Christmas At Bo's House

Christmas at Bo's House

by Laurie Dunklee

The thing I most remember was the light. Stepping through the big wrought iron and glass door, I could almost smell the warm light inside, catching my breath when I saw each crystal globe lit up in the giant arched hallway. To the right, the dining room chandelier sent pieces of rainbow light over each velvet-covered chair, bouncing from each silver serving dish. To the left, in the den, The Tree. So dense with twinkling colors, and as tall as the high ceiling, that Christmas tree could have been a wonderful spaceship, from a planet where all was joy.

My grandmother, whom we called Bo, would greet us each with a fond welcome, her arms open wide for hugs and the taking of coats. As I removed mine, her eyebrows would arch in a subtle editorial comment regarding the shortness of my skirt, then lower again to meet the rest of her soft and glowing face. Her welcoming kiss was soft lilacs, her laugh was holiday balls. Her knowing blue eyes expressed her guiding wisdom, with which she always signed her letters: "All Love, Bo."

My brother and I ran to The Tree to begin guessing what treasures might live in those beautiful packages, and getting close-up to the spaceship, we marveled at the density of the branches. "Oh, I wired more branches in wherever I could," announced Uncle Don, who had been perfecting that perfect Christmas tree all day. It was a work of art, thick with icicles and ornaments of every kind, hung from the trunk outward to the tip of each branch. After careful examination assured us that The Tree would not lift off without us, I set off on my next mission.

This stealth mission was to the pantry off the kitchen, and my primary aim was to locate the sweets. Among the delicately painted china cups and saucers, I would find them: jars and bowls of red and green ribbon candy, filled candy, fancy chocolates and orange peel candy, roasted coconut and big, fresh imported pears. Slashing a few morsels in my cheeks, I set off for some serious play.

Bo's house was supremely suited to the fine art of play, having four large floors connected by both front and rear staircases, with bannisters perfect for sliding (surreptitiously, of course). It also had a laundry chute from top to bottom, old-fashioned telephones that went "brrrrring" when you cranked them, a playroom on the top floor with a walk-in closet larger than my room at home, and a basement full of exotic and strange things from around the world. There was a big old carved pool table that had leather webbing to catch the balls. Sometimes the webbing would break through and a ball would hit the wood floor and roll underneath one of the dimly-lit display cases full of carved-bone pipes, Chinese fans, French snuff boxes and other Victorian paraphernalia.

In the giant playroom on the top floor, we delighted in the same toys our parents had played with, including a stuffed bear on wheels, big enough for riding, and so well ridden that his fur was nearly worn off and his eyes were missing. There was a music box that played "Johnny's Too Long at the Fair" when you turned the crank. And in that room-sized closet was the stuff of make believe: real military uniforms, worn in various wars by our brave forbears, and long, formal dresses, all stiff and fluffy. These things beckoned our imaginations to outrageous storylines, in which princesses who were about to be thrown down the laundry chute into the dungeon were rescued by handsome doughboys riding blind bears.

Games of hide-and-seek were a natural, and we became experts at it. If you could manage to slide yourself behind the brooms and mops on the rear stairway landing, you might never be found. But of course everyone managed to turn up at dinnertime.

The dining room seemed even brighter than before as we circled the huge oak table, set with goblets and gleaming silver and lace napkins. "Praise God from whom all blessings flowwww," we all sang, then we seated ourselves, all twenty or twenty-five of us, at that kingly table. I felt like a princess as I was lifted atop the several phone books on my chair, eye-to-eye with aunts and uncles and cousins and friends. Bo sat at the head, keeping watch over the festive proceedings. It was quite a formal affair, with choices of multiple forks and the challenge of drinking one's milk out of a large crystal goblet. The food was served on plates that had Currier and Ives paintings on them, so intricate and lovely that I would push my ham and potatoes to one side and than the other, just to see the whole picture underneath.

My usual infringement on dinnertime decorum was to sing or hum at the table. I couldn't understand why Bo admonished me for it, especially when we could all hear the cook singing so lustily in the kitchen. Sometimes justice would prevail, when Bo got up out of her chair and go into the kitchen, cutting short the second verse of "Lydia the Tattooed Lady."

Periodically during dinner I would lean to the right (as far as my phone books would allow), to catch a glimpse of the Spaceship, checking that it hadn't left its moorings. When at last we were excused from the table, my cousins and I made a beeline for the presents under the Tree, single-minded in our quest for the true meaning of Christmas.

Slowly the adults followed, coffee cups in hand and covered with smiles, and the presents were opened with great fanfare and flourish. I don't recall many of the gifts l received, but I do remember that the ones from Bo were almost always pink. Sweaters, nightgowns, even toys and dolls were so consistently pink that I became quite pink-weary by the time I was thirteen or so, and never again bought anything pink until I was about thirty-five.

Once the frenzy of opening presents was over, I drowsed under the tree, the scent of pine covering me like a blanket. As the singing of Christmas carols began, every voice true and sweet, I looked around the room with half-closed eyes. The Christmas light was reflected in each face, and just before I fell asleep, I thought the whole room was being transported to that planet where all is joy.

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