By Mary Duggan

 

My folks did it up right at the holidays with their Christmas Eve gathering of cousins, aunts, uncles, assorted friends, their own eleven children and yes, at the appointed hour, a live appearance from Santa. It was magical. When cousins gather now, a half century later, we all still relive those memories.

But the winter of 1960 found me sick. Really sick. I am only going to give this a few more days, was the prognosis from Mom’s cousin, the doctor.  If she doesn’t make a turn-around I am going to hospitalize her. Pneumonia. I would not be in attendance for Christmas Eve. I was 7 years old and crushed.

I lay in the big double sleigh bed upstairs, listening to my enormous clan gathering below. Each family bearing casseroles and holiday treats. Uncles slyly stowing bags of gifts in the garage to be “delivered” by Santa later in the night. My mom and my aunts wearing starched holiday aprons. Each aunt bringing her own apron, carefully folded atop her contribution to the holiday  buffet. My uncles tending bar. The adults clinking rocks glasses of highballs and Manhattans; toasting and teasing each other in a way that was different from the rest of the year. Nieces helping with the final table setting; despite days and days of preparation we were never completely ready. Mom’s prized Wedgewood on full display. Kids’ tables made up on card tables everywhere. Everyone shooing our old border collie away from the coffeetable overflowing with appetizers. Grandma Liz presiding over her cookie tins filled with our holiday favorites: gum drops mixed with peanuts or dates stuffed with pecans and rolled in powdered sugar. The highlight of the evening, still some few hours away, would be the marvelous Santa suit she had designed and sewn. The drapes would be closed, the carols to attract Santa would be sung, and then the sound of sleigh bells as Santa Ho Ho Ho’d at the front door, the entire porch filled with pillow cases of gifts, my uncles helping Santa as the elves were busy with last minute gift production. It was enough to make a kid pee her pants.

Blasé teens in the family would snicker behind their hands as they conjectured who “Santa” would be this year. Many neighbors and distant relatives had been called to service over the years; as the adults were very careful to have no one inadvertently recognizable as Santa. And yet, beneath the wiser than thou demeanors of the teens  – the lingering still of holiday excitement. The center of it all – the tree that my dad would have fussed over days earlier – drilling holes and plugging extra branches until it was just right. His perfectionism making my mom crazy; but the end result charming and homespun with red glass ornaments and garlands of  popcorn and cranberries. It was magical. Even all the hard work of getting ready thrilled me and made it all the more fun. But I was sick this year. Really and painfully sick. Everyone was told to stay away as I remained quarantined and alone in my bedroom.

Door bells rang, announcing the arrival of family upon family. There was lots and lots of ringing and arriving with both my mom’s family and my dad’s family in attendance.  All these parents of WWII, determined to create as much goodness and wonder as wallets would allow. The party was swelling and filling the big old house below me. I was left to my fever, my Kleenex, my glass of 7-UP, my thin little pajamas and my crushed 7-year-old heart. Then suddenly and surprisingly the door opened just a crack and it was my darling father’s tall thin frame and gentle smiling face. “Mary,” he said, “you have a Christmas visitor.” An early-stage drama queen, even then, I knew it had to be some sort of holiday mirage or better yet – a holiday miracle. I’m not allowed to have visitors, I reminded my dad. I’m too sick. “Well,” he said, “I think just this once will be alright.”

In the door strode Peter Talso, the chubby young boy from the middle of our long block. The one with the embarrassing crush on me.  “My dad said it would be okay if I don’t stay long.” he reassured me. And this carried big weight as his father was a doctor. “I heard you were sick so I got you a present.” My dad and mom, enormous with her eighth baby due in just a few weeks,  both watched as I unwrapped my gift from Peter. My amazing, unforgettable, never to be outdone gift from my chubby young paramour. It was a silver mink stole and silver sparkly high heels, all perfectly sized to fit a 7-year-old girl. I had never in my life been given such a gift. I have never in my life been treated as regally again by any man declaring his love for me. My mom even let me stand next to the bed, “mink” stole draping my PJ’d shoulders, tottering in my plastic high heels. A princess. A movie star. Maybe even as glamorous as Liz Taylor. And then it was back into bed following an embarrassed thank you to Petey – because I really was sick and even that little bit of movement had left me coughing. I slid my high-heeled feet under the blankets and left my mink stole draped over my shoulders as I fell asleep to the hiss of the vaporizer beside me.

A few hours later my parents orchestrated their best ever Christmas memory by bringing Santa all the way up to my room, arms brimming with gifts. I was delirious with both bronchial distress and joy. Fortunately my just younger sister, Joanie, was allowed to watch. I would need her later that night to confirm that Santa had indeed come to my bed. The Christmas of the mink stole and the silver pumps and Santa at my bed.

Mary Duggan is Co-Founder and President of the Duggan Sisters.

The Duggan Sisters cracked the code and created a natural deodorant that actually works: lifestinks. And that was just the beginning. We hope you will spend a few minutes exploring duggansisters.com to experience their spirited approach to wellness through their natural products and healing stories.

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