Christmas Through a Child's Eyes

by Helen Szymanski

  What must she think of me now that I had decided to give her away?

  Very quickly, we had become the closest of friends. I didn't have a sister, so it was Annie who listened to my secrets. And she never teased me like my brothers did.

  I lagged behind Mother, dragging my feet, aching with every step I took. My heart wanted to do the kind thing, but I struggled with the reality of my decision. It seemed as if time had slowed to a crawl as we moved down the hallway, past the patients in room after room. We finally walked into a starchy-white hospital room, and looked in at my cousin.

  Edith had never been my favorite relative. In my opinion, she was always too bossy when we played together, and she always had much fancier things than the playthings and clothing I owned. Perhaps I was a little jealous; but today, following surgery, Edith looked pale and weak lying on the sterile white sheets and I felt sorry for her. I really did want to cheer her up.

  Slowly, I removed Annie's soft, pink blanket. For a moment, I hesitated. Annie had been mine to hold for a short while, but she had already become so important to me. I wondered if she'd miss me. Would she like Edith? Would she like Edith better than she had liked me?

  Mother stood near the end of the bed, her lips pursed as she watched.

  “Here, Edith,” I said as I moved in closer to the metal guard rails on the sides of her bed. “I want you to have Annie.”

  Edith struggled to sit up. Her eyes grew large as she looked at Annie. Then she reached out, ever so gently, and took my most prized possession.

  “Oh, thank you so much,” she said, her dull eyes sparkling again as she stroked the soft folds of Annie's pink dress. “

  I'll take good care of her.”I hoped so. I knew that she had recently dropped and broken her own porcelain doll, which was very similar to Annie. I also knew it would be rude to bring up something that might upset Edith, so I didn't dare mention it or give her any special instruction regarding my Annie. I had given Annie to her … what she now did with Annie was none of my business. Rather than say anything to incriminate myself, I whispered a faint goodbye to Annie, then quickly turned and rushed from the room without looking back.

  My heart pounded madly in my tiny chest. I knew I had done the right thing. The way Edith's face shone with joy had been evidence of how much Annie had already helped in her recovery. But I couldn't stop the hot tears that scalded my cheeks and dripped onto the empty baby blanket I still held tightly. Mother joined me in the hall, hugging me for comfort. She knew how much giving Annie away had cost me. She understood my pain.

  We padded noiselessly down the hospital halls that were accustomed to sharing grief. We descended the long brick stairway outside the hospital and were greeted by the early spring rain. The cold drops splashed on my cheeks, mingling with my tears. Before long, we had boarded the city bus and were seated behind the bus driver. As the bus chugged up Sunrise Boulevard, I felt as if a wide crack was forming between me and Annie, a crack that I was sure could never be sealed.

  I had never felt so alone. Tenderly, I patted the forlorn baby blanket in my lap. Though it had been very hard, I knew that Jesus had helped me today to give a gift of love, and deep inside there was a spark of warmth in knowing I had done something special. But even deeper was a sadness that would not go away.

  Mother's words, “Expecting nothing in return when you give” gripped my heart.

  Over time, the hurt did seal over, but I never forgot Annie. I certainly never expected my empty arms to embrace another Annie. But, nearly fifty years later, God unexpectedly gave my heart's desire back to me.

  Recently, while I examined a shelf filled with kitchen gadgets in the household section of a thrift shop, my wandering eyes spotted a beautiful doll all dressed up in her pink Sunday best. My heart skipped a beat and unexpected tears filled my eyes as I gazed, at long last, at the very same Annie doll I had given to my cousin so many years ago. Her wavy auburn hair framed a delicate blushing face, just as the hair on my Annie had.

  Someone had placed a brand-new replica of my Annie in the wrong section of the store. And there she perched — atop a pile of assorted muffin tins and cookie cutters — looking just exactly as I had seen her the first time, perched on top of Christmas presents beneath my Christmas tree so many years ago. As I looked at her, it was as if she winked, as if she knew all along that I had missed my Annie so much all these years.

  With shaking fingers, I reached for her. Holding her close, I felt a small glow in my heart. It may sound silly to someone else, but to me it was as if God had decided it was time for Annie and me to find one another again, and seal the hurt for good.

  I couldn't wait to take her home with me.

  Now Annie lives with me again, right where she belongs, and right where she will remain forever.

  My Long Brown Stockings

  BY M. DELORIS HENSCHEID

  Carefully, I removed the tissue paper from the life-sized baby doll, rubbed my hand lovingly over her rough, cracked head, and straightened the pink dress. “I can't believe you're seventy years old,” I whispered, a smile touching my lips. “I still remember the lesson you taught me.”

  I gently placed her beneath the Christmas tree, then sat with closed eyes and welcomed the memories of another Christmas many years ago.

  It was an early 1938 December morning when I stepped out of our little house in Idaho Falls to walk the six blocks to Hawthorne School, where I was in the first grade. Something was different; snow was still piled everywhere, but it was not as cold. The glorious sun was melting the snow, creating wonderful, slushy puddles everywhere. Puddles were on the sidewalks, in the street, even in the snow that looked like tiny, silver lakes floating in mountains of vanilla ice cream.

  It was so much fun walking to school that morning; I even forgot about those itchy long johns and hated long brown stockings I wore. I splashed in the baby puddles on the sidewalks and swooshed through the giant puddles in the streets. I climbed up on the snowy mountain and stuck my feet way down into the soft, wet snow — as far down as they would go — clear to the top of my long brown stockings. Then I slipped and tumbled down, squealing in delight. All the way to school, my galoshes made happy, sloshing noises.

  When I finally opened the heavy door of the school, the long hall was empty and quiet. I quickly tiptoed into the cloakroom, hung my wet outdoor clothes on the hook, then pulled off the galoshes and left them in a wet puddle on the floor. Peeking into the classroom, I saw Teacher busy taking attendance. I tried to slip into my seat without notice, but failed.

  “Oh, you're here,” Teacher said, looking up at me sharply. “Why so late?” As if to answer her own question, her eyes dropped from my face to my wet shoes and dripping long brown stockings.

  Her eyebrows rose slightly. “Did you bring an extra pair of stockings?”

  My tummy felt funny. I couldn't look at Teacher. My voice wouldn't work. I shook my head.

  “I'm sorry, but you know the rules,” Teacher said. “You cannot stay at school in wet clothes. You'll get sick. You have to go home and change.”

  Anger bubbled inside of me as I stomped down the school sidewalk, soaked to the skin. I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to change my clothes.

  Suddenly, I heard a big, loud crashing noise. A huge machine was digging long holes in the ground nearby. As the giant dirt eater crawled forward, it took another bite and spit out the dirt to one side. Behind the mountains of dirt lay a long line of cement pipes, one after the other, like a huge gray snake.

  As I stared at the pipes, I had an idea. The men were busy with the machine, so they didn't see me crawl into the big round tube. My back shivered when I sat on the cold cement, but I didn't let that stop me from my sneaky plan.

  The wet stockings were hard to pull off. They clung to the soggy long johns and my sticky, cold feet, but I refused to give up. When they finally flipped free, I fell back, hitting my head against the pipe and scraping my hand on the rough cement. Tears burned and spilled down my che
eks, dripping off my shivering chin. It was hard for my numb fingers to turn the cold, wet stockings inside out, but somehow I managed. Then I huffed and puffed to get them back on my goose-bumpy legs.

  I was tired and hungry when I tromped back into the school, but I smiled at my cleverness. I didn't feel quite so clever when Teacher met me in the cloakroom and asked, “Did you go home and change your stockings?”

  “Y-Y-Yes,” I stammered. “But Mama didn't have any clean clothes for me.”

  Teacher looked at me for a long time, then turned and left the room. When she came back, she bent over and whispered, “Your mama wants you to go home, now.”

  I ran home as fast as I could. Mama was waiting at the door for me. I threw my arms around her and a huge gush of tears splashed down my face.

  Mama held me tight. “All right,” she said as she patted my back. “Tell me what happened.” When I finished telling my story, Mama told me to take the wet clothes off, go to bed and get warm, and think about what I should do to right my wrong.

  Early the next morning, I got some paper and crayons out of the drawer, sat at the table, and drew a picture of me, with big tears, sitting in the cement pipe holding my long brown stockings. I wrote on the bottom:

  DeR TECHR IM SORRE.

  Then I took my picture to school and laid it on Teacher's desk. I knew my teacher would forgive me because that's what teachers do, but had my actions been seen farther away than the classroom?

  Christmas was coming. I began to worry that Santa had seen me in the cement pipe turning my long brown stockings inside out. I could think of little else until Christmas Eve finally arrived. That night, I pinned my long brown stockings together with a big safety pin and hung them over a chair near our Christmas tree. The next morning, I jumped out of bed and ran to my stockings. Both stockings were hanging, lumpy and heavy. Quickly, I shook out the first one. There was an apple, an orange, a banana, nuts, and lots of candy.

  “Goody!” I squealed.

  Then I reached into the second stocking and pulled out lumps of coal. Oh, no, Santa had seen me in the pipe. Then I found a letter pinned on the stocking. It read:

  Dear little friend,

  This is to help you remember to always be true.

  I know you are trying because I heard you tell

  Mama and Teacher you were sorry.

  Thank you for being a brave girl.

  Now, look under the Christmas tree.

  Love Santa

  I ran to the tree and there sat my beautiful doll. And right next to her, folded neatly, were three new pairs of long brown stockings!

  Grandpa Will's Gift

  BY NELIA J. GREER

  I do not remember receiving much individual attention from my grandfather. He tended to be an unassuming man, who preferred to sit quietly amid the commotion of family gatherings. But in 1937, the year I was five years old, Nebraska's capricious weather presented us with a “white” Christmas that led to a beautiful moment of understanding and joy between the youngest in the family and the eldest.

  Times were hard during those Depression years, and simple pleasures were defined by frequent family gatherings, where plain food was served with love and gifts from the heart provided the sustenance to persevere. Snow covered the ground as my father's large extended family drew together at the home of my grandparents, as was the custom on that special day. Cheerful greetings and the aroma of good food greeted us, as family after family entered through the back door.

  All brought gifts, and carried them to the living room where the Christmas tree, decorated primarily with handmade ornaments, stood in the recess of a bay window. Most gifts under the tree were the work of loving hands as well. Among them were the soft toy balls Grandma Belle made out of left over yarn, ranging in size from tennis ball to that of a softball. Crocheted covers, resembling cupped doilies, provided child-and house-safe gifts to each of those youngsters she held close to her heart.

  The round oak table in the dining room had been extended to its ultimate length, covered with snowy-white linen, and dressed with the best china and silver. When all was ready for the noon meal, the platters and bowls of food for an abundant Christmas feast were carried in. Grouped around the table, each standing behind their assigned chair, everyone joined in the traditional family blessing.

  While the adults seated themselves, we children were ushered to the kitchen table, similarly provisioned. Seated on youth chairs or boosted with pillows, and babies in high chairs, we didn't mind being separated from parental watchdogs. There, under the gentle supervision of our youngest aunt, Aunt Harriet, we conversed spontaneously and laughed uproariously at our childish witticisms as we feasted on chicken and dumplings, Grandma Belle's customary main course for Christmas dinner.

  At the meal's conclusion, Aunt Harriet and Aunt Alida began to shepherd us into the far bedroom.

  “Come along,” said Aunt Alida. “There's a big surprise waiting for you outdoors, and you must be dressed warmly!”

  Our curiosity piqued, as we all wondered aloud at this unusual activity. Finally, when all were sufficiently swathed against the cold, Aunt Harriet directed, “Hush now, and follow me.”

  So anxious were we, we were right on her heels as she led us through living room, dining room, and kitchen. A little “push and hurry up” soon had us out the back door and down the steps. There, at the gate beyond the fenced yard, we spotted Grandpa Will with a horse and sled! Grandpa was dressed in his heavy barn jacket and cap with ear flaps. He waved a mittened hand as we approached.

  “Come along, we're going for a sleigh ride!” he called cheerfully. This was his domain, in which he was clearly in charge, and loving every minute.

  Down the walk and through the gate we ran, clamoring aboard the sled's small four-by-six foot, blanket-covered, rough lumber top. Because the deck was fastened to metal runners the height of wagon wheels, Aunt Harriet had to help some of the littlest of the bunch. The sled's common use was to haul hay to the livestock when snow covered the ground. It surely wasn't fancy, but my cousins and I were so thrilled at the prospect of a sleigh ride with Grandpa, you would have thought it the counterpart of Santa's conveyance!

  Soon all six of us were arranged on the sled — laughing and chattering, and filled with excitement. When Grandpa turned to see if we were ready to go, I noticed a little smile curving the corners of his mouth and a twinkle in his light blue eyes. I smiled back, happy to be sharing this moment with him.

  “Hold on now,” advised our proud grandfather. There were no seats or even a handrail to grasp, so we sat with thick mittens clinging to the deck edges and to each other.

  “Giddy-up, Lady.”

  Lady, a plow horse unused to human cargo was a little hesitant at first, but under Grandpa's calm guiding hand, she soon settled into a rhythmic trot, and the sleigh bells Grandpa had appended to her harness began to jingle merrily. One cannot imagine if Lady had feelings of privilege or felt put-upon for this duty, but clearly she was Grandpa's choice for this day's jaunt, and I like to think she felt as proud of Grandpa.

  We were momentarily silenced by this new experience, as we traversed the half-mile to town and back. Clouds above threatened more snow, but that didn't dampen our spirits as we began to get into the adventure and sang “Jingle Bells” at the top of our lungs. We called out “Merry Christmas!” to everyone we saw. Here and there, we glided past youngsters braving the cold to try out a new Christmas sled or attempting to roll the powdery snow into the rounded segments of a snowman.

  In less than an hour, we were returned to the homestead and deposited at the gate, chilled through and through, but exuberant from the thrill of our excursion.

  I must admit to a slight feeling of superiority at a surmised envy on the part of those children we saw on the street. I realize a homemade utility sled is of lowly origin and intended only to serve a practical purpose; it was Grandpa Will's desire to do something special — within his realm — for his grandchildren that made us feel priv
ileged. Even at that tender age, I understood and appreciated his gift.

  Sometimes Less Is More

  BY BARBARA JEANNE FISHER

  As a five-year-old child, I was a coward at heart. I remember so well how excited I was that Santa was coming and bringing us something special, and how I reacted when he finally arrived. True to character, the minute Santa knocked on the door, I screamed, “I have to go potty!” and ran to the bathroom to hide. Somehow, Mom managed to get me into the living room, where Santa gave me a rubber baby doll, but all the coaxing in the world didn't get me on his lap.

  Instead, my sweet baby brother, Bernie, was lifted to the place of honor, smiling and cooing. As soon as Santa put Bernie down, however, Bernie picked up my new baby doll. The doll was my one gift and I was frantic he'd harm her in some way. I quickly grabbed the doll by the feet — begging Bernie to let go of the doll's head. He wouldn't. With a whoosh and a splash of tiny white foam balls, I was left holding the doll's body, while her head rolled across the floor. I was crushed, but in her magic way, Mom somehow managed to stuff most of the foam balls back into my baby doll, and twist her forlorn head back on.

  My sister, four years older than I, was last to sit on Santa's lap. JoAnne feared if she didn't believe in Santa, she wouldn't get a present. She played the “perfect child” role all the way to the end, thrilled with the miniature sewing machine she received. I watched in amazement as JoAnne sat there hugging and kissing Santa for several minutes. Mom and Dad were so proud of her!

  But later, when Santa was saying goodbye, JoAnne ran back to him, hugged him tightly once more, and whispered, “Good job! Goodbye, Uncle Urbie.”

  When Christmas came the following year, I was braver, but it didn't matter — my siblings and I all had the mumps. Santa wouldn't be making an appearance in our house this year. To make matters worse, Dad had gotten a bonus and announced he'd purchased a very nice gift for us to share. He was very upset that we were all sick, especially on Christmas.