The First Christmas Of The War
“My God, I have so much to do today!” was, like on most other mornings, Irene Coleman’s first thought of the day as she reached to shut off the alarm bell. Cooking breakfast, dusting, and cleaning, the laundry, shopping at the corner market and the butcher shop and the bakery...the list of tasks always seemed endless, and Irene––a natural worrier anyway––fretted as her mind shuffled and reshuffled the list. Even though she allowed herself an extra half hour of sleep on Saturdays––the 6:00 A.M. alarm gave her almost six hours in bed, in contrast to her 5:30 A.M. rising time on weekdays and Sundays––she already felt exhausted as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and her feet fished on the chilled oak plank floor for her slippers. Throughout this last night, like many other nights, her dreams had been dominated by the same chores and responsibilities that filled her days, making Irene feel that her life was one endless series of 24-hour work cycles without pause. No rest for the weary, Irene thought to herself as she grabbed her threadbare bathrobe from the back of the bedroom door. Maybe Gerald will buy me a new bathrobe for Christmas this year, she thought, looking back to the bed through the darkness at the outline of her still sleeping husband; I certainly could use one, the faded one she was now draped over her nightgown having seen more than a decade’s service.
After a brief stop in the chilly bathroom, Irene headed down the stairs to the kitchen, flicking on the ceiling light and silently grousing about the darkness at this time of year. At the first signs of daylight an hour from now she would shut off the overhead light––no sense in wasting electricity and, more importantly, money––and get by for the rest of the day on whatever natural light God saw fit to bestow on Pittsburgh that day. Last night’s weather forecast for today had indicated overcast skies with a threat of snow throughout the day, so Irene knew that bright streaming daylight wasn’t in the picture for this morning, or later in the day as she made her way around the neighborhood. Tomorrow was Sunday, so today she needed to visit the market, the bakery, and the butcher since all of those places would be closed tomorrow.
Irene would be bundled up against the cold, but some bright daylight as she made her rounds would certainly be welcome; maybe the forecast would be wrong. Even as she began grinding the coffee beans her mind continued to whirl, arranging and rearranging the sequence of what needed to be done this day. The bakery last instead of first, she now thought, and then maybe the butcher with the market last. Or maybe do the shopping in the morning and the housework in the afternoon, rather than the reverse order she now had planned.
Deep inside the recesses of her mind, Irene Coleman knew that part of the reason she spent so much time lately worrying about her tasks and chores day and night was that doing so kept her mind off of what really worried her...what she really feared. But as she crossed through the living room and opened the front door to retrieve the newspaper and the milkman’s delivery, the headline on the morning’s Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, sitting squarely face-up on the welcome mat right in front of the door brought those fears front and center.
Japs Continue to Move on Philippines Land on Mindanao; Yanks Flee to Hills Jap Naval Guns Cut Down Filipino Defenses,
All in all, Irene Coleman would much rather fret over the drudgery of chores and housework than fear for the safety of her two sons who would soon be thrust into combat in either the Pacific or Europe, most likely followed by their younger brother several years later when he came of age...assuming America could hold on in the war that long.
She forced her eyes away from the newspaper’s ominous headline, looking instead towards the tin milk box. She opened the box and pulled out the contents that had been delivered about a half hour earlier: the daily delivery of milk and cream––daily except for Sunday, of course––and the twice-weekly delivery of cheese and butter that came on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Picking up the butter, she again wondered if the rumors were true, that butter would soon be in very short supply as a result of government-imposed food rationing. Irene had never tasted oleomargarine––even though during the Great War oleo had gained popularity amidst shortages of dairy products––but the few people she knew who had actually tried it was unanimous in their intense dislike for oleo, pronouncing the substance as far inferior to real dairy butter.
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