The holidays conjure up different images for different people, and they’re not always heartwarming! Some of the NFH staff wanted to share some of their stories of Christmas’ past.An abundantly white ChristmasBy Kathy Hare’Tis the night before Christmas and all through the house, the kids’ teeth are chattering as the snow swirls about. OK, so it wasn’t poetry I was spouting during the Christmas Blizzard of 1983.The problem actually started earlier that summer when a BB hit my bedroom storm window. “I swear mom, I didn’t do it on purpose,” my 14-year-old son assured me. “Yea, right,” I replied before starting my full-fledged mom tirade.It was just a tiny little hole that hadn’t even pierced the main window; we would get around to replacing it soon. But homeowners know “soon” can extend into weeks, months, or years. However, there is a thing called physics; it waits for no one and it has no respect for the holidays.We started off Christmas Eve thinking how lucky we were to be home safe and sound. Outside, the wind was howling and white-out conditions made driving impossible. The Falcon Fire Department radio squawked every few minutes. Commuters stranded on roads throughout eastern El Paso County hunkered down in their vehicles waiting to be rescued. But by 8 p.m., conditions had deteriorated, making rescue impossible.An hour later, our peaceful evening was disrupted by the sound of breaking glass slammed against a wall. We ran to the bedroom, only to discover what happens when a 70-mph wind hits a pin-sized hole in a window. It wasn’t a pretty sight! The entire window frame was gone and blowing snow was pouring into the bedroom. “Grab the mattress,” my husband Mike yelled. We propped the mattress against the wall and moved a dresser in front to keep it in place. “I’ll go out to the shed and get some lumber,” Mike said.The shed is a mere 50 feet away from the house, yet the intensity of the storm made reaching it impossible. Up until this point, the entire evening had been a great adventure for my three children, but like all kids they knew where their parents hid the Christmas presents.For the rest of the evening, three long faces peered out the windows.”I can see it,” my daughter yelled.”No you can’t,” son Patrick said.”This is all your fault,” they both shouted at their older brother.”Go to bed,” I ordered, while gathering padding for two sleeping spots on the living room floor.On Christmas morning the storm had abated. We opened the bedroom door a crack and then shut it quickly. It was too early to face that mess. Grabbing two snow shovels, we dug a path to the shed and gathered up the presents. Christmas was saved!”Well this is certainly the whitest Christmas ever,” I said.”Yes, especially if you count that floor-to-ceiling drift in our bedroom,” Mike grumbled.”Merry Christmas to all, and to all a safe night!”Worst Christmas everBy Alicia LittlejohnThe day after Thanksgiving 1986 was the start of a new life for me, my husband Casey and our 10-month-old daughter Chelsea. My husband’s job required a move from our home in upstate New York to Boulder, Colo. We had purchased a home in Longmont, Colo., prior to the move, but our closing wasn’t scheduled until New Years Eve. Until then, we rented a small, one bedroom furnished apartment.Casey had to begin work immediately, so I was alone all day with a baby and didn’t know a single soul. We didn’t have a telephone (computers and cell phones weren’t available yet) and nothing was in walking distance, so I didn’t leave our tiny place often. We decided not to put up a Christmas tree or decorate, as all our possessions were in storage. Instead, we would drive to Vail and spend Christmas day walking through the town and stopping at phone booths to call family and friends in New York.By Christmas Eve, I was so depressed and homesick that my husband insisted we buy a tree and a few decorations. We finally found a tree lot still open with one 6-foot tree left. The tree had to be the ugliest one I’d ever seen, but we bought it anyway. Our next stop was Walgreen’s (open 24 hours), where we bought a tree stand, one string of lights, construction paper and glue to make decorations and a “baby’s first Christmas” tree ornament. Casey and I worked for hours cutting out paper ornaments and making a paper chain to wrap around the tree. I wanted our daughter’s first Christmas to be special, even if she wouldn’t remember it.On Christmas morning Chelsea woke up extra early (it must be genetic). She stared at the tree and loved the lights. We sat her under the tree amongst the pretty packages sent by family so I could take pictures.I was looking through my camera’s view finder and Casey was standing behind me trying to get Chelsea to smile, when suddenly the tree flipped over right on top of our baby! I screamed, Casey grabbed the tree and threw it backwards as I reached for our screaming child. Luckily, other than a couple of scratches, she wasn’t hurt, but our one and only ornament was broken. We left the whole mess right where it was and drove in a snowstorm to Vail, vowing that we’d never move over the holidays again.Footnote: Exactly 10 years later we moved to Colorado Springs.Too many for ChristmasBy Deb StumpfMore than 20 years ago after my husband and I moved back to Colorado from a four-year stay in San Diego, we decided we were changing the way we celebrated Christmas. In the past, we traveled from house to house on Christmas Day, sometimes sliding on icy, snowy streets. At each of our parents’ homes, we consumed massive quantities of food, gave and received lovely presents and would apologetically run out each door to make it to the next house in time to stir the gravy and throw the bird on the table. Enough was enough!I decided to invite everyone to our home on this Christmas day – my family, stepfamily and husband’s family. At the time, our home in Arvada, Colo., had a large family room that included an add-on, which gave it a divided feeling. Can you tell where I’m heading? One brother-in-law of mine decided that at present-opening time, he would corral the Stumpf family on one side of the room. It appeared as if he was herding cats, but he eventually managed to get them all in one section of the room. There I stood in the middle wondering which family I belonged to.Somehow we got through that day. I bet you think I’m going to say that we never did it again, right? Wrong! We did it every year thereafter and still do. Now, our families, extended families and even a few friends can’t imagine not spending Christmas day together at our house. In fact, we spend every holiday together and wouldn’t have it any other way.A Christmas train tripBy Kathleen WallaceIn 1987, my husband and I were living in Northern California and decided to spend Christmas with his family in Virginia. We had flown to the East Coast enough times that we were tired of flying. We decided to take the train.We looked at glossy brochures showing roomy compartments with crystal-clear windows and snow-capped mountains soaring in the distance. We booked tickets, going whole hog with a sleeper compartment and a private bathroom that included a toilet, sink and shower.On a cool December morning, my father dropped us and several pieces of baggage at the train depot in Oakland, Calif. We had, of course, over-packed.The porter pointed to our double-decker rail car. We thought he might help us with our bags. We waited awkwardly.Finally, my husband grabbed some bags and climbed the narrow spiral staircase to our car’s top deck. I followed him with a huge suitcase that quickly became wedged in the staircase. Surely the porter would help now. Au contraire.After a couple of minutes trying to shove the bag up the steps, my husband rescued me and the bag.We settled into a compartment less roomy than shown in the glossy brochure, and we waited for departure.Several hours later, the train finally headed out. Now, we worried about missing our connection in Chicago to Washington, D.C, and our connection to Richmond, Va. We hoped the time would be made up.The train slowly ascended the Sierra Nevada Mountains. We tried to enjoy the scenery, but the windows were pitted and smeared with soot. No soaring vistas for us!Near Reno, the compartment became unbearably hot in spite of adjusting the temperature control. We tried opening the windows, but they were sealed shut. We told the porter the temperature control was not working and got little more than a shrug.The heat continued all the way to Chicago. We cooled down by standing in the breezeway between cars as often as possible.Somewhere past Reno, the teeny tiny private bathroom, which we had only used once, broke. There was no water; therefore, no shower, no washing and no flushing. The porter hinted that it might start working, but it remained unusable all the way to Chicago. We used the facilities in another car. No matter! We needed to cool down anyway.As first-class passengers, meals were included with our tickets. We had vouchers for two breakfasts, two lunches and two dinners. Lunch was a disappointing ham and cheese on white bread, but with high hopes we headed to the dining car for our first dinner.My husband ordered a steak. When it arrived cold, he asked the waitress if she would heat it up. “I could,” she said and walked away, leaving the steak behind.Throughout the day, the train traveled slowly – about 20 mph, probably to give the passengers an extra good look through the dirty windows at the miles of junkyards next to the tracks.Sometimes, we would stop on a siding for hours, waiting for a freight train to pass. Freight trains, we learned, had higher priority than passenger trains.At night, when we tried to sleep in our tiny berths, the train went faster – the swaying started. We were on the top deck and at 60 mph, the train swayed like a metronome, keeping us awake all night.By the time we crossed the Mississippi River, we were more than eight hours behind schedule. We hoped we would miss our connection in Chicago because we planned to cash in the remainder of our tickets and fly to Virginia.To our dismay, the connecting train to Washington, D.C. was waiting for us. We reluctantly climbed aboard, and the train eased its way out of the rail yard as night fell.In contrast with the “modern” train that dragged us to Chicago, this train had European-style rail cars with lots of fresh air. The cars had only one deck, so there was no extreme swaying. Dinner was edible. “This is better,” we said.We settled into our new car looking forward to a full night’s sleep. Sometime around 2 a.m. we were awakened by the sound of boots stomping up and down the corridor. The train was no longer moving, having stopped in a snowy field near Canton, Ohio.We learned the hose that distributes heat from the engine to the passenger cars was broken and could not be repaired. We were to wait for another train to take us to Philadelphia. By this time, we and other passengers were mutinous. We talked about fleeing the train, renting a car and driving to Virginia; but there was no town in sight, and the temperature was bitterly cold.Early in the morning, the Philadelphia train slithered alongside our train. We were told to leave our luggage behind and board the new train. Porters positioned themselves to prevent us from doing anything other than that. After the boot stomping all morning, it felt like Nazi Germany.We boarded the new train against our will and sat in the club car, doubled-up with the grumpy-looking passengers.We arrived in Philadelphia early that afternoon and sat in the depot for several hours waiting for our luggage. Sometime during the wait, we heard they planned to bus us to Washington D.C.That did it! When our bags arrived, we grabbed them and hailed a taxi to the airport, where we booked an immediate flight to Norfolk, Va. Except for two weeks of nonstop ribbing from my husband’s family, our Christmas train trip was finally over.Mmmmm…do I smell turkey?By Michelle BarretteMy favorite holiday mishap memory is my parents’ story, which is told year after year during the holidays. It gets better each time it’s told!’ Twas the night before Christmas, and my parents decided to put their new oven to the test. They put the Christmas turkey in the oven and set the “time-bake” feature so the oven would automatically click on Christmas morning. “Wow, this is going to be great,” my dad was heard saying. “We don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to start the oven,” my mom declared.After a night of sugar plums dancing in their heads, my parents woke up to the smell of their turkey cooking. “Mmmmm, doesn’t that smell great?” they both agreed. The new oven was a great investment!After everyone in the house had gathered around the Christmas tree to exchange gifts, my dad stepped into the kitchen to check the turkey. Imagine his surprise when he discovered that the oven hadn’t clicked on and the turkey was one cold bird sitting in the oven. The time-baked feature on the new oven hadn’t worked.My parents’ imagination was really working overtime when they smelled that turkey baking earlier in the morning. We still had turkey, but dinner was served much later than planned!A red ChristmasBy Stefani WiestFor our first Christmas as a married couple, my husband and I were excited to buy our first tree together. When we got the tree to the apartment we realized a few of the bottom branches would have to be cut off so it could fit into the stand. Well, being newlyweds and new at the whole tree thing, we did not have the appropriate tools to saw off the branches. Anxious to set up the tree, we decided the next best tool was a large kitchen knife. As I sawed a branch, the kitchen knife slipped and cut my index finger. I almost passed out from seeing the blood squirt out of my finger. In hindsight, I should have gotten stitches, but I do still have a scar, which is a reminder that if it sounds like a dumb idea, it probably is a dumb idea.
