by Phillip Done
The director greeted us at the door. Her name was Elizabeth. When we stepped inside, we removed our hats and scarves and kicked the snow off our shoes. Tall white iron radiators crackled as we walked down the hall. Elizabeth escorted us into a room where twenty-five young children sat waiting on crowded wooden benches. Their feet didn’t reach the floor.
As we gathered in the room, the orphans chattered and pointed and wiggled in their seats as children do whenever a visitor whom they have been waiting for walks in. One little girl waved then hid herself quickly in her neighbor’s lap. Their teachers sat close by against the wall. An old black upright piano stood in the corner. Its lacquered finish was worn in spots like an old teddy bear.
Elizabeth walked in front of the children and introduced us.
“Jo estét,” the little ones said in unison. Good evening.
“Jo estét,” we said back.
Soon we began our party, and the Scouts started unloading their bags. We had brought cookies and juice, but Elizabeth asked us to just serve the cookies. It was too close to bedtime for juice. The Scouts passed out the treats and the teachers told the little ones to say köszönöm (thank you). I gave an understanding smile. Telling a child to say thank you after taking a cookie is universal.
Music came next. The Scouts sang Christmas carols in English for the Hungarian children. I plunked out the tunes on the piano and chuckled as I played. Surely, this was the first time that this instrument had ever played “Frosty the Snowman.” The orphans and their teachers smiled as we sang. Christmas music needs no translation.
After we finished, the young ones stood up and sang a song for us. Their hearty voices warmed the small room like heat from the radiators. They reminded me of little drummer boys: Their only gift was their music. I wondered — would Santa even visit the orphanage? Would the children find anything under the tree on Christmas morning? Was there even a tree? I hadn’t seen one.
When they finished singing, the Scouts started handing out the gifts they had brought. The orphans squealed and held them up and ran their fingers over the shiny paper and played with the bows. They hugged their presents and showed their friends and giggled when they spotted Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck and Goofy on their wrapping paper.
Suddenly Elizabeth drew in her breath sharply.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
She closed her eyes and shook her head. Then, biting her lip, she looked down at the floor.
“What’s wrong?” I asked again.
Covering her mouth, Elizabeth leaned over to me and whispered. Her voice was shaky. “They don’t know that there is anything inside the packages.”
I snapped my gaze at the children. They were all laughing and pointing and playing with their presents. But none was opening a single gift. A lump shot up in my throat. The wrapping is present enough.
I looked over at the teachers. A few were dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs. They realized what was happening, too. Then Elizabeth took a deep breath and walked over to the children. With watery eyes, she smiled and clapped her hands. The children looked up at her and stopped talking. Elizabeth cleared her throat then very gently began to speak.
“Gyerekek, a csomagban van valami.” Boys and girls, there is something under the paper, she told them. The older ones’ eyes widened. But the little ones did not understand. Elizabeth picked up one of the presents and pointed to the inside. “Nézzetek csak, ebben van valami,” she repeated. “There is something under the paper.”
Gasps filled the room as the children looked down at the presents. I expected the kids to immediately start ripping open their packages, but none did. They must be waiting for permission to open them, I thought. But no one was speaking. Then Elizabeth knelt down beside one little girl and started helping her unwrap her gift. The girl and those sitting beside her looked on. My lips parted but no words came out. They don’t know what to do with the paper.
For a second I stood there motionless. Then I wiped my eyes, and together with the other teachers and the Scouts I got down on my knees and helped the children unwrap their gifts.
Merriment swirled around the room as the children pulled out puzzles and jump ropes and coloring books and bright pink and blue bottles of bubbles. The Scouts showed them how to dip their plastic wands in the soapy water and blow. It was a magic moment.
Ever since then — sometime during the holidays — the memory of these children in that faraway land draws a chair up to the hearth of my heart and pays a visit. And when it does I smile, close my eyes to pull the chair closer, and hear the laughter.
SANTA CAUSE
One of my favorite scenes in Miracle on 34th Street is when attorney John Payne proves that his client, Mr. Kringle, is in fact Santa Claus. Mail carriers from the United States Postal Service march into the courthouse carrying thousands of children’s letters addressed to Santa. By delivering these letters to Mr. Kringle, Payne argues that the Post Office Department — a branch of the federal government — recognizes Kris Kringle to be Santa Claus. The judge announces that his court will not dispute it. Santa is saved by the Post Office.
Every holiday season the US Postal Service receives tens of thousands of letters addressed merely to Santa Claus, North Pole. What happens to them? Many are collected by Operation Santa, a program sponsored by the Post Office Department that recruits volunteers to answer the letters. I joined the operation several years ago.
Early in December, I pick up a batch of letters from Betty. She has been heading the program at my branch for years. Every year, Betty is decked out in a Christmas tree sweatshirt and red and green ornament bulb earrings. (She looks like she should be teaching first grade.) When I get the letters, they have already been opened and sorted. The envelopes are stapled on the back.
“Wow,” I said, looking through this year’s box. “You already have a lot.”
“Each year we seem to get more than the year before,” Betty said. “In a week or so, they’ll really start to pour in.”
I pulled out an envelope with hay in it. “What’s this?”
Betty smiled. “For the reindeer.”
This year I enlisted my teacher friends Kim, Lisa, and Dawn to join me in answering the letters. There is nothing like reading a child’s wish list for Santa written in crayon and filled with hay to get you into the holiday spirit. In our replies, we wrote that Santa was busily preparing his sleigh and getting the reindeer ready. Of course we never made any promises to the kids. We didn’t sign off from Santa, either — only as his helpers. This keeps the big guy more mystical. When we’re finished, I’ll send the letters off to be stamped with a North Pole cancellation. Betty says that a stamp from Santa’s home can turn a doubter into a believer for at least another year. Our letters don’t actually go to the North Pole for the cancellation though. They go to Arkansas.
“What do you want from Santa?” I asked Lisa as we were working on our replies.
She sighed. “A paper cutter that cuts straight.”
Kim started laughing.
“Good idea,” Dawn said.
“I’d ask for a pair of teacher scissors with a homing device,” Kim volunteered. “And a take-a-number machine like they have at the deli.”
“Me, too,” I said.
Dawn joined in. “What’s that machine at the bowling alley that drops down and takes all the pins away? I need one of those to drop down in my room and snatch up a few seven-year-olds.”
This brought a laugh.
Kim looked at me. “What would you ask for?”
I didn’t even have to think about it. “Three straitjackets. Boys’ medium.”
At the end of the evening, the four of us picked our favorite letters. Dawn’s was from Linnea. She wrote: “Please deliver a Lincoln Navigator. In pink.” Lisa’s favorite said, “Dear Santa, I’d like real glass slippers. Size three.” Kim’s number one: “Bring any toy. It doesn’t matter. I know that everything is so spencive.” Mine was from Adam: “Dear Santa, if you
are real can you please give me a science kit? If you aren’t real can somebody else get me a science kit?”
Kids’ letters to Santa are pretty darn cute. When a child really wants something badly, he’ll write in capital letters then go crazy with the exclamation marks. (“PLEEEEEASE BRING ME A TURTLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!”) Sometimes the papers are just lines and scribbles. Fortunately, their moms “translate” at the bottom of the page. If a child has moved recently, he’ll leave detailed directions to his new home or even a map. Once in a while, a child will reprimand St. Nick. (“Santa, last year I asked for an alligator and all I got was a hamster! I hope you’ll do better next time.”) Rarely will a child sign his last name. (“Hey Santa. Matthew here.”) There’s no reason to, of course. Santa knows who he is.
Some of the kids’ requests are pretty offbeat: “Please replace my younger brother with a dolphin.” “Can you send a spaceship?” “I’d like my own planet. Mars would be nice. It’s close to Earth.” Other letters come with pretty tall orders: “I want to meet Batman.” “I’d like an igloo.” “If you give me an elf, I promise not to let my cat near it.” This season, Monica requested a flat-screen TV, a new laptop, a pogo stick, an iPhone, a camera, an iPod Nano, and a helicopter. Monica is six. Oftentimes children will put in requests for their parents and siblings. This year’s top requests for moms: jewelry, maids, Hummers, and panini makers. For dads: socks.
The kids’ letters are also good indicators of what’s hot and what isn’t. LEGOs, Barbies, PlayStations, stuffed animals, and new baby brothers are always popular. So is money. (They never ask for less than a billion.) Real animals are consistently at the top of the list, too. This year’s letters included requests for puppies, kittens, ponies, monkeys, penguins, pandas, baby hippos, and the killer whale at SeaWorld.
There are always lots of questions for the man up north: “How’s Rudolph?” “How’s Mrs. Claus?” “Do reindeer really fly?” “Was I nice or notty?” “If I’m on the naughty list, what can I do to get off of it?” “How do you fit down the chimney?” “Do you know the Easter Bunny?” “How many elves do you have in your workshop?” “Are you older than Jesus?” and “Could we set up a Web cam?”
Kids are smart. They bring up Santa’s snack before they make their requests: “Santa, how many cookies do you want?” “Please feel free to raid the fridge when you’re here.” “What do you like — milk, juice, or whiskey?”
I’m always surprised at how many children tell Santa that they love him. I never wrote that I loved him when I was a kid. I was too busy listing what I wanted. In fact, one year after writing my thirty-seventh request, my mom warned me that Santa might think I was being greedy and take me off his good list. Concerned, I crossed out half the items and asked for world peace.
GIVING
My school participates in a charity program that provides food and toys for families in need. Our PTA sponsors about fifty families. Each receives a bag of groceries for Christmas dinner, a gift certificate to Safeway for a turkey, and toys for the children.
This year on bag-filling day, the volunteers gathered in the multipurpose room after school. I had invited two of my students, Robbie and Stacy, to help. When we walked into the room, stacks of cans and baking goods were piled on long cafeteria tables. Two tables piled with toys — one marked “Girls” and another “Boys” — stretched against the wall.
One of the PTA moms handed me a list of food items and some cards. Each card had the number of children in the family and their ages. All the families were assigned numbers. No names were used.
Soon Robbie, Stacy, and I started filling bags. The kids ran around the room collecting cranberry sauce and green beans and bags of tangerines. I checked them off the list.
“Okay,” I said, “all we need is one box of stuffing mix and we’re done with the food.” I pointed to the stuffing. Both children ran and picked it up. Together they placed it into the bag.
“Great! Now we need to get the presents.” Robbie and Stacy fixed their eyes on the toys as I started reading the card. “We need gifts for an eight-year-old girl and a nine-year-old boy.” I looked at Stacy. “You be in charge of finding something for the girl.” Stacy ran to the girl table. I turned to Robbie. “You’re nine, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Find a gift for a nine-year-old boy.”
Robbie dashed off to the boy table. In a few moments, Stacy returned with an art set and held it up.
“Would an eight-year-old girl like that?” I asked.
“Definitely!”
“Great.”
She set it into the bag.
Robbie ran back. He was holding a basketball.
“Are you sure about this?” I said, smiling.
“Oh, yeah!” he exclaimed. “This is the best present for a nine-year-old boy.”
“Well,” I laughed, “you’re the expert.”
I held the bag open as he put it inside.
For the next hour, the kids and I filled several more bags. Other volunteers came by and wrapped the gifts that we had selected then covered the bags with cellophane and ribbon. The family’s card was tied on each one.
The next day, I volunteered to help deliver the bags. The PTA gave me a list of addresses matched with the number assigned to each family. The families knew that we would be dropping by. After school I loaded my car, put on my Santy Claus hat, and dropped off bags all over town. Everyone I spoke with was grateful. Several invited me in. Most wanted to give me something in return. One woman wouldn’t let me go until I filled a bag with persimmons from her tree.
About halfway through my deliveries, I stopped at an apartment building close to school. After parking the car, I grabbed the correct bag, walked up two flights of stairs, and found the apartment. The porch light was on. A plastic wreath hung on the door. A string of colored lights twinkled on and off around the window. I knocked. Immediately I heard footsteps running to the door. Children. Someone peeked through the curtain. Then the lock turned quickly and the door flung opened. My heart stopped. There standing in front of me was Robbie.
“I was hoping it would be you,” he said with a huge smile.
Before I could say hello, Robbie grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. The apartment was warm. The scent of something delicious hung in the air. The window in the kitchen was steamed up. In the corner of the room, a small artificial tree stood on a table. It was smothered with icicles.
“¡Señor Done está aquí!” Robbie shouted. Mr. Done is here.
Robbie’s mom walked into the front room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. We shook hands. I had met her once before at our parent–teacher conference. Robbie had translated.
“Merry Christmas,” I said, removing my hat. Then I handed her the bags. “These are for your family. From the Angel Network.”
“Thank you,” she said.
She set the bags down on the table then turned to Robbie and spoke in Spanish. Robbie translated.
“My mom would like to know if you can stay for dinner.”
I looked at her. “Oh, thank you. Gracias. But I’m afraid I can’t.” I turned to Robbie. “Please tell your mom that I’d love to but I must get going. I have other deliveries to make.”
He explained. She spoke to Robbie again.
“My mom wants to know if you like tamales.”
I smiled. “I love tamales.”
She covered her mouth when she laughed.
Robbie translated one more time. “My mom says that you have to take some tamales home with you.”
I put my hand on my stomach and shook my head. “No. No. Thank you.” But by then she had already walked into the kitchen. I threw Robbie a smile. He returned it.
As I waited for his mom, I walked over to the tree. Robbie joined me.
“Nice tree,” I said. “Did you help decorate it?”
“Uh-huh.”
I glanced down on the floor. Presents tied with curly ribbon waited on a tree skirt made from a bedsheet. I pointed to on
e of the packages. “I recognize that.” It was a gift that Robbie had made for his mom at school. The wrapping was white butcher paper covered with red and green tempera paint potato prints. Robbie looked up at me and smiled.
Just then a thought popped into my head. I smacked my forehead and turned to Robbie. “Oh my goodness,” I said loudly. “I just realized that I left one of the bags in the car. I’ll be right back.”
Quickly I left the apartment, ran down the steps to my car, and searched through the remaining bags. After finding the one I was looking for, I grabbed it and raced back upstairs. Robbie was standing in the doorway.
“Sorry ’bout that,” I said, out of breath. I pulled a present from the bag and handed it to Robbie. His face brightened. “This is for you.”
At that moment his mom walked into the room holding the tamales. He turned and showed her.
“Would you like to open it now?” I asked.
He looked surprised. “Now?”
“Sure. Why not?” I glanced over at his mom. Her smile was wide. “It’s almost Christmas.”
Immediately Robbie knelt down on the floor and started ripping open the paper. It was off in five seconds.
“Whoaaaaa!” he shouted, squeezing his gift.
His mom and I traded smiles as Robbie hugged the new basketball. He didn’t take his eyes off it.
“You know,” I said, “I hear that this is the best present for a nine-year-old boy. Right?”
His eyes were still glued to the ball. “Oh, yeah!”
January
“Do you know,” Peter asked, “why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.”
— Peter Pan
READING
One day I was reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with my class. Everyone had his own copy of the book. I read aloud while the children all followed along. After a couple of minutes, I stopped and looked around the room for a kid I could have some fun with.