Journal of a Living Lady #188

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

Christmas has come and gone. So many of these yuletide holidays have passed that I can now tell the story. Nobody will know or guess the year or participants. This is about snobs and fringe people.

I have always been sympathetic to fringe people. You know. The ones who don't quite fit in to anybody's circle of friends. Sure, we speak and pass pleasantries, but most of us don't socialize with fringe people beyond the setting that brings us together.

I was a fringe person once. While growing up,  I didn't have the department store clothes that many of my peers enjoyed. Mama sewed me pretty sashed dresses. They were plenty fine, of course. They just never  seemed equal to the labeled ones worn by other girls. Corrective, high-top shoes and a broken front tooth made me feel like a third-class parcel.

Being a fringe person is a painful memory, but the experience wasn't wasted. Eventually I grew out of assessing my worth by what I wore and where I lived.

One Christmas I had a grand idea and ran it by Buddy. What if we invited some acquaintances over for a Christmas get-together? Not our usual, familiar crowd, but specifically those who would be unlikely to ever get a holiday invitation. Buddy thought it was a most excellent proposal.

Making the guest list was the most difficult part. Once Buddy and I began identifying fringe people who regularly crossed our path, it was obvious that we had been neglecting an important part of our religious faith. Why hadn't we reached out sooner?

The first couple on our list were barely in their twenties. They had four children and lived in a two-bedroom trailer in an impoverished rural area. The six of them rode the church bus that Buddy drove.

The next pair on our guest list were in their sixties which seemed fairly old to us then. They were a bit odd. He was big and boisterous. His petite wife had sad, waif-like eyes. She seldom spoke without looking to him for approval. Both had a distinctive, stale odor.

The third couple was in a marital reconciliation period His well-known affair was the community gossip.

The guest list grew steadily and included a man who had recently served time in jail. Seems he wrote checks without sufficient funds in the bank. The fallen fellow, a grammar school drop-out,  had chronic back problems. His mother was seriously ill. The young man hadn't intended to write bad checks. He simply misjudged his ability to cover them in time.

A few days later all the invitations were extended. To our delight, everyone accepted our offer of holiday hospitality. Baby-sitters were gotten and our foster children spent the night with friends.

Buddy and I experienced last-minute host trepidation. Buddy nervously poked the glowing coal in the fireplace and I fretfully rearranged the hors d'oeuvres on the dining table for the third time.

None of our twelve guests knew who else had been invited or why. As the doorbell chimed, each couple, wide-eyed, made their way into our home. Some glanced around suspiciously while Christmas carols played softly in the background.

Buddy took coats and I attempted to make positive introductions.

"These are our friends from church," I would say. "They have such precious children."

Buddy, with his low-key sense of humor, helped ease the early tenseness. "These are friends we have known for years." Then with an exaggerated countenance, Buddy looked puzzled, grimaced and turn toward the twosome. "What are your names?" he asked.  That got a big laugh.

 Before long, the awkward conversation eased into friendly chit-chat. As the evening progressed, the men laughed at fish tales and the women huddled in the kitchen sharing ninety-nine ways to change a diaper.

One couple never joined our cheerful camaraderie. Nor did they offer a reason for needing to leave early. Maybe they were secret snobs who didn't want to be associated with fringe people. For them it must have been a miserable evening. But, for Buddy and me, it was our best Christmas ever.

 

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For publication - December 26, 2002

nancyk@alltel.net