THE CHRISTMAS DELECTATION
A CHRISTMAS DELECTATION
BY JOHN TUFT
Frederica, Freddie to her friends, works as the custodian at an elementary school. Unable to have children of her own, she took great pride in being a part of the lives of hundreds of students over the years. Helping to look for lost coats, always available for a hug and kind word, a listening ear for teachers and administrators alike, Freddie left an indelible mark on the school. She was also proud of the small house she bought with her earnings over the years. Freddie kept it neat and clean, a home open to all who entered. Freddie was one of those people who quietly slips into the corners of a person’s life and enriches it without seeming to make much effort. On the weekends, she cleaned the little Methodist church at the end of the block as a way to give back.
Freddie grew up in a church run home for troubled children, as the nomenclature used to dictate. Her favorite time of the year was the summer. Several times each season, the children were taken to a Pirates baseball game. Freddie became a fan, in particular a fan of Roberto Clemente. She begged for the cheap seats behind right field so she could watch his every move. The grace, the ease of skill, the swiftness, the power of his arm — they all thrilled the young girl who dreamed of one day being able to bring her own children to the ballpark. One day the children arrived early at the park as the players were warming up. Freddie took a scrap of paper and went to stand at the railing in hopes of getting the autograph of the Great One. The day he gave her a smile and his signature ranked as the highlight of Freddie’s life.
Perhaps it was that sense of awe and appreciation for the attention of a respected adult that helped explain Freddie’s approach to her job. To her life, for that matter. The welcoming smile, the gentle listener, the treasured touch. She kept that scrap of paper with the autograph sealed in a glassine bag and tucked into the corner of the picture of Pittsburgh that hung over the mantle. In the boiler room at the school where she was custodian she kept a large poster of No 21 on the back of the door. When kids came to the area looking for supplies or needing her help to clean a mess in the classroom she always made them stop and smile at the poster. And she told them about him dying a hero in a plane crash as he was taking supplies to the forgotten victims of an earthquake in Nicaragua.
At the age of 56, Freddie developed cancer in her ovaries that spread to her liver. Freddie worked as long as she could, but the time came when she could no longer work and no longer care for herself in the beloved house. Christmas time in western Pennsylvania in 2017 was bitterly cold with dark snow and ice, a time not only of frozen ground but frozen rivers. I know because I was in town for my father’s funeral. Someone asked if I could visit Freddie in the hospice wing of a nearby hospital. I loaded the dogs into the truck, cranked up the heater and Think You Can Wait by The National, made my way down Kennedy Boulevard, through downtown Aliquippa, across the Ohio River and over to Sewickley. I put the Lhasa apso in charge of the other two, a beagle and a Pyrenees, left the engine idling and went in. Freddie was breathing hard when I found her propped up in an easy chair.
“Preacher Boy. I heard about you. They said you roll with dogs, though.” I assured her the dogs were fine, listening to Neil Diamond while I visited with her. “I’m sorry about your daddy. Did he like baseball?” I told her about him listening to Bob Prince call the games with a transistor radio under his pillow to keep him company in the night when his own thoughts haunted him disguised as the voice of God. “You must be real close to Jesus,” she exclaimed and I laughed until the tears flowed. “Can’t say that I am, Freddie. How do you get close to someone who asks for everything?” She let that sit for a moment. She looked me in the eye, “Preacher Boy, how do you know if you’ve loved enough? I have nothing to give that’s worthy.” I sighed. “Worthy of what, Freddie?”
“Why, worthy of Christmas, of course. The majesty, the beauty, the wonder, the joy, the light. The love, Preacher Boy. Christmas is delight!” A tear escaped my eye as I thought, How do you kiss the sky when it opens up and wraps you in the wonder of truth? “Let’s have Christmas Eve, Freddie. You and me.” She smiled big. “And the dogs,” she insisted. And so it came to pass, that as a cold stillness lay upon the earth that awaited my father’s body, Freddie and I and the three dogs made our way through the hospital. Instead of a donkey, she rode in a wheelchair. My flock trailed behind me as we followed the path proclaimed by signs and arrows.
Midnight found us in the NICU, neonatal intensive care unit, as angels in scrubs bent low and lifted very tiny perishable humans into her and my arms. We sat in rocking chairs and softly sang Silent Night. At one point, Freddie leaned close and grasped my hand. “Delight, Preacher Boy. Joyful delight.” In the next hour, surrounded by the hopes and fears of the race, our singing gone like a whisper, Freddie passed away. The dogs lay their heads in her lap to worship this queen of Christmas. When I began to get up, a scrap of paper floated to the floor. I bent to retrieve it. Her gift, her legacy. An autograph on delight….
Words are magic and writers are wizards.