Mr. Bland's Christmas
The Blands lived in a weathered gray farmhouse at the end of a deeply rutted drive. Childless, they lived alone. Mr. Bland was a deacon in the church, and Mrs. Bland taught Sunday School. They were much older than my parents and seemed ancient to me when I was a small boy. Visiting the Blands was dullest part of a long and boring Sunday afternoon, particularly when the weather was bad and I had to sit in the over-heated parlor and listen to Mrs. Bland describe her aches and pains.
"Myrtle Bland has never been sick a day in her life," I used to hear Mother say.
But Albert fussed over her and worried about her constantly. He was a pleasant man who always seemed to be mildly amused at something. Mom and Dad were fond of the Blands, and if Mother was dismissive of Myrtle's complaints, she was patient and understanding with Albert, who stuttered badly and was often difficult to understand.
"But you should hear Albert sing," Mom would say. "Not a syllable out of place!"
Each year on Christmas Eve, after the decorations were complete, all the presents under the tree, and the house warmed by the aroma of Mom's applesauce cake, Myrtle and Albert would stop in for cake and coffee. They always brought a small gift for me, which I was allowed to open in their presence. It was the first gift I opened each Christmas; all the other gifts would have to wait until Christmas morning.
Memory is a funny thing. All of the toys and gifts that occupied my mind during Christmas are long since forgotten. These days, for some reason, I think of Myrtle and Albert around Christmas time. I think of their old house in the country that I never wanted to visit. I think of their Christmas Eve visit that interested me only because they brought a present.
And I think about a Christmas Sunday in church many years ago. The sermon at last is over, the piano plays and the congregation rises and begins singing the closing hymn. Sunlight pours through the windows of the sanctuary and I look over at Albert. He holds the hymnal low so Myrtle can see and he sings. He sings and his broad face beams and his baritone voice rings out clear and true. Not a syllable out of place.
Joy to the World!
