Fifth Day of Christmas Story
The Broken Orange Peel:
One Grandpa’s Christmas Gift
By Ray Harrison ~ Christmas 1997
They were not huge, mind you, maybe about as big as Wheaties flakes. We were amazed how each snowflake slowly drifted down as if oblivious to the Season of Rush. Little Em’s mittened hand was wiggling in mine as she tried to catch the cold, lazy flakes with her quick tongue. “Ah, the snow of champions!” I mouthed as she caught two at once.
It wasn’t long before she tired of the tongue game and asked, “Grandpa, would you start my orange?” I was often surprised how some insignificant event was miraculously elevated to Family Tradition. I felt a surge of happiness as I recognized how different were the kinds of traditions in my family, now, compared to when I was a child. Even something as simple and fun as removing an orange peel in one long, unbroken piece so it could be wound back together and look whole. Further, to be done just right, tradition said the top of the orange had to be bitten because, for no good reason, starting the process with a pocketknife just wasn’t right. Seeing as Emily hated biting into oranges, I became her pinch-biter.
As I bait into the orange peel, its squirted scent released a flashflood of memory – no, different from ordinary memory – more like a sensation of total terror and absolute hopelessness suddenly and unexpectedly re-filled my whole soul. This particular flash back wasn’t new. I had finally come to understand and generally could handle the abrupt return of those ancient feelings, but the accompanying soul crushing belief that I could never be “good enough” was still though.
It was snowing then, too, but this time I wasn't nearly as gold things to the lady at Deseret Industries who'd given me a green coat, free! It hadn't fit too good... maybe 'cause I was small for my seven years. But, it was usre better 'n nothing'. Mom and I lived in a motel room on Wshington Boulevard in Ogden. Right next door was A Safeway store. Behind the grocery store was an old rusty dumpster that I'd been climbing into during the past week trying to hide from Mom’s current boyfriend.
This time I’d found a perfectly good orange. It was a big one, too! I remember wondering why they threw out such great food, especially at Christmas time. I’d just bit into the top and started to peel it, when I heard them outside the dumpster. He was with that other guy, the hairy one. They were laughin’ a sick mean kind of laugh, and talkin’ about what kind of things they could do to me next time. A dark hopelessness filled my soul as I re-lived the awful pain and the soul-crushing shame they’d inflicted eight long days ago – “Please, God, not again,” my soul cried. But, in spite of my prayer, a sense of total terror and hopelessness washed over and through me. Trembling in the stinking corner of a dumpster, I felt silent tears slide down my coldcheeks… oblivious that tomorrow was Christmas.
I smiled as I reached back through those familiar, dismal childhood emotions. Smiled because not only had I come to accept that side of myself, but even to admire it. And I smiled because I felt such hope that just maybe I’d passed new and better traditions on to my family – even small traditions like finding fun in peeling an orange.
“Grandpa?” Em asked as we sat on the wooden park bench, watching the snow slow-dance in and out of the lamp’s light while we carefully peeled our oranges. “Do you believe in magic?”
I paused before answering. In that brief second I recalled moments of raising her mother:
Butterfly kisses at bedtime
- please, God, help her to know she’s loved.
- please, God, help her to know she’s important.
Relishing her art that first hung on the refrigerator and then, later, on the mantle
– please, God, help her to know she’s capable.
And, the green leather coat trimmed with fur around the hood given as a long-ago Christmas gift
– please, God, help her to never be that cold.
“Magic is more than making an empty orange,” I said. “Real magic is in peeling a life and then putting it back together so it’s understood. It’s kinda like one of your ol’ grandpa’s favorite scriptures that teaches that God can change burned-up, useless ashes into something beautiful. Magic comes as you let go of your broken peelings and trust God to make them whole.”
“Ya know, Grandpa,” she quietly said as she quit struggling to wrap her broken peel into a perfect looking orange, “I love you.”
Just then her ready tongue caught a snowflake and we both laughed out loud – she at the sheer joy of the moment; me at the sudden and sweet realization that I had been enough of a dad and enough of a granddad to make difference, a wonderful difference in all our lives.
Before we hurried home to share our adventures with her mother and grandmother, I managed a whispered a prayer of gratitude, “Thank you, God. And, to my beautiful family of ‘whole oranges,’ Merry Christmas!”
It wasn’t long before she tired of the tongue game and asked, “Grandpa, would you start my orange?” I was often surprised how some insignificant event was miraculously elevated to Family Tradition. I felt a surge of happiness as I recognized how different were the kinds of traditions in my family, now, compared to when I was a child. Even something as simple and fun as removing an orange peel in one long, unbroken piece so it could be wound back together and look whole. Further, to be done just right, tradition said the top of the orange had to be bitten because, for no good reason, starting the process with a pocketknife just wasn’t right. Seeing as Emily hated biting into oranges, I became her pinch-biter.
As I bait into the orange peel, its squirted scent released a flashflood of memory – no, different from ordinary memory – more like a sensation of total terror and absolute hopelessness suddenly and unexpectedly re-filled my whole soul. This particular flash back wasn’t new. I had finally come to understand and generally could handle the abrupt return of those ancient feelings, but the accompanying soul crushing belief that I could never be “good enough” was still though.
It was snowing then, too, but this time I wasn't nearly as gold things to the lady at Deseret Industries who'd given me a green coat, free! It hadn't fit too good... maybe 'cause I was small for my seven years. But, it was usre better 'n nothing'. Mom and I lived in a motel room on Wshington Boulevard in Ogden. Right next door was A Safeway store. Behind the grocery store was an old rusty dumpster that I'd been climbing into during the past week trying to hide from Mom’s current boyfriend.
This time I’d found a perfectly good orange. It was a big one, too! I remember wondering why they threw out such great food, especially at Christmas time. I’d just bit into the top and started to peel it, when I heard them outside the dumpster. He was with that other guy, the hairy one. They were laughin’ a sick mean kind of laugh, and talkin’ about what kind of things they could do to me next time. A dark hopelessness filled my soul as I re-lived the awful pain and the soul-crushing shame they’d inflicted eight long days ago – “Please, God, not again,” my soul cried. But, in spite of my prayer, a sense of total terror and hopelessness washed over and through me. Trembling in the stinking corner of a dumpster, I felt silent tears slide down my coldcheeks… oblivious that tomorrow was Christmas.
I smiled as I reached back through those familiar, dismal childhood emotions. Smiled because not only had I come to accept that side of myself, but even to admire it. And I smiled because I felt such hope that just maybe I’d passed new and better traditions on to my family – even small traditions like finding fun in peeling an orange.
“Grandpa?” Em asked as we sat on the wooden park bench, watching the snow slow-dance in and out of the lamp’s light while we carefully peeled our oranges. “Do you believe in magic?”
I paused before answering. In that brief second I recalled moments of raising her mother:
Butterfly kisses at bedtime
- please, God, help her to know she’s loved.
Walking with her to after-dark classes
- please, God, help her to know she’s safe.
Attending all her volley ball games - please, God, help her to know she’s safe.
- please, God, help her to know she’s important.
Relishing her art that first hung on the refrigerator and then, later, on the mantle
– please, God, help her to know she’s capable.
And, the green leather coat trimmed with fur around the hood given as a long-ago Christmas gift
– please, God, help her to never be that cold.
“Magic is more than making an empty orange,” I said. “Real magic is in peeling a life and then putting it back together so it’s understood. It’s kinda like one of your ol’ grandpa’s favorite scriptures that teaches that God can change burned-up, useless ashes into something beautiful. Magic comes as you let go of your broken peelings and trust God to make them whole.”
“Ya know, Grandpa,” she quietly said as she quit struggling to wrap her broken peel into a perfect looking orange, “I love you.”
Just then her ready tongue caught a snowflake and we both laughed out loud – she at the sheer joy of the moment; me at the sudden and sweet realization that I had been enough of a dad and enough of a granddad to make difference, a wonderful difference in all our lives.
Before we hurried home to share our adventures with her mother and grandmother, I managed a whispered a prayer of gratitude, “Thank you, God. And, to my beautiful family of ‘whole oranges,’ Merry Christmas!”
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