A Christmas Tradition Is Restored

In response to my Christmas story, Advice from a Retired Elf (RE) to an Aspiring Elf (AE), my cousin Audrey wrote, “Great, Minoo. Maybe I am still an AE.” And my friend Ajay said, “Nice story, Minoo. Want More!!!!”

So here’s one more Christmas story, while the season is still upon us…..

              A Christmas Tradition is Restored

“Why can’t Daddy build the snowman with me like we always do?” she said.

“Your Daddy had an unexpected problem, my dear,” I said, “so he said we should go ahead and start the snowman. He will be back to finish it.”

She didn’t say anything, but she looked awfully thoughtful.

We continued packing snow on the orb, which would become the base of the snowman.

I broke the silence, “We need to make his body as big as we can.  Then we can get started on the head.”

“No, silly!  What about the tummy?  We need to make his tummy before we make the head.  I don’t think we can get the head and tummy on without Daddy” she said.

“He’ll be back by that time.” I said. “Meanwhile, we should do as much as we can.  We want to make your Daddy proud. Won’t he be proud when he comes home and sees how far we got?

”I guess so” she said.

Just then, the phone rang indoors.

“I’ll get it.  I’ll get it” she said, dropping the snow that was in her hands, wiping her hands on her overalls, and rushing inside the French doors of the villa.

I followed her, but stayed out of vision.

“Hello, this is Pen” I heard her say.

I didn’t know who was on the phone, and what they said, but she listened to whatever the caller had to say, and said, “It’s too late” and banged the phone down.

I tiptoed back to just outside the door of the villa, so she wouldn’t guess I had been snooping on her.

“I was just coming in to get a drink of water. Do you want one too? Who called?” I asked her, as she came out.

“Oh, just a wrong number,” she said, but her teeth were clenched. “C’mon, Nanny Pickle, we need to go faster” she said, taking my hand. “Get your water fast.”

Names are strange things.

Soon after I started working for the family, Pen (short for Penny) noticed I ate pickle with every meal.

She was curious about that.

Once she asked to try pickle, and I let her dip the tip of a finger in and taste it. She couldn’t believe how hot it was, and she didn’t like the taste either.  “Eww” she said.

“Why do you have to eat pickle with everything?” she asked me.

“Because my first name is Pickle” I replied.

“Nanny Pickle.  Should I call you that?”

Her father tried to protest, but I said, “No, I think it’s endearing. I like Nanny Pickle” 

From that day on, I was “Nanny Pickle” to her, and sometimes, just “Pickle”.

Now let’s get back to the story….

We both drank some water, and she made me do a half-run back to the snowman.

Then both of us started creating snowballs at a rapid pace, and adding them to the base.

“Faster, faster,” she said.

There were tears in her eyes. The call had something to do with it.

She turned away every few seconds to wipe the tears.

“Faster, Nanny Pickle, faster”

“Let’s start on the tummy.”

“Isn’t the base still too small?” I asked.

“No, it looks fine,” she said.

“Ok, we’ll start on the tummy, then,” I said, feeling her impatience.

And so we started on the tummy.

Soon she was insisting we build the head, though the tummy was still too small. I decided not to argue.

We started on the head of the snowman.

A car turned into the driveway.

“It’s your Daddy,” I said.

She purposely turned her head away and focused her attention on the snowman.

He parked the car, and was presently beside us.

“Don’t I get a hug?” he said.

“Not now” she replied, “Can’t you see we are busy”.

He looked at me.  “Did you get a call from Beth?  I told her to tell you I was on my way.  My phone died, or I would have called myself.”

Oh, so that’s who it was, I thought. No wonder the anger and tears.  She was very possessive about her dad. He was all she had -after her Mom died in the accident, which she had miraculously survived.  The accident had left her with a weakness in her right leg, but it gave her trouble only when she exerted it too much.

“Yes, we did,” I said, stealing a glance at her.  Her back was turned to us, but I saw her lift her hand up to her face to wipe away more tears.

“Shall I take over from you?” he asked me.

Before I could answer, she said, “No, I want Nanny Pickle to finish it with me.” There was a sulky tone to her voice.

“Ok, the two of you can finish up.  I will watch. It’s coming along nicely.  You two are doing a fine job.”

Actually, it looked quite pathetic to me.

It was a thin, frail and lopsided snowman, built by a young girl, and a completely inexperienced Nanny.

I had never built a snowman.

Until I had migrated from India a decade ago, I had never seen snow in my life.

And although I had been their Nanny for two years, and watched the two of them build a snowman two winters in a row, I had never paid much attention.

I disliked the snow.  I stayed mostly indoors during the winters.

Now here I was, making a snowman with a little girl who was upset, and would not let her dad get involved, though we sorely needed his help.

“Be careful, Nanny Pickle, you might topple it,” she said.

“I am sorry. This is my first time building a snowman,” I said, thinking an explanation was necessary to both of them.

“You are doing fine,” he said, “Keep going.”

He thinks I’m enjoying this, I thought.  Ha!

Eventually we got done.

We put the tummy on the base, then we put the head on the tummy.

We put the buttons on.

Then we put the carrot nose on.

We put the coal eyes on, then we put the stick arms on, and finally, we put the hat and scarf on.

“Snowy”, as they liked to call him, was complete.

Only there was a problem.

It was an unspoken problem, but all 3 of us were aware of it.

A tradition had been broken.

A tradition in which, a father and daughter, would build a snowman every winter.

And then they would pose for a picture with their snowman – and that picture would become their Christmas card.

This year, their Christmas card would need to be something else.

I didn’t think it would work for them to pose in front of a snowman which had been built by Nanny Pickle and her, a pathetic snowman at that.

It made me anxious to think about this.

I felt the Christmas card would lack meaning and integrity.

Furthermore, it would forever remind the girl of the year when their cherished tradition had been broken.

It pained me to think about that.

What were they going to do?

When I had a private moment with her father, Mr. Paul, that evening, I said, “You still have to take your pictures for your Christmas card, don’t you.”

“Yes, on Friday” he said.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.  I had to solve the situation.  I couldn’t bear the thought of them taking a picture with the snowman for their Christmas card.

And then an idea came to me…..

But I needed to make sure Mr. Paul would be home on Thursday for my plan to work.

I was quite distracted the next few days, because I was about to do several things which were completely out of character for me.

But every time I saw Pen look forlonly out of the window at the snowman, my resolve strengthened.

My first move was on Tuesday evening, when I announced to Mr. Paul that something had come up, and I would need to take the morning off on Thursday.

“I should arrange for a substitute,” he said.

“It’s only for a few hours in the morning.  Couldn’t you stay home?” I said, “I should be back by the afternoon.”

“I guess I can reschedule my appointments,” he said.

The second part of my plan was really quite daring.

I waited for Mr. Paul and Pen to go to bed on Wednesday night.

He drank two small pegs of whisky every night.

On the night of our story, it was agonizing for me to listen to him pour his first drink, and his second drink.

Eventually he was done, and I heard him rinse his glass.

In a few minutes, he would have his last cigarette, and go to bed.

I had to give it at least 30 minutes after he went to bed, before I could put my plan into action.

His routine annoyed me that night.

I was used to sleeping early.  It was hard for me to stay awake.

I had the uncharitable thought “Why does he have to smoke and drink when he is a single parent?  Why do men have to smoke and drink, anyway?”

But somehow I stayed awake, and when I was sure he was asleep, I got out of bed.

I was fully dressed, with my cap, gloves and overcoat.

I first tiptoed to the burglar alarm, and turned it off.

Then I tiptoed through the house to the back door, and stole out of the house from there.

In my hand was a hammer.

I could see the snowman in the moonlight.  The snow looked so white and pretty, and the snowman looked white, but as pathetic as ever, as if it knew its existence was a mistake.

I trudged towards it, taking a devious route, so I would approach it from the opposite side, rather than from the house side.

I turned and looked back at the house as I walked, to make sure everyone was still asleep.

When I got to the snowman, I took a deep breath.

Then I began to swing at it with my hammer. 

Thwap.  I knocked off his head. 

Thwap. I knocked off his middle.

Thwap.   I knocked a chunk off of the base.

Thwap.  I knocked another chunk off.

Thwap.  I knocked another chunk off.

 I didn’t stop until I had completely disintegrated it. 

The carrot, the coal, the buttons, the sticks and the hat and the scarf lay in the snow. 

They were all that was left of Snowy.

I then crept back into the house.

I re-set the burglar alarm.

I went to my room, wiped off the hammer, and put it under the bed.

Then I changed into my nightclothes, and got into bed.

It was hard to sleep, because I felt terrible about what I had done.

But it was a chance I had to take.

I had set my alarm for 5 a.m. the next morning.

When the alarm went off, I hurriedly brushed my teeth, dressed, combed my hair, and went to my car.

I had planned to spend the day in a mall in a nearby city, and take in a movie to pass the time.

 “Dear God, please make this work,” I said.

Sometimes when you do something underhand, it backfires.  But this was not one of those times.  Everything went according to plan.  There was an angel watching out for all of us.

A snowman was knocked down.

And another snowman was built in its place.

And the two people who should have built the snowman in the first place, were given a second chance.

She told me the story when I got home.

“Nanny Pickle, you will never believe what happened” she said.  “Someone knocked our snowman down – the one you and I built”

“That’s terrible,” I said.  “Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know, Nanny Pickle, but guess what, Paru (that was her name for her father Pa for Papa, and Ru, for the first two letters of his name, Rupert) and I made a new one, and it’s even better than the one we made, in fact, it’s even better than any of the snowmen, Paru and I have built before.”

“I saw the snowman as I was coming up the driveway, and I thought it looked bigger and handsomer than the one we had built” I said.

“Oh it’s way bigger and handsomer.  Do you want to go out with me and see it?”

“Yes, I’d love to” I said.

So we bundled up, we put on our caps and our leggings and our woolen pants; we put on our overcoats and our boots and our gloves and our scarves, and we went out.

“My goodness,” I said, “it is fantastic.  It will make a fantastic Christmas card.

She laughed, “Fantastic.  That’s what you always say.”

And so a Christmas tradition was restored.

A snowman was built.

And a picture was taken with the snowman.

And both the smiles on the Christmas card were 100% genuine.

When I saw the Christmas card, I couldn’t help myself.

Any guesses what I said?

That’s right. 

 “Fantastic!”

There’s this one thing, though.

I didn’t know whether I should be considered an angel or a devil for my part in it.

You decide.

As always, thanks for reading, and have a great day and week.  This post is dedicated to my mother. It was inspired by her Mrs. Martin series of stories.