December 7
I hit the
brakes, my car fishtailing on the slippery road. I come to a stop just inches
from the car before me.
Ah, the
hazards of winter in Michigan and Detroit drivers who think snow is a reason to
hit the gas.
I cock my
head and see an accident just a few cars in front of me. A man is out of his
car, screaming into the window of the car he hit.
Merry Christmas!
I take a
breath, sip my coffee—which miraculously didn’t spill—hit my blinker and wait
to merge into the next lane.
That’s when I
notice it: the abandoned house I drive by every day to work.
There are
many abandoned homes in many forgotten neighborhoods in this proud city whose
shoulders were slumped by the mortgage crisis, layoffs in the auto industry and
never-ending
winters that
used to be as brutal and mind-numbing as a Detroit Lions football season. Neighborhoods stand like ghost towns, and, in
winter, they look even sadder, the grass dead, the green gone, broken glass
shimmering in the sun before the snow arrives to cover their remains.
This
particular home is a three-story redbrick beauty that looks like a castle. The
windows are broken, the walls are collapsing and yet the wooden
staircase—visible to the world— remains intact. I slow down just enough every
day to admire the finials, worn and shining from the hands that have polished
them over the years.
There
is a line of shattered windows just above the ground, and as you pass by, you
catch a glimmer of red in the basement. Coming the opposite way, you swear you
can see a man smiling.
I
stopped years ago to investigate. I parked, careful to avoid nails, and wound
my way in high heels through the weeds to the broken window. I knelt and peeked
into the basement.
Santa!
A
plastic molded Santa smiled at me. It was a vintage mold—like the one my
grandparents centered in the middle of a wreath on their front door every
year—of a cheery Santa with red cheeks, blue eyes, green gloves, holding a
candy cane tied in a golden bow.
I scanned
the basement. Boxes were still stacked everywhere.
Tubs were
marked Christmas!
In the
corner of the basement sat a sign overrun with cobwebs that read Santa’s Toy
Shop!
December 1975
“They’re
here! They’re here!”
My
voice echoed through my grandparents’ house. I ran to the front door, grabbed
the first catalog, which seemed to weigh nearly as much as I did, and tottered
down the steep basement stairs. Back up I went to retrieve the next one from
Mr. Haley, the postman, who looked exactly like Captain Kangaroo.
“Don’t
move!” I said, disappearing and returning moments later.
Then
back down the stairs I scrambled once again.
Mr.
Haley laughed when I returned the final time, out of breath.
“Last
one,” he said. “Oh, and a bunch of Christmas cards for your grandmother.”
I bent over,
panting, as if I’d just done wind sprints on the track.
“Tired?”
he asked.
I shook my
head. “No! Think of what Santa carries! Not to mention what you carry every
day!”
“You
got me there,” he said. “Here’s the cards. I’ll see you tomorrow. Merry
Christmas!”
I
watched him trudge through the freshly fallen snow, just enough to dust the
world in white. If there’s one thing we never had to worry about in our town of
Frankenmuth, it was a white Christmas. My dad said it was one of the gifts of
living in a Christmas wonderland.
“Merry
Christmas, Mr. Haley!” I yelled, my breath coming out in puffs.
I
shut the door, tossed the cards on the telephone desk sitting in the foyer and
hightailed it back down to the basement.
I
looked at the catalogs where I’d set them on the shag carpet and ran around
them in a happy circle doing a little jig.
I
turned on the electric fireplace. It was so cool, fake brick, and it just faded
into the Z-BRICK walls. The flames seemed to
dance, even though they weren’t real.
I went over to the card table where my grandparents played games—bridge, canasta,
hearts—and I grabbed my marker from a cup.
The
red one.
The
one I used every year.
The
one Santa would recognize.
I
took a seat on the orange shag and arranged the catalogs in a semicircle around
me: the Christmas catalogs from JCPenney and Monkey Wards, and my favorite, the
Sears Wish Book.
The
catalogs were heavy and thick, big as the Buick my grandpa drove. They were
brand-new and all mine. I began to f lip through the crisp pages, turning
quickly to the ones that showed all the toys, clothes and games I wanted for
Christmas.
I was lost
for hours in the pages, dreaming, hoping, wishing. “Yes, yes, yes!” I said, my
marker in constant motion.
“Are
you using a red marker so Santa will see?”
I
looked up, and my dad was standing over me. He was tall, hair as fair as mine.
He had just gotten off work. He was an accountant at a car dealership, and he
never seemed happy when he got home from work.
Until he
came down to my grandparents’ basement.
“Of
course!” I said. “Finn gets green. I use red!”
“So
what do you want Santa to bring you this year?”
I patted the carpet, and my dad took a seat
next to me. I began showing him all the things I’d marked in the wish catalogs.
“I want this eight-room dollhouse, and, oh!
this Shaun Cassidy phono with sing-along microphone and this battery-operated
sewing machine! It’s the first ever like this!” I stopped, took a deep
breath and continued, “And this dress, and this Raggedy Ann doll, but—” I
stopped again, flipping through pages as quickly as I could “—more than
anything I want this game called
Simon. It’s computer controlled, Daddy! It’s like Simon Says, and you have to
be really fast, and…”
“Slow
down,” he said, rubbing my back. “And what about your brother?”
“What
about him?”
“What
does he want?”
“He’ll
want all the stupid stuff boys like,” I said. “Stars Wars figurines, an erector
set, a Nerf rocket and probably a drum set.”
My father
winced at the last suggestion.
“Maybe a
scooter instead,” my dad suggested. “What do you think?”
“Good
idea, Daddy.” I placed my hands over my ears.
He
laughed and stood up.
“Hey?”
I asked. “What do you want for
Christmas?”
My
dad headed over to the workshop he had on the other side of the basement. We
lived in a small ranch house on the other side of town that didn’t have a
basement, much less any extra room. My grandparents let my father convert this
space a few years ago so he could pursue a second career and his true passion:
Christmas.
“You
know what I want,” he said with a smile.
My
dad picked up a sign and turned it my way. It was a handcarved wooden sign that
read Frohe Weihnachten! Frankenmuth
is a Bavarian town filled with all things German: a wooden bridge flowing over
a charming river, a glockenspiel that—on the hour—played the Westminster chimes
followed by an entire show complete with dancing figurines, a cheese haus and competing
chicken-and-noodle restaurants. I was named Henrietta, my father Jakob, my
brother, Finn. Only my mother, Debbie, escaped the German name game with the very American
moniker.
“What’s this mean, Henri?” my dad asked.
“Merry Christmas,” I said.
“And what do I want?”
“Christmas all year long.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Just like you. Except as a
grown-up.” He looked at his sign. “That’s my Christmas wish.”
For
a long time, everyone thought this was just a hobby of my father’s, sort of
like other dads tinkered on car engines, went fishing or coached baseball. For
an even longer time, people thought my dad was nuts.
Why would a man spend all of his time creating Christmas signs
in July, or designing ornaments in March?
They
didn’t know my dad.
They
didn’t how serious he was, that he often worked until three in the morning from
October through December and countless weekends the rest of the year.
“You
have a good job, Jakob,” friends would tell him. “Don’t ruin your life over
some silly notion.”
But
my mom and grandparents believed in him just as much as I believed in Santa.
I
watched my father work. As he did, he began to whistle Christmas tunes.
The
world was finally catching up with my father’s dream.
He
was now creating window displays for two of the biggest stores in town:
Shepherd Woolen Mill and Koch’s Country Store.
Excerpted
from The Wishing Bridge. Copyright © 2023 by Viola Shipman. Published by Graydon House, an imprint
of HarperCollins.
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