THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS

CAMERON CRUISE, author of THE COLLECTOR

THE SECOND DAY OF CHRISTMAS

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me… an invitation to blog! A heartfelt thanks to Stella Cameron—I have been a fan for years—for reading the manuscript for THE COLLECTOR and giving a new voice in the paranormal thriller genre a listen … and, of course, for allowing me this introduction to her readers.

I must confess that every Christmas my parents pulled out all the stops. My sister and I would wake up on Christmas morning and the presents would be lined up like the aisles at FAO Schwartz. Well, actually, I was born in Cuba, so we didn’t receive gifts on Christmas day, but rather on January 6, the Feast of the Epiphany. The presents came from the Three Kings, not Santa Clause, and we left out a shoe at the hearth instead of a stocking!

At the time, I took my good fortune for granted, but I have since come to understand my mother was trying to make up for all the things she’d missed as a child. My grandfather died when she was only nine and my grandmother and her two daughters were forced to move in with relatives. It wasn’t quite Cinderella and her stepsisters, but times were tough.

Since then, my mother has been an overachiever in all things, including Christmas. But the Christmas that I remember most had nothing to do with toy-store opulence. In 1965, after four years waiting, my parents were granted permission to leave Cuba by the government. Under Castro’s dictatorship, everything we owned, including my mother’s wedding ring, belonged to the State and must be left behind. The four of us were allowed to leave only with one suitcase and the clothes on our backs (three layers for my sister and myself as well as a coat … seriously, we looked like two little Michelin men). At the time, there were no direct flights to the United States and we flew to Madrid, Spain.

My parents hit the pavement looking for work; they desperately needed money to pay for our flight to the United States, where friends and their church had sponsored my family. My mother tells me that her feet hurt so much from wearing her high heels that my father sawed them off! We lived in a pension, a boarding house, and my eight-year-old sister took care of me, with the owner of the boarding house looking in on us at lunch.

We arrived in Spain at the end of November with Christmas just around the corner. I was introduced to Santa Claus in an event set up for the poor. My sister and I stood in a very long line, waiting for our turn to sit on Santa’s lap. I received a doll—what I was told would be my only present that Christmas.

Still have the doll! Hey, symbols are important.

Only, the story doesn’t end there. Apparently, my parents decided that their two children had been traumatized enough. They didn’t want that one symbol of happiness—Christmas—to change, like so much had changed in our young lives since the Cuban revolution. That night, my parents went out and spent every penny they had on gifts they couldn’t afford. I think of that now, my sensible parents throwing caution to the wind, and I am simply amazed. But I realize the big gestures sometimes go a long way.

My sister and I woke up to another FAO Schwartz extravaganza. To this day, I can almost remember every present I received, silly things like fake nails, plastic jewelry, and dress-up clothes. Nothing expensive, but to my sister and me it was like a dream come true.

Every year, I give presents to children. I like the personal angle: adopt a family or a child. It makes me remember my Christmas in Spain. Not everybody gets to experience Christmas through the generosity of others and then pass it forward. Funny, how it’s not about a PS3 or Skinny Jeans. It can be about fake plastic nails and cheap crayons. I try very hard to remember that.

Well, now that you’ve seen my sentimental side, I hope you can enjoy my murder and mayhem. Adventure is in my blood, after all!

Merry Christmas to all!

Cameron