I still remember the telephone call from my editor. It was the late 1980s and a personal call from an editor from a New York City publishing house (landline phone, no cell phones yet) was an exciting event. For anyone, much less a newly published and insecure writer living far out in rural Oklahoma.
“Would you be interested in writing a Christmas novella for a new anthology?” she asked.
I said I would, and at the end of our brief conversation, I said, “Oh, thank you for this opportunity. I just really love Christmas!”
To which she replied, “I pretty well figured that,” her droll tone conveying her view of me as a sentimental romantic.
Over the years I was to write two novellas and a novel set against the backdrop of Christmas. The first novella,
Miracle On I-40, was reprinted world-wide as a small paper gift book and later in hardback. The second novella,
Once Upon a Christmas, was a historical set in Texas frontier, and remains one of my favorite stories, and the novel became number five in the Valentine series, set in the small fictional town of Valentine, Oklahoma. Quite oddly neither the editors, the marketing department, nor I identified it strongly as a Christmas book, and it ended up being published as
Recipes for Easy Living, and with a bowl of very unseasonal cherries on the cover. It wasn’t until years later when I secured the rights to the book and reread it that I realized it was thoroughly a Christmas story. It is now reprinted as it should have been in the beginning:
Christmas Comes to Valentine.
When I look at these three books now, I see clearly that the heroines in each of the stories take hold of hope enough to set aside their troubles and the hard realities of their lives and determine to give their children a warm-hearted, magical Christmas.
The beginning of chapter one in Christmas Comes to Valentine reads: “The spirit that attacks everyone at Christmas time and makes them long for home and family attacked Corrine’s mother and kindled in her the gumption to reenter her daughter’s life.”
Reading that sentence after so many years, I’m struck with the realization that those hopeful women characters were drawn much from my mother.
Mama had experienced a lot of disappointment and chaos when growing up, and as an adult made poor choices, especially in men, so the disappointments and chaos kept on. Mama was depressed a lot of the time, yet not at Christmas. At Christmas, Mama did just what my characters do. She set aside all troubles and embraced the hope of the season.
Mama believed in the miracles of Christmas. It was Mama who taught me the Christmas story from a young age, so that I can’t remember a time I did not know it, and believe it. Christmas was a miracle, and in Mama’s and my world, miracles were indeed possible at this time of year.
Not that Mama baked much, as do the heroines in my novels, and I recall only one Christmas when we children were young that she ever attempted to make ornaments. She would cook up a big dinner, with much of it coming out of a can and none of it inspired.
Mama loved Christmas carols on the radio—swing Big Band style, which I still enjoy—and later in my teens, when we finally had a reliable television, Mama and I watched every sappy Christmas old movie and program. Two weeks before Christmas, the tree—a real tree—went up with many ornaments from her childhood and tons of tinsel. Mama always hung a large silver ornament on a bottom branch and encouraged my brother and I to lay beneath it and look at the magical reflections of the colorful lights.
Wrapped presents would appear beneath the tree in the days leading up to the big day. There would be many small ones, because Mama knew the magic of opening a surprise. She continued this practice into her old age for her grandchildren. The tiniest thing—a roll of Lifesaver candies, a single miniature car, bottle of bubbles—she took time and trouble to wrap by itself. I think Mama had the most joy watching a child tear open the wrapping.
Never a disciplinarian, Mama had a strong rule for Christmas morning: “When you wake up, do not go into the living room. You come get us first.”
The result is that I remember my mother’s excitement, when, with it still pitch black outside, we would creep to our parents’ beside, give Mama’s side a shake and beg for her and daddy to get up. Even though blurry-eyed and likely hungover, Mama would pop out of the bed, “Come on, Harold…come on.” She had to be the first into the living room so that she could see our faces when we beheld the array of toys that Santa had brought.
And it was an array. Our grandparents would have sent Mama money, and in addition, Mama, in her enthusiasm and denial of problems, and in her great desires for her children, would have gone into debt buying it all.
I’m grateful now for the writing that brings up these memories, and the years of experience that provide a deeper understanding and appreciation of my mother. I see more clearly two great gifts my mother gave me are the knowledge and love of the miracle that is Christmas and the ability to grasp shreds of hope in dark times, when I need it most.
May you have a very merry Christmas!
Christmas comes to Valentine, and everyone has a secret desire…
Curtiss Ann Matlock is an American writer of thirty-seven novels, three of which are Christmas stories. She resides in south Alabama, where she is busy with family, writing, gardening, and RVing. You can connect with her at her website:
www.curtissannmatlock.com
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