Christmas Through a Child's Eyes Read online

  And yes, a Skipper doll was under the tree for me, along with a new Trouble game and some more supplies for my makeshift school. I jumped for joy at the new supplies. Word had gotten out about the fun — snacks — we were having, and more neighbor kids expressed an interest in coming over during the Christmas break.

  As the last gift was unwrapped and each of us gathered our treasured piles to take to our rooms, Mom said, “Lets all head downstairs. Santa has left one last gift there.”

  We dashed down the steps two at a time. There was a sheet covering something large in the middle of the basement floor … in the middle of my schoolroom.

  “Connie,” Dad said. “You get to take the sheet off.”Me? Really?

  I had no idea what could be so big — bigger than a bike!

  “Hurry up!” my siblings squealed, thrilled there was one last large gift and hoping I'd share whatever it was. As I ripped the sheet off, it uncovered not one, not two, but three old-fashioned school desks! They each had a seat attached on the front. They were perfect!

  “They're not perfect; they're old and kind of beat-up,” Mom said, the corners of her mouth lifting into a knowing smile, “but we thought you could get some use out of them.”

  Finally, I could have a real school! I couldn't wait to call Cindy and tell her the good news!

  That was forty years ago, and I still have one of those desks. My mother and sister opted to keep the other two. The date “1913” is branded into one of the wrought-iron legs, and the hand-carved initials of childhood loves are still embedded in the wood. Recently, my husband suggested we sand the desktop down and stain it to make it look as good as new, but I declined the offer. God — who alone shared my dream — knows my desk will always look perfect to me.

  The Sweetness of Giving

  BY MEGAN (MOLLY) D. WILLOME

  As a child, I loved candy, but the only time I got any was on a holiday. And at my house, the only candy we ever had was homemade fudge. My family wasn't poor, but my mother didn't believe in wasting money. While her motto was “Why buy it if you can make it,” I secretly longed for store-bought, prepackaged treats.

  As the Christmas holiday drew near, my first grade teacher, Mrs. Cunningham, made an announcement: it was time to start thinking about the annual Christmas party. She concluded by saying that each child was to bring a small gift to exchange. My eyes widened. The Christmas party would be another chance to get genuine, grade-A candy! When Mom picked me up that day, I told her about the party. “Mrs. Cunningham said to bring something that doesn't cost too much,” I added.

  Mom smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “I have the perfect craft! We can make light switch covers. It's inexpensive, and will be a gift that no one else has.”

  My heart fell. “Can't we just buy something?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” Mom answered. “This will be more fun!”

  That afternoon, Mom made a sample light switch cover using red felt for a frame, green felt for a tree, and sequins for ornaments. I tried to follow her example, but the finished product looked like a preschooler had made it.

  On the day of the party, I watched each child place their gift on Mrs. Cunningham's desk. I held tightly to my homemade gift, hoping none of my friends would end up with it. As I watched, one boy slapped his present onto the teacher's desk and my heart leapt with joy — it was a LifeSavers Sweet Storybook! It was only decorated with a big bow, but that was the gift I wanted! It held eight rolls of LifeSavers, two each of Butter Rum, Pep O Mint, Crysto Mint, and Wild Cherry. My mouth watered as I joined the other children sitting in a circle on the reading rug.

  “Don't open these yet,” said Mrs. Cunningham as she passed one gift to each student. Every child in the room stared at a girl named Dana when Mrs. Cunningham passed the Life Savers Sweet Storybook to her.

  Once the gifts were distributed, Mrs. Cunningham explained that as she read The Night Before Christmas, each time she turned a page, we were to pass the gift we held in our lap to the next person. Whichever gift was in your hand when she ended the book became yours.

  I watched the candy move around the room, anxious for it to be in my lap. When I finally held it, I waited my turn to pass it on. But just then, Mrs. Cunningham read the final line in the book.

  “And to all a good night,” she said with a flourish and closed the book. I stared at the candy in my lap. I could hardly believe my luck!

  Fully aware that some children had received candy and others had received homemade gifts, our teacher instructed us to leave our gifts in the classroom before going outside for a long recess.

  I placed the candy on my desk and ran out the door. On the swings, I pumped my legs until I was going as high as I could. As I sailed back and forth, I thought about the LifeSavers Sweet Storybook. Which flavor should I try first? Should I eat them all at once or should I eat one a day and make them last?

  After a few minutes, Mrs. Cunningham opened the classroom door and motioned to me. “Molly, would you mind coming in? I'd like to talk to you.”

  The teacher had never summoned me before, and my initial thought was tragic: Is she going to take away my candy?

  Instead, Mrs. Cunningham smiled and patted me on the head. “You made a beautiful gift, Molly. Do you know who received it?”

  “No,” I answered as politely as I could.

  “Dana did,” said Mrs. Cunningham. She bent down so we were eye level. “Are you two friends?”

  I looked at the candy on my desk and shook my head. “She sits on the other side of the room.”

  Mrs. Cunningham smiled. “She thinks your gift is very pretty. But, you see, Dana's home has no light switches.” I turned to the teacher and scrunched up my face, trying to understand what that meant. Mrs. Cunningham smiled. “Dana's house is so old that it isn't wired for electricity, and electricity is expensive. Dana offered your gift to me. Would you like to have it back?”

  “You can keep it,” I whispered.

  Mrs. Cunningham smiled. “Thank you. I'll find something else in my desk for Dana. I usually have a few little things hidden away.” Mrs. Cunningham turned to her desk and began to search.

  I glanced out the window and spotted Dana playing by herself in one corner of the playground. How could a house not have electricity? How did the family turn on the lights? Then I had an awful thought. I glanced at the candy on my desk again. If they didn't have electricity, could they afford to have candy in their stockings?

  Without a second thought, I turned to Mrs. Cunningham.

  “Dana can have my gift,” I said quickly.

  My teacher looked up in surprise. “Are you sure?”I nodded.

  “Thank you,” she said, a smile lighting up her face. “You don't know how much this will mean to her.”

  When Mom arrived that afternoon to pick me up from school, Mrs. Cunningham took her aside. I watched nervously as they talked. After a few minutes, Mrs. Cunningham summoned me to join them. I walked slowly to the teacher's desk for the second time that day. When I got to the front of the classroom, Mrs. Cunningham opened the big drawer in her desk and handed me a Christmas tree ornament.

  I stared at it in wonder.

  “I'm sorry it isn't wrapped,” she said as I continued to stare.

  In my whole life, I had never received a store-bought ornament. Mom and I made all the Christmas decorations for our tree from scratch. Finally, with eyes glistening, I opened the box and pulled out a wooden girl on a swing.

  I felt Mom's arm slide around my shoulders. “She looks just like you!” she said. I nodded, hugging my mother's legs happily.

  The next morning, when I reached out to turn on the light in my bedroom, my fingers found the sample light switch cover Mom had made. I ran my fingers over the sequins. They were the same shape as LifeSavers. For a moment, I could almost taste the flavors: Butter Rum, Pep O Mint, Crysto Mint, and Wild Cherry. Then I thought of Dana tasting each flavor, perhaps for the first time, and I smiled.

  I could wait until
Christmas for candy — even if it was homemade!

  Santa's Messenger

  BY LYNN RUTH MILLER

  I was born at the end of the Depression, in a time when we treated strangers differently than we do today. In those days, people often knocked at our back door to ask for food and my mother always invited them inside for a hot bowl of soup or a sandwich. It was not that we were wealthy — no one had extra money in the early '30s — but we were quick to share what we had because we knew that one upset to our own budget and we, too, would not have enough to eat or a warm place to sleep.

  One man appeared at our door several times a week. He was very different from most of the vagrants that sat at my mother's table. He refused to take anything for nothing. “Let me sweep the walk for you, Missus,” he'd say, or, “Why don't you let me hang out those sheets for you today?”

  He was unshaven and wore drab, patched clothes, obviously salvaged from the dustbin. He used to keep a potato in his mouth, and when he smiled, you could see it through the spaces between his tobacco-stained teeth. He rolled the potato around in his mouth and tucked it behind his molars when he spoke. That was why everyone called him Potato Tom.

  Potato Tom seemed to enjoy the tasks my mother gave him and did them with great energy. As winter approached, his clothes got shabbier and he wore no gloves or scarf as protection from the relentless Ohio cold. His hands were spotted with reddened chilblains and as soon as he stood still, he shivered uncontrollably.

  “Would you like to borrow a coat, Tom?” Mama would ask. “You must be freezing. I have an old scarf we never wear. Let me give it to you.”

  He always smiled and shook his head. “I'm used to being outdoors, Missus,” he'd say. “But a hot bowl of something would sure feel good right about now.”

  Of all the people who came to our door, Tom was my favorite. I sat across from him at the table while he ate and listened to stories about places he'd been. “I remember one winter I spent in Floriday,” he said, fanning himself as he did so. “It was so hot there you never wore a coat and you couldn't be hungry — what with oranges and coconuts free for the picking.” He got a faraway look in his eye, as if remembering. Then he shook his head. “But then times got bad and I couldn't get work so I walked up north.”

  I looked at his torn shoes. The laces had disappeared long ago. He now secured his shoes to his feet with pieces of rope. “You walked all the way from Floriday?” I asked in awe. “Didn't your feet get tired?”

  He shook his head. “In this life, honey, you do what you have to do. Ain't that right, Missus?” he asked my mother.

  Mama's eyes looked very red and she sniffled like she had a cold. “I have some meatloaf from last night I could warm up for you, Tom,” she said. “How does that sound?”

  Tom was very polite when he ate, and even though I was only four years old, I knew his manners were a lot better than mine. He never dropped food all over his clothes the way I did and he never forgot to wipe his mouth with a napkin. I took his hand when he stood to leave and squeezed it, “Come back, Tom, and tell me about Floriday.”

  He glanced over my head at my mother and then he nodded. “Maybe later in the week, honey,” he said. “When your mama needs some windows washed.”

  I discovered a new truth about Santa Claus the year Tom came to our house. Even though we did not observe the religious ceremony of Christmas, I believed in the jolly benefactor with all my heart, and had long imaginary conversations with him weeks before the big day when my mother took me to LaSalle's to sit on Santa's lap. On that day, my mother dressed me in my very best snowsuit with little white flowers on the collar and a bonnet to match.

  “Santa will just love you!” she said as we ran to catch the streetcar downtown.

  As we walked through the slush and ice on the downtown streets, I noticed that every single corner had a Santa ringing his bell for people to contribute to the Salvation Army.

  “Why are there so many Santas walking around the street?”I asked suspiciously. “I thought only one Santa came down the chimney on Christmas night.”

  “They're Santa's helpers, Lynnie Ruth,” Mother explained. “He's very busy this time of year. He can't be everywhere in the world at once.”

  I frowned. “I thought he was magic.”

  “He is,” she answered. “Just look how many people he has scattered across the globe telling boys and girls that their wishes will come true!”

  “Does Santa tell all these helpers what to say?”

  She nodded. “He sends them messages from his heart.”

  When we entered the department store, I held my mother's hand and tried to be very quiet while we waited in line. When at last it was my turn, I ran up the steps and jumped on the bearded man's lap. But when I looked into his eyes, I saw truth.

  “You're not Santa!” I cried in surprise. “You're Potato Tom!”

  From behind that beard came the voice I had heard so many times at my mother's kitchen table. “Today, I am your very own Santa Claus, Lynnie Ruth,” he said. “Santa sent me down from the North Pole to tell you he knew what a very good girl you are and that he will bring you that Shirley Temple doll you want, and a little stove that really works.”

  Awestruck, I gazed up at him. “How did you know I wanted all that?”

  Tom's eyes twinkled just like the picture books said they would and his pillow-stuffed belly shook with laughter. “Why, Santa told me!” he said.

  Something about him looked different. I peered into his mouth and then realized why. “What happened to your potato?”

  He smiled. “I got so excited when I saw you standing in line that I swallowed it!”

  My mouth dropped open. “Then that's what I'll give you for Christmas! A brand new potato!” I said as I scrambled off his lap in order to give the next child a turn.

  As we walked away, I turned to my mother. “How did Tom get to be Santa's helper? Did he walk to the North Pole like he did from Floriday?”

  Mother shook her head. When she spoke, I could barely understand her words because she was afflicted with sudden congestion. “I guess he just looked up at the winter sky and asked God to help him help himself.”

  “You mean God told Santa Claus to hire Tom?” I asked.

  My mother shook her head, “No, Lynn Ruth,” she said. “God gave him nobility, and that's the most important qualification for the job.”

  The Adventures of Baby Jesus

  BY CHERYL K. PIERSON

  No one loved Baby Jesus like I did. He was my constant holiday companion. From the moment we took the nativity set from the box to decorate for Christmas, I carried Him with me.

  I couldn't just let Him lay in the cardboard manger unattended. The nativity was old, even older than I was. It was made of thick brown cardboard, as was the manger. A few pieces of straw were glued into it, but not nearly enough to make a good baby bed!

  I thought of Baby Jesus as the little brother I had begged for and never got. Someone had to take care of Him. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, as well as two of the attending sheep, were made of plaster. They'd chip or break if not handled with great care.

  At four years old, I knew how to be careful — especially with Baby Jesus and His entourage. The proof of what could happen was all too evident in poor Mary. Two years ago, someone had been too rough, and there had been a terrible accident. The blue shawl that covered Mary's back had been broken, revealing a ghastly silver rod that disappeared into what was left of her shawl, gathered about her feet. At the top, the exposed rod extended into the back of her head. Mary had to be positioned “just so,” to keep the world from seeing that horrid sliver of metal that kept her in one piece.

  I couldn't help wondering if my Baby Jesus had a rod running through Him like His mother did. I finally convinced myself He didn't — He was a lot smaller, and there probably weren't any rods that tiny. And, being the Son of God, He didn't need a rod.

  Joseph struck a thoughtful pose, kneeling beside Mary, both of them watching the
perpetually empty manger. He was a bit wobbly since someone, in a terrible accident, had chipped quite a chunk from his orange and yellow robe. Kneeling was a challenge for him now, but not impossible — especially if he leaned a little on Mary or the manger or one of the poor chalk sheep who had all lost their tails somewhere along the way.

  The Three Kings added color to the scene in robes of red, green, and purple. They had been bought at a later date, and were made of a thick, brittle plastic rather than plaster. They carried gifts that were of no value to a baby.

  Balthazar's arm was missing. At one time, he had been extending his gift of frankincense — perfume! I cut a small blanket of green velveteen from the back of a dress in my closet and laid it over his stump. Jesus would enjoy a warm blanket in that drafty stable more than an old bottle of perfume.

  Melchior knelt in humble repose, a hinged gold box in his hands. As if Jesus could open a box! Being four, I didn't have any “baby toys” left to offer, but I did have something better than what those supposed “wise men” brought.

  I had colored marbles — something pretty for Jesus to look at. And I had crayons to color Him a picture. I imagined Baby Jesus would be getting mighty tired of Christmas music right about then — it was all He ever heard. I headed for my collection of 45s and settled one onto the turntable of my record player. Johnny Horton belted out the strains of “North to Alaska” while Baby Jesus and I danced together.

  We didn't have a Drummer Boy for our nativity set, and I felt the loss keenly. I wanted our Baby Jesus to have the best nativity in the world. It was bad enough that two years ago there had been a terrible accident and someone had irreparably broken the only shepherd we had. Now, we had sheep milling in the stable with no shepherd, and no Little Drummer Boy, either.