Santa Barbara Christmas

It just so happened that two things coincided with Christmas Season during my 13th year of life in this incarnation: my best friend was now living in Santa Barbara and at home we were too poor to consider having a Christmas. Once she learned there would be no Hannukah bush at my house that year, my dear friend invited me to spend the week with her family. All I would need to do was get on the train and they would take care of the rest. To my surprise, this depressed my parents. It brought home to them the fact that their child had to go someplace else to have a good time. My father explained it to me, the part about how sad they were they couldn’t shower me with gifts. I, on the other hand, was so eager to get out of the house I didn’t give a rat’s ass about gifts. I just felt guilty that I hadn’t saved up enough babysitting money to pay for my own train ticket. So we made a pact. I convinced my father that I had no interest in any presents; the gift of transit was the best and all I desired. On my part, I promised that I would not use any of my savings to buy them Christmas gifts, a promise I sort of kept and sort of broke. Woolworth’s was within walking distance and it housed any number of supplies I could afford in order to make gifts for my friend and her family. While shopping, I noticed a pack of men’s white handkerchiefs, something my father used daily. (I knew he used them because I ironed them for him, much to his chagrin. I was a lousy ironing lady.) The pack at Woolworth’s probably cost twenty-five cents, something well within my three dollar budget, so I purchased it, wrapped it, and presented it to my father just before I left, when it was too late for him to get anything for me in return. This was a major life’s lesson, to see the pain on my father’s face when he realized I’d given him a gift and he had none to give me in return. He said, “We made an agreement. We promised each other no gifts this year.” I babbled something cheerfully, trying to make him feel better, realizing my mistake, and deciding to never do that again. Where was my mother in all this? I have no idea. Did I buy her a gift, too? I don’t recall, and isn’t that just a little bit sad? That’s probably because her way to approach the disappointment of being broke was to be annoyed that I got to leave town and she didn’t. (I know, Ma, I know. You’re in heaven, trying to explain how much you love me and how you would have done things differently if you’d known how. I’m sorry I didn’t buy you a pack of handkerchiefs, too.) Before I got on the train, I’d spent a week crafting my gifts. Plastic hairbands were popular that year, just as they were popular last year. I bought one for Lana, but I ruined it by covering it in crochet work and adding crocheted flowers. It looked pretty in the free instruction pamphlet but even I knew by the end that no one should ever leave the house wearing that thing. Nonetheless, it was her Christmas gift from me. Her mother received a kitchen towel with some embroidery work as a hostess gift. I’d read you were supposed to do that when you went to visit someone: bring a hostess gift. Although I knew she was really wealthy now, she had been raised poor as dirt somewhere in Arkansas or thereabouts, and she knew my backstory. So she graciously accepted it, admired the juvenile workmanship, and placed it in the kitchen on display. What a lady! Lana had a younger sister. Did I bring her a Christmas gift? I don’t think so. Now I wish I had but it’s way too late to apologize, except to say “Sorry, Charlene. Find my mother. She’ll tell you all about it.” So there we were, Three Girls and a Lady (someone should make a movie with that title) on a hillside manse in Santa Barbara. Papa was in Los Angeles with his next wife. Mama, the Lady, entertained her younger daughter so that Lana and I could have a week of private playtime and bonding. We slept in the garage. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the garage but some sort of Guest House, an outside building without heat. I distinctly remember sitting in bed with Lana, buried under a mountain of quilts, trying to make our numb fingers operate the hook that came with our metal square frames so we could weave cloth loops into ugly potholders. Yes, that’s right. The kits that I ordered last year for my grandchildren were exactly the same kits Lana and I received as presents in 1956. My offspring haven’t produced any potholders of their own thus far, but that’s only because I forgot to make them sit down with me and learn the trick, whether they were interested or not. However, Lana and I made potholders until we ran out of cloth loops. I brought them home and proudly presented them to my mother. I wish you could have seen the look on her face. A pack of men’s handkerchiefs would have been better. That week in Santa Barbara, traveling all by myself on my very first real train ride, seeing how life was conducted in a wholly new environment, well…it was a magnificent visit, loaded with fun and lessons. Lots and lots of lessons. What did I learn, other than how to make ugly potholders and keep my promises about no gifts? - It’s every 13-year old girl’s duty to chase boys. - Never put a pillow on a bicycle’s back wheel fender and call it a seat. - Going downhill fast is not always a good idea. - You can be really strong when you need to be. - Sometimes it’s best to fess up and get medical help. How did I learn these things? Here’s what happened: Lana’s house was on the hillside above what is now called University of California, Santa Barbara. There were tennis courts within view at the bottom the hill and on the courts were little specs of people running around. I knew these dots would turn out to be handsome college men, so when Lana proposed we go for a bike ride, I suggested we go all the way down the hill to get a better look. She was dubious; I was optimistic; she agreed. There was only one bike for the two of us which meant she peddled and I sat on the rear wheel fender with my feet sticking out sideways so as to not get in her way. After the first test ride, I grabbed a couch pillow and plopped it atop the fender as a makeshift seat. (I was nothing if not inventive.) Again, Lana was dubious. You see, she knew how to ride a bike. I, on the other hand, had never learned. That’s right. I had a childhood deprived of bicycle training. This had never disappointed me as I was too cowardly to lift both feet off the ground, but this week was different. We were grownup thirteen-year olds and there were boys to be stalked. We actually made it to the tennis courts alive. After peddling around them for awhile, yelling “Hi, Boys!” we decided to return home. That’s when we looked up the mountain and realized how far down we’d come and how long it was going to take us to walk back up the road. We’d miss lunch, get in trouble for being late, and maybe have to go to bed without any dinner. Lana was tired out from the hard work of staying upright with me shifting around on my slippery pillow while hugging her waist. She did not look happy with the prospect of walking back, so yours truly decided we should save time by climbing straight up the cliff, dragging the bike with us. This is where the “really strong when you need to be” part comes in. The slope was covered in lush, sloshy grass. Do you know how heavy a 1950s bicycle can be when you’re out of breath, out of strength, and hanging onto crumbling sod with your toes? It took us twenty minutes to get down the hill but at least an hour to scale this particular Mount Everest. I can only imagine the view from the tennis players’ perspective. Kids bounce back fast, you know? By the next day we decided we’d had a grand adventure and it was time to do it again. The pillow was once more secreted out of the house, I sat astride the rear wheel, and off we peddled. Only this time something went wrong, very, very wrong. As a car heading uphill approached us, Lana tried to turn out of its way. In my ignorance of bicycle riding dynamics, I over-compensated. Before we knew it, the front wheel was veering left, then right, then left again. With my added centrifugal force, she lost control and we crashed landed. I flew over her head, came down on my belly, and skidded to a halt some twenty feet down the road. Looking back, I could see Lana trying to disentangle herself from the mangled thing that used to be her two-wheeler. When I reached her, I was desperate. “How are you? Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” All she would say was, “We have to get the bike off the road so there won’t be an accident. Help me get it over to the grass.” She was limping and I was bleeding, but we managed to drag a crumpled contraption to the roadside. The front wheel was no longer round and the handlebars were pointing in odd directions. Lana was crouched, holding her lower abdomen in pain. She’d landed on one of the handlebars. That’s how it got bent, from the weight of her falling body. I told her we should flag down the next car and ask for help, but she nixed the idea. She knew we were in more than physical trouble because her mother had seen what we’d done the day before and told her not to ride tangent again. Having a handlebar rupture your kishkas was nothing compared to the damage an angry mother might inflict, so she insisted we had to get ourselves and the remains of the bike back into the house without anyone noticing. Fortunately we hadn’t gone very far before we overturned. Limping bravely, we took turns dragging the wreckage home. Finally, we reached the house and hid the remains behind the garage. Then we walked into the living room very quietly and headed for the bathroom. Lana’s mother was sitting on the couch with her back to us. We tried to make it past her so we could mop up the blood before she saw us. She never turned around, but quietly asked, “Having fun, girls?” “Yes, Ma’am.” “That’s nice.” My wounds were fairly superficial. Once I washed away the blood, I could see little pebbles embedded in my palms. I was determined to pick out each and every one of them, so I kept digging until Lana begged me to stop. A few well-placed bandages and I was set to go forth with a boldfaced lie about being fine. Never mind that we were in the bathroom for at least twenty minutes with the water running and Lana’s mother was sitting within earshot. Of course she knew we’d been in an accident. She told us years later she figured we’d learned our lesson the hard way, and she was right. My lessons were: don’t sit on a pillow that’s not welded to the rear wheel fender; don’t sit on a rear wheel fender; don’t ever ride a bicycle again; and never disobey Lana’s mother. Lana had a harder lesson to learn. When they finally moved back to earth, I mean returned Los Angeles, she showed me her legs. You know how a bruise turns yellow before all the spilled blood gets washed away by your body’s healing powers? The insides of her legs were still yellow all the way down to her knees, and this was months after our accident. She probably ruptured an organ, maybe three organs and a few arteries. She really should have fessed up and received medical help, but not my Lana. She was tiny but she was tough. When I was about forty-five, I decided I should give bicycle riding another try. I bought a used girl’s bike, rode it around the block three times, remembered why I never wanted to do it in the first place, and sold it to the first taker for thirty dollars less than I’d paid for it. I also never spent another Christmas in Santa Barbara, not that it’s a place to avoid. Quite the contrary. It’s a lovely town. When I’m there, down by the sea, looking up at the houses on the mountain above the city, I rejoice that I’m not on a bike, trike, scooter, Vespa, Harley-Davidson, or any other vehicle that’s going to make me face-plant on the roadside. I think maybe for this incarnation one Santa Barbara Christmas is going to be enough. We’ll just have to wait and see.