CHRISTMAS VIGNETTES: Christmas at Thraves Jewelers

NOTE: I know this is late, but consider it a jump on next year.

There’s no Christmas like a small town Christmas. A sparkling Harrod’s in London or skaters at Rockefeller Center in New York are wonderful, but for warmth and comforting tradition, you just can’t beat small town America. That’s why I love spending Christmas Eve helping out down at my brother Bill’s jewelry store in Seneca, South Carolina, which he has owned for some 35 years. Every year that I’ve been stateside during those years, I’ve been there wrapping gifts, answering the phone, making bank runs, and helping host the annual drop-in that Bill and his wife, Phyllis, hold for customers and friends in the store’s stock room. Since radical change has been the only predictable feature of my life, it’s become a wonderful tradition for me to come to the jewelry store on Christmas Eve, where the ritual and cast of characters never change. Here is how it goes every year.

By the time the doors open for business at 10:00 a.m., Bill has already carved the huge ham that he has cooked overnight at home and has set up the well-stocked bar in his personal office. Phyllis has set up the rest of the party food around the sales floor and stock room. Then she cleans the bathroom on her hands and knees, in spite of beautiful clothes and perfectly manicured nails, while grousing that no one ever remembers to take out the trash. Finally, she sneaks out to the Booksmith, a few doors down, and grabs a cup of White Christmas coffee and a few last-minute gifts before diving into the day’s sales rush, where she really shines. Janie, the store manager, is always there on Christmas Eve, even though she could probably beg off due to seniority. She’s been with the store since the beginning 35 years ago, and says she’ll stay as long as Bill does. She’s practically a member of the family.

Once the doors open, a cheerful chaos rules for the rest of the day. The aroma of sausage dip wafts through the store from a crock pot and canned Christmas music mixes with the constant electronic “ding-dong, ding-dong” that announces incoming customers. Last-minute shoppers come in waves. I’m the main gift wrapper, but the purchasing rush often finds several of us stumbling over each other for bows, paper and scotch tape while trying not to mix up the gifts. (After all, it would be a disaster if Mr. Smith's wife got Mrs. Jones' sterling earrings instead of the two-carat diamond ring he bought for her!) While rapid wrapping, ringing up of purchases, and chat with garrulous customers is going on, gazillions of kids, grandkids, nieces and nephews are running back and forth through the small swinging door between the work area and the sales floor. In the back, older relatives and friends are noshing on ham and homemade fudge amongst stacks of UPS supplies, bow making machines and tall shelves covered with every conceivable size jewelry gift box. They chat with Adam, the jeweler, who is working diligently at his bench to finish work promised by Christmas, and who is no doubt grateful to be removed from the fray up front. Pretty much anything goes at the store on Christmas Eve; however, neither all this confusion, nor having the public in his, well, less-than-elegant stockroom seems to bother Bill in the least. This is a man with more patience than Job and a heart as big as Texas.

Later, neighboring merchants steal away from their own shops during a lull to have a ham sandwich, offer Christmas greetings, and drop off gifts for Bill and Phyllis. Fellow Rotarians, wine-tasting club and sailing club friends, tennis and golf buddies, neighbors, everyone comes by. Tom, Bill’s jovial roommate from their bachelor days, always drives the 30 miles over from Easley and hangs out for hours in the stock room, availing himself of the bar and chatting up everyone. Janie’s husband, Jerry, saunters in about mid-afternoon for a drink, and everyone's out-of-town relatives start arriving. Phyllis's mother, Ruth, has become a traditional fixture on Christmas Eve as well, perched on the old sofa in the back, greeting visitors.

Finally, like clockwork, every year around 30 minutes before closing at 6:00 p.m., Fred (name has been changed to protect the guilty), usually in shorts and flip flops regardless of the weather and looking like he just got off a plane from Key West, comes in to buy a big ticket item for his wife. Major acquisition or not, he shops like a man--no agonizing, snap decision. He’s generally walking out the door with his attractively gift wrapped selection right at closing time. Then the front door is quickly locked and everyone utters a sigh of relief at the end of a pleasant, but tiring day. The staff pitches in to complete the day’s end routine quickly and they all rush out the door to their own families after final hugs, all yelling, “Merry Christmas!”

It’s not over yet for Bill and Phyllis, however. This is when they do their own Christmas shopping and wrapping in the store before heading off to the first of the various family celebrations. They are inevitably and invariably late for this first event. No one minds, though, especially the ladies, because they all know that Bill and Phyllis are selecting and wrapping their gifts of jewelry. Who would argue with that? Many of them have stopped by during the day to drop hints with me or the staff, or to be casually queried by Bill or Phyllis, “See anything you like?”

Finally, around 8:30 p.m., weary and with aching feet and backs, gifts and food loaded into the car, Bill, Phyllis and I lock up and head to the first Christmas event. Of course, Bill forgets someone's gift and has to come back. But that’s just part of the tradition of our small town Christmas.