Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (3 page)

BY LYNN RUTH MILLER

I
was born at the end of the Depression, in a time when we treated strangers differently than we do today. In those days, people often knocked at our back door to ask for food and my mother always invited them inside for a hot bowl of soup or a sandwich. It was not that we were wealthy — no one had extra money in the early '30s — but we were quick to share what we had because we knew that one upset to our own budget and we, too, would not have enough to eat or a warm place to sleep.

One man appeared at our door several times a week. He was very different from most of the vagrants that sat at my mother's table. He refused to take anything for nothing. “Let me sweep the walk for you, Missus,” he'd say, or, “Why don't you let me hang out those sheets for you today?”

He was unshaven and wore drab, patched clothes, obviously salvaged from the dustbin. He used to keep a potato in his mouth, and when he smiled, you could see it through the spaces between his tobacco-stained teeth. He rolled the potato around in his mouth and tucked it behind his molars when he spoke. That was why everyone called him Potato Tom.

Potato Tom seemed to enjoy the tasks my mother gave him and did them with great energy. As winter approached, his clothes got shabbier and he wore no gloves or scarf as protection from the relentless Ohio cold. His hands were spotted with reddened chilblains and as soon as he stood still, he shivered uncontrollably.

“Would you like to borrow a coat, Tom?” Mama would ask. “You must be freezing. I have an old scarf we never wear. Let me give it to you.”

He always smiled and shook his head. “I'm used to being outdoors, Missus,” he'd say. “But a hot bowl of something would sure feel good right about now.”

Of all the people who came to our door, Tom was my favorite. I sat across from him at the table while he ate and listened to stories about places he'd been. “I remember one winter I spent in Floriday,” he said, fanning himself as he did so. “It was so hot there you never wore a coat and you couldn't be hungry — what with oranges and coconuts free for the picking.” He got a faraway look in his eye, as if remembering. Then he shook his head. “But then times got bad and I couldn't get work so I walked up north.”

I looked at his torn shoes. The laces had disappeared long ago. He now secured his shoes to his feet with pieces of rope. “You walked all the way from Floriday?” I asked in awe. “Didn't your feet get tired?”

He shook his head. “In this life, honey, you do what you have to do. Ain't that right, Missus?” he asked my mother.

Mama's eyes looked very red and she sniffled like she had a cold. “I have some meatloaf from last night I could warm up for you, Tom,” she said. “How does that sound?”

Tom was very polite when he ate, and even though I was only four years old, I knew his manners were a lot better than mine. He never dropped food all over his clothes the way I did and he never forgot to wipe his mouth with a napkin. I took his hand when he stood to leave and squeezed it, “Come back, Tom, and tell me about Floriday.”

He glanced over my head at my mother and then he nodded. “Maybe later in the week, honey,” he said. “When your mama needs some windows washed.”

I discovered a new truth about Santa Claus the year Tom came to our house. Even though we did not observe the religious ceremony of Christmas, I believed in the jolly benefactor with all my heart, and had long imaginary conversations with him weeks before the big day when my mother took me to LaSalle's to sit on Santa's lap. On that day, my mother dressed me in my very best snowsuit with little white flowers on the collar and a bonnet to match.

“Santa will just love you!” she said as we ran to catch the streetcar downtown.

As we walked through the slush and ice on the downtown streets, I noticed that every single corner had a Santa ringing his bell for people to contribute to the Salvation Army.

“Why are there so many Santas walking around the street?”I asked suspiciously. “I thought only one Santa came down the chimney on Christmas night.”

“They're Santa's helpers, Lynnie Ruth,” Mother explained. “He's very busy this time of year. He can't be everywhere in the world at once.”

I frowned. “I thought he was magic.”

“He is,” she answered. “Just look how many people he has scattered across the globe telling boys and girls that their wishes will come true!”

“Does Santa tell all these helpers what to say?”

She nodded. “He sends them messages from his heart.”

When we entered the department store, I held my mother's hand and tried to be very quiet while we waited in line. When at last it was my turn, I ran up the steps and jumped on the bearded man's lap. But when I looked into his eyes, I saw truth.

“You're not Santa!” I cried in surprise. “You're Potato Tom!”

From behind that beard came the voice I had heard so many times at my mother's kitchen table. “Today, I am your very own Santa Claus, Lynnie Ruth,” he said. “Santa sent me down from the North Pole to tell you he knew what a very good girl you are and that he will bring you that Shirley Temple doll you want, and a little stove that really works.”

Awestruck, I gazed up at him. “How did you know I wanted all that?”

Tom's eyes twinkled just like the picture books said they would and his pillow-stuffed belly shook with laughter. “Why, Santa told me!” he said.

Something about him looked different. I peered into his mouth and then realized why. “What happened to your potato?”

He smiled. “I got so excited when I saw you standing in line that I swallowed it!”

My mouth dropped open. “Then that's what I'll give you for Christmas! A brand new potato!” I said as I scrambled off his lap in order to give the next child a turn.

As we walked away, I turned to my mother. “How did Tom get to be Santa's helper? Did he walk to the North Pole like he did from Floriday?”

Mother shook her head. When she spoke, I could barely understand her words because she was afflicted with sudden congestion. “I guess he just looked up at the winter sky and asked God to help him help himself.”

“You mean God told Santa Claus to hire Tom?” I asked.

My mother shook her head, “No, Lynn Ruth,” she said. “God gave him nobility, and that's the most important qualification for the job.”

BY CHERYL K. PIERSON

N
o one loved Baby Jesus like I did. He was my constant holiday companion. From the moment we took the nativity set from the box to decorate for Christmas, I carried Him with me.

I couldn't just let Him lay in the cardboard manger unattended. The nativity was old, even older than I was. It was made of thick brown cardboard, as was the manger. A few pieces of straw were glued into it, but not nearly enough to make a good baby bed!

I thought of Baby Jesus as the little brother I had begged for and never got. Someone had to take care of Him. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, as well as two of the attending sheep, were made of plaster. They'd chip or break if not handled with great care.

At four years old, I knew how to be careful — especially with Baby Jesus and His entourage. The proof of what could happen was all too evident in poor Mary. Two years ago, someone had been too rough, and there had been a terrible accident. The blue shawl that covered Mary's back had been broken, revealing a ghastly silver rod that disappeared into what was left of her shawl, gathered about her feet. At the top, the exposed rod extended into the back of her head. Mary had to be positioned “just so,” to keep the world from seeing that horrid sliver of metal that kept her in one piece.

I couldn't help wondering if my Baby Jesus had a rod running through Him like His mother did. I finally convinced myself He didn't — He was a lot smaller, and there probably weren't any rods that tiny. And, being the Son of God, He didn't need a rod.

Joseph struck a thoughtful pose, kneeling beside Mary, both of them watching the perpetually empty manger. He was a bit wobbly since someone, in a terrible accident, had chipped quite a chunk from his orange and yellow robe. Kneeling was a challenge for him now, but not impossible — especially if he leaned a little on Mary or the manger or one of the poor chalk sheep who had all lost their tails somewhere along the way.

The Three Kings added color to the scene in robes of red, green, and purple. They had been bought at a later date, and were made of a thick, brittle plastic rather than plaster. They carried gifts that were of no value to a baby.

Balthazar's arm was missing. At one time, he had been extending his gift of frankincense — perfume! I cut a small blanket of green velveteen from the back of a dress in my closet and laid it over his stump. Jesus would enjoy a warm blanket in that drafty stable more than an old bottle of perfume.

Melchior knelt in humble repose, a hinged gold box in his hands. As if Jesus could open a box! Being four, I didn't have any “baby toys” left to offer, but I did have something better than what those supposed “wise men” brought.

I had colored marbles — something pretty for Jesus to look at. And I had crayons to color Him a picture. I imagined Baby Jesus would be getting mighty tired of Christmas music right about then — it was all He ever heard. I headed for my collection of 45s and settled one onto the turntable of my record player. Johnny Horton belted out the strains of “North to Alaska” while Baby Jesus and I danced together.

We didn't have a Drummer Boy for our nativity set, and I felt the loss keenly. I wanted our Baby Jesus to have the best nativity in the world. It was bad enough that two years ago there had been a terrible accident and someone had irreparably broken the only shepherd we had. Now, we had sheep milling in the stable with no shepherd, and no Little Drummer Boy, either.

Luckily, this was a situation I could easily remedy. I had four different colors of Play-Doh. After a long, tedious ten minutes, I had what I considered to be a passable Drummer Boy and his drum — complete with tiny drumsticks.

The other Wise Man, Caspar, was in bad shape, but there was no help for it. Someone, in a terrible accident, had broken off his head. My mother had reglued it, but after it had dried, the glue line showed as if he had not washed his neck after a month of hot Oklahoma summer days. I tied my Annie Oak-ley bandana around him. It covered his broken neck, and gave him a mysterious look — like a western Superman carrying his leather-bound gift box. It contained myrrh, which I knew was a kind of oil. Finally, something Baby Jesus could use!

We had a cow, a donkey, and an angel made from the same hard plastic as the Wise Men. In a terrible accident two years ago, the donkey's rear had been broken off. I put him at the back of the stable. The cow was lying on the ground, its legs folded beneath it. It must have seen whatever had befallen the donkey and gotten to the ground in time to avoid disaster.

The angel baffled me, though. Evidently, she had not been so quick or lucky. There was the same brown glue line across her right wing that poor Caspar suffered at the neck, and I was fresh out of bandanas. I figured she had slipped off the stable roof a couple of years ago. She never watched where she was going, because she was looking up to the heavens, singing. May be, her being an angel and all, that injury would heal. By next Christmas, we might not even be able to see it.

I brought Baby Jesus out of my pocket and gave Him a kiss. It was then that I noticed what bad shape He was in. I had loved Him too much! His baby hair was spotty, as if the paint had been worn off in places. His body was dappled unevenly and His nose was almost completely flat.

But, His blue eyes were open, sparkling joyously. I knew He must have caught a glimpse of His nativity set. I held Him out to get a good look.

I had taped a freshly colored picture of a boy and his puppy inside the stable wall. It covered the window and kept out the night wind. I showed Him His bed with the marbles around the base of it, and the sheep on guard to keep them from rolling out of the stable.

Caspar's bandana looked mighty fine, safety-pinned across the glue line. I had done as much as I could for the others; hidden the donkey's broken rear and Mary's metal rod, and let Joseph surreptitiously lean against the kneeling cow so he wouldn't fall.

I laid Baby Jesus in His bed and covered Him with Balthazar's new offering — the blanket.

Just then, my mother rounded the corner, the green velveteen dress in her hands and a look of disbelief in her eyes. “Cheryl, do you know what happened to this dress?” she asked sternly. I swallowed hard and leaned against the nativity for support. I only hoped Baby Jesus could help me now.