A "Freebird" in a Christmas Tree

On the way home from a writers' holiday gathering last night, I heard the familiar opening strains of "Freebird" on the radio. That song always reminds me of the first Christmas I spent with my father after he got custody of me from my mother after the divorce. Moving in with him literally saved my life. I can only shudder to think what sort of bitter loser I would have been had I been trapped in that awful podunk with my mother and sister until graduation.

December was in full swing. Snow had fallen. Mercantile madness had cast a merry pall on all the shops in town. Middletown was bedecked in festive glory.

For some reason I could not fathom, my dad was down in the dumps. He got up one Saturday morning and decided to go visit his parents in Arcadia. He asked if I wanted to go along, but I said no. I had saved $30 and had a boyfriend with a car who would take me to the mall. I could buy records or makeup or clothes.

Something about the way Daddy shrugged his coat on and fished the keys out of his pocket made me take notice. Though his head was down, I could see the forlorn expression on his face. As soon as the door closed behind him, I ran to the window and watched him trudge to the car, get in, and drive away.

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