Mint Condition

A sweet holiday memory, from me to you.

Just before the start of class, my boyfriend put a plain white envelope on my desk. My heart fluttered excitedly. I opened it surreptitiously so that no one would see what was inside.

I removed a letter written on a piece of paper that had been torn from a memo pad. “MERY CRISTHMAS,” was scrawled across the page. “I LOVE YOU.”

I looked one row back and two seats over and glanced quickly at Dustin, the author. Dustin was six years old, like me. He had been my crush all year. Our affection for each other had reached its zenith. Even having one of our previous letters embarrassingly apprehended by Ms. Southern, our teacher, had done little to extinguish the spark. Shyly, I returned Dustin’s smile, captivated by his baby blue eyes and shaggy blonde hair.

Ms. Southern suddenly entered the classroom. I faced forward and sat up straight in my seat. As I slid the envelope into my desk, I noticed a shiny green object inside.

I peeked and saw a rectangular Andes mint. The mint was beautiful; its green wrapping reminded me of the lighted tree designs that graced Gay Street’s skyline during Christmas. I had never eaten an Andes mint before, but I had seen their fancy packages at the store, and I was very sure I’d like them.

My first gift from a boy! I tried to pay attention to the handwriting lesson, but my mind wandered. Should I eat the candy in one delicious gulp, or savor the flavor by taking a dozen tiny bites? I caught Ms. Southern looking at me, as if she could read my mind, and I froze. I opened my eyes widely and stared directly at the chalkboard, trying to assure her of my attention. I decided that the sweet thoughts of the morning would be better appreciated at home.

I walked to Mammaw’s house after school. I spent the entire walk trying to decide what to do with my mint. What was better - eating my candy tonight or waiting until Christmas? Or maybe, I shouldn’t eat it at all. And what could I bring Dustin in return? I wouldn’t see him again until after holiday break.

We had lived with Mammaw for months, awaiting an apartment to become available in Western Heights, a nearby housing project. I knew we were burdensome houseguests, but Mammaw had taken us in anyway. There was a lot to admire about her. She didn’t act old like other grandmothers. She wore pretty mauve lipstick and painted her nails, generous in sharing as long as Sissy and I were careful with her cosmetics. Mammaw also liked to play cards and go dancing. She had a boyfriend of her own, Bill, who had been keeping her company since Papaw passed away and who didn’t mind being a pillow when I fell asleep against his arm watching TV.

I knew my concentration would be shattered as soon as I stepped across the threshold. There were always relatives coming and going from Mammaw’s house.

I still hadn’t made up my mind by the time I got home. Mama was waiting for me on the front porch, smoking a cigarette, Daddy’s green nylon jacket draped over her shoulders.

“Hi, Heather Pooh,” she said, aiming her cigarette away from my head as I climbed on the porch to hug her. “How was school?”

“Good,” I said, but I didn’t mention my mint. Hurriedly telling Mama about it in the stinky, freezing cold would surely diminish its origin story.

“Let’s go inside and talk about Christmas,” said Mama, pitching her butt into the driveway.

Once we were inside and defrosted, Mama plunked a JCPenney catalog on the coffee table. “Have you circled what you want Santy to bring you?” she asked.

I had serious doubts about Santa’s existence. It was painfully obvious Santa’s gifts had more to do with income than behavior. Experience had taught me that the richest kids at church and school always had the best toys, whether they were brats or not.

Us poor kids usually made do with lumpy stuffed animals and off-brand Barbies, even if we got all checkmarks on our report cards and never said H.E. Double Hockey Sticks out loud during Sunday School. Santa was either fake or cruel.

I had to know the truth. “Mama,” I asked, “are you and Daddy Santa?”

Mama looked startled. “Well, Heather Pooh, all mamas and daddies are Santas, because they help with Santa’s deliveries,” she stammered. “He’s too busy to deliver all the presents in one night, so we help.” She clearly wanted another cigarette.

I was unconvinced. “Mama,” I said reassuringly, patting her hand as if I were the mama. “It’s ok that Santa isn’t real. I don’t mind.”

She relaxed a little, happy she wouldn’t be destroying a beloved childhood ritual. “When did you learn about Santa?” she asked, baffled.

I was triumphant in my vindication. I’m a good kid even if I don’t get anything but boring ole socks and board games for Christmas, I thought smugly. “I guess I’ve always known,” I said.

“Well…how about we just keep this between you, me, and Daddy,” Mama said. “We don’t want to spoil it for everybody else. You can help us play Santa.”

I liked the idea of playing Santa. “How do I do that?”

“You can wrap some presents, and then keep Sissy from peeking under the bed and finding them,” Mama offered.

Trying to keep Sissy out from under the bed was an impossible task. She was more curious than a kitten. She would discover the truth about Santa soon enough, even if we hid the presents on the moon.

“I’ll try, Mama.”

“Now, what do you want for Christmas? What did you circle in the catalog?”

I shrugged. I knew what I wanted to get and what I would get were not often the same.

“A pretend purse and pretend makeup and a pretend cash register.” I couldn’t wait to be grown.

For the sake of audacity, I added to my list the year’s hottest toy.

“Oh, and a Cabbage Patch Kid. But I know I won’t get one,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Is that the babydoll people are fighting over?” Mama asked.

We had seen plenty of news coverage about Cabbage Patch Kids. People all over the country had lost control of their senses, standing in line for hours and then pushing their way into the back of the store to buy one, or two, or five, or whatever insane number of dolls they could hold or stuff under their Members Only jackets.

“Yes. I like Cabbage Patch Kids, but I know I won’t get one. They cost a lot, and I’m scared you and Daddy would get hurt.”

Mama rolled her eyes. “Good Lord. What is wrong with folks?”

I didn’t know a lot about grown-ups, but I knew some of them were just plain weird.

“I don’t need a Cabbage Patch Kid, Mama.”

“Don’t worry, honey. You’ll have a good Christmas.”

*

I didn’t eat my special mint that night. I didn’t eat it the next night, either. I developed a routine in the days leading up to Christmas. I started by holding the mint in my hand and admiring its elegant green wrapping. Then, I would lift it to my nose and inhale deeply. Finally, I would carefully open the back of the wrapper so I could observe the thin, pale green stripe that ran down the middle of the candy. Sometimes, I ended my ritual by imagining what it would be like to give Dustin a big smooch of gratitude.

At this rate, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to eat it, even though the aroma of the smooth peppermint and decadent milk chocolate made my stomach clinch in anticipation with every sniff.

Christmas morning arrived. Sissy and I leapt off the twin mattress we shared and clomped noisily into the living room. We beheld something wonderous. The tree was not yet lit, but so many presents encircled its base, the tree stand was no longer visible. Mama and Daddy were sitting on the couch, both sipping steaming cups of coffee. Mammaw and Uncle Mike, who worked 3rd shift, were pouring cups of their own in the kitchen.

Our parents made quick work of the gifts, sorting piles for me and Sissy. We began to rip open the wrapping paper, anxious for what might be revealed underneath. I was ecstatic that Mama and Daddy had gotten me a whole set of play makeup. Sissy got the Chatty Patty doll she had asked for, as well as a pretend cash register loaded with big plastic coins that she and I were to share.

Mama handed me another present. The box was bulky, almost too big to wrap my arms around. I tried to sit it down gently, careful not to topple forward into the other gift Mama had given Sissy.

“These are from Santy Claus,” said Mama.

I was puzzled. I had helped wrap Santa’s gift to Sissy. I didn’t think there were any gifts left for me.

Gingerly, I ripped a strip of paper off the front of the box. I saw the familiar logo of a baby’s face resting in leafy cabbage. I gasped in realization.

“IT’S A CABBAGE PATCH KID!” I cried.

I plucked the box from its paper cage and looked at my doll. She had sandy blonde pigtails and a dimpled smile.

“I LOVE HER!” I told Mama and Daddy, trying to hug them both with the box still in my hands.

Mama leaned forward to catch my embrace. She hugged me and whispered, “Mammaw got her for you.”

“Mammaw played Santa for me?” I whispered back. Mama nodded.

I wondered if Mammaw had fought off a crowd to buy my Cabbage Patch Kid, or perhaps she had won her in a high-stakes card game. Either way, I felt only pride in my grandmother. I was deliriously happy, but I didn’t know how to thank Mammaw. If I ran into the kitchen to hug her, she would know that I knew the truth about Santa. I thought quickly.

“I’ll be right back!” I hollered and ran back into the bedroom Sissy and I shared with our parents. I scooped my special candy off the dresser and pounded back down the hallway.

“Where’s the present we got for Mammaw?” I whispered to Mama. She handed me the wrapped box containing Mammaw’s new pair of slippers.

I opened my fist. By now, my Andes mint was looking a little ragged, but it still smelled good. I slid the mint under the wrinkled red ribbon, satisfied.

“Honey, you don’t have to give Mammaw your candy,” said Daddy.

“I want her to have it. I’ve been saving it for her.”

As soon as I’d said it, I knew it was true.

“Well…she’ll appreciate it very much, then.”

My special mint now belonged to Mammaw, a secret thanks for a secret gift-giver. Only I knew its true significance.

“Daddy, would you help me open my doll?” I asked. I turned my attention to the task before me, but not before sniffing my hands one last time, catching a final whiff of Christmas-scented affection as I reached for the top of the cardboard box.

1988: Me - Age 9

Cloris Holly - Age 3