Editor's Note: This story was originally published in the December 1, 2010 issue of This Land.
Christmas 1987 was our first Christmas in the new house. The new house is still the new house, even though my parents have lived in it now for 24 years, and we only lived in the old house for five. It is right around the corner from our old elementary school. The neighborhood used to be full of children, but now it’s pretty quiet. Everyone still puts up Christmas lights, though.
Christmas 1987 was the year of Tulsa’s big ice storm, the biggest until 2007. It didn’t happen until late Christmas night, because I remember thinking, “It’s just ice and not snow, and it didn’t happen Christmas Eve, so it’s not really a white Christmas.” At ten years old, a white Christmas was something I wanted very badly and had only experienced once, in Chicago.
Christmas 1987 was the last Christmas I asked for actual toys, not novels or new clothes or a Nintendo. At ten years old, I was too old to ask for a doll, and I knew it, but I really wanted that doll. I picked her out of the Sears catalog sometime after Thanksgiving. She was one of a set of five, and I’d spent hours agonizing over which doll really represented who I was as a person. Did I like to paint or did I like to shop? I chose the one with the beret and leather jacket. Her name was Elke, and she had hair the color of honey. I know this because I was transfixed by this doll, and carried it around all day asking my parents questions about it no one could answer, like “What do you think Elke’s favorite food is?” I very clearly remember saying, “Dad, what color would you call Elke’s hair?” and my father looking up from his book and saying, “Honey-colored.” I cannot remember how to multiply fractions, but I remember this perfectly. When friends from school came over, I hid Elke and pretended I liked Madonna a lot more than I did.