Finally in the Christmas Club
By: Stacey Curran
Tags: Holidays 2020, Mothers And Daughters, Family, Christmas, Saving Money

Finally in the Christmas Club

Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash

On the first of November, I noticed that the meager balance in my checking account had jumped substantially. For a second, I nearly forgot how it got there, exactly like I’d been told I would years ago.

Last February, I did an old-fashioned thing. I set up a Christmas Club savings account. Admittedly, it was likely part of the long process of grieving my mother. But it felt more like a tribute. She’d encouraged it decades before, but I’d never done it as an adult. She used to repeat that I’d barely miss the money, and might even forget I’d set it aside, until I got a check in the mail with my savings.

I am not a saver. I never have been. But my grandmother and mother tried to make me one. I remember walking into the store with my grandmother monthly, her clutching her credit card bill, which she paid in person. We would walk up to a counter I couldn’t see over, and she would hand the clerk some cash, receiving a paper acknowledgment in exchange. The transaction didn’t make sense to me. I’d ask why she was giving them money and getting nothing. She’d try to explain credit, but all I understood was that she was paying for something she’d already bought. She’d tell me to save up to buy things whenever I could instead.

Bill day was never shopping day. Those didn’t go together for some reason. We’d browse the racks briefly once she got her receipt, and we’d leave. Maybe she divided those occasions into business and pleasure? We had fun shopping. Paying bills was an errand. There was a distinct difference, obvious to me at a very young age.

But I could tell Christmas Club money was fun money. I could see that it was unencumbered shopping day money, not bill day money. They got very excited about it. As a committed child eavesdropper, I would try to piece together the details of this seemingly magical influx of cash. I naturally assumed that Santa Claus was providing it. I couldn’t quite understand why a guy with his own toy factory would also give out money, but I figured there was some correlation. I already whole-heartedly believed he had flying reindeer, so Santa money wasn’t an intellectual leap. Why else would it be called a Christmas Club? But I also noticed adults did a lot of spelling and mouthing of words to each other at that time of year, and they weren’t doing that when Christmas Club money came up. So finally, I asked.

The reality of the Christmas Club did not align with my imaginary one. My mother explained that each week, she put money in her Christmas Club account and she was not allowed to take it out for any reason before it was time to go Christmas shopping. This did not at all match with my story. How was Santa involved? Not one imbued with patience, my mother asked my grandmother to explain. I think she appreciated the fictional version I’d crafted, so my grandmother gently told me it was like any savings account, but instead of saving for the future, you saved for Christmas. Although I heard her explanation, it was too logical for me. I was so invested in my North Pole narrative, that they ended up telling me I could have my own Christmas Club just to shatter the myth I created.

Initially, this was quite exciting to me. Then I asked how I’d get money to deposit into my Christmas Club. I only got birthday money once a year and I had no income as an eight year old. So, for hours, we’d roll the coins my parents tossed in a jar. When we finished, my mother would give me a handful of finished rolls to deposit. I’d transport them to the bank in a flimsy white straw pocketbook that was part of my Easter outfit. It seemed the right handbag for the job. I distinctly recall passing the paper covered coins, the heft of which I found reliable, into the plastic cylinder that was sucked up by the invisible power of the vacuum device in the drive-up teller lane. I would fret, sure that the weight of the coins I’d just surrendered would somehow break the suction and my treasure would be lost in the underground tunnel forever. When none of that happened, and the plastic silo shot back into its cradle, my mother would hand me my deposit slip and my savings book. This was disappointing. I preferred to hold the rolled coins than that paper signifying that the bank was now holding them for me. It seemed an unfair trade-off, like when my grandmother gave cash to pay bills, and got only a receipt in return.

I recall quickly losing enthusiasm for the whole process and abandoning the Christmas Club by early summer. Christmas felt too far away and rolling coins got boring. I used to question why their sizes weren’t aligned with their value and why pennies smelled funny, and lose track of my count. Repeatedly, I’d have to pour the whole roll out and start again. You had to be quiet and intent to be accurate, and I remain incapable of that still.

But there was magic coming anyway. That November, my mother handed me cash, explaining that my Christmas Club was closed. At first, I was concerned that the bank was mad and closed it, because I stopped putting in money. But she explained that everyone’s was closed in November, no matter how much they’d saved. Relieved that the bank people who dispensed lollipops, and knew that purple was my favorite, were not holding a grudge against me, I looked at the bills in my hand. I had $70. I was rich.

I placed the money into the white straw pocketbook. But I had already learned that white wasn’t allowed after September, and I followed rules. Plus, I had real money, so I needed a real bag. I stuck it into one of the pinchy slashed coin pockets, but deemed it too unserious and unsecure for my bounty.

I asked my mother for a pocketbook to store it in. She loaned me a comically oversized bag that I then filled with things I thought adults put in their bags. It got so filled that I often panicked, as the items obscured my riches floundering in the bottom.

I wish I remembered what I finally bought with that money. I don’t. I do know there was a yearly Christmas shopping night at the mall with my father and I likely took it with me then. I do remember counting it over and over, and moving it from safe spot to safe spot in the bag.

Now 2020’s Christmas Club funds are safely in my account. I managed to save much more than $70 this year. Adjusted for inflation and the fact that I am a whole adult, it was still a small amount. But it feels big to me in a year filled with big things over which I had no control. This was deliberate. Every other week, as auto deposit put $50 into that account, it was somehow both business and pleasure. I barely noticed, but I saw the amount grow. It felt like my grandmother and mother would know if I withdrew it, or abandoned it come summer, so I kept it going. It felt as tangible as the weight of those coin-filled sleeves did back then, although it was all virtual money that I can never roll in my hands.

While I will shop alone at my computer this holiday season, it will be with money that feels almost gifted by them. For this year at least, I’ll allow myself to resume my childhood belief that Christmas Club money is magical.