Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (10 page)

BY SHARON SHEPPARD

G
rowing up in a small, northern Minnesota village had lots of advantages, but shopping wasn't one of them. Long before the Mall of America was even a gleam in some greedy developer's eye — before anyone had ever heard of iPods or designer jeans, even in the city — our little community could just as well have been located in the tundra of the Northwest Territories for all the conveniences it offered.

We lived in God's Country, we bragged, as though that could make up for our backward isolation, but scenery provided scant comfort when the holidays rolled around. Because the block-long Main Street offered few options, our Christmas shopping was limited to Cofflands' Hardware, Reynolds' Dry Goods Store, or the Sears catalog.

The long-anticipated Christmas catalog arrived in late October, and it was wondrous to behold. My three brothers and I fought for turns. We pored over the toy section until the catalog was dog-eared. Our wants changed daily, as we daydreamed about how each item would make our lives richer. My brothers coveted sleds, jackknives, baseballs, and board games, while I focused on tin tea sets and paper dolls.

We made copious lists — complete with page numbers and catalog numbers — for our parents' convenience. We ranked and prioritized our choices, fantasizing about what we would really like to have if money were no object. But, of course, money was always an object. Even at a tender age, we were aware that money dictated how elaborate our holiday would or would not be. With that in mind, we narrowed our lists to a few favorites among the items we figured might fall within the realm of financial possibility.

To help visualize the actual size of each item, we used a ruler. But even though we now had an idea of the size, would the toy look as good in person as it did in the catalog? We could never be sure.

According to our parents, we had to make sure we knew which toy we wanted well in advance. The catalog order had to be sent in at least three weeks before Christmas to ensure delivery on time. Even if the order was sent in on time, it wasn't unheard of for Sears to send a partial order with several items on the invoice marked, “Sorry, not available.” That meant starting all over again or settling for something from the inventory at Cofflands' or Reynolds'.

The Christmas I was six years old, I yearned for a doll. I drooled over the choices in the catalog for days, contrasting the large expensive dolls with real hair and elegant wardrobes with baby dolls that had eyes that opened and closed. The biggest dolls were definitely out of our price range, but maybe my mother, who was an excellent seamstress, could sew some doll clothes for one of the smaller ones, I reasoned.

Christmas neared, and even though I figured the Sears order had already been mailed in — maybe even delivered and hidden under our parents' bed — my tastes still fluctuated from day to day. Right up until the holidays, I kept changing my mind.

A couple of days before Christmas, I sat at the kitchen table with the catalog, now virtually in shreds from wear, and watched as my mother punched down the bread dough.

“See any dolls you like?” she asked.

I scanned my favorite page, then said, “I like 'em all. All except this one.” I pointed to a nondescript baby doll with light brown molded hair and not much of a wardrobe.

A strange look flickered across my mother's face. “What don't you like about that one?” she asked.

“I don't know. I just don't like it,” I replied. “Maybe I'm getting too old for baby dolls.”

As I examined the catalog page again, wondering which baby doll was my absolute favorite, Mom covered the pan of bread with a dishtowel and went about her chores quietly.

On Christmas Eve, the house nearly burst with excitement. I couldn't wait to open my gifts!

After supper, we sang “Silent Night,” and my brothers and I performed the recitations we had memorized for the church program. Then our father read the Christmas story from Luke 2, and he prayed for the longest time. He thanked God for all our blessings — naming them one by one — while we fidgeted, knowing we should be more interested in the real meaning of Christmas, but wishing we could get on with our gifts all the same.

I just knew the rectangular box with my name on it was going to hold the doll of my dreams. Would it be the one with the sailor dress and patent leather shoes? Or had my mother chosen the kewpie doll in the yellow dress with a smocked yoke? They were both beauties and I knew I would love either of them dearly. Finally, the box was in my lap, and though I tried not to tear the paper so we could use it again next year, suddenly I couldn't wait a moment longer.

When I had ripped off the paper and removed the lid, my eyes grew wide and my bottom lip quivered. There, nestled in the box — wrapped in a fluffy, blue flannel blanket was the very baby doll I had told my mother I did not like, the plain doll with the molded brown hair. Stunned, all I could do was stare at her in surprise. The doll was dressed in a miniature nightcap and a tiny baby bottle was tucked into the box. I slipped my hand into the blanket and uncovered the doll. Under her wrap, she wore a soft pink gown and a real diaper.

I gazed at the doll for a long time. Then I rubbed the soft downy flannel between my fingers. Hesitantly, my fingers touched her soft body. Before I knew it, I had untied her nightcap. As gently as I could, I ran my hands over her molded head and smiled. The whole while, she looked back at me with big blue eyes. She seemed different from the catalog picture, and bigger than the ruler measure had indicated so many weeks ago.

The longer I studied her, the more wonderful she looked. She was not at all boring like her catalog picture indicated. As I stared at her, I suddenly felt as if we belonged together. In the blink of an eye, a new question surfaced: Is this the way real mothers looked at their newborns for the first time?

Later that night, I took the doll to bed with me and hugged her tightly. She was soft and cuddly. My mind wandered back to the days of sitting in front of the catalog and making my decisions. I had felt I was old enough for a more grown-up doll, but I was sure thankful not to have to try to snuggle up to some stiff-haired thing with patent leather shoes. Besides, I thought as I nestled beneath the blankets with my soft doll, babies are what Christmas is all about in the first place.

BY LESLIE J. WYATT

M
ost Christmas presents are wrapped in paper and tied with ribbons. They come, they go, as is the way with all material things. But there is another kind of gift — ever fresh and evergreen — that cannot be touched or placed beneath a tree. It is one of the latter sort of gifts that comes to mind when I recall a certain childhood Christmas.

I was almost six that year. In my eyes, we had the most beautiful tree and the largest pile of presents in the whole universe. But one element that charged this day, with a particular magic, was Daddy. He was home, and everything felt so right, so perfect.

Daddy drove a long-haul truck in those days. He traversed the nation two weeks at a time, and every time he drove that big rig out of the driveway, a lifetime seemed to pass before he returned.

He had twinkling blue eyes and close-cropped black curls. In his own quiet way, he could handle any emergency — from flat tires to frozen water pipes — as easily as he could hop on one foot. He was my hero and my safety all wrapped up together, and I loved him desperately. So, for him to be home, sitting in our tiny living room that Christmas — sipping coffee and chatting with Mama — was as if God was smiling in heaven and not one thing was amiss in all of creation.

I had spent Daddy's last absence wondering what amazing gift he would bring me. Surely he would have come across the most perfect, the most exciting item a six year old could ever want. I envisioned a new doll: It would be so lifelike, so soft of skin and sweet of face, it would rival my new baby sister!

But if he hadn't found that kind of doll, maybe he had found the kitchen of my little girl dreams. When I closed my eyes, I clearly envisioned him stowing my kitchen on top of his load and heading homeward. It would have a real sink that would hold water and have cupboard shelves with real food. And a Magic-Bake Oven that I could use to turn out chocolate chip cookies like Mama made.

Those were the two things I wanted the most. At first glimpse into the living room that Christmas morning, I saw neither. But there were so many other packages, such laughter, such excitement, that I hardly gave it a thought. Secure in the conviction that there must be something even more wonderful than a baby doll or a real kitchen, I gave myself to the delicious process of ripping paper, thankful hugs, and myriad new possessions.

About halfway through the pile, there it was: To Leslie, from Daddy. The smallness of the package took me by surprise. It was barely eight inches tall and half that wide. But I flashed Daddy my very biggest smile so he would know how much I loved him as I tore at the wrapping paper.

The first thing I saw was a goofy-looking plastic clown face with a bulbous nose, rolling eyes, and a tongue lolling out one corner of its painted mouth. Pulling off the remainder of the paper, I discovered scarlet fur and two red-felt feet of overwhelming proportions.

I gulped. Part of me had known I shouldn't hope for expensive things like dolls or kitchens, but this was so far removed from anything I'd expected…

I petted the fur carefully. “What is it, Daddy?” I asked, hoping he couldn't read the utter disappointment clogging my throat and burning in my eyes.

He shrugged. “A playtoy?” Then he laughed, and I did my best to laugh as well.

When a younger sister claimed my attention, I laid Daddy's gift aside, turning back to the shrinking pile of presents.

The day was long, as Christmas days tend to be, with the arrival of grandparents, a big meal, and new possessions. When Daddy said his farewells, climbed into his truck, and drove off to deliver his waiting load, I was deep into a game of Ka-Boom! Before I realized exactly what was happening, his taillights had flashed a final goodbye.

I don't remember much of the rest of the evening, but later — when the house was quiet and dark — I lay on my bed reliving the day, and my six-year-old heart ached. Daddy was gone, and what if he knew I didn't like the playtoy?
Would he think I didn't love him? Was he crying in his truck right now, all by himself?
The pain of it pressed down on me with such weight that I finally dragged myself out of bed and trailed through the quiet house to the kitchen, tears running down my cheeks.

Lost in my misery, I didn't notice my mother sitting in her white wooden rocker. But she saw me. With gentle hands, she drew me into her lap and let me sob against her shoulder.

“What's wrong, honey?”

Too sad and ashamed to tell her, I whispered, “I don't know.” And then I cried some more, for the lie I had told.

“Everything seems harder when you're tired,” she said. “Just go to sleep, and things will be brighter in the morning.”

Her hand was soft on my hair, the house quiet around us. Surrounded by her love, filled with love for her and for the daddy who had cared enough about me to give me a present, even if it wasn't a doll or a kitchen, the ache within began to ease. I let the old, familiar creaking of the rocking chair lull me to sleep.

Many Christmases have come and gone since then. The furry red playtoy has gone the way of all toys. But the gift my mother gave me there in her old white rocker — her gentle love wrapped in wise words and comforting arms — that gift lives as fresh and evergreen in my heart as if it were given just last night.

BY FRANCES HILL ROBERTS

I
n 1945, I woke to the predawn darkness of my eighth Christmas and decided this was the day I would ask. As though the boldness of my thought had disturbed their sleep, my sisters, Sarah and Beth, turned in perfect unison to face opposite walls, pulling the blanket taut and sending a draft across my bird-slip shoulders. I burrowed deeper under the covers between them and wondered if they were dreaming of fat red men pushing glittery toys down sooty chimneys.

Magic, for me, lay closer to home — in hands calloused from caring, in a voice that bellowed us to supper by a slanted sun on short winter days — in the sounds of snoring, drifting down spooky hallways, assuring me that all was well. In the comfort of my bed, I wiggled in anticipation: This was the day I would ask.

When I woke a second time, it was to the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. Mama was awake. Leaving the warmth of my blanketed womb, I crawled to the foot of the bed and stepped onto the icy linoleum. My feet flew down the freezing stairs to the warmth of the kitchen with the speed of hummingbirds' wings. There, I climbed into a chair to watch my parents' morning rituals.

My mother frowned. “What are you doing up so early?”

“I couldn't sleep,” I said, praying she would let me stay.

Mama nodded in understanding, then smiled. “Well, as long as you don't get underfoot, you can stay.” Walking to the foot of the stairs, she called, “Tom! Water's heating.”

My father walked in, smelling of yesterday's undershirt and wood shavings caught in the cuffs of his trousers. A superstitious man, he thought it bad luck to bathe at night, so he woke each morning littered with labor from the day before. His hair was askew with cowlicks and dark stubble covered his face.

Just then, Sarah and Beth wandered into the room rubbing sleepiness from their eyes. “Did he come?” they asked.

“This is all he left,” my father said with a grin, reaching under the table and pulling out a bucket filled with coal for feeding the fire-breathing furnace in the cellar below.

“Hush, Tom,” Mama said, a frown appearing on her unlined face. “You'll spoil their Christmas!” Glancing at her children, she smiled. “You can have your stockings while you eat breakfast,” she said, as she unpinned the stockings from the windowsill.

The stockings were identical, for my father always wore black socks. The bulge in the toe was the size of an orange; the foot, lumpy with walnuts; the leg, apple shaped; and a peppermint candy cane peeked over the top. I peeled my orange in an ecstasy of anticipation, wondering what waited under the Christmas tree in the living room.

Decorating the tree was, to my father, what cooking was to my mother: artistry in motion. The ritual had begun two days before, when my father bartered poor Mr. Endsor down to half price for the finest tree on the lot. Daddy hauled the tree home in the Radio Flyer wagon we used to carry groceries.

“Have you lost your mind?” Mama cried when she saw the tree. “It's ten feet tall!”

“It's perfect!” proclaimed Daddy, prepared to abandon sanity entirely in service of the consummate Christmas tree.

After balancing the tree in a bucket of sand, he created an intricate latticework of string from the tree trunk to the wall. Once satisfied that no tree had ever stood so straight, he immersed himself in the core of his Christmas madness: the lights. Each strand was meticulously separated, every bulb tested. They were then arranged on the tree no less painstakingly than the painting of the Sistine Chapel. Daisy chains of hooks were untangled and shiny red and green balls strategically placed between silver stars and frosted angels. Finally, the tinsel was hung, carefully supervised by my father, who insisted clumping was a crime against the Spirit of Christmas everywhere.

At last, the tree was declared decorated, and we all stood back for the big moment. Even Mama came in from the kitchen to watch. Daddy picked up the plug and lit the tree. Its beauty took my breath away.

But now it was Christmas morning, and we'd finished the mandatory nibbles of breakfast. We tore down the hall to the living room. There she was, seated beside the plaster nativity scene, yellow-yarn hair flowing down her back, painted blue eyes, shiny black shoes — Sparkle Plenty, one of the two gifts we'd each been allowed to ask Santa for. Next to the doll sat
The Complete Tales of Uncle Wiggly
. Everything I'd asked for was there. Still, I longed for one thing more, something I'd been thinking about since the Christmas before, a question I had lacked the courage to ask until now.

I walked down the hall to the dining room. There he sat, cracking walnuts in his calloused hands, two at a time. I stood beside his chair, and felt anxiety flutter along the lining of my stomach like moth wings.

I took a deep breath. “Daddy, can I watch you shave?” He brushed walnut dust from his hands, as though he hadn't heard. I asked a second time. “Daddy, can I watch you shave?”

He glanced down at me. “Watch me shave?” Then he shrugged. “I guess so.”

I was ecstatic. At last, I would get to see the morning ritual that transformed a bewhiskered carpenter into the handsome head of the house my mother had chosen to be our father. It seemed eons before my mother said, “Tom, you'd better get cleaned up for dinner.”

When Daddy started toward the stairs, my castle collapsed. Then he turned to me and said, “Come on.” Overflowing with joy, I followed him up the steps and down the hall. At the bathroom door, he swooped me up and plopped me on the clothes hamper. Running the water hot enough to cause steam, he wet a washcloth and held it against his face, softening the whiskers. Taking hold of the razor strop, he honed the blade to a fine, sharp edge. Setting it aside, he retrieved his shaving mug from the medicine cabinet and lathered his face. The clean smell of Old Spice drifted into my corner of the room, making me feel unaccountably secure while he scraped swatches of sled tracks through Christmas snow, down his face and up his neck.

At last, it began — the distant rumble I had waited for. Sternum swept from the floor of his lungs, full blown at the vocal cords, my father's voice burst forth in song as he paid tribute to his hero, John Henry, champion of laborers, who had died hammering spikes to build the American railroad. My heart danced in time to his lyrics. Never had there been a better song for shaving — never would there be a more cherished Christmas present!