View from the North 40: Behold, the Christmas miracle

Last week I promised readers a tale of a Christmas miracle to warm the heart and make us all appreciate the joyous possibilities of the season. And, too, I promised the story of an attempted murder, so if we’re going to get from point Ax murder to point Xmas miracle, we better get started.

To recap: Older brother and I were not so much good at getting along, a condition which started at my birth and is, let’s say, an ongoing status into the foreseeable future, and beyond, and around the next corner, and then into a spaceship that is launched into a galaxy far, far away.

Also last week, I gave plenty examples of altercations between the two of us — he being the bigger, stronger opponent, me being the relatively more clever one, and constantly the two of us on opposite ends of any issue.

One of my favorite tales to tell in agonizing detail when family and friends are gathered together — and I have a need to humiliate him all over again — is, of course, the day he could’ve killed me with an ax. Yes, it was attempted deliberate homicide with a common woodsman’s tool.

We were in our mid-teens and in mid-dispute over something that escapes my memory, though I suspect it was about after-school chores because we were in the backyard, chopping the night’s supply of wood and hauling it into the house before our parents got home.

Frankly, I don’t even remember what we were doing that launched his temper off the ledge of good judgment — though I am sure I triggered it.

I was, after all, alive.

My first clear memory of the ax incident was his look of rage, then the big wind up and then the ax handle leaving his throwing hand. I can only imagine the beauty of that ax cartwheeling through the air before embedding itself in the wood siding of the garage. I imagine the ax flying part, because by that point I was in a full sprint that didn’t stop until I’d rounded the corner of the garage.

I would have kept running but, come on, how was I supposed to resist the moment? I leaned back around the corner, took one look at the ax blade buried into the wall and the mix of outrage and horror on brother’s face, and I took pity on him.

No, just kidding.

I laughed the biggest, adrenaline-fueled, you-are-so-grounded laugh of superiority in the history of mankind and said, “Nice one. Ya missed me. And good luck explaining the hole in the wall.” Then I ran, ran like my life depended on it — which may have been true right at that moment.

Good times.

Given all the antagonism between us, the inherent clash of our personalities, the constant battle of wills, the near-death murder-experience, it would be fair to assume that all was hopeless between us. But that wasn’t so.

For a miracle was visited upon the Burke household Christmas morning, every year, for just that morning. This miracle was a solemn, unbroken pact between siblings: Come Christmas morning, the first one awake would get the other one up to go out to the living room together for the first look at the presents and, more importantly, dig through our over-stuffed stockings.

This was the one thing we were allowed to do without parents being present and accounted for.

As we slept Christmas Eve, a magical transformation took place in the living room. Presents from our parents appeared from secret hiding places. Santa delivered gifts and he filled our stockings past the brim.

At some unspeakable hour of morning darkness, one of us would whisper to the other “Are you awake? Wake up. It’s Christmas.” We would carefully, quietly, reverently tiptoe into the living room and plug in the Christmas lights.

The sparkle and glow of our beautiful tree revealed what always seemed to us mounds of presents, all in festive wrapping, and carefully laid out at the front of the tree, our stockings bulged with tiny toys, small gifts, nuts, candy and, always, an orange tucked into the toe.

We would work our way through the treasures to the orange (which always had to be pulled out, too, as if we’d never seen an orange before). We’d play with the toys and little gifts, eat a few treats and then restuff our stockings for later.

Inevitably, we’d end up going back to bed, but not before nosing through the gift-wrapped packages, speculating on their contents — and trying at least once to rouse our parents to get up in the dark to start the festivities.

Eventually, though, they would arise and all of us would gather around the tree, handing out packages, opening the gifts and admiring our haul, and then eating a big breakfast together.

In my memory, we always had laughter, joy and gratitude Christmas morning, and miracle of all miracles, brother and I had our special truce.

Until brother left home, I never once looked at the tree first thing Christmas morning without him by my side, and it was the same for him from the year I was born.

If brother ever broke that pact, I don’t want to know. I prefer my belief in the Christmas miracle — also, it would explain how I survived growing up with a would-be ax murderer.

(Merry Christmas to all at pam@viewfromthenorth40.com.)