There were always candy canes in our stockings on Christmas morning. The tradition was we would see what Santa brought us, open any wrapped packages, then turn to our stockings.
Handmade by Grandma, they hung on the mantle above the gas heater sitting where a fireplace once stood. My sister and I would pull our candy canes out, peel back the plastic wrapper, put one end in our mouths, and enjoy the peppermint sweetness as we emptied our stockings. We continued sucking on them as we played with our new toys. Later, we crunched the last bits as we helped pick up discarded wrapping paper and bows with our sticky fingers.
Santa put them there, Momma told us, saying he filled our stockings when he put gifts under the tree. We grew older and learned who was responsible for all that, but the tradition continued.
Every Christmas morning, a candy cane was in our stockings.
My sister and I grew up and left home. We married and had children, events that added more stockings to the mantle. Momma and Daddy moved from the house we grew up in to a new one. This house had a gas log fireplace topped by a mantle, one large enough to accommodate all the stockings for the expanded family.
One year Momma called my sister and me aside, lines of frustration on her forehead.
“I can’t find the candy canes anywhere and we are opening gifts tomorrow morning.”
“We can help you look,” I said.
“I’ve checked everywhere I can think of. I thought I bought them, but maybe I didn’t.” She paused. “We can’t let the grandkids down.”
My sister and I looked at each other. It was after dark and growing colder by the minute. Momma had many hiding places, and if we both searched, we might find the candy canes and avoid dealing with a crowded parking lot and store. If we couldn’t find them, we would have to go out, and the longer we waited, the worse it would be.
“Don’t worry, we’ll go get more,” my sister said.
I threw on my coat and scarf. “We’ll be back soon. Keep the kids busy so they don’t ask too many questions.”
The parking lot was worse than we feared. Cars circled, waiting to follow any shopper who left the store and grab their space.
“Go in and get them,” my sister said. “I’ll drive around until you come out. If I find a parking place, I’ll text you.”
Dreading the crush of people, I headed in. Wondering what we would do if they had sold out, I pushed through the crowds until I found them. I grabbed what we needed, then joined the long line at the register.
At last, I exited, candy canes in hand, out into the fresh, cold air. I stood there looking for my sister when she drove up.
“This place is crazy,” she said. “It took forever to circle around.”
“At least we got the candy canes,” I said, holding up the shopping bag. “Now we can get out of here.”
Back at the house, I handed them to Momma. “Mission accomplished.”
“Thank you both for going.” She looked in the bag and sighed.
“It just isn’t Christmas without candy canes in the stockings.”
The next morning, we opened gifts, then handed out the stockings, each one with a candy cane hanging from the top. My sister and I looked at each other and smiled. We had saved the tradition that year.
