Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (4 page)

BY CHRISTINE E. COLLIER

W
e lived in a small, two-bedroom, bungalow-style house, situated in the country, atop a small hill. We were a small family — two parents and four children — but we were about to add a Collie puppy to our numbers. I knew this because Mom had shared the secret with me. The puppy was hiding in a dark basement not far from the coal bin. It was my job to make some sort of noise whenever the puppy yipped so that my brother, Mark, wouldn't hear. Mark, two years younger than me, loved to walk the hills looking for blackberries and hickory nuts, and a dog would be a welcome companion. He'd be so surprised on Christmas morning!

At the age of eleven, I was the eldest. My best friend lived next door, had an upright piano in her recreation room, and took piano lessons. Just the fact that she had a rec room, and they had board games like Life, Clue, and Monopoly sitting on top of their piano, was fascinating to me. Whenever she played Moonlight Sonata, I thought it was the most beautiful song I had ever heard. I dreamed of learning how to play the piano. My mother listened to my dream and soon, I realized, it had become her dream as well. We both know there was not really room in our small living room for a piano. We also knew piano practice would cause problems when the family watched television, but still my mother and I dreamed on.

Having a puppy in the basement was enough to keep Mom and me on our toes that evening. We fluttered from one room to the next, talking loudly and making unnecessary sounds to cover up the puppy noises that floated up through the floor vents. Mom was being very mysterious today, and in my heart of hearts, I felt something else — besides a secret puppy in the basement — was going on. She seemed awfully worried that the front steps were snowy and wondered if the roads were slippery now that it had begun to snow.

Though it was still early, Mom insisted we go to bed soon and remain in our bedrooms even if we heard something. It was too early for Santa to show up — Daddy wasn't even home yet! I couldn't help but wonder what she thought we might hear.

By the time eight o'clock rolled around, we had no choice. Wearing our new Christmas Eve pajamas, we trudged off to bed. It was much too early, and though we tried to sleep, we were not the least bit tired.

I heard Mom's footsteps as she moved from one room to the next, and watched as the outside lights were turned on and off many times. I lay in my bed awake, remembering to cough or talk loudly to my brothers in their bunk bed every time I heard a noise from the basement. Then I heard something else! Was that the sound of a piano key being struck? My heart leapt for joy, although I said nothing to my brothers. I was so anxious and excited I was awake almost all night!

At dawn the next morning, I raced into the living room behind my brothers. I stopped in my tracks, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. There, to greet me, was a beautiful new mahogany piano with a huge red bow tied around the piano bench! Beyond the piano, Mark chased the darling little Collie puppy all around the room, laughing happily. Mom sat with our baby sister, Lisa, who was overjoyed with her new rocking horse, and my other brother, Craig, was busy opening the toy arcade game he had asked Santa for. And through it all, Dad zoomed in and out with his slide camera, preserving the moment forever.

I looked around the room and smiled contentedly — no family could have been happier than ours was that morning.

I still treasure the piano, and always will. Not because it's an expensive make or style — it's a simple spinet and needs tuning often — but because each time I sit down to play, without fail, I am reminded of Christmas Eve 1960. And in the space of one single, solitary heartbeat, I have returned to the home I shared with my two brothers, a baby sister, and my parents so long ago. Lost in my memory, the snow falls down gently outside my bedroom window and I cough loudly to cover up the sound of a puppy whining. And then I hear it and my heart leaps for joy — the faint yet unmistakable sound of one piano key being struck in the middle of the night.

BY CHARLENE A. DERBY

R
ose Mary, Millie, and I burst through the kitchen door with our parcels, flushed from the winter air and the excitement of the season. As the three older girls, we were inseparable. Earlier that day, we'd planned our own Christmas shopping trip, gotten permission to use the family car, and left nine-year-old Debbie to help Mom with Christmas decorations. But Debbie couldn't stand the suspense.

“What did you get me for Christmas?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” we replied, catching our breath and setting our bags on the kitchen table. “These gifts are for Mom and Dad. Yours are coming from Santa Claus.”

“I don't believe you,” she huffed, folding her arms and staring us down.

“Why don't you ask Mom if you can help her with something?” we suggested, ignoring the fact that she'd been “helping” all morning. We continued to whisper conspiratorially while removing our coats and boots, reluctant to share our holiday secrets with our baby sister.

Later that day, Millie and I made plans to wrap gifts and put them under the tree. We smuggled wrapping paper, ribbon, and bulky shopping bags into our parent's bedroom so we could work on the comfort of their queen-sized bed. We chatted cheerfully as we measured and cut the colored paper. When we got to Debbie's gift, we heard a loud “Aha!” from behind the closet door. With dismay, we realized that Debbie had heard everything.

We hadn't taken into consideration the fact that Mom and Dad's walk-in closet also opened from the sewing room. Debbie had outwitted us by coming in through the other door. To maintain our superiority, we had to think fast. After shooing her from the closet, Millie and I came up with a practical joke that we would carry out on Christmas morning.

When it was time to distribute the presents, Debbie eagerly reached for her gift. “I know what this is,” she announced. “I heard you wrapping it.” But when she opened the box, it was stuffed with Christmas bows.

“We thought you could use those to decorate your room,” I explained.

“Yes,” Rose Mary chimed in. “We couldn't afford an expensive gift. We've started to save for college.”

Debbie set the bows aside and glared at us. “Where's my real gift?” she demanded. “I know you guys got me a real gift.”

Millie reached under the tree skirt and pulled out another package. “Here it is,” she said, “but don't spy on us again.”

“Aha!” Debbie said as she tore the paper from her gift. From the look in her eyes, we could almost see the wheels turning. It seemed Debbie was making some plans of her own.

The following Christmas, Debbie didn't spy on us. She was busy in her own room, wrapping and singing carols to herself. She'd come to the kitchen for a freshly baked cookie or a piece of fudge, then returned to her work with a smug look on her face. She soon emerged with an armful of gifts, which she arranged happily under the tree. Then, she innocently asked us if we wanted to play a board game. We were pleased to see that she'd joined the tradition of sisterly gift giving.

But when I opened my gift from Debbie on Christmas morning, I saw that it was an empty perfume bottle. Thinking she might have made a mistake, I set it aside, intending to ask her about it later. Then I saw that Rose Mary and Millie had empty perfume bottles, too. I wondered if these bottles were all that Debbie could find to use as gifts.

“Debbie,” I whispered as we set our gifts aside and headed toward the dining room with its tempting aromas of a traditional family dinner, “did you realize these bottles were empty?”

“Aha!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “I didn't have much money to spend on gifts. I'm saving for a new doll. I thought the bottles were pretty enough to use as decorations on your dressers!”

After a good laugh, Rose Mary, Millie, and I had an “Aha!” of our own. We should have known Debbie would think of a clever comeback for last year's trick gift. She was one of us, wasn't she? That Christmas, we stopped thinking of her as our baby sister, and allowed her to join our sophisticated sisterly sorority. From then on, we called ourselves the fearsome foursome and shared everything — apparently even our thoughts, for many Christmases ended with each of us purchasing the same item to give to the others. There was the year of the hand lotion, the year we all received bath puffs, and then the year we all ended up purchasing potholders.

But of all the wonderful Christmases we shared, none of us hold one more dear than the “Christmas aha!” year when our youngest sister joined the sisterly ranks and we became the fearsome four!

BY DOROTHY BAUGHMAN

“B
ut, Mother … I can't.”

My mother glanced at me sharply. “No buts. I want you to help me serve for my club meeting this afternoon, and I need some help tomorrow picking up the used toys for the needy children.”

My mouth dropped open. “Oh, for … I don't want to spend the afternoon with a bunch of old women at a club meeting!”

“That will be enough, Dorothy,” she said, her eyebrows rising into twin arches. “And you will help me tomorrow.”

I threw my hands up in despair. “I'll have to call Joey and tell him I can't work on the posters for the dance until tomorrow afternoon.”

She shrugged. “You have plenty of time for posters, but we have to finish getting the toys ready.”

“Toys!” I snorted in disgust.

“Dorothy,” said my mother quietly, “I know you have other interests now that you're growing up. But don't forget, you liked toys only a few years ago and looked forward to Santa.”

Realizing she was right, I frowned. “I'm sorry, Mom.”Though I apologized, I was still angry about my plans being ruined, and later that evening I was barely civil to the ladies.

“How's school, Dorothy?” Mrs. Dopson asked.

“Just fine, Mrs. Minnie,” I answered absently.

“You certainly have grown into a fine young lady,” said the elderly woman.

“Thank you,” I said, surprised and a little ashamed by the woman's kind remark when it was obvious I was being rude.

After the meeting, my mother shot me a disappointed look. “Mrs. Dopson is a fine person, and a good friend. I'd like you to be nice to her.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” I muttered.

The next day, as I got ready to draw the posters for the dance, I couldn't find the markers I had originally planned on using. Thinking quickly, I remembered a set of watercolor pencils my father used to have.

“Mom,” I shouted, “where are those watercolor pencils Daddy used to have?”

“In the desk,” came her muted reply.

I turned to my father's desk and tugged open the first drawer. Dad had passed away nearly a year ago, and the desk had never been cleaned out. It was stuffed with old papers and odds and ends. As I pawed through everything, an envelope at the bottom of the stack caught my attention. The postmark was five years old.

Curious, I opened the envelope and pulled out a Christmas card. I skimmed the typed verse, and was about to toss it, when the fine script at the bottom of the card jumped out at me. I read the phrase silently. Stunned, I read it aloud.

Don't worry about the little girl's Christmas.

Minnie Dopson.

My mind flew back to Christmas five years past. The flashes of conversation between my parents had not meant much at the time. Father hadn't had a job in a while, and Mother had been worried about Christmas. I hadn't thought much about it since, because that was one of the best Christmases I'd ever had. There were so many toys …

Just then, my mother walked into the room. Seeing my tear-filled eyes, concern etched her face.

“Dorothy, what's the matter?”

With a trembling hand, I held the card up. She recognized it immediately.

“Oh, honey, I never meant for you to see this.”

“We were broke, weren't we?” I asked, tears slipping down my face. “And Mrs. Dopson and the club arranged for my Christmas, didn't they? That's why I got so many toys that year.”

Mother nodded. A bittersweet smile fluttered about her lips as she retold the story. “Your father had been out of work for over three months and we just didn't have any money for Christmas.”

I wiped at my wet face. “Why didn't you tell me?” A new barrage of tears cascaded down my cheeks. “Oh! I've been so hateful to Mrs. Minnie!”

Mother shook her head. “Wouldn't it have made you feel worse knowing you had to be nice to her?” She glanced out the window and saw my friend, Joey, approaching.

“Here,” she said handing me her handkerchief. “Dry your eyes.”

As soon as Joey stepped into the room, he could see something was going on. He stopped in his tracks. “Have you been crying?”

“Not really,” I said, as I wiped tears from my face. He frowned in bewilderment. I smiled at his confusion. “But I do have something to do before the posters are drawn,” I said as I slid the card back into the desk drawer and closed it.

“Now what?” Joey asked, looking from me to Mother and back again.

I smiled and then turned to Mother. “Didn't I hear you say Mrs. Minnie was having trouble and couldn't walk to the market anymore?”

“Yes,” Mother said, her smile growing. “She did mention something like that the other day.”

I grabbed Joey's arm and pulled him toward the door. He frowned and looked back at my mother, begging her to explain. She merely grinned and waved as I marched him out.

“Joey,” I said, feeling as though the Spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Future had descended on me, “you and I are about to take a sweet old lady … I mean a sweet elderly lady, to market.”

Joey looked at my beaming face and frowned suspiciously. “What's this all about, Dorothy?”

I tried to sniff back the tears, but couldn't. Through my watering eyes, I managed to smile, my voice breaking as I replied, “I have an overdue debt to pay.”