Santa cookies from the wood-burning oven and set them to cool on the blue kitchen table. As Mom swirled white frosting on Santa’s tummy, we each nibbled a star shaped cookie. “Girls, It’s time to write Santa a letter so he knows what to bring.”

Dear Santa, wrote Karen who was six and really smart, please bring us a really big chalkboard for Christmas.

“Tell Santa we have been good,” whispered four-year old Kathy.

Decorated with hearts and rainbows we trudged through the snow to mail Santa’s letter.Back home we flopped down in the snow to make the perfect snow angel. “Let’s pretend we are driving Grandpa’s tractor,” I said as I tied the scarf around Kathy’s rosy cheeks. With heels together and toes pointed out, we rumbled from one good climbing tree to the next.

 

Soon Father was home from work and he danced us around the living room—mother too.

When will Santa come?” All three of us chorused as we pinned our long tan stockings—worn every day to ward off the winter chill—to the back of the red couch. “Santa will come when all is quiet and three little girls are sleeping,” Father said.

And so we waited. And soon all was quiet.

“Lynn, it’s time!” Karen whispered. We slipped from our bed and tiptoed to the living room to find our bulging stockings. In the very toe I found an orange, then a bottle of Jorgen’s lotion and a pretty ring with a green stone. Karen’s stone was ruby red and Kathy’s ring had a diamond.There beneath the Christmas tree was our chalkboard, a giant chalkboard. “Girls, why don’t you write us a story?” But where was the chalk? We looked all around the other presents and under the white sheet covering the red tree stand. We checked behind the oil burner, but no chalk. “Girls,” said mother, “maybe it fell from his pack when Santa climbed out of his sleigh.” We ran to the kitchen window and pressed our noses against the window. Right smack between sleigh tracks, was our box of chalk.