What was he making? I knew it was something made from wood. Besides the saw, we heard the hammer; we also smelled a heavy lacquer mixed in with chewing tobacco he’d take from a checkered pouch. I remember thinking there was nothing on my Christmas list that was made from wood. The only thing I wanted was a little doll with small blond braids all over her head. Maybe it was a doll bed! I convinced myself it was a doll bed. By the time I was finished it was doll bunk beds complete with little quilts made by my grandmother. If I was really lucky there’d be doll clothes too. I knew where I’d put the beds: to the right as you go down the few stairs leading into my bedroom. I didn’t tell my two cousins that I’d figured it out. One was a boy. He probably wouldn’t care.
My mother always made oyster broth on Christmas Eve. She’d set the dining room table just so—with linens and china, tall-stemmed, etched crystal glasses and a silver soup ladle. My grandparents would join us. I wasn’t surprised that there were whisperings among the adults. I was on high alert, aware of fresh boot tracks leading from Grampie’s old pick-up into our side porch off the kitchen.
To say the wait from Christmas Eve to Christmas morning was the longest wait ever, in anticipation of the doll of my dreams, does not suffice. It was sheer agony. I’d been so wrapped up in thoughts of this doll and her bunk beds that I hadn’t thought what else might be under that tinseled tree. That’s when I fell asleep.
I heard my brother race down the front stairway. I smelled cinnamon coming through the register near where the bunk beds would soon sit. The morning had dawned despite my doubts that it would ever arrive. How should I react? The moment had come. It was time to see what had gone on behind that closed door.
I heard my mother telling my brother he had to wait for me. I heard my father walk in from the kitchen. And then it was quiet, except for the wind moving the freshly fallen snow into little heaps and the stairs creaking as I reached the bottom step. I stopped for a second. I knew when I turned my head it might be sitting there, waiting for me. Probably wrapped with a big, red bow.
The smell of that lacquer confirmed my suspicions. Slowly I peered through the archway. The tree was lit; the stockings were overflowing. Standing in a single line were three smiling faces. They didn’t say a word. They didn’t have to. I knew they were blocking my view of the bunk beds.
Into Christmas morning I rushed. My brother was the first to move aside, anxious to get to his own surprises. That was when my eyes became set on what has remained my most favorite Christmas present ever. There were no bunk beds. Not even a doll bed with a big, red bow. It was a desk, a simple pine desk with a single drawer and a stool with a carved design.
Something happened to me at that moment. No other gifts mattered, not even the ones wrapped in red or green tissue paper, held together by stickers that never stuck. They were the ones from Santa. I slowly approached my desk. I danced my fingers along the lacquered boards. Visions of my grandfather in that farmhouse kitchen measuring and sawing filled me with an appreciation of this labor of love. Pulling the stool back I sat down. Opening the single drawer, I was overwhelmed by what my grandfather had left for me. There—unwrapped—was a pad of white, lined paper and one yellow, #2 sharpened pencil. How did he know? How did my grandfather know that at that young age I knew I wanted to be a writer, that I spent hours cutting and folding paper into little books? How did he know that the smell of crayons and pencils and pages of words put together stirred my imagination?
I did get that baby doll with blond braids all over her head that year. My cousin received the bunk beds. There were no matching quilts. The pine desk became the focal point in my bedroom, sitting to the right as you go down the little stairs. We became the best of friends.
My grandfather is gone now. So is that farmhouse with the slanted dining room. I think I’ve figured out why I was the one who received the pine desk. I never realized at age seven but I am certain my grandfather did. We shared a bond for the written word. I’d sit in his chair near the window where the afternoon sun flowed through like a waterfall and pretend to read his Saturday Evening Posts and favorite Westerns.
Grampie gave more than just pine boards smelling of lacquer that year. It seems he knew what I really wanted, despite dreams of doll bunk beds with little quilts.
~Barbara Briggs Ward
One Good Gift
I’ve seen and met angels wearing the disguise of ordinary people living ordinary lives.
~Tracy Chapman
My brother Louis had charm. So what if he also had Down syndrome? A former coworker once summed up her view on the hidden talents of the developmentally disabled this way, “God may take away from one part, but He gives a gift in another part.” Louis had that gift. Friendly and outgoing, he knew how to tell a joke or give a compliment and handed both out freely. My brother instinctively knew the value of a smile or a helping hand and didn’t skimp where those were concerned, either. When his charm wasn’t enough, Louis found he could supplement it with pure tenacity. Anyone could be won over by my brother, even those possessing the hardest of hearts.
In an effort to teach Louis, then in his teens, that it was equally as important to give as it was to receive, my parents decided he would select and buy one small gift for each of us that Christmas. That required money, however, which he was expected to earn by performing a few household chores. Desperately trying to fit into a world where Louis always felt “different,” he eagerly agreed to this opportunity to prove his worth.
All new experiences were a source of fascination to my brother and the act of placing the garbage at the curb was no exception. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday Louis would wait for the sounds of the town sanitation truck, then pull the brown plastic garbage pail to the curb where he handed it to the trash collectors like the baton in a well timed relay race. My mother would peek through the living room curtains as Louis stood, his eyes fixed in amazement as the truck’s mighty jaws clamped down on his cache, only returning indoors when the job had been completed to his satisfaction.
“Thanks! Have a nice day!” Louis called out each time as the workers quickly turned toward the next waiting pail.
“Would it kill one of them to say hello back?” my mother griped. “It would mean so much to him to get a kind word from someone.”
Undaunted, my brother continued his thrice weekly routine with increased fervor, occasionally adding, “Good job!” or “I like your uniform!”
One day as my mother watched, the surliest of the workers stepped to the curb and quickly spoke to Louis. My brother extended his hand and the man reciprocated with a shake.
“What was that?” she asked Louis as she adjusted the evergreen wreath on the front door.
“That’s my friend Johnny. Next week, I’m the garbage man.”
“You’re the garbage man? Now what?” Mom asked herself out loud.
All weekend Louis waited for Monday morning. When it finally arrived, he positioned himself at the curb early where he awaited his sanitation debut. The truck pulled up and Johnny stood guardian as Louis extracted the black garbage bag from its receptacle and tossed it into the back of the truck. There were high-fives all around; even the driver stepped down from the cab to offer his congratulations. It had been confirmed; my brother was now an honorary member of the sanitation department.
For weeks after, the routine continued and my mother eventually left her post behind the living room curtain. Then one morning the doorbell rang and my mother found Louis and Johnny standing at the door together.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “He’s bothering you. I’ll keep him inside.”
“No,” Johnny responded, “I just wanted to say goodbye. I’m getting married in a few weeks and my fiancée and I are moving out of state right after Christmas. This is my last day on the job.”
“Well congratulations on your marriage,” my mother answered politely.
“I just wanted to say it was real nice to know Louis. We don’t usually get so much appreci
ation for our work, you know?”
“I can imagine. It’s not an easy job.” She looked at her son and then at Johnny, “Thank you.”
Johnny turned to Louis, “Keep it up Lou,” and they high-fived for one last time.
Deep into December, Louis continued to take out the trash yet he soon followed the habit of our other neighbors and placed the pail at the curb the night before pick-up. Though he didn’t say so, my brother clearly missed his friend Johnny and without him, garbage day had simply lost its luster. He blamed this change of procedure on the weather. As Christmas approached, the climate turned blustery and it was too cold, Louis said, to wait at the curb. Too cold also, it seemed, for Louis to go to the mailbox and retrieve the mail, another of his chores.
“Didn’t you check the mailbox today?” my father asked him that Christmas morning.
“It’s Christmas,” Louis answered. “No mail today.”
My father peered out the window, “But there’s something in the mailbox. I can see it from here.”
Louis breezed past our father, through the door toward the mailbox to further inspect the package that peeked from its winking hatch. “It’s a garbage truck!” Louis held the model truck in his outstretched hand for all to see as he galloped back to the house, his slippers flopping against the pavement.
“Check the card, Lou,” my father said as he took the box from his hands.
My brother read its simple sentiment aloud, his face shining brighter than any Christmas star: “To my friend Louis. Merry Christmas, from Johnny.”
Merry Christmas to you too, Johnny, wherever you may be. And thanks.
~Monica A. Andermann
Playing with Dolls
Even as an adult I find it difficult to sleep on Christmas Eve.
Yuletide excitement is a potent caffeine, no matter your age.
~Carrie Latet
It was such a magical night, and I just could not fall asleep! My mind went through the list of everything that needed to be done—the stockings were filled, placed lovingly in front of the Christmas tree with lights glowing in soft reds, greens, and blues, waiting for the early-morning excitement; the refrigerator was packed with favorite Christmas foods; the children were all snug in their beds.... Yes, everything seemed in order, but yet, sleep escaped me. My insides seemed to smile, and giggles would bubble up.
We were a young couple with three little girls: a tough diesel mechanic and his busy little wife—a stay-at-home mom. Sometimes it was tough to make ends meet on only one paycheck, but this Christmas we were trying to make dreams come true for our three precious little girls.
It was Cabbage Patch doll time, and a new one that could talk and sing, with a special name, birth date, and different hair color, had just been released. Even better yet, if you owned more than one, they would sing in rounds! It was unbelievable! The ultimate in wonderful!
By some miracle, and by shopping early, we were able to get these greatly coveted new dolls, three of them, one for each of our angels.
That night, my husband and I stayed up late and took the dolls out of the package to test them. One didn’t work!! Luckily there was still time to go back to the store. The next morning, the clerk and I took the replacement doll out of the package to make sure it worked, and placed it loosely in the box inside a bag as I left the store. “Do you want to play?” it called from the bag as I walked to the car. A man paused, looking puzzled. “Row, row, row your boat,” she started singing. Women turned to look. “Shhh,” I playfully chided the doll with a smile, “People are looking!” But already I could feel the fun.
December is the perfect time for all good children to go to bed early. Peeking in and seeing them peacefully sleeping, I gleefully showed the dolls to my husband. We took them out of the boxes again to “test.” We talked with the dolls, and sang with the dolls, and finally regretfully, put them away again.
The next night after the children were sound asleep, I looked at that tough mechanic, and he looked at me. “Do you want to play with the dolls?” And we both ran to get them out of the hiding place. Night after night, our secret activity continued, and we played with delight, picturing how happy these toys would make our darlings.
Finally it was Christmas Eve. It was hard for our over-excited little sweethearts to fall to sleep. It was getting later and later, but at last their even breathing filled their rooms. It was safe to get the dolls out one last time. They talked, and sang in rounds, and we joyfully placed them in the boxes, this time wired in tightly, turned on, ready to delight our children.
Dreams of thrilled little girls danced in my head. I couldn’t sleep! This special night was too filled with joy and excitement as I envisioned the happiness of our girls. That is what Christmas is really about—the magic, the love—bringing joy to others. That mechanic and I had played night after night, picturing the reaction of our children. They would be so excited—the perfect Christmas surprise.
The hours dragged by; I tossed and turned. I realized that the big tough mechanic was tossing and turning too! Our anticipation was killing us! Finally, around 4 AM, he sat up and left the room. When he came back, he had loud sleigh bells, and started shaking them. I giggled. No sound from the children’s room. I jumped up out of bed, and together we stomped loudly around our bedroom, as if someone was walking on the rooftop—smothering our smiles and laughter. Nothing—no sound. We cried in our lowest bass voices, “Ho, ho, ho!” Did we hear a child stir? It was now almost 4:30. Were they awake? Quickly we jumped back in bed, and pretended to be asleep as little footsteps entered our room.
Some pretense of responsible parenthood had to be maintained. So with three little girls, eyes sparkling with excitement, peering into my half open eyes, little hands caressing my cheeks awake, that tough mechanic and I took turns in mock complaining, “It is SO early; we’re tired! It is only 4:30! It is still nighttime!”
Being such obedient children, they sighed, turned around, and started back to bed! Quick! I had to do something! “NO!” I called frantically, halting them in their tracks. “We’re already awake now. Let’s see what Santa brought!”
As the girls dashed to the tree surrounded by the boxed dolls, one doll called out, “Do you want to play?” And the girls gasped, frozen in place, eyes wide. Joy and excitement filled that day—three little “dolls” singing together, playing together. The giggles and laughter continued throughout the weeks to come. That Christmas was everything we hoped for.
Now these beautiful girls are all grown, and the greatest happiness they have is to make dreams come true for their own loved ones. But I will never forget the December when a tough mechanic and his little wife spent the days before Christmas playing with dolls.
~Barbra Yardley
I’ve Got Your Number
The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree: the presence of a happy family all wrapped up in each other.
~Burton Hillis
My sister Marilyn loves Christmas more than any other holiday. When we were kids, she managed to make it last as long as possible by opening her presents at a ridiculously slow pace... especially for a child. Simultaneously, our parents, my three older brothers, and I would rip into our packages, whooping and hollering across the room to thank whoever had gotten us just what we wanted. For us, it was all over in minutes.
While I would pick through the debris scattered throughout our living room hoping there might be one more package addressed to me, a neat tower of unwrapped presents surrounded Marilyn where she sat. She carefully pulled at taped corners, unfurling ribbons, and logging each gift into a notebook so she would remember to write thank you notes later that afternoon.
Now, as an adult with her own family, Marilyn still manages to savor every moment of Christmas. But her children didn’t inherit her patience, so it has taken a little extra effort to keep the magic in the season. Her kids count their presents—and those of everyone else in the family—to see how things stack up, literally and figuratively. A good bit of
shaking goes on those last days of December, and the anticipation is downright maddening. When Marilyn’s three children started figuring out the contents of their presents before Christmas morning, my sister, a former elementary school teacher, drew on her creative side. She threw them a curve by not putting nametags on their gifts. Which presents were Robert’s and which ones were William’s or James’? They didn’t know until Christmas morning that their mother had allotted a different gift wrap to each person. Robert’s presents were the ones wrapped in snowmen print, William’s in stars, and James’ in reindeer.
The next year, a tag with a specific Christmas motif denoted each recipient’s gifts: jingle bells, gingerbread men and candy canes. Again, no names on the tags, and only Mom and Dad knew the secret code. The year after that, gift tags marked with one of three numbers represented each child. The number matched the same number of letters in the recipient’s name: six for Robert, seven for William and five for James.
Marilyn and her husband Kenny enjoyed eavesdropping on the discussions taking place around the Christmas tree. Using deductive reasoning, the boys would pick out packages they thought were something they asked for and then work backwards trying to come up with an answer to the code that would make that gift theirs. “James always tries to come up with something that makes the biggest package his,” chided Robert.
As the kids got a little older and their names got shorter (Robert became Rob, William preferred Will), Marilyn and Kenny came up with even trickier tactics. The boys thought they had cracked the code the year the tags were labeled with Texas, Arkansas, and Kentucky, the states in which they lived when they started school. Not so fast. The state actually signified where they made their First Communion.
Another year, when a number was the only identifying symbol, the single digit represented the last numeral of the year each boy would graduate from high school. Marilyn said they probably would not have figured this one out, except she and Kenny included themselves that year.
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic Page 20
