Never a Stranger

Yesterday was December 24. And just like the forty-nine previous Christmas Eves, Maggie woke up early, (also making sure that I rolled out of the bed) and prepared to go into the city. It was an all too familiar routine; we would drive to town, have a small breakfast at her favorite diner and then begin the annual quest for her angel.  We would walk through the old downtown, where a dozen little shops trimmed in Christmas décor placed their goods behind decorated windows. I don’t recall Maggie having ever bought a single angel at any of these shops, but she enjoyed browsing every aisle of every single one of them. I had learned over the many years to follow just a few steps behind her, nodding affirmation when she saw something she admired and to never complain about the snail’s pace of a woman shopping. Besides, this time of year most of the shops offered free copy or hot apple cider to the husbands in tow.

After a few hours of walking around and too many cups of cider filling my old bladder we would drive out to the mega shopping mall where Maggie would be certain to discover the perfect angel to add to her collection. This year’s angel would be number fifty. With great anticipation and excitement Maggie had informed me, “This one will be special.” I didn’t point out to her that every year she proclaims, “This one will be special.” You learn some things after being married for almost half a century, like what to say and more importantly what not to say.

The December snow started falling as I pulled the car onto the interstate. The mega mall was about twenty miles north of downtown and under good driving conditions it would only take a brief car ride to get there. But with each mile the Lincoln traveled the heavier the snowfall became. Maggie seemed oblivious to the sudden winter storm, gabbing away about all the Christmas gifts she had already bought for the grandchildren. Checking them off her list one by one, making sure she had not left anyone out. This was her time of year; Maggie loved everything about the holidays. Her green eyes shined brighter than any Christmas ornament when she talked about her grandchildren. Tomorrow morning they would all show up on our doorstep bright and early. Our house would be transformed into Grandma’s house, and Maggie loved every bit of it.

The Lincoln MKT handled the slippery roads just fine. It wasn’t a heavy vehicle like the old Continentals I had driven in the past, so I had slowed down considerably. No reason to take any chances. It wasn’t my own driving ability that I was worried about, I’ve been driving for more than sixty year; it was all the other idiots on the road. Of course I didn’t say this out loud either. It has been a slow year for snowfall so the roads had started out clear. The day had also started out unseasonably warm, so most of the snow melted as it landed on the asphalt highway. My worry, which helped tune out Maggie’s yakking about grand kids and Christmas music on the car radio, was for the drive home that would come later, later after the sun went down and would no longer be there to warm the roads. Snow covered roads are bad news, ice covered roads are worse. I came close to suggesting to Maggie that we turn around and head home, I knew it would disappoint her and I don’t think she would have argued. But I didn’t. Now I wish I had.

                                                                                                  

By the time we arrived at the mall only a few flakes danced down from the heavens. But the dark gray heavy clouds promised more snow. The mall’s parking lot was filled with cars belonging to last minute shoppers. I drove around for ten minutes before finding a space that wasn’t a quarter of a mile away from the mall. The warm temperatures were now a part of the past and the bitter cold greeted us as we exited the car.

I spied the old lady before we had walked ten steps and she was heading right towards us. She had all the markings of what we use to call a “bag lady”. I guess “homeless” is the more appropriate term now.  She wore an over-sized, worn out coat. It was so faded and dirty that it was hard to know what color it had once been.  Around her neck she wore a long green knitted scarf, filled with holes. Rubber boots, they also looked over-sized, protected her feet from winter snow. Her wiry gray hair stuck out in all directions from under a Green Bay Packers knit cap, era 1970’s. Her face was worn with age and much exposure to the harsh climate of Wisconsin. But beneath it all she had smile on her face revealing teeth almost too perfect for a woman in her condition.

“Oh, good God” I said, “just ignore her and maybe she will go away.”

“Never a stranger” replied Maggie. 

To order-Touched by an Angel