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The Family Hall of Fame
Writing Contest!
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Writing Contest Winners!
Family Hall of Fame
Writing Contest
1st Place Winner!
NUTSHUCKS
By Onalee Efrusy
Growing up in the early 30’s I was too young to realize a
Depression was going on. My parents were very resourceful,
and our Christmases were the envy of all my friends. My father would make a trip to Northern Michigan around Thanksgiving. (Whenever he could borrow a truck).
He would come back with a load of Christmas trees to sell. He charged fifty cents to a dollar, according to their size. My mother made wreaths out of the branches trimmed from the bottoms and sold them for a quarter. Dad always put aside the fullest, most perfect one, to adorn our living room.
About a week before Christmas Dad would place the tree in a bucket of wet sand and stand it next to the fireplace. I can still remember the pungent smell and the crack of cones popping open in the warmth.
Next came the ritual of the lights. We only had one electrical outlet in the room, and my mother had extension cords running in all directions. If she had to unplug Dad’s favorite lamp to light up the tree, it was a small price to pay. The small tungsten lights, carefully placed among the branches, reflected off the shiny colored balls in a magical array.
The final touch on the tree was the tinsel. It was Mother’s domain. She had carefully removed each piece from the previous year’s tree and tied it with twine to prevent tangling. If any of the strands had become twisted, she got out the iron and pressed them flat. One by one, Mother placed each shimmering ribbon, forming a cascade. The effect was a masterpiece.
Mother was a fine seamstress. She could take a few yards of material and make it into an exact copy of one of Shirley Temple’s dresses for me. My sister and I didn’t always get the new dolls we’d asked for, but the old ones had new wardrobes made from scraps.
If my brother’s new shirt resembled one my Dad had worn out at the elbows, no one mentioned it.
On Christmas Eve, the anticipation was almost more than I could bear! Part of our ritual was hanging our stockings at the fireplace. My sister, brother and I tacked them to the mantel with care. Every year Dad would wait until we were done and then bring out one of his old mended stockings and hang it next to ours. He would make a big show of looking worried and say, “Hope I’ve been good this year so Santa will bring me some candy.” We would assure him that Santa wouldn’t forget him.
Later in the evening, just before bedtime, all the lights in the room were turned off except the ones on the tree. We’d sit on the couch watching the shimmering magical splendor. Dad’s deep voice would start singing “Silent Night,” and we’d all join in. After singing all the carols we knew, we were ready for bed.
Bed didn’t necessarily mean sleep. My sister, Margie, and I would stare for hours at the moonlight shining through the Jack Frost patterns on the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa’s sleigh. Eventually, in spite of ourselves, we drifted off. In the early hours before daylight, we’d awaken and tiptoe out to see if Santa had been to our house yet. We didn’t dare turn on any lights but felt around and found piles of packages under the tree. In the dark, Margie managed to find a pair of felt slippers and I found a pair of soft gloves with bunny fur. A cough from our parents’ bedroom sent us flying back to bed with our treasures, where we lied huddled and giggling until daybreak.
Later, when the mad frenzy of opening our presents had quieted down, I noticed the crumbs on the plate of Christmas cookies we had left by the fireplace for Santa and turned to look at the bulging stockings.
Dad helped me take mine down. The toe had the round hard feel of an orange, but the rest was filled with delicious hard candies. I popped several into my mouth and turned to see him woefully taking down his stocking. He made sure we all saw him empty it out. Instead of candy it was full of nutshucks. “Guess I wasn’t very good last year,” he said, looking sadly at all of us. “I better try harder next year.”
I looked uneasily at my sister and brother and vowed to be a very good girl next year lest Santa leave me nutshucks instead of presents and candy.
A lesson lovingly taught.
Read the 2nd Place Writing Contest Winner's Essay - My Family's Story by Vince Raffield
Read the 3rd Place Writing Contest Winner's Essay -
The Eagle Cafe by Neal Crothers
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