The Christmas of 2003

E.A. Cominsky

We made a few bad choices and then got hit with a string of bad luck we simply weren’t prepared for. Hubs and I were left homeless with joint custody of two preschool-aged children. We scrabbled and clawed our way along with the help of a few wonderful friends who didn’t hold our own stupidity against us. Christmas 2003 found the four of us living in a one-bedroom suite in a hotel that had last undergone renovations in the late 1970s. I’d gotten a job there and a big discount on the room was part of the deal. Hubs was working for tips at a local diner. Every penny mattered. Noodles and cheap white bread were the staples of our diet. The weeks of December were slipping away, and we had no idea how we could make Christmas happen for our children.

We held on to hope.

We’d figure something out.

We’d make Christmas happen.

Maybe Christmas would look like noodles and a paper tree taped to the wall, but we’d find a way.

Then on December 23, diners in a generous spirit left a little extra when they went out for dinner and we found ourselves with a few dollars. I can’t remember now how much it was exactly, but I guarantee it wasn’t much by anyone’s standards — maybe $30–40.

What can a person do with $30?

Determined to figure out a way to make a special day for our kids, we went to Target with our little stash. There, we found an aisle of clearance toys — off-brand board games and dolls and little plastic musical instruments and we piled what we could into our cart.

It was a start.

Hubs wanted to look at trees.

“How can we afford a tree?” I asked.

“Let’s just look,” he said.

In 2003, we lived in the desert. If you’re from some part of Earth where green things grow naturally, you’ve probably never given much thought to the cost of a real Christmas tree in the desert, but they’re not cheap. It’s the cost of a tree in the Midwest, plus the cost of hauling it hundreds of miles, plus a markup by the retailer. For all that, your tree will die after a week or so because there is no moisture in the air.

Target had a single Christmas tree left. It had been on the bottom of the pile for a month, so half the tree was so dead and brown it had disintegrated to dust, leaving a half tree, that was, at that point, only half alive.

“How much?” Hubs asked.

The garden department manager skeptically eyed the battered mess lying on the concrete floor. “It’s dead.”

“How much?” Hubs asked again.

“I don’t know. How about $5?”

Hubs grinned. “I’ll take it.”

We found a handful of ornaments and a working string of lights in our storage unit. The half-tree was perfect for our teeny-tiny space because it stood flat against the wall. We placed it at the foot of our bed because there was no other space big enough to put it.

That night, our babies climbed in bed with us and fell asleep under the glow of the most beautiful Christmas tree in the world. In the morning, they opened their gifts and we spent the day playing with new toys and games. The kids had wide eyes and they believed in the magic of the holiday. We held them and laughed with them and our minuscule apartment was filled to the brim with love and joy.

The past seventeen years have been good to us. We learned from our mistakes. We worked hard. We had help from loved ones. Now, our Christmas feasts are full of rich, wonderful dishes. Our trees are full and lush. There is never any doubt the kids will get at least one or two of the coveted items from their wish lists. Every year I give thanks and I take joy in how far we’ve come, but I always think about 2003.

I can’t remember what we ate that year. Maybe it was noodles or peanut butter on cheap white bread, but I do remember was that it was one of the best holidays I’ve ever had.

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About E.A. Cominsky

E.A. Comiskey is an award-winning fiction writer and nationally syndicated blogger. Her work is broadly described as “speculative fiction” and is often a wild mix of humor, mythology, fantasy, horror, and romance.

She lives in a much-loved, rickety old house in rural Michigan with her husband, children, and a veritable zoo of creatures. If there’s a festival in the area, you can bet she’s there, most likely drawing on the pavement with chalk. After all, when you live in Michigan, you go outside whenever you get the chance.

Read E.A. Cominksy’s novel Some Sailors Never Die, the latest book in the Monsters and Mayhem series.