You can't imagine our surprise on Christmas morning when we scooted from our sick beds to see our presents. When we walked into our huge farmhouse living room, we found a gym set waiting for us, complete with a slide and swings!
Dad had stayed up late on Christmas Eve to assemble it — right in the house — just to cheer us up! We were the only children we ever knew who had a gym set in their living room! Despite the mumps, we enjoyed swinging and sliding all day long, and Mom and Dad enjoyed watching us!
But that was the fifties. Rather than a handful of gifts, more thought went into one special gift. Reflecting on my childhood, I believe families back then were closer. Going to church to celebrate the birth of Christ always came before parties and presents, and because sometimes we received only one gift, we learned to share. We also learned that sometimes less was quite a bit more, and even when the gifts were less than we had hoped for, we knew — no matter what — that we were always loved.
At the Five and Dime
BY ARTHUR BOWLER
Once upon a time, there were no malls. At Christmas time, you were forced to search for treasures in the stores of a large city or in the Mom and Pop shops on Main Street. I spent many afternoons roaming through Peterson's Five and Dime downtown. It had everything from candy to sewing accessories to snow shovels, but shopping there was not easy. It was known as “Grouch Peterson” in honor of its unfriendly proprietor, whose favorite expressions were “Don't touch that!” and “You break it, you take it.”
The store was dark and dusty and the wooden floor creaked as you walked through the aisles. This made it easier for Peterson to keep his eye on your every move over his half glasses, as if he suspected you were about to steal something. He was the owner and the only employee. If you had a question or, God forbid, a complaint or a return, you had to deal with him. He was not a popular man in town, and I suspect he knew it. There were seldom any sales in those days, and certainly never with Grouch Peterson.
Yet, in 1961, in a town with just a handful of businesses, there weren't too many choices for an eleven-year-old boy to find a Christmas present for his mother. Peterson's was it, and one day in December, I got a glimpse at the real Peterson, and he surprised me.
Snow had been falling heavily for hours, and it looked like school would be cancelled the next day. Long before the sun set that afternoon, the streets were bare. People had gone home early to avoid being stuck in the storm. Peterson lived alone above the store, so getting home was no problem for him. As I entered, I found neither customers nor Peterson himself. Back then, there was no music in stores, and the shop was dead quiet except for the occasional rumble of a snowplow as it made its way down Main Street. I started wandering through the aisles, feet creaking on the floorboards. When Peterson emerged quietly from the back room, it appeared — even to my eleven-year-old eyes — that he had been crying.
“Hello, Mr. Peterson,” I said quietly. There was no response, just a short wave of the hand. “Looks bad out there,” I muttered, searching for some kind of conversation.
“Um,” he answered.
He was holding a piece of paper in his hand. In unusual frankness, he explained that he was going to be alone for Christmas. A widower with only one child, his daughter, who lived abroad, had written him a letter — the only reliable form of communication from overseas — to say that she would not be able to make it home for the holiday. It was too much for Grouch Peterson, and for me.
For many years, I had seen Peterson as a cranky old man, to be avoided and made fun of. Now, I felt sorry for him.
Without a second thought, I looked him straight in the eye and said, “Mr. Peterson, why don't you come to my dad's church on Christmas Eve? It'll be real pretty, with lots of candles and nice songs, and afterwards a few people always come to our house for something to eat and to be together for a while. Why don't you come, too?”
Peterson stared at me with a blank expression. The light of a passing snowplow flashed across his chiseled face, wrinkled from years of work and loneliness. Our eyes locked, and after a moment of silence that stretched into what seemed like forever, he finally answered.
“Well, maybe I will,” he said with the hint of a smile.
And so, among the faithful at the candlelight Christmas service, there was a surprising new visitor, a man who had cried out for one of the most basic of human needs. Although I felt really good about what I had done and I never looked at Peterson as a grouch again, it wasn't until I was a grown man that I recognized that simple act for what it was. When I did, tears pooled in my eyes and a feeling of pride for the little boy who had walked into Peterson's store that afternoon and offered friendship to a grouchy old man poured from me. And as I wiped my eyes, I felt prouder still of the grouchy old man who was able to accept that friendship for what it was.
Santa Is Real
BY JO E. GRAY
The nation was at war with Germany the year I was in fourth grade. My father was working as a civilian on a naval base far from our North Texas home. As Christmas approached, my four brothers and I kept our fingers crossed and added one new line to our nightly prayers, “Please bring Daddy home for Christmas.”
Life on the farm that winter didn't provide much time for idleness; we were kept busy with school and chores. Living on a farm had some luxuries — we didn't go hungry. We had a couple of cows that provided milk and butter, and chickens were kept as a source of eggs and as Sunday dinner, which was shared with the circuit minister or the spinster teacher who was given housing with another neighbor.
Even though the war brought food rationing, we knew there would be a homemade cake topped high with caramel frosting because the neighbors often gave their rationing stamps to Momma to help her provide for her growing family, and Momma knew how to make things stretch. Her talent became obvious as worn pants were mended and handed down to the next child in line. When clothing had no life left, they were made into strips, braided, and turned into rugs for added warmth on cold linoleum floors.
Life went on much the same during the long months Daddy was away. The chores still had to be done on a daily basis, and the winter days brought a constant demand for firewood to keep the house heated. There were still eggs to be collected, animals to be fed, and we still had to do the most demanding of all chores — milking the cows every morning and every evening, every day of the year.
The one thing we all had to look forward to during those short, cold winter days was Christmas. It meant the annual Christmas production at school, followed by an appearance by Santa. Every child who attended school would have a part in the pageant, and every family would hurry through the chores in order to attend the evening event. This year was no different. Santa came into the building on cue. Every child received a red stocking containing a shining red apple, an orange, and a piece or two of hard ribbon candy.
After Santa's visit, families bundled up, hugged their friends, and promised to visit during the holidays. Then, carrying tired young children, everyone made their way back home, some traveling several miles on foot while others were fortunate enough to have automobiles and enough rationing stamps to keep the cars outfitted with rubber tires and gasoline.
As we trudged home through the crunchy snow, I wondered how we would celebrate Christmas in our customary fashion while trying to pretend everything was normal. There would be a Christmas tree standing in the corner of our living room, as far away from the wood-burning stove as possible, and like the previous years, it would be decorated with paper chains of red and green construction paper held together with flour and water glue. The tree would be a small cedar, cut from our 180-acre farm. The only real difference was that without Daddy, my brothers and I would have to select the tree and haul it home alone.
One trip into town provided all the Christmas shopping we would do. Gifts were bought at the Five and Dime from proceeds earned from collecting pecans in the creek bed. Trying to keep the purchased items hidden from one another added to the thrill of hav
ing picked the gifts out without adult help. We each chipped in for a special gift for Momma — a gift that was always selected by the oldest brother. I still recall the bottles of toilet water and pastel-colored boxes of bath powder that were carefully opened on Christmas morning and the big smile and sincere thank-you hug for each of us.
Of course, Santa Claus would still come to those who believed. I wanted desperately to believe, even though the kids in my class had made fun of me as I fought to defend my innocence. In order to test my faith, I prayed. I was convinced that if Santa granted me a special wish, I'd know for sure he was real. I agreed to forget about the doll with white boots and long dark curls as pictured in the Sears & Roebuck catalogue, if only Daddy would be home for Christmas.
“I want just one thing,” I whispered each evening as I knelt beside my bed. “If you are real Santa, bring Daddy home for Christmas.”
A week before Christmas, however, we children were told that Daddy wouldn't be with us this year. The trip was too far and gasoline was another rationed item. But regardless of Momma's words, I continued to secretly wish for Santa to bring Daddy home.
Neighbors stopped by to exchange Christmas wishes. An out-of-town aunt arrived with gifts for each of us: spinning wooden tops for my brothers, and, for me, a baby doll that was capable of drinking and wetting. The doll with painted hair brought some gladness to my disappointment, but I couldn't accept the fact that we were going to celebrate Christmas without Daddy. Who would get up early and start the fire? It just felt wrong to be happy.
I stayed in my bedroom most of the time. I had no desire to join in festivities that seemed meaningless. After all, if Santa was not real, then my only hope of seeing Daddy on Christmas morning would never come true. My older brothers seemed resigned to the fact that Daddy wouldn't be with us on Christmas. They teased that I was a baby to believe in Santa.
Before going to sleep on Christmas Eve, I offered God and Santa one last desperate prayer, put my head under the covers, and cried myself to sleep.
The house was still cold when I awoke the next morning. Listening closely, I heard someone building a fire in the big potbelly stove. As I laid there, hoping upon hope that it was Daddy making the fire, hushed voices drifted through the thin walls of my bedroom and I heard a male voice.
I threw off the layer of heavy warm quilts and hurried across the cold linoleum floor to the adjoining living room.
“I knew it!” I shouted as I spotted Daddy beside the stove. With tears of joy streaming down my face, I raced across the room and threw my arms around him. “Oh, Daddy,” I shouted to my surprised father. “Santa is real!”
Seeing Is Believing
BY PATSY THOMAS
Christmas of 1951 will forever stand apart from the many other holidays I have had in my lifetime. At six years old, a subtle change occurred — a division of the two worlds I lived in. Up until that point, I had not questioned the magic of the Christmas season; however, this year was different. At the age of six, I was growing up, yet I had a treasure trove of remarkable fantasies in my young mind, and I wasn't ready to let go.
My father worked for the Frisco Railroad, which meant shift work. When Daddy was preparing to go to work at four o'clock that Christmas Eve afternoon, it began to snow — a rare occurrence in Enid, Oklahoma. I sat on the old-fashioned sofa, pressed my nose to the frosty glass panes of our living room window, and watched the white flakes float down from the sky. Daddy eased onto the couch to sit beside me.
I looked up at him, staring at the black patch that covered his left eye. The week before, he had been injured on the job and gotten a sliver of steel in his eye. My younger sister and brothers were afraid of the black patch, but I liked his pirate look. It reminded me of one of the characters from Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island, a book Mama had recently read to me.
“Daddy, are you sure Santa will come?” I asked. “We don't have a chimney for him to bring the toys down.”
Daddy ruffled my blonde curls and looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “Don't worry, honey.” He stood up from the sofa and lifted me into his arms. “When I get home at midnight, I'll be waiting for him at the front door to let him in.”
Perfect! I should have known Daddy would think of everything! I gave Daddy a bear hug and he put me down, tweaking my nose. I watched him put on his coat and reach for his lunch pail. When Daddy leaned down to kiss Mama goodbye, my younger brothers and sister hid behind her dress, preparing for a morning ritual they loved. As soon as he had kissed Mama, he peeked around her and quickly shouted, “Boo!” Off the little ones ran to the bedroom, giggling all the way.
After supper and our baths, Mama began the evening ritual of tucking us in. We begged her for one more story, one more trip to the bathroom, and one more sip of water. We were all too excited to sleep. How could we bear to wait until morning? Being the oldest, I made constant trips to the living room to make sure all was ready. Were the cookies and milk set out for Santa? What of the chopped carrots for the reindeer?
Mama looked over her shoulder from where she sat on the sofa, hearing my unvoiced worries. “Patsy, Santa won't come with your presents if you don't get to sleep soon.” Finally, she came to sit on the edge of my bed that I shared with my little sister, Kathy. We were snuggled deep under the covers, giggling.
“Mama, I hope Santa brings me the baby doll I asked for,” I said with a big yawn.
“Me, too,” Kathy added sleepily.
Mama smiled. “I'm sure you girls won't be disappointed.”
The next thing I knew, Daddy and Mama were standing by the bed shaking me gently. “Come see what Santa has brought you!” Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I bounded from the bed and hurried toward the living room.
At the threshold, I stopped. The other kids pushed past me to sit beside Mama. They crowded around her on the floor near the tree. Daddy sat on the sofa watching me. As his one good eye met mine, he smiled and winked. I needn't have worried about Santa finding his way to us. My dad had met him at the door, just as he had promised.
The room was beautiful, aglow with Christmas magic. I could feel Santa's strong presence still lingering in the air. Everything I had ever imagined in my fantasy world was true and real. Nothing else could come near to the feeling of absolute wonderment I felt at that very moment.
Then, I saw something I had not expected — not even in my wildest dreams! An easel with a green chalkboard was propped next to the sofa. My eyes fixed on the board, reading a message printed only for me in colored chalk. “Hope you have a Merry Christmas, Patsy. Love, Santa.”
“He's real!” I breathed.
The proof was right there in his printed words. Since my siblings were too young to read, I couldn't prove to them that Santa was real — nor did I realize there was no need to do so. It hadn't dawned on me that none of them had ever questioned or needed the evidence that I had suddenly required. But no more; my questions had all been answered! Caught up in that awesome moment, my faith was completely restored. Only one thing was missing — the sound I'd been listening for. Then there it was! I ran to the window and pressed my face to the pane. Sleigh bells!
The glistening snow was still falling, but through it I saw what my heart needed to see. High above the darkened streets a faint red light — Santa's sleigh! — was still visible in the early morning sky. I watched as the light faded out of sight, my little heart swollen with the knowledge that Santa really was real, and that my Dad had opened the door for him, just like he'd said he would.
Let There Be Light
BY EMMARIE LEHNICK
I ran the one block from school to my house, clutching the Santa cookie I got at my second grade Christmas party. Bounding onto the porch, I opened the front door, yelling, “Mama, I have a surprise!”
Mama sat in her rocker, making a rag rug in front of the open gas stove. December 1940 marked almost two years since she had been in the tuberculosis sanatorium. I could see by her flushed cheeks that she felt sick again today.<
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“Mama, look at this cookie!” I exclaimed. “My teacher and her mother baked Santa cookies for our party, but I didn't eat mine. I rewrapped it for you to see. When Ludie gets home, we can share it.”
Mama carefully folded back the wax paper around the six-inch red and white decorated cookie. “Oh, my goodness! It's just perfect!”
“My teacher had a real Christmas tree in our room with lights and beautiful colored balls all over it. It was the prettiest tree I have ever seen,” I exclaimed as I glanced up at the red and green paper rope that looped from corner to corner of the room, with a paper star hanging at the center crossing.
Mama's brown eyes followed mine. “After we lost the farm during the Depression, money has been kind of scarce, as you know. But next year,” Mama straightened her back, jutting out her chin with determination, “we will have a tree with lights. Lots of lights. I promise.”
When my sister, Ludie, came in from school, Mama divided the Santa cookie into three parts. Since it was my cookie, I got the head and one arm. We savored it, licking the icing until every bit was gone.
After eating an early supper, Papa, Mama, Ludie, and I dressed up in our best clothes and walked the seven blocks to our church. We walked everywhere because we didn't have a car. The crisp night air numbed my nose and stung my cheeks. Most of the churches in our little town held their Christmas programs on the same night, so we had lots of company on the walk.
Mom chose a seat at the back of the church, which gave me a fright. What if I couldn't see Santa from here? I knew he would show up at the end of the service, but he always stayed at the front of the church. I shouldn't have worried. I heard the jingling of bells first, then Santa came in from the back of the auditorium and dashed right past me, carrying a big, red bulging sack! It happened so fast, at first I wasn't sure. But when Papa let me stand up in the seat so I could see better, I knew I had seen right. And what I had seen was very confusing.
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