I pulled the card from the box, handed it to my husband, and put the tea kettle on. Such a special night called for hot chocolate.
“I can't believe it,” he said as he pressed his finger to his lips and held the card at an angle for me to see the check.
Two hundred and fifty dollars! This hardworking farming family had given us two hundred and fifty dollars!
The next evening, I went shopping while the children thought I'd gone to help my mother decorate Christmas cookies. Walking through the store with money to spend seemed more dream than reality. Tears threatened each time I placed an item in my cart. My sister was coming home, we had three hundred and fifty dollars to spend, and we had enough groceries to make a fine Christmas dinner.
My family has never been more thankful than we were that Christmas morning, when we read the notes in our thankfulness box and wrote heartfelt thank-you cards to all of the generous people in our life.
Memories of a Refugee Camp Christmas
BY RENIE BURGHARDT
During World War II, we had many sad Christmases. Fear always lurked in some nearby corner. During those times we observed Christmas mainly in our hearts. So, in 1947 when we arrived in the refugee camp in Austria just a few weeks before Christmas, I wasn't expecting anything different. At the age of eleven, I had become resigned to not having much.
The refugee camp, with its wooden barracks and dusty lanes, was pretty drab. But we had a place to sleep, food to eat, and were outfitted with warm clothes, donated to the refugee effort from various generous-minded countries like the United States, Canada, and Great Britain. We considered ourselves pretty fortunate. To top it off, since the camp was located in Carinthia, one of the most scenic areas of Austria, we had some of the most beautiful views available.
As Christmas approached, the refugee camp school I attended made plans to help us celebrate the holiday as a group. In the barracks we lived in, our private sleeping spaces were tiny cubicles with no room for individual celebrations, but the school had a large auditorium where a donated Christmas tree was set up, which we children had helped decorate with our own handmade ornaments. There were candles on the tree, too, which were to be lit Christmas Eve, just like it used to be done in Hungary before the war. Additionally, we were rehearsing the school Christmas play, to be presented on Christmas Eve. I had a small part in the play, as the angel who comes to give the message to the shepherds about the birth of the Savior, and was very pleased and excited about the part.
On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, my grandparents and I decided to take a walk to the small town of Spittal, a few miles from camp. Grandfather felt that even though we had no money to buy anything, taking in the Christmas sights and smells would be worth the walk. The town's cobbled streets, with its many small shops, were decorated with fir branches, and small trees in shop windows glowed with lit candles. People hustled and bustled, getting last-minute items for the holiday, and wishing each other “Froliche Weinachten!”
We stopped in front of the bakery and inhaled the delicious smells coming from the door every time someone opened it. I gazed at the Napoleons in the window, my mouth watering. “Oh, they must taste so delicious,” I said wistfully.
“And that poppy seed kalacs (kuchen) looks wonderful, too,” Grandmother sighed.
“Maybe this wasn't such a good idea,” Grandfather said. “Now everyone is hungry for something they cannot have.”
“But who is to say that you cannot have a Napoleon, or some of that poppy seed kuchen?” a voice behind us asked, as a woman in a fur coat and hat took my hand. “Come on! Let us all go into the bakery.”
“Oh, no!” I protested, trying to pull my hand from her grip. But she wouldn't take no for an answer. Inside the bakery, she bought a large Napoleon square and some kuchen, just for us!
“Froliche Weinachten!” she called merrily as she disappeared into a crowd of people.
I gazed in awe at her retreating form, my mind forming one thought: I had been visited by a Christmas angel in a fur coat!
As I sunk my teeth into that delicious custard-filled Napoleon on the way back to the refugee camp, powdered sugar spilled down my face and chest. I hugged myself in delight. I was already so happy this Christmas, and I knew there were more wonderful surprises ahead!
On Christmas Eve, the candles on the community Christmas tree were lit and all the adults in camp came to watch our Christmas play. Everyone remembered their lines, and the choir sang beautiful Hungarian Christmas songs. We all had tears in our eyes by the time they were finished. Then each child was given one present.
When I opened mine, I found a pair of fuzzy red mittens and a matching scarf. Inside one of the mittens, there was a little note, written in English, that read: Merry Christmas From Mary Anne, in Buff alo, New York, United States of America. I was stunned to receive a gift from a girl all the way in America!
When I awoke on Christmas morning, the morning sun, as well as happy noises, poured in through the thin wooden boards of the barrack.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Grandmother said. “Merry Christmas!”
“Why is there so much noise out there already?” I asked sleepily.
“Well, I guess some early rising children are enjoying all the newly fallen snow,” she said calmly as a smile played about her lips.
“Snow!” I leapt from the cot and scrambled to dress. “How wonderful! And where is Grandfather?”
“He and some of the other men are shoveling paths, so people can go for their breakfast, and to church.”
Within seconds, I was outside, marveling at Nature's power to turn a drab refugee camp into a pristine winter wonderland! Nature's gift was free for everyone to enjoy. It wasn't long before the surrounding snow-covered hills were filled with squealing Austrian children, enjoying the snow as much as the refugee children did.
Later, as I gazed at the majestic snow-covered mountains with their snow-dusted spruce trees — so breathtakingly beautiful — my heart filled with joy. With tears in my eyes, I thanked God for the most wonderful Christmas I had ever had, and one I knew I would never forget.
Grandpa's Love
BY STELLA WARD WHITLOCK
“Look, Grandpa!” I shouted. “No hands!” I flung my arms up and then stretched them out for balance. Thick auburn pigtails bounced below my bike helmet.
A horn blared, tires screeched, and I swerved. My bike hit the curb, flipped, and slid sideways, wheels spinning crazily. I hit the road in front of the skidding car.
Grandpa ran to kneel beside me. “Stella! Are you all right?”I lay still, eyes closed as the right front tire nudged my helmet. “Stella, honey!” Grandpa touched my face. “Can you hear me?”
I moaned, struggling to get up. “Who's pulling my hair, Grandpa?” My arms and legs worked, but I couldn't lift my head. The tire on my braids held me prisoner.
“I'll back the car off,” said the driver.
“Wait!” ordered Grandpa. “You might hurt her worse.”
“I'll get my scissors,” said a neighbor. “We'll cut off her braids.”
“No!” I protested. “Don't cut my hair! Please!”
“We won't, sweetheart,” Grandpa said.
“I know!” I exclaimed. “Just push the car backwards.”
When the pulling on my hair stopped, I stood up, removed my helmet, and rubbed my tingling scalp. Grandpa checked me inch by inch. A scraped elbow was my only injury.
I examined the red bicycle. “Not even scratched,” I said in relief. “If I'd wrecked his bike, Chris'd never let me borrow it again.”
“You're fortunate,” Grandpa said. “Do you realize what could've happened?”
“Yeah, another inch and …” I shuddered. “Grandpa, do we have to tell Mama? If we do, she'll never get me a bike for Christmas.”
“I won't tell her,” Grandpa answered.
After a pause, I said, “I guess I'll tell her myself.”
“Good girl!” Grandpa said.
When I to
ld Mama, she didn't forbid me to ride anymore. She just talked about safety, to which I promised never to ride “no-hands” again.
As I kissed Grandpa goodnight, he gave me an extra-big hug. That was the last hug I ever got from him. His funeral was three days later.
I sat on the front pew with Mama. I felt like crying, but didn't. I hadn't cried the night the ambulance took Grandpa … not when Mama told me Grandpa had died … not when I saw him lying in his casket. And I wasn't going to cry now.
Dry-eyed, I stared straight ahead, trying not to see Grandpa lying there looking like he did every morning when I tiptoed in to kiss him goodbye before school. Wake up, Grandpa, I thought. Open your eyes. Tell me you'll see me this afternoon. A heart attack, my mother had said. But still I prayed, Dear God, please let Grandpa wake up.
The minister read from the Bible, but I didn't listen. How could Grandpa leave me? Did he know I loved him? Had I ever told him? The last day of his life — the day of my accident when that woman had wanted to cut my hair — Grandpa had been so reassuring. Had I thanked him then? Why hadn't I told him I loved him?
At the cemetery, the minister talked again, then took my mother's hand and murmured a few words. We drove home in silence. I felt as if I'd left my heart at the cemetery.
On Christmas Eve, I went to church with Mama. The music was beautiful, as usual. Poinsettias, candles, crèche — it was all there. All except Grandpa. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Why didn't I ever tell you, Grandpa? It's too late now.
Why didn't I tell you I loved you?
I woke early on Christmas morning. The lump was still in my throat. Slowly, I pulled on my jeans and T-shirt and walked into the living room. There stood the Christmas tree, with wrapped gifts beneath it. And there stood … a bicycle — a shiny blue Schwinn with matching blue helmet — just what I'd always wanted. But now, somehow, it wasn't the same.
Mama stood in the doorway. “Don't you want to ride it, Stella?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said listlessly. Then I noticed the white envelope on the handlebars, with my name on it in Grandpa's handwriting.
I looked at Mama, who nodded and smiled. “Open it, honey.” I ripped open the envelope and read:
Dearest Stella,
I hope riding this bicycle gives you as much joy as seeing you ride gives me.
I'll always love you, Grandpa
For the first time since Grandpa died, tears came. Grandpa had gotten this bike for me before he died. He said he would always love me. And of course he knew I loved him, too. Suddenly, I felt gladness sweep over me.
I grabbed the handlebars and wheeled my shiny new bike into the daylight. I put on my helmet, jumped onto my bike, and started pedaling. I flung my arms up for a moment, then grasped the handlebars quickly.
“Look, Grandpa!” I shouted. “Two hands! Thank you! I love you, too!”
A Gift for Veronica
BY CHERIE TROPED
At the age of thirteen, Veronica was tiny. She wore her hair pulled back in two braids, which were always neatly tied with ribbons. Every Saturday, she painfully made her way into the hospital, pausing to rest for a moment at the Information Desk where I worked as a volunteer.
My greetings to her were always rewarded with a luminous smile, as she made her way to the elevator for her kidney dialysis treatment. I noticed she was always alone.
“My grandma drops me off,” she explained. “It makes her too sad to be in the hospital. You see, my momma died here last year.”Veronica and her mother shared more than just memories — they shared lupus — an autoimmune disease that literally attacks the body from within.
Veronica's kidneys were badly damaged. One had been removed and the other wasn't working well enough to cleanse her body of toxins. Veronica admitted the doctors were worried about her and that she was scared. She needed to have her remaining kidney removed.
On Christmas Eve morning, I noticed her name on the Intensive Care unit of the hospital patient roster and raced up to see her. She looked even tinier in the huge hospital bed with her brightly colored ribbons spread across the pillow. Still, she managed a huge smile when she saw me.
“Well, they took my other kidney,” she said. “But the doctors are looking for a new one for me.” Her smile widened. “Maybe I'll get a new kidney for Christmas.” Exhausted from the surgery and the pain, and the knowledge that without a new kidney her life would be even harder, Veronica succumbed to blessed sleep.
Unless they found a donor organ for her, she would be forced to have dialysis treatments for the rest of her life. I looked around the hospital room. Nothing in it spoke of the holiday season. Instead of Christmas ornaments, tinsel, and a stocking, there was only an I.V. pole.
Being Jewish, my family doesn't celebrate Christmas, but I knew something had to be done for Veronica, and done that night. It was Christmas Eve, and no matter what, this child needed a Christmas (or Chanukah) miracle.
I didn't know what to do. Because I had to remain at my desk and the hospital was short-staffed due to the holiday, I called my father and explained the situation.
“Daddy,” I pleaded. “We've got to do something!”
That night, my father and mother delivered a fully decorated tree to Veronica's room as she lay asleep in her bed. I took the huge bag of presents from my mom and put them near the tree, which was beautifully but strangely decorated with a half-dozen large red Christmas ornaments.
My mother smiled at my confusion. “Your father never bought Christmas ornaments before,” she said. “I guess he thought bigger was better!”
When Veronica opened her eyes the next morning, the first thing she saw was my dad, in a red sweater, standing next to the tree with presents piled high alongside it.
“Oh, Santa,” she cried, “Merry Christmas.” As sleep overtook her again, she whispered, “And thank you … Santa.”
Daddy mumbled a quiet “Ho-ho-ho” and exited the room quickly.
As he told me what had happened, he wiped his eyes. “Must have gotten a cold,” he muttered.
Though miracles don't always happen when you want them to, the fact that they happen at all is enough for most of us to cling to, and Veronica was no different. She finally got her new kidney, and even though it wasn't in time for Christmas, she was thrilled and happy, and best of all, healthy.
It's been years now, but I will never forget that sad little tree decorated with the huge ornaments that matched my father's generous heart, and the little girl who asked for only one thing that Christmas — a kidney.
So Little, So Much
BY JOAN FITTING SCOTT
The Coogan family was big and boisterous. With six children — five girls and one boy — there was always something going on. According to my mother, simple joys filled their summer days with picnics and swims in the local lake. When day ended, the family retired for the night with the front door unlocked. Since air conditioning hadn't yet made its now-essential presence felt, my grandmother hosed off the roof on hot summer days so that the house would cool by evening. A backyard filled with crabapple trees provided abundant shade — and ample opportunity for a good round of apple slinging.
Though it was a simple time, it was also a hard time.
The Great Depression had just begun, and my grandparents were forced to make a number of adjustments in order to cope with life's new scarcities. That included renting their house to a wealthy doctor and moving to simpler quarters to make ends meet. My grandmother, a woman my mother described as an astute business person, stretched the few dollars Grandpa brought home each week.
December 1932 brought Seattle's usual dose of rain and bluster. My mother was fourteen years old that year, and next to youngest in a family where it was sometimes hard to get recognition or a fair share. As Christmas approached, it became clear that the clan's few dollars wouldn't provide much in the way of new clothes or gifts. Mama already wore hand-me-downs. New clothes would have been a Christmas blessing, but this year, the holidays wouldn't
mean goodies under the tree. And yet, as always, there would be riches in the form of good but simple fare, dear friends, and family love.
It grieved my mother that her one gift under the Christmas tree that year was a single pair of underpants. Though disappointed, she derived some sense of pleasure in the fact that they were hers and hers alone. No one else had ever worn them.
“They were brand new,” she said proudly, as she recapped the holiday for me many years later. “And,” she added, the corners of her mouth turning up into a soft smile, “they were all mine.”
Mama understood the underpants were practical — as were each of the gifts her siblings received. She knew also that necessities came first when money was scarce. But understanding and accepting isn't always enough. She recalls shedding a secret tear over her gift, the one piece of clothing that hadn't even entered her mind when she thought of all the possibilities that might await her beneath the Christmas tree.
After she contained her disappointment and set it aside, she opened her heart to the holiday and allowed something else to touch her deeply that day. Laughter enveloped her as family and friends gathered to share the warmth, the chilly rain outside notwithstanding. She remembers how her sister, Isabelle, had banged out the carols on the piano, an instrument the family had managed to retain, and how everyone gave Christmas renditions their all. She recalls how pleased everyone had been that Grandma had once again shown an uncanny ability to produce something from nothing, gracing the table with a small turkey. As she retells the story, she says she could almost hear the chatter and laughter that blotted out the paucity of culinary luxuries as the family sat down to eat that day so long ago.
Far from being bereft that day, she had in fact been the recipient of a great gift. She learned the true meaning of Christmas, and that's something she will never forget or take for granted.
Holiday Visitors
Christmas Through a Child's Eyes Page 16