Christmas comes but twice a year (12/20/98)

Christmas comes but twice a year

by Edward Andrusko

Our small port town of Perth Amboy, N.J., was a mixture of many ethnic groups, colors and creeds. Immigrants from Europe, Asia and the southern states of America had settled in ghettos throughout the city during the turn of the century. For decades the children of these new Americans met at the local schools.

This story opens at the Perth Amboy Grammar School Number 6, or as we called it "No. 6 School." Our school was a large, ominous-looking building: three floors of a red brick, square, prison-appearing facility. It was a no-nonsense school, with a boys' side entrance, a girls' side entrance, and a large double front door in the center for the principal, teachers, parents and guests, but not children!

Every morning at each classroom door stood a teacher, most appeared as old as the school. These professional, dedicated and stern apostles of the education system always appeared to be angry at the students - and the world. Our teacher, Miss Saxton, was an English major, with a teaching degree and the demeanor of "Stonewall Jackson." She could teach every class from kindergarten to the sixth grade. Miss Saxton spoke English eloquently with the perfection of the British monarchy and demanded excellence in grammar. She disapproved of ethnic, colloquial and foreign accents.

Every morning our second grade class started with the "Pledge of Allegiance" to the flag and a prayer reading from the King James Protestant Bible. Everyone - Catholic, Protestant, Jew or atheist - had to take a turn and read a morning prayer to the class. Sometimes the teacher would read. This was the state law and it was carried out!

When Miss Saxton's steel blue eyes peered through her thick eyeglasses, which were perched on her nose and secured by a hanging black ribbon, and you were the target of her focused beam - you were dead meat!

On the first day of school Miss Saxton announced, "Children, when I call on you, you will stand alongside your desk and say 'Yes, Miss Saxton.' When you are asked a question, you will answer the question correctly, promptly and in English; only be seated when I tell you to be seated! Is that clear? Are there any questions?" Not a word. We 6- and 7-year-olds were trembling in our shoes; some wet their pants. An incorrect answer would be corrected loudly and to the rhythmic tapping of a large wooden ruler on the teacher's desk. My first four months of second grade were built on fear of going to school and being there. I must admit it was a well-disciplined class, and we all learned what we were supposed to and learned it well!

Recess was fun. And when the teacher left the classroom, some adventurous class clowns would stand up in front of the class and mimic her precise diction, or her mannerisms, including the tapping of her ruler on the desk. There must be an angel who protects dumb wise guys, for we never got caught! But somehow I think she knew.

Miss Saxton's desk was up front and center, and she sat beneath the large life-size colored photo of our first president. Because of the likeness and the position of the picture so near to her, we called her Mrs. George Washington ... behind her back of course!

The second week of December, after a long day of reading, writing and arithmetic, our teacher announced the annual upcoming school Christmas play and pageant. Everyone would participate. Our teacher also explained that she knew of the ongoing parent-teacher meetings pertaining to state-condoned holidays and school holiday plays. However, until it was resolved we would all participate, no exceptions. December 24 would be filled with Christmas caroling, poetry and plays enjoyed by the principal, teachers, parents and all the students.

With that she stopped by each of our desks, and handed out folded sheets of paper; it was our holiday assignment, our parts in the play! I tried to be invisible and shrank low in my seat. I hated to recite in front of our class, but to participate in front of the whole assembly ... wow - I just couldn't do it. I was too shy, and as one of the holiday songs said, "As for me, my little brain wasn't very bright." And if that wasn't bad enough, Miss Saxton said, "Edward, you will begin the play with this short, cute Christmas poem." I froze in my seat! I was speechless. She moved on to the next desk.

After school, as I went home I wished I was dead! Maybe I would be hit by a meteorite, or kidnapped by a sailor and taken out to sea, or maybe God would burn the school down with a lightning bolt! Hmm, in the winter? Not a chance! I walked very slowly all the way home with my poem neatly folded and tucked away in my large schoolbook. I had never looked at it.

After supper many of our neighbors came to our home to discuss the upcoming school Christmas season with my parents. These neighbors were mostly from Ukraine, Russia and Greece, where Christmas is celebrated on January 7, the earlier Christmas date originally celebrated by the Christian Church - not on December 25. We were all proud and devout people, and wanted the American schools to respect freedom of religion. This should be our choice, for this was one of the reasons our parents had come to this country!

There were many parent-teacher meetings held at the school on this subject. However, due to the stringent state laws, they were at an impasse. Our principal, a fair man, was trying to work things out with the superintendent of schools and come up with a compromise plan - before the holidays, we hoped.

The next day at school the girls of our class gathered in small groups before class and excitedly discussed their parts in the upcoming holiday activities. We boys avoided the subject and talked of sports, Christmas toys and recess. At the end of the day, 15 minutes before quitting time, the large ticking clock in our room barely moved and even seemed to stop dead. My worst fears came true. Our teacher asked what we thought of our holiday assignments? In chorus, we said, "Fine, Miss Saxton!"

Then the bombshell, "Starting next Monday after school we will have rehearsals, so study your lines this weekend."

My older tattle-tale brothers and sisters found out about my part in the school play and told my parents. They added that I had hidden my assignment in my bedroom and jeered at my fears of school and reciting.

After supper my dad asked me to bring down the poem. No, he told me to bring it down and read it to him, and now! As I slowly went upstairs, I heard my stern father warn our family of nine: "You must help Eddy learn to memorize his part, and that is an order! He is our youngest boy, so there will be no sarcastic remarks or ridiculing. Even though it is not our Christmas holiday, he will do his very best."

Awkwardly I struggled through the four lines of cute childlike poetry out loud:

Christmas comes but once a year.
Now it's here. Now it's here.
Bringing lots of joy and cheer,
Joy and cheer to everyone here,
To everyone here.

My dad reread the same lines twice and handed it to mother. All the members of our family read it out loud - two times each. Dad said, "Now you have heard it 18 times. We will do this every evening until December 24." There was a groan of dissatisfaction from my brothers and sisters, until my parents got up and looked sternly at them until smiles replaced their frowns.

The next evening after school I didn't do too well at the rehearsal, but our teacher said I did well enough for the first time and that I must keep practicing. She added hand gestures to go along with my poem.

For the next two weeks we practiced every night after supper. My father would keep time like a maestro beating on a cup with a butter knife as the whole family recited my poem. My youngest sister in her high-chair would join in tapping her dish with a spoon and reciting out loud. The learning became fun and I soon knew the poem.

Stage fright was another thing. Somehow Miss Saxton became kinder and gentler, and was very helpful and considerate with me on the stage during practice.

There was more and more controversy at home and at school about Christmas being celebrated only on December 25. This was something the adults had heated discussions about, but I worried only about my stage appearance.

Christmas Eve, December 24, 1 p.m. our decorated school auditorium was packed with parents, teachers, school officials and children. The big day had arrived. I stood off stage in my Sunday finest with a large paper candle in one hand and shaking in my shoes. After our teacher's introduction, I would be the first one on stage. I waited for my cue. I peeked behind the curtain and saw our whole family in the first row. Geez...

Much to my surprise, a large handsome white-haired man walked out on the stage. At the microphone he introduced himself as the superintendent of schools for our county and had some very good news to report. "Starting this year, due to the large number of Eastern Europeans in our county, all schools will celebrate the Christmas holiday and vacation on both December the 25 and January the 7. Thank you!"

There was loud thankful applause and a standing ovation; the crowd was ecstatic. Miss Saxton actually hugged me and said, "We all can now have two Christmas days off, your holiday and mine!" The superintendent left and the noise of the crowd died down.

"Wow," I said. "Two Christmases, huh?"

"Yes," said Miss Saxton. "Now go out there on that stage and tell them how you feel. Recite your poem. Put your true feeling into it!"

As I walked out on that very large stage with bright lights, my mind spun with all the latest news. My family members and friends took up the first row. They all started to clap. When the clapping stopped, I don't know what came over me. I grinned with happiness and with appropriate gestures said.

"Christmas comes but once" (I stopped), no, "Christmas comes but twice a year, now it's here, now it's here." A cheering, applauding crowd happily prevented me from continuing my poem.

I yelled, "Merry Christmases!" and walked off the stage.

* * *

Free-lance writer Edward Andrusko was born in Perth Amboy, N.J., and now resides in Boulder, Colo. This is his third Christmas story for The Weekly.

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