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CHRISTMAS
IN NEW BEDFORD, 1953
A LOCAL AUTHOR REMEMBERS A HOLIDAY ON THE VERGE OF LIFE CHANGES
Music for mother
By MURIEL JENSEN
For The Daily Astorian
W
ith apologies to Jean Shepherd, whose
wonderful “A Christmas Story” lights
my holiday season every year and
reminds me so much of my own childhood, I’d
like to share my Christmas story. I’ve had 72
Christmases, all of them wonderful in different
ways, but I remember particularly the one when
I was 8.
We lived in an apartment over Saster’s Dry
Goods in the heart of New Bedford, an industrial
town on the southern Massachusetts coast with
cotton and woolen mills, and blocks of Italianate
buildings.
That year, I was worried about my world
changing. My sister, Lorraine, nine years older
than I, was entering the convent after graduation,
just six months away.
The motherhouse for the Sisters of Holy Cross
was in Montreal, Canada, and I couldn’t imagine
what I would do without her. She tormented and
harassed me constantly, though I was not a help-
less victim. I once broke a turkey platter on her
backside when she picked on me while we were
doing dishes. But I remember wondering where
she would find the holiness inside herself to func-
tion in a religious order.
I mean, she once dumped me off my sled while
pulling me over a curb and across a busy intersec-
tion when my mother had sent us shopping. She
ran into friends also crossing the street and com-
pletely ignored me, as I struggled to get up and out
of the way of traffic. Fortunately, a neighbor saw
me and came to my aid. That provided valuable
blackmail material that I used against her until she
left for Canada.
Courtesy Muriel Jensen
A young Muriel Jensen, right, in her First Com-
munion dress with her friend Janice
Eying the presents
By the middle of December, a large array of
presents stood under the tree, and avarice edged
aside my worries. We had a number of relatives,
and many friends, and there were always tons
of presents for everyone. Anticipation was kill-
ing me. (To this day, I can’t receive a present and
put it under the tree — and wait. I have to open it
now. Even my children remind me that I’ll be dis-
appointed on Christmas morning when they’re all
opening presents and I’m not. But I never feel that
way. I figure I have a wonderful gift and I didn’t
have to wait to find out what it was.)
My father was a foreman in a handbag factory
owned and operated by a family that closed the
shop for Hanukkah, so he was always home during
the holiday. He would take Lorraine and me shop-
ping for our mother and would buy whatever we
chose for her. I loved that. Lorraine selected a
pretty blue sweater, and I found a matching set of
purse accessories in red patent leather — a wal-
let, a makeup bag, a cigarette case, a coin purse,
a key caddy.
Lorraine pointed out that Mom didn’t smoke.
Nor did she wear anything but rouge (blush) and
lipstick and never took them with her. I insisted
that it didn’t matter because she could put any-
thing in the cigarette case, and maybe she would
carry makeup with her if she had something to put
it in.
Lorraine rolled her eyes and called me Two
Ton Tony Galento. I’m not sure who he was — a
boxer or a wrestler at the time — but apparently
a large man. Lorraine was 17 and willowy, and I
was 8 and built like one of those balloons you can
knock down and it comes back up again because
it’s full of air.
My father interceded before we came to blows
and bought the matching purse accessories. Lor-
raine’s usual response to my victories was, “You
get everything!” My mother loved the sweater and
the matching stuff. She put gum in the cigarette
case and her lipstick rattled around alone in the
makeup bag.
Courtesy Muriel Jensen
Among the many presents we received were a
ukulele for Lorraine and a toy piano for me. Most
of my gift tags said, “Merry Christmas and Happy
Birthday” because my birthday is Jan. 1. But just as
I’m never disappointed Christmas morning when
my presents are already opened, it never occurred to
me that I’d get twice as many gifts if I’d been born
on a different day. New Year’s Day always seemed
so special with crowds gathered in Times Square and
friends partying together everywhere that I always
felt a part of the celebration. I wouldn’t have traded
my birthday for anything.
Anyway, in a rare effort to work together, Lor-
raine and I teamed up to play something written for
the ukulele and laughed together over a noisy if not
great performance. For the first time that I could
remember, I really liked her, and that sharpened my
concern over losing her to the convent. Our musical
careers were shortened, though, when both instru-
ments inexplicably disappeared. Neither parent
claimed to have seen them or know what had hap-
pened to them. It took me a long time to catch on
to the exaggerated innocence on my mother’s face.
Wonderful aromas filled our apartment for
weeks. Mom prepared tourtiere and gorton, French
Canadian specialties and Linquica, a delicious Por-
tuguese sausage my father loved, was available for
sandwiches, crumbled in the turkey stuffing, folded
into Christmas morning omelets.
The partying lasted through the week between
Christmas and New Year’s and my birthday party.
All my friends came, my mother made tinfoil party
hats for everyone with colorful streamers wrapped
around the top and hanging down our backs — a
princess affectation I particularly loved — and we
played games. I was in pig heaven. The only thing
lacking was the snow I’d been praying for since
before Christmas. But even at 8, I realized that no
one was supposed to have everything, that nothing
was ever really perfect.
My mother predicted that it would snow before
the day was out, but when we stood downstairs on
the stoop to wave everyone off at the end of the party,
the sky was leaden but kept everything it held to
itself. Lorraine went on to a friend’s party after din-
ner, the house was suddenly very quiet. I lay alone in
my room in the dark and pondered my future. Back
to school, more multiplication tables — that seemed
to be all third grade was about — no piano for mak-
ing music, and soon there’d be no Lorraine.
‘It’s snowing’
It had been a great birthday, though, I admit-
ted grudgingly to myself. I’d gotten a few coloring
books and the big 48-colors box of Crayolas. (Any-
thing smaller and the box didn’t include the color
“Flesh,” which made it hard to do faces and hands.)
I received two sets of twin dolls the manufacturer
had already named for me. The box said the boys
were called Pete and Repeat, and the girls, Joyce
and Rejoyce. I thought that was hilarious.
So I finally drifted off to sleep, still worried
about how I would adjust to life without my sister,
but also basking in the joy of the afternoon.
I was shaken awake about midnight and found
my mother leaning over me, my coat in one hand,
my boots in the other. “Get dressed,” she whis-
pered. “It’s snowing.”
I didn’t ask questions, but pulled on my clothes,
grabbed a hat and followed my mother out the
apartment door. She carried my sled and put a fin-
ger to her lips for silence as we left my father and
my sister sleeping.
My mother pulled me on the sled just once
around the block. It probably didn’t take ten min-
utes, but I will never forget them. I remember the
night being absolutely quiet, falling snow drift-
ing by the old yellow-globed streetlights, snow
collected on tree limbs, windowsills, rooftops,
parked cars. The air smelled of snow and what
A young Muriel Jensen
Courtesy Muriel Jensen
Muriel Jensen’s older sister, Lorraine
See CHRISTMAS, Page 2C
Thinkstockphotos.com
THE DAILY ASTORIAN • FRIDAY, DEC. 29, 2017 • 1C