Then I opened it. I must have done it wrong because I got a terrible fright; the top seemed to come apart and I was sure I’d somehow broken it. But, to my enormous relief, it was just a double top with sort of a secret compartment. This secret place was painted too, only at first I couldn’t figure out what the picture was about. As I looked closer, it began to dawn on me that it was like some kind of dirty book! The lovely lady and gentleman painted on the outside top of the little box were naked from the waist down and her legs were spread apart. I couldn’t believe my eyes! Then I started to laugh. Quickly I closed the box and replaced it exactly. Then I went through the entire collection. Almost every one had a secret top and a different scene inside. One that was particularly memorable showed a marketplace. One stall was hung with an array of male sexual organs … sets of cocks and balls in all sizes. A lady in a long ruffled dress was making her selection and she had a large basket with her. She also had a sly smile on her face. I was horrified and laughing at the same time. In fact, I was laughing so hard that tears were rolling down my face.
When each box had been thoroughly examined and replaced, I left the living room. I had to go upstairs and wash my face. And, I couldn’t wait to tell Chris! This was the best thing that had ever happened. The funniest secret in the whole house.
Chris and I tiptoed down the stairs when we were supposed to be taking our nap and the nurse was safely on the other side of the house. I showed him the inside hidden compartment in each of the little boxes and he was just as shocked and giggled as much as I had earlier. He couldn’t believe it either. He told me he thought I was making it up. We laughed ourselves stupid over the years of not being allowed to touch these things. So that was what grown-ups do … we thought the whole thing was embarrassing but hilarious! This was really a super-secret. Some kids’ parents had dirty books, but we had the all time prize: antique French dirty boxes!
From that time on, whenever we had a friend that could prove they could keep a secret, we led the expedition down to the living room. If anyone had ever caught us … tiptoeing down the stairs single file and sneaking into the living room like a miniature commando raid … they would have thought we were totally nuts. We even posted a lookout and then took turns. It was a super colossal venture which gave us particular standing within our group of trusted friends. To the best of my knowledge, no adult in the house ever found us out. We never got caught, that’s for sure.
Anyway, on Christmas Eve after dinner, mother would begin to open all her presents. There was always perfume and lots of lace things. There was usually jewelry and silver pieces for the table. If she had a steady date, they often had given her their present already and she would be wearing it. It was usually jewelry.
Mother liked matching sets of things and monogrammed things, so almost everything was monogrammed and matched.
When I was old enough to write legibly, she would hand me the card from the present and I would write a brief description of the gift on the back, including color. She would write thank-you notes later but there were so many presents that she’d never be able to remember exactly what was from whom.
When she was about half through opening her gifts, she’d stop and we’d go into the library where the tree was and we’d put out all the special gifts that weren’t wrapped. That was, of course, long after she was sure that I didn’t believe in Santa Claus anymore.
Then I would go to bed and she’d finish opening her presents by herself in the living room. Sometimes she’d be there till after midnight.
One Christmas Eve when I was about six, I lay in my big four poster bed and listened with all my might to hear Santa Claus. The next morning I announced that I had indeed heard Santa Claus arrive and that I had even heard his sleigh and the reindeer on our roof!
Christmas morning was the same for many years. Chris and I would wake up and run downstairs. The library door would be closed. Behind the library door would be Christmas … waiting for us. We would try to peek through the keyhole but we couldn’t see much. Anyway, we had to have breakfast first. I never knew exactly why, but the regular schedule had to be followed on Christmas morning as well as any other day. So, we ate breakfast and did the dishes and went up and made our beds and got dressed. By that time mother was usually up and Christmas could begin.
Like wild Indians, we dashed into the room the minute she opened the door. The Christmas tree lights were always on and gifts piled high everywhere. It was truly like magic and it looked unbelievably beautiful. The special presents from Santa Claus were placed under the tree … the first ones to be gotten. They were things like bicycles, big stuffed animals or outfits of clothing.
Then we had to take turns opening presents. Each one had to have a thank you note written for it, so we had to write on the back of each card just like mother did. There were a number of Christmas mornings that lasted until it was time for lunch. The opened presents were replaced under the tree neatly in their boxes and the papers and ribbon taken to the incinerator. Some of the satin ribbon was saved and we rolled that up neatly and put it in a separate box.
We usually had brunch with Mother. Then in the afternoon we would go out and play with our new toys just like millions of other children all over the world.
As the years progressed, Christmas became less of a family holiday and more of a public spectacle. Christmas presents were on display for the many guests that came over on Christmas day to have a few drinks and exchange gifts with mother. Many times we weren’t allowed to open all the presents until there were other people to watch. Then we could each take one package and open it in front of whatever audience happened to be in attendance.
The process of Christmas also changed from one of excitement and surprises to just a lot of hard work. I was enlisted for the last week or so before Christmas to help wrap packages, which in those days was a veritable production line. Not only the presents for the family and friends but dozens that had to be sent to other cities and wrapped for mailing. There was something defeating about all those gifts and all that paper, ribbon, rolls of brown paper and balls of twine. The whole thing turned into just a lot of hard work for people I didn’t know, would probably never meet and couldn’t care less about.
If our family Christmas had continued to be a happy occasion, I probably would have felt differently. But by the time I was about 9 years old, Christmas had changed. Chris was about six and the girls were only a year old.
There were still a lot of presents under the tree but they turned out to be mostly for show. Some were from mother and her close friends, some were from fans. Most of them we never saw again after Christmas was over. They were put in their boxes and given away to other people. At first we were allowed to choose which ones we’d like to keep and if mother agreed, we kept them. But that didn’t last very many years. One or two at the most. What really happened from about the time I was ten until we didn’t have Christmas anymore was that mother chose about a dozen gifts for us … mostly inexpensive remembrances from various fans. Things like T-shirts and handkerchiefs and a couple of sweaters, pajamas, slippers, play clothes, and the inevitable boxes of stationery were separated out from the other presents. These combined with whatever mother had given us we were allowed to keep. The rest was stored in closets and we had to take them, rewrapped, to birthday parties during the remainder of the year. Of course, it was usually the best of the presents that we couldn’t have, because mother wouldn’t want to be embarrassed by giving children of other Hollywood celebrities in show business cheap presents for their birthdays. Toward fall of each year, mother would figure out how many more presents were needed adding a couple more for insurance and the rest would be given to a hospital or children’s home. None of us kids were given a second chance to choose anything more to keep. That way the closet shelves were cleaned out for the next holiday.
As if it weren’t enough to open all those presents knowing full well that we’d never see them again until we gave them away, we were required to smil
e dutifully when visitors and guests expressed awe and admiration, even envy, over the beautiful gifts and asked us if we knew what lucky children we were! There were several times when I just wanted to scream at them that it was all a fake … there really was no Christmas and this was all a scene from another movie starring Joan Crawford and her four lovely children … the epitome of the glamorous movie star in the make-believe world of beauty and happiness forever. But I didn’t scream, I didn’t say anything, I didn’t even try to tell them the truth because nobody would have believed me anyway. What they saw on the surface was what everyone wanted to believe, like a real life “Land of Oz”. I’m sure it all looked perfect. Oh sure, a few people saw through it, but though they may have registered a sense of discomfort when they saw me paraded out to smile and shake hands and curtsey while Chris bowed like an English gentlemen at the age of six, they never said anything. Our manners were both impossible and archaic, well executed and mechanical. We had to bow and curtsey, we had to smile and say nothing, we lived by “do not speak unless spoken to”.
I often drifted off into some daydream while smiling politely and appearing to pay attention to what was going on. I knew by then that if I didn’t hear it the first time all that was required was an “I beg your pardon” and it would be repeated. I guess I started tuning out about nine or ten. Not so much because I was bored but because it was less embarrassing that way. Mother seemed to take great delight in finding ways to make us look foolish or to accuse us of doing something wrong in front of everyone. She was really at her best with an audience.
But categorically the worse thing about the entire Christmas holiday was thank you notes. I would take the boxes of stationery and the gift cards up to the desk in my room and the ordeal would begin. Each gift had to have a note and I was not allowed to simply compose one standard reply and copy it. Of course at nine, ten and eleven years old I didn’t exactly have a huge repertoire of phrases, but I did the best I could. At first I used to have to line the paper faintly in pencil. Later on I was able to write fairly straight without the lines. There could be no mistakes on any note, so that if I made a serious error, I had to start all over again. I started in the morning after breakfast and my chores were done and would work until time to set the table for lunch. After the lunch dishes were done and we’d taken our rest, I sat back down at the desk and had to fight with myself to get started. I stared out the window past the giant oak tree and down into the garden below. I longed to go out and play but I wasn’t allowed to do anything except my housework until those thank you notes were finished. So I plodded on, hour after hour trying to write pleasant notes without any mistakes for presents I was never going to get to enjoy or play with from people who, for the most part, I didn’t know. It was tedious beyond words. My hand would get stiff and my back would begin to ache. I wasn’t allowed to listen to the radio or play any record. The silence was broken only by the sounds of my own paper and pen. Every once in a while I would have to get up and stretch but it would be furtive and done quickly in case someone would catch me not doing the notes. The worst part was being all alone all day. I could hear people talking in other parts of the house and in the yard. I could see my sisters and the nurse out in the garden. Chris didn’t have to start on this dismal chore until a couple years later because he was only six or seven and couldn’t really write yet. But even he had to print a lot of notes that were written out for him to copy. When after a couple days of this solitary confinement, the task was nearly finished, I would take the stacks of notes to mother and she would look over them. To my absolute horror she started making marks through them. She said with a tone of contempt that my writing wasn’t clear enough or this line was slightly crooked and she became angry as she said that she didn’t think I’d said nearly enough about how wonderful the present was or I hadn’t described it fully. With a sinking heart and a hatred of her I could barely conceal, I took the majority of the notes she’d thrown at me back upstairs. It became a never-ending process. No matter how hard I tried to make them perfect the first time, she always found something wrong with most of the notes and I had to write them over two and three times. As Christmas vacation dragged on, my other privileges were gradually taken away because I hadn’t finished the thank you notes. If I were so foolish as to complain, I had more work given to me as a punishment. Mother bawled me out for being the most ungrateful child she’d ever known and then I got into more trouble for my sour face and bad attitude.
In truth, I was grim. I hated those notes so much that some days I had to force myself to pick up the pen. I ruined several of them with my own tears which fell all over the stationery making big splotches that partially erased the ink. I ached all over from the hours of sitting at the desk and I hated Christmas. I started daydreaming about the day when I’d be free to leave home. In near silence I did my work and wrote those hateful notes until school mercifully started again.
When the time came to take down the tree, I was ordered to put each present I wasn’t going to be allowed to have, back in its box and replace the lid. These boxes were labeled in pencil as to their contents and then I took them upstairs and neatly stacked them on the closet shelf. There they would lie in untouched repose until someone else’s birthday party months later.
It was with some astonishment, years later, that I heard a radio recording made in 1949 about our family Christmas. (NOTE: The following is a direct transcript of that recording.)
GEORGE FISHER (Announcer)
I know this report wouldn’t be complete without a thorough description of exactly how one Hollywood family spends Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. So a few hours ago I took my tape recorder out to the Brentwood home of Joan Crawford. Miss Crawford and her four children have graciously consented to tell all of us exactly the way in which they’ll spend this holiday weekend. The broadcast marks the radio debut for Miss Crawford’s eldest children. They are as excited about it as any youngsters would be. So now, lets hop into an imaginary sleigh and whisk out to the home of one of the foremost actresses in America today, Miss Joan Crawford.
Now we are settled in the living room of Miss Joan Crawford’s tastefully decorated home. A colorful Christmas tree at one edge of the room is almost snowed under with packages. Across the white carpet on the other wall is a stately colonial fireplace as prepared for the flames that will be warming the room before long and the mantel is waiting for the Christmas stocking. Miss Crawford and her children are seated on one davenport facing me.
Miss Crawford, my listeners and I are so pleased that you have invited us in to share a few moments of this Christmas Eve with you.
JOAN CRAWFORD
We are very happy to have you with us, George.
GEORGE
Suppose you start, Miss Crawford, by introducing your children to our radio audience.
JOAN CRAWFORD
This is my eldest daughter, Christina.
CHRISTINA
Hello everyone.
JOAN CRAWFORD
And my son, Christopher.
CHRISTOPHER
Hi everybody.
JOAN CRAWFORD
My twins, Cynthia and Cathy, who will content themselves with smiling for your listeners since they are not quite three.
GEORGE
Hello Cynthia and Cathy, and how old are you Christina?
CHRISTINA
I’m ten, Mr. Fisher.
GEORGE
Christopher, you’re certainly growing up fast. How old are you?
CHRISTOPHER
I’m just seven, Mr. Fisher.
GEORGE
Will there be four stockings, one for each child, or does your mother have to hang up a stocking too?
CHRISTINA
Oh, we insist that mother hang up her stocking right beside ours.
GEORGE
Christopher, are the stockings always full when you wake up?
CHRISTOPHER
Sure, Santa Claus fills them up while we’re asleep.
GEORGE
Have you ever tried to sneak downstairs and catch St. Nick at work?
CHRISTOPHER
No. He won’t come to our house if we’re awake.
GEORGE
That’s a fancy tree here in the corner of the room. Who decorated it?
CHRISTOPHER AND CHRISTINA
We all did!
CHRISTINA
Except mommie had to put the decorations on the top where we couldn’t reach.
GEORGE
Miss Crawford, here is a question that will interest every parent in America. At what hour do you suppose the youngsters will awaken tomorrow morning?
JOAN CRAWFORD
I am afraid they are likely to be awake and up by six-thirty at the latest.
GEORGE
Will they come straight into your room and awaken you?
JOAN CRAWFORD
I’d be disappointed if they didn’t. Christmas morning is the favorite day of the year for all of us.
GEORGE
Well, do you try to get your children to eat breakfast before they start opening their presents?
JOAN CRAWFORD
Yes. I’ve always insisted they eat before coming into the Christmas Tree. Every other morning of the year they dawdle over their food, but Christmas morning, awh, breakfast is the quickest meal on record.
GEORGE
Christina, do you and your brother and sisters send presents to lots of people at Christmas time?
CHRISTINA
Yes we do. But besides giving to your friends, we like to send presents every year to boys and girls from other countries across the ocean.
GEORGE
And I suppose you receive all sorts of gifts from people you don’t even know.
CHRISTINA
Oh yes! People who see mommie in the movies send us lots of lovely things.
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