Christmas Through a Child's Eyes

by Helen Szymanski

  “Well, that wasn't so bad,” my wife noted.

  “I'll be laying on the railroad tracks if you need me,” I replied, totally exhausted from the whole ordeal.

  The rest of the day passed without incident, but by bedtime, Natalie still had not gotten back to us about her replacement gift and I began to get nervous.

  “Don't worry about it,” Marsha said before we went to sleep that night. “She's just disappointed. If she doesn't tell us something in a day or two, we'll ask her again.”

  The following day, I found the note.

  The kids were at school, Marsha was at work, and I was straightening the house when I noticed a slip of paper sticking out of Natalie's Christmas stocking. I took the note to the kitchen table, smoothed it out, and read the following words:

  Dear Santa and Jesus,

  My dad has been sick and he can't buy me a computer. But that's ok. Can you bring me a puppy instead? If you bring me a puppy, then my Mom and Dad won't have to spend any money. And can you please make my Dad better, too?

  Merry Christmas and I love you.

  That evening I showed the note to my wife. We looked at each other, unable to speak. Finally, she broke the silence.

  “Santa and Jesus,” she said, shaking her head. “Talk about hauling out the big guns.”

  I nodded, proud of my young daughter. She was giving up a lot to make sure things worked out for her parents.

  “If you get the dog,” I said sheepishly, “I'll take care of getting better.” Marsha nodded and squeezed my hand. We both knew noncompliance with this particular note was not an option. A canine would be joining our family.

  It turned out to be a wonderful Christmas for all of us. The little ones got a few trucks and dolls, socks and underwear, and enjoyed playing with the boxes and wrappings a great deal. Our eldest — much wiser than her nine years let on — got Baby, a cocker spaniel whose first home had been a Dumpster. Marsha got a bottle of rank perfume and an armload of child-made treasures. And I got two presents: I got my health back, for which I thank both Santa and Jesus, and I got a reminder that the best gifts are the ones that money can't buy.

  Time of Delight

  BY VIVIENNE MACKIE

  “Shh!” Denise whispered. “Mom will come!”

  But as our blanket tent collapsed on top of the three of us, even Denise dissolved into another bout of giggling.

  I was the only one who noticed the bedroom door open, as Mom peered in, then closed it again quietly. She knew what was going on, but realized it was a special time for us three girls, a special time that was repeated each year at Christmas.

  Many people don't have good or treasured memories of Christmas and the holiday season, so I feel very lucky. I know from experience that good memories are not linked to money or how many presents you get for Christmas. Rather, good memories come from having family and special friends close by, and from creating a tradition or ritual that binds people together and makes them feel part of a select group.

  Our tradition revolved around Turkish Delight.

  Even though our family had little money to spare when I was growing up in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), we always loved Christmas. Christmas was when my Gran and Grandad drove their little car — loaded down with mysterious packets and a basket of yummy goodies — all the way from Umtali, a town about sixty miles away, to stay with us.

  They slept in my small bedroom, which I didn't have to share, like my sisters did. So, while they visited, I slept with two of my four sisters, Denise and Veronita, who were just younger than me. We slept head to toe, with my pillow at the end of the bed, and strangely, we did sleep — a bit.

  It was a time of intense anticipation and excitement, a buildup to the big day, so late at night we'd still be whispering together. And, quite by accident, a special sister ritual developed between us that included Turkish Delight.

  Only at Christmas did Mom and Dad buy the sweet candy called Turkish Delight. Because it was so scarce, it became a symbol of the season to us. A week before Gran and Gran-dad arrived, we all went to Mrs. Simpson's general shop in the village, hoping and praying that the Turkish Delight had already arrived. It had! We were lucky that Mrs. Simpson put in a special order to a big shop in the capital of Salisbury, because many people in our small town wanted the delicacy, too! We gazed at the big open box on the counter with layers of Turkish Delight nestled on soft pink-and-white tissue paper and our mouths watered. Pink-and-white paper for the pink-and-white sweet seemed totally appropriate to us. One year, there had been green tissue too, which we later discovered was for the pistachio-flavored Delight. Powdered sugar coated each of the pieces, which were cut into neat blocks about one inch square.

  The number of pieces we purchased depended on how much money Mom and Dad had saved throughout the year, and that number was always divisible by nine. That way Gran, Grandad, Mom, Dad, me, and all four of my sisters would have the same number of pieces.

  “I think we saved three pounds this year,” Mom said to Dad. “Hmm, then we can buy about seventy-five pieces?”

  “Vee,” Dad called, “come and do the sum. We need a number divided by nine so everyone gets the same.”

  At nine years old, I was able to decipher the figure quickly. “I think seventy-two is the closest,” I said, my fingers and mind calculating as fast as I could. “So … we all get … um … eight pieces!”

  Mrs. Simpson allowed us girls to help put our family's Delight into a box, and we gleefully licked our fingers. Oh, how sweet! How special!

  “Remember girls,” Mom said once we got home. “You have eight pieces each.” She looked at us, one at a time. “You can eat them whenever you want, but when they're gone — that's it.” We all nodded. We never questioned this, as it was completely fair. No one got more than anyone else, but we each could choose when to eat our share.

  Veronita, Denise, and I always ate ours at night, in the bed, under the blanket. In lucky years, we had enough pieces to last about three or four nights — eight or nine pieces each, two or three each night. This was a lucky year! We each carefully picked out one white, one pink, and maybe one green, put them on a plate, and set the plate in the place of honor: the chest of drawers next to the bed, where we could peek at it frequently before bedtime. No problem getting us to bed on those nights!

  I watched the door click shut and smiled. My sisters didn't even realize Mom had looked in. It was doubly dark: The lights were off, and we were in our blanket tent with its special, mysterious feel. We whispered, we giggled, and we savored the sweet slowly — to make the special pleasure stretch halfway through the night — licking our fingers carefully after each piece of Delight.

  While we were in our own little world, enjoying Turkish Delight and each other's company, we told one another what we had bought or made for the others in the family, and wondered aloud what we'd get in return. That night, I sensed somehow that what we were experiencing was a special gift in itself.

  Today, when I see boxes of Turkish Delight in specialty shops, my mouth waters and a flutter of anticipation begins. I hear girlish giggles and warm memories flood over me. I am transported back in time to that special place beneath the blanket tent, where whispered secrets and wishes were sacred. I remember the feel of biting into the soft stickiness, reveling in the fact that the Delight would stick to my teeth and perhaps last longer. And, as the sensation of eating something so delightfully special that it entered our home only once a year enveloped me, I realized that, perhaps even more special than the Turkish Delight, was the perfect enjoyment of eating it with my sisters, companionably, in the dark.

  Knowing that because we had Turkish Delight in our possession meant our family was wealthy, in all ways that counted, is a good memory — a time of delight — that will bless me forever.

  A Different Kind of Carol

  BY AMY AMMONS MULLIS

  The old two-storied house I grew up in was a multigabled thing with a long porch of uneven boards that covered the entire f
ront, boasting a grand picture window that simply begged for a Christmas tree. Because the house was heated only by fireplaces and cooled by breezes through open windows, Christmas was the only time of year that the living room saw any activity. The rest of the time, it stayed closed and quiet, the stillness and silence waiting for December, when the pop and crackle of burning firewood sounded in the grate. From the inside, the big picture window reflected the firelight like a pictured echo, and from the outside it framed the enchanted glow of our Christmas tree so beautifully it brought tears to my eyes.

  Over the years, vivid memories — bits and pieces of storybook Christmases — can still be pulled from my mind as easily as decorations were pulled out of the great wooden trunk in the closet beneath the stairs. I recall with pleasure the simple act of watching Mama put the finishing touches on arrangements of plastic poinsettias and shiny silver balls on the mantelpiece, and tromping through the snow in the front yard to see how the tree looked from outside. After all the decorations were in place, Mom swept the old green carpet to make the tired nap stand up like a rug of soft grass. But my favorite memory is a musical one that rings merrily in my ear from time to time.

  In our house, you could expect to hear almost any kind of music. Mama played Gilbert and Sullivan operettas and Beethoven's symphonies on the hi-fi, Daddy played the world's greatest polka tunes and the complete set of Hank Williams's greatest hits from Reader's Digest, and, as time went by, my eldest sister kept us up to date with the latest hits from the Beatles. Best of all, though, were the times Dad would pick up the old guitar that was always within reach beside his favorite chair and strum some tunes from days gone by while he hummed along.

  “Sing it. Sing the words!” I'd beg as I swung on the arm of his chair, convinced he made the lyrics up on the spot.

  Often, just to tease me, he'd sing a line or two of some silly song he'd picked up in his travels when he'd served on a destroyer in the North Atlantic, and on a submarine in the Pacific in World War II, his eyes twinkling as he waited for the question he knew I would ask.

  “Is that a real song?” I'd ask, my brow wrinkled in concentration. “Are you making that up?”

  My all-time favorite was “Wabash Cannonball.” If I was quiet and pretended I wasn't listening, he'd sing a verse or two and end up with that lively chorus made famous by Roy Acuff years before.

  One Christmas, when I was five or perhaps six, the family gathered around the fireplace, holiday cheer wrapped around us like a cozy comforter. We cracked almonds and walnuts from the fruit basket and rescued roasting oranges from the toes of stockings hanging dangerously low on the mantle. Absentmindedly, Daddy pulled out his guitar and leaned back in his chair contentedly, his legs stretched toward the warmth of the fireplace, and began to strum. When he started to sing, I tore my thoughts from Christmas gifts and goodies and scooted toward him, dragging the newest addition to my baby doll family along with me.

  I don't have a library of childhood memories that I can call up on demand. As times change and seasons fade, details recoil on shadowy tendrils of half-forgotten thought, but I remember the warmth of the fire on my face that Christmas, and the music that filled the room as Daddy played my favorite ditty on his old guitar. I can see him lounging comfortably, head back and eyes closed, singing the chorus to “Wabash Cannonball” in a clear voice. I remember thinking that I'd better listen with all my might because I never knew when Daddy might sing it all the way through again. And as the last notes trailed into a blend of crackling firewood mixed with the laughter of my brother and sisters, I knew that “Wabash Cannonball” would always be my favorite Christmas carol.

  The Lonely Christmas Tree

  BY MARILYN JASKULKE

  Family fun always meant picking out the Christmas tree together. Boots, mittens, and caps were part of the attire for our snowy adventure in the Midwest. Then off we went: four boys and Mom and Dad all piled into the family sedan in search of the perfect tree.

  The sign at the big lot read, “Christmas Trees for Sale.” With only a few days left before Christmas, the selection had dwindled. Most of the trees appeared scrawny, not like the lovely full tree we expected to find. But one of the fir trees had a sad and lonely “please take me home” look, which I couldn't resist. I immediately felt bad for the tree and made up my mind it would be that tree or no tree.

  “That's it,” I piped. “We have to take that one!”

  Disgruntled looks appeared on the faces of our sons. They got no sympathy from their father, however, for Cliff understood my heart as much as I did.

  “Tie it up on the top of the car,” Cliff said without batting an eyelash.

  “This was supposed to be fun,” my eldest son, DuWayne, muttered as he pulled his stocking cap down over his nose.

  The tree shivered and shook on the ride home but arrived minus only a few needles, which was good, because my husband wasn't through with it yet.

  “Get the saw,” DuWayne said to no one in particular. “And get the metal tree stand, too. We need to get this tree into the water. It doesn't have much time left.”

  Within minutes, the creative stage had begun. Father and sons began hacking at the lower branches to make it stand straight, something this tree had never done in its life, but their progress was impressive.

  “Well … let's cut this branch off down here and maybe that will help,” Craig — another son — added, looking at me hopefully.

  I felt assured this was the right tree for us. Our family had rescued it from being the loneliest tree on the lot. Who among us wouldn't be proud of that? The day had been a great adventure and surely this tree would be a symbol of our time spent together.

  The tree was tilted once more and returned to the tree stand.

  “That's it!” we all chimed at once. Somewhere in the background, I heard the strains of “Oh Christmas Tree,” and felt myself exhale happily. My mind raced, thinking of the gifts that would be placed under our perfect Christmas tree, all wrapped in fancy red and green Christmas gift paper.

  Then, reality set in. The sad and lonely Christmas tree I had chosen looked sad and lonely no more. It looked completely devastated. And as I looked at my sons, I realized that all interest in decorating the tree had disappeared.

  “Let's go outside and make a snow fort,” offered one son. In a wink, all four sons were out the door.

  Christmas doldrums walked in and replaced the happiness I'd felt only a few minutes earlier. I lost my vision of perfectly wrapped gifts beneath what should have been a sparkling beauty.

  Propped in a corner, the tree was left for me to decide its fate.

  When Christmas Day arrived, a beautiful tree stood beaming with lights, tinsel, strings of popcorn, and cranberries. All the nostalgic decorations from previous years had been unboxed and hung on each limb, adding a delightful atmosphere to the cozy living room.

  It was not the tree we had chosen on our snowy day escapade. The boys and their dad had spent another adventurous day Christmas tree shopping — this time without me. But on their own, they managed to bring home a beauty! It filled the corner of the room, standing tall and handsome.

  Visions of sugar plums once again filled my head. The gifts would soon be wrapped and arranged beneath our beautiful new tree. I continued stirring up a batch of gingerbread cookies, now designated for hanging on the tree, rather than placed on a cookie plate.

  “Can we eat some of them first?” one child begged.

  “Sure, there's more in the oven,” I replied with a grin.

  “Oh, that's what I smelled when I came in the door,” said Cliff. Trying hard to hide the smirk on his face, he asked innocently, “What happened to our other tree?”

  I let the smirk go. After all, it was Christmas. I pointed my spoon toward the house next door where our widowed neighbor lived all alone.

  “The other day I noticed she didn't have any decorations up. And since I made a wreath out of our first tree, I was wondering if she might like to have it.”r />
  Four boys bundled themselves against the cold once more and headed for the neighbor's house. “Would you like to have this Christmas wreath?” the bravest asked.

  With tears in her eyes, the elderly woman reached for it. Smiling at the boys, she replied softly, “No one comes to see me at Christmas time. My family is all gone. I don't even have a Christmas tree anymore.” She gazed at the wreath with tear-filled eyes. “This is the loveliest most precious wreath I've ever laid eyes on. Will you please help me hang it on my front door?”

  “Sure, I will,” said our eldest, anxious to help. Shyly, our youngest reached into his pocket and extracted a gingerbread cookie he'd been saving. With no thought to himself, he handed the cookie to his neighbor. Then he smiled, the words “Merry Christmas” spilling from his mouth happily.

  The lonely tree, now transformed into a Christmas wreath, had found a home, and in the process, our boys had befriended a lonely soul during what should be the happiest time of the year.

  Belonging to Winter

  BY FAITH SHERRILL

  It was a cold winter for Phoenix, Arizona, and the trees were covered in a thin layer of frost. My grandfather poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and sat down slowly. I watched as he laid his newspaper in front of him and took in an exhausted breath. When he exhaled, his breath extended out into the cold, the puff of air turning white as if a soft cloud had left his chest.

  He called me over to sit beside him as we waited for the first customers of the morning. The trees were all lined in horizontal rows, their bowls filled with water, as they, too, waited. A car approached and I sat up a little straighter as Grandpa's sharp blue eyes darted toward the chain-link fence. No luck. They were only trying to turn around in the dirt lot. It was a slow year for selling Christmas trees.