Free The House Without a Christmas Tree by Gail Rock Page B

house next door to me. Her family had moved there three years ago, in 1944, and we had been pals ever since. We were always at each other’s houses, having lunch or dinner together and playing cards or building snowmen or just sitting around and giggling a lot. I loved going to Carla Mae’s house because she had six younger brothers and sisters, and the place was always in a happy uproar.
    My house was just the opposite: very quiet and orderly, with just Dad, Grandma and me. I think Carla Mae kind of liked the contrast at my house too. It was small, only a little four-room bungalow, but at our house we could play Monopoly without having a couple of babies crawling across the board upsetting the hotels and trying to eat all the money.
    Our house seemed almost threadbare, compared to some others, but I knew it wasn’t because we were poor. It was just that Dad believed in getting his money’s worth out of everything. We had had the same kitchen linoleum and the old maple table and chairs since I could remember. And Grandma still cooked on an old, black, wood-burning range, while most other people in town had modern gas stoves. Our kitchen hadn’t been modernized in any way. We still kept dishes in an old, brown hutch and had the kind of refrigerator with a motor chugging away on top.
    The living room was spare too, with just one prickly brown horsehair sofa, Grandma’s rocker, Dad’s big easy chair and a little writing desk where we each had private drawers of belongings. A braided rag rug covered the living room linoleum, and lace curtains hung at the windows. Grandma was in charge of the “decorating,” which consisted of a fancy cake plate propped up on the mantel, a cut-glass vase and a conch shell brought from Florida by a well-traveled aunt of mine. There were a few pictures on the wall: some New England snow scenes, a print of “The Angelus,” and a fat baby picture of me which I found very embarrassing.
    Our house was always neat as a pin, because Dad couldn’t stand disorder, and no one was allowed to leave any personal belonging lying about out of place. I was glad no one was allowed to look in my private drawers in the writing desk, because they were a real jumble. That was how I did my part in keeping the rest of the house neat.
    Carla Mae and I went over our check list one more time before we prepared for departure. We had newspapers and string for wrapping all the things up and tying them to the baskets of our bikes. My grandmother loaned us an old pair of scissors to cut with, and I took along my Girl Scout camping knife just in case. We would be gone most of the morning, so Grandma gave us oatmeal-raisin cookies tied up in wax paper for an energy snack.
    I could always depend on Grandma to come up with something like cookies at the right time. She may have been a good sixty years older than I, but she understood me very well, and seemed to take pleasure in a lot of the things I found exciting. Since she was home all day, I actually spent more time with her than with Dad, and she influenced me in ways that I never realized until years later. She would sometimes disagree with me, but I never fought with her the way I did with Dad, and she was always there to help me over the rough spots. It was much easier for her to show affection than it was for Dad, and when she knew I was having a hard time getting through to him, she was always there to make up for it. Of course, that didn’t mean that she let me get away with much. On the contrary.
    â€œNow don’t go riding too far out of town,” said Grandma. “And stay off the highway. You remember what your dad told you.”
    â€œYes, Grandma.” I had heard it all before, and knew it by heart.
    â€œAnd don’t get into any poison ivy or poison sumac,” she said.
    â€œYes, Grandma.”
    â€œAnd be sure and stay bundled up good.”
    â€œYes, Grandma.”
    I knew very well I