Snow was beginning to fall and it was expected to continue right on through the next day, Christmas. Domma Pratt complained to those who would listen of “chills in my old bones.” Oh, yes, Domma’s arthritis was acting up as it always did when the temperature plunged, but today she had been fussier than usual because preparations for the sumptuous Christmas Eve dinner to come later had already begun without even one of her personal recipe contributions. Her two extremely busy daughters had actually ordered her from her own kitchen and out of their way, without apologies.
“Thank goodness, I have you to talk to, Buttons,” Domma complained to her sixteen-year-old granddaughter Elizabeth, who sat on the raised hearth beside her grandmother's rocking chair. “Those girls of mine would have me sit right here until I took root, alone or otherwise, rather than let me do anything today in my own kitchen.”
“It’s okay, Domma,” Elizabeth said, trying to placate her irritated grandmother. “They wouldn’t let me help, either.” Elizabeth leaned forward and kissed her fussy grandmother’s pale, soft cheek, eliciting a faint smile. “They don’t mean to leave you out, Domma. They’re only trying to save your energy for tonight’s family activities.”
“Humph!” Domma frowned. “Passing over the two of us, as usual, they’re leaving out the choicest qualities of good workers—wisdom and spirit.”
Sharing the big old house with Domma was her eldest daughter Louise, Louise’s husband John, and Elizabeth, Domma’s namesake and eldest grandchild. Also, visiting for Christmas week with her family of four was Louise’s younger sister Eva. Other relatives would arrive later in the day to share in the traditional Christmas Eve dinner followed by the family’s gift exchange. Christmas Day, as it always had been in Domma’s house, would be reserved for remembrance of Jesus’ birth and the arrival of Santa Claus for the visiting small children.
Young Elizabeth knew that her mother and aunt had abided Domma’s old-fashioned suggestions and tart instructions in the kitchen only until they had prepared her an early lunch after which Elizabeth was to keep her entertained in the living room. Domma’s ways of doing things in the kitchen were to her daughters unnerving holdovers from times long past in this big, drafty, old house that Domma had kept neat and clean for over sixty years.
That was…until last year when Grandpa died from a heart attack only a few days before Christmas. After a year alone, Domma still adamantly refused to move into a retirement facility.
“Not until I can’t feed myself or make my own bed,” she had declared when her daughters broached the subject for the very last time. Then, they had decided, there was only one thing left to do. Somebody must move back in again to look after Domma. Louise finally made the decision for Domma’s sake…and moved back into her childhood home, bringing John and Elizabeth with her.
And so it had been until today, when they’d hustled Domma off to the front room with Elizabeth, the eldest of her three grandchildren, to make sure that she remained well away from the scene of today's action.
Elizabeth watched patiently as Domma flipped through her old picture album, sharing thoughts as she looked over each photograph. It seemed to Elizabeth that Domma kept looking at those ancient, yellowed photographs because she needed to in order to remember special people she’d known and loved long ago.
The door bell rang and Eva opened the front door to receive delivery of a postal package. Frigid air blew into the room, setting tiny silver bells on the ceiling high Christmas tree to ting-a-ling-ing while Domma’s knobby, crooked fingers tightened on the threadbare woolen blue shawl she always wore, and she drew it close around her sloping shoulders.
“Domma, let me get you something warmer,” Elizabeth offered. “Maybe your lavender cardigan or that nice pink angora sweater Mama gave you last Christmas. You’ve hardly worn either of them.”
“No thank you, Buttons, dear,” Domma said, hugging the shawl even closer about herself. “I’m fine—just fine”
But Domma wasn’t fine, according to Elizabeth’s mother, Louise.
“Domma, must you continue wearing that old shawl every single day?” Louise had asked her mother just last Saturday in front of Elizabeth. “It’s become an eyesore to the entire family. We’re concerned because you insist on wearing it, still.”
Elizabeth found no fault with Domma's wearing it.
Louise asked,“Won’t you let me throw the old thing away? You have so many nicer things to wear when you are chilly.”
In answer, Domma had draped her shawl over her head, Madonna-like, and without another word, hurried out of the house onto the front porch. I’ve lost control over too many things in my life without Grandpa's being here to take my side, she thought. My blue shawl will be the last thing I’ll ever allow them to take away from me!
Now, Domma looked up from the open album in her lap and, fingering a fringed corner of her shawl, said to Elizabeth, “Grandpa gave me this shawl. It was the first Christmas gift he gave me after we were married. It’s old and faded now but you should have seen it when your Grandpa first gave it to me. It was the softest, prettiest, boldest blue shawl you’d ever want to see.”
Over and over, Elizabeth had heard the story of the old, blue shawl and of the young married couple’s first Christmas just after the beginning of World War II. They were so poor that the blue shawl was her only Christmas present. She had given Grandpa a khaki neck scarf to wear when he went away to war.
“I’m sure it was beautiful, Domma,” Elizabeth said, patiently marking time. She knew that soon, before the snow got too deep and the driving became too dangerous, they would have to close the album and be sociable as more relatives began arriving. Everybody would be there. That is, everybody except Elizabeth’s grandpa.
Domma blinked back tears still needing to be shed, and used the corner of her shawl to wipe away a few that had escaped. She placed a bent finger on Grandpa’s glossy image in the photo album and said, “I still love him so.”
Elizabeth looked at her Grandpa George in that yellowing picture in Domma’s album and thought him to have been the handsomest man she had ever laid eyes on in her whole life.
“Yes, I know, Domma.” Elizabeth said, attempting to comfort her grandmother as best she could. “Grandpa always laughed and joked a lot. And he was the one who gave me my nickname—Buttons—because I had such a hard time learning to deal with them. Remember?”
“Oh, I do remember that so well, my dear.” Domma patted Elizabeth’s hand and closed the album, laying it aside.
By late afternoon the living room was filled to overflowing, and Domma even sent Elizabeth to other rooms for extra chairs. Everybody who entered the house came to Domma’s fireside rocker to greet her, and though she’d much rather have been in the kitchen cooking, Domma made small talk with kinfolks she hadn’t heard from all year long. She understood. It was Christmas Eve and this was a family celebration.
As they arrived, the relatives' smaller children had been sent upstairs to play but the volume of adult chatter in the room soon became intolerable for Elizabeth. She picked her way past great aunts’ and uncles’ laps and knees to the guest closet in the hall searching out her rain boots, heavy jacket, and knitted cap.
Suitably dressed, she stepped out into the wintry cold evening, where glittering and blinking multicolored Christmas lights reflected from every house on the block. The soft white mantle of falling snow lay everywhere, even piling into narrow little peaks on the pickets of Domma’s fence. Elizabeth pushed open the gate and headed for the corner, plodding along in ankle-deep snow until she could no longer hear the hum and laughter from the brightly lit house.
A long white limousine slowed and stopped next to the curb beside Elizabeth and the electric window on the rear passenger’s side slid silently down.
“I beg your pardon, young lady,” Elizabeth heard a friendly, deep masculine voice speak from the shadows inside the sleek car. “I’m looking for the Pratt residence. I’m afraid we have lost our bearings.”
“No, sir,” Elizabeth laughed and pointed. “That’s Mrs. Pratt’s house right there. I’m her granddaughter Elizabeth. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is,” the shadowy figure said. “I have a special delivery here for Mrs. Pratt. I see from all the cars parked along the street and in the driveway, there’s a family celebration going on. I wouldn’t want to intrude. Would you take this package for me and see that Mrs. Pratt receives it personally?”
“Why, yes, sir, I’ll be glad to do that for you,” Elizabeth said. “But are you sure you won’t come in even for a few minutes? I’m sure my grandmother would be happy to offer you a warm drink, if nothing else. After all, it’s Christmas Eve.”
“Thank you, my dear, but I have other calls to make tonight,” the voice replied from the shadows. “However, I am pleased by your offer of hospitality.”
“I’m sure that my grandmother will be happy to have this gift, sir, and I thank you for it on her behalf,” Elizabeth answered. “May I tell her who sent it?”
“Just say it’s a very belated Christmas delivery. I’m not at liberty to disclose the sender’s name. Perhaps your grandmother will share that with you after she has opened the gift,” the mysterious passenger said. “And so, goodnight, and a merry Christmas to you, Buttons.”
Through the open car window, Elizabeth received the large white box tied with a silver ribbon and watched the fancy automobile pull away from the curb and turn right at the corner. When she returned to the house the children had been called downstairs and everyone was already in the buffet line leading into the dining room. Unobserved, she placed the handsome gift box under the Christmas tree, hurried to wash up and get into the buffet line herself. Suddenly, she was famished.
After the delectable dinner during which everyone had overeaten, the little ones began distributing gifts. A mountain of wrapping paper and multicolored ribbons soon formed in the center of the room. There was even more kissing and hugging as “Oh, thank you!” echoed throughout the old house.
Presently everyone had opened all their gifts except for Domma who had reached the final one of hers—the large white box with the silver ribbon. All eyes were on Domma as she looked quizzically about the room for a sign from the gift giver.
When no one spoke up, Elizabeth prompted, “Go on, Domma, open it!”
Domma slid the silver ribbon off the box and removed the top, handing it to Elizabeth.
Inside was a card which Domma read silently.
Before opening the tissue paper that still covered the gift, Domma removed her old blue shawl, smiling as she handed it to Elizabeth.
“Burn this, now, Buttons,” Domma said. “Put it in that fire and let everyone here see how a beloved keepsake is properly disposed of.”
"But, Domma!" Elizabeth protested. “It means so much to you. I don’t want to see you do this.” Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears as she looked from face to face. “Tell her she can keep it—tell her!” she pleaded with her mother, Louise and with her Aunt Eva.
Neither spoke a word.
“Sh-h-h! Buttons, it’s all right,” Domma said, as she wiped away tears from her granddaughter’s freckled cheek with a corner of her shawl. “Now, do as I say.”
Gently, Elizabeth lovingly draped the time-worn and faded blue shawl across the heavy oak log resting on the fire irons. Flames engulfed the sixty-six-year-old symbol of George Pratt’s love for his young wife, while the entire family sat silently watching.
When the shawl was consumed, Domma’s family paid particular attention as she parted the tissues within the white gift box and stood to remove its contents. Then, she drew forth and wrapped around her shoulders, a new bold blue shawl, an exact replica of the old faded one, ashes in the fireplace, now. As she turned around for everyone to see and admire her new shawl, a collective gasp went up. There was no doubt thay everybody in the room recognized its exact likeness to the destroyed original woolen blue shawl.
Domma hugged the new blue shawl close with one hand and produced the gift's accompanying card for all to see: “This gift card is dated December 20, 2007—last year.” Her voice broke and she paused to take a deep breath, before continuing. “It reads: ‘To my darling wife, Elizabeth. This new shawl is being handmade especially for you but won't be ready for another day ot two. I have requested it be delivered before Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas. I’ll love you always. Your husband, George.’ ”
After everyone had come to examine and admire the new shawl, Domma saw that young Elizabeth had disappeared. With her new warm shawl covering her head for warmth, Domma went out to the front porch where she found her granddaughter, all alone, without even a sweater, leaning against the front porch railing. “I thought I might find you out here,” Domma said, hurriedly sharing her shawl with Elizabeth. “We need to talk, don’t we, Buttons? Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Domma, I had just gone out for a breath of fresh air when a white limousine with a man in the shadows of the back seat came along and he called to me and said he had lots of gifts to deliver and one was for a Mrs. Pratt. I showed him your house and he gave me the box to bring to you. Domma, how could the man in the big limousine who delivered the shawl have known to call me ‘Buttons?’ I told him my name was Elizabeth.”
Domma pulled the card from her pocket and turned it to the light from the window. “I didn’t read everything on this card in there,” she said, confidentially. “They would never have appreciated it…but I see this last line has been added in such curious fancy script! It reads: ‘Recovery of this previously undelivered parcel courtesy of Ariel, Finder of lost articles.’ What do you make of that, Buttons?”
“Oh, Domma, we are so blessed, aren't we?" As they walked back into the warmth of the house, joyfully, Elizabeth hugged her grandmother and whispered, "Your angel messenger came looking for you on Christmas Eve and I actually talked to him...an angel!”
“Well, there you are—two Christmas miracles!” Domma declared, with pride. “Thanks be to God...and your Grandpa!”
**Author’s note: Published in Mature Years Magazine in Fall, 2000. The dates have been changed.
