Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind (18 page)

Another year I received a fancy box of chocolates from a student named Patty. I decided to share them with my students, so
I walked around the room and let each child take a piece. After a few moments, I heard a child shout, “Yuck!” “These are rotten!”
another screamed. Pretty soon everyone was spitting out the chocolates. Quickly I grabbed the lid and read it. They were
full
of cognac.

If I had to pick one Christmas gift that touched me the most, it would have to be Henry’s. I hang it on my Christmas tree
every year. On a high branch. In the front.

It was the day before winter break several years ago. All week long, the kids had been begging me to unwrap my gifts. I wasn’t
planning to open them at school, but they persisted. So at the Christmas party, I gathered my students around my desk and
opened their presents. I unwrapped each gift slowly. I made one pile for wrapping paper and another for ribbons and bows.

After the party it was time for lunch. I was on lunch duty in the cafeteria. As I walked down the center aisle, I stopped
at the table where my students were sitting. The girls sat with the girls. The boys sat with the boys. I spotted Henry sitting
quietly at the end of the table. He didn’t have a lunch.

“Why aren’t you eating lunch today?” I asked.

Henry lowered his head.

“Did you forget to bring it?”

He didn’t answer.

I whispered in his ear. “Would you like the cafeteria lady to make you a peanut butter sandwich?”

He shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“Okay.” Then I patted his buzz cut and walked on.

As I stepped away I glanced back. Henry was generally a lively child — but today he looked like something was on his mind.
Perhaps my opening the gifts had made him sad. Henry hadn’t given me one. Of course I didn’t expect anything. I felt bad for
opening them.

After lunch we began silent reading. The children grabbed their books and scattered around the room to read. All was quiet
except for the sound of the bunny drinking from the water bottle. As I circled the room, I noticed Henry hiding behind the
piano. A pair of scissors and the tape dispenser lay on the floor beside him. When Henry saw me, he put his hands behind his
back. I pretended not to notice and walked on. He was probably making me something for Christmas.
Cute.
I let silent reading time go a little longer than usual to give him time to finish. Finally, I clapped my hands. “Okay, boys
and girls, nice reading. Please put your books away. Back to your seats.”

As the children moved to their chairs, Henry walked up to mine and placed a thin package on my desk. It was wrapped with binder
paper, decorated with Magic Marker, and sealed with masking tape.

“What’s this?” I said, acting surprised.

He looked down. I could see him smiling. Then I set the gift on my lap.

“Did you wrap this yourself?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

“You’re a really good wrapper.”

His dimples grew deeper.

Carefully, I untaped the binder paper and pulled out a card. It was made of red construction paper. The fold was creased multiple
times where he had tried to get it just right. On the cover it said, “Merry Crismas Mr. Done” in his best cursive. He had
drawn a smiley face in the
o
.

“It’s beautiful!” I gushed. “Thank you.”

Then I opened it. A surge of warmth filled my chest. Taped on the inside were eight quarters, four dimes, four nickels, and
fifteen pennies — $2.75 — the price of one school lunch.

W
e all have Christmas memories that are forever imprinted in our minds. We just need close our eyes and instantly we’re back
in time. I have many such memories: reading all the tags with a flashlight on Christmas morning while my grandma snored on
the couch, singing Christmas carols to my mom at my own front door then asking for a quarter when I was finished, listening
to my dad climb the roof on Christmas Eve to be Santa and hearing him swear when he slipped, and playing the innkeeper in
the Christmas pageant at church. I wanted to be Joseph, but my Sunday school teacher wouldn’t trust me with the part. At one
rehearsal when Mary and Joseph arrived at the inn, I said, “We have lots of room. Come on in!” Now you see why I wasn’t Joseph.

Of all my Christmas memories, there is one that stands out among the rest. It happened in Hungary. I was on leave from my
job in the States teaching at the American International School in Budapest. The week before Christmas vacation, the Boy Scouts
from my school were going to throw a party at an orphanage where the children were all preschool age and had hearing disabilities.
My colleague Hank asked me to help him chaperone. Hank was the Scout leader. Since several of my own students were in the
troop, I agreed to go along.

As we drove to the orphanage, Hank explained that our visiting was a big deal. Because the children were so young and hearing-impaired,
the orphanage didn’t let just anyone visit. In fact, our Scouts were one of the first groups of foreigners the orphans would
meet. When we arrived, Hank drove the van through a rusted iron gate into a large courtyard. Gravel and snow crunched under
our tires. Giant pines weighted down with snow hid the sky. The building was large and gray. It looked unloved. There were
no lights on save for one bulb without its shade illuminating three broken steps at the entrance.

The director greeted us at the door. Her name was Elizabeth. When we stepped inside, we removed our hats and scarves and kicked
the snow off our shoes. Tall white iron radiators crackled as we walked down the hall. Elizabeth escorted us into a room where
twenty-five young children sat waiting on crowded wooden benches. Their feet didn’t reach the floor.

As we gathered in the room, the orphans chattered and pointed and wiggled in their seats as children do whenever a visitor
whom they have been waiting for walks in. One little girl waved then hid herself quickly in her neighbor’s lap. Their teachers
sat close by against the wall. An old black upright piano stood in the corner. Its lacquered finish was worn in spots like
an old teddy bear.

Elizabeth walked in front of the children and introduced us.

“Jo estét,” the little ones said in unison. Good evening.

“Jo estét,” we said back.

Soon we began our party, and the Scouts started unloading their bags. We had brought cookies and juice, but Elizabeth asked
us to just serve the cookies. It was too close to bedtime for juice. The Scouts passed out the treats and the teachers told
the little ones to say
köszönöm
(thank you). I gave an understanding smile. Telling a child to say thank you after taking a cookie is universal.

Music came next. The Scouts sang Christmas carols in English for the Hungarian children. I plunked out the tunes on the piano
and chuckled as I played. Surely, this was the first time that this instrument had ever played “Frosty the Snowman.” The orphans
and their teachers smiled as we sang. Christmas music needs no translation.

After we finished, the young ones stood up and sang a song for us. Their hearty voices warmed the small room like heat from
the radiators. They reminded me of little drummer boys: Their only gift was their music. I wondered — would Santa even visit
the orphanage? Would the children find anything under the tree on Christmas morning? Was there even a tree? I hadn’t seen
one.

When they finished singing, the Scouts started handing out the gifts they had brought. The orphans squealed and held them
up and ran their fingers over the shiny paper and played with the bows. They hugged their presents and showed their friends
and giggled when they spotted Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck and Goofy on their wrapping paper.

Suddenly Elizabeth drew in her breath sharply.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Then, biting her lip, she looked down at the floor.

“What’s wrong?” I asked again.

Covering her mouth, Elizabeth leaned over to me and whispered. Her voice was shaky. “They don’t know that there is anything
inside the packages.”

I snapped my gaze at the children. They were all laughing and pointing and playing with their presents. But none was opening
a single gift. A lump shot up in my throat.
The wrapping is present enough.

I looked over at the teachers. A few were dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs. They realized what was happening, too. Then
Elizabeth took a deep breath and walked over to the children. With watery eyes, she smiled and clapped her hands. The children
looked up at her and stopped talking. Elizabeth cleared her throat then very gently began to speak.

“Gyerekek, a csomagban van valami.” Boys and girls, there is something under the paper, she told them. The older ones’ eyes
widened. But the little ones did not understand. Elizabeth picked up one of the presents and pointed to the inside. “Nézzetek
csak, ebben van valami,” she repeated. “There is something
under
the paper.”

Gasps filled the room as the children looked down at the presents. I expected the kids to immediately start ripping open their
packages, but none did.
They must be waiting for permission to open them,
I thought. But no one was speaking. Then Elizabeth knelt down beside one little girl and started helping her unwrap her gift.
The girl and those sitting beside her looked on. My lips parted but no words came out.
They don’t know what to do with the paper.

For a second I stood there motionless. Then I wiped my eyes, and together with the other teachers and the Scouts I got down
on my knees and helped the children unwrap their gifts.

Merriment swirled around the room as the children pulled out puzzles and jump ropes and coloring books and bright pink and
blue bottles of bubbles. The Scouts showed them how to dip their plastic wands in the soapy water and blow. It was a magic
moment.

Ever since then — sometime during the holidays — the memory of these children in that faraway land draws a chair up to the
hearth of my heart and pays a visit. And when it does I smile, close my eyes to pull the chair closer, and hear the laughter.

O
ne of my favorite scenes in
Miracle on 34th Street
is when attorney John Payne proves that his client, Mr. Kringle, is in fact Santa Claus. Mail carriers from the United States
Postal Service march into the courthouse carrying thousands of children’s letters addressed to Santa. By delivering these
letters to Mr. Kringle, Payne argues that the Post Office Department — a branch of the federal government — recognizes Kris
Kringle to be Santa Claus. The judge announces that his court will not dispute it. Santa is saved by the Post Office.

Every holiday season the US Postal Service receives tens of thousands of letters addressed merely to
Santa Claus, North Pole.
What happens to them? Many are collected by Operation Santa, a program sponsored by the Post Office Department that recruits
volunteers to answer the letters. I joined the operation several years ago.

Early in December, I pick up a batch of letters from Betty. She has been heading the program at my branch for years. Every
year, Betty is decked out in a Christmas tree sweatshirt and red and green ornament bulb earrings. (She looks like she should
be teaching first grade.) When I get the letters, they have already been opened and sorted. The envelopes are stapled on the
back.

“Wow,” I said, looking through this year’s box. “You already have a lot.”

“Each year we seem to get more than the year before,” Betty said. “In a week or so, they’ll really start to pour in.”

I pulled out an envelope with hay in it. “What’s this?”

Betty smiled. “For the reindeer.”

This year I enlisted my teacher friends Kim, Lisa, and Dawn to join me in answering the letters. There is nothing like reading
a child’s wish list for Santa written in crayon and filled with hay to get you into the holiday spirit. In our replies, we
wrote that Santa was busily preparing his sleigh and getting the reindeer ready. Of course we never made any promises to the
kids. We didn’t sign off from Santa, either — only as his helpers. This keeps the big guy more mystical. When we’re finished,
I’ll send the letters off to be stamped with a North Pole cancellation. Betty says that a stamp from Santa’s home can turn
a doubter into a believer for at least another year. Our letters don’t actually go to the North Pole for the cancellation
though. They go to Arkansas.

“What do
you
want from Santa?” I asked Lisa as we were working on our replies.

She sighed. “A paper cutter that cuts straight.”

Kim started laughing.

“Good idea,” Dawn said.

“I’d ask for a pair of teacher scissors with a homing device,” Kim volunteered. “And a take-a-number machine like they have
at the deli.”

“Me, too,” I said.

Dawn joined in. “What’s that machine at the bowling alley that drops down and takes all the pins away? I need one of those
to drop down in my room and snatch up a few seven-year-olds.”

This brought a laugh.

Kim looked at me. “What would you ask for?”

I didn’t even have to think about it. “Three straitjackets. Boys’ medium.”

At the end of the evening, the four of us picked our favorite letters. Dawn’s was from Linnea. She wrote: “Please deliver
a Lincoln Navigator. In pink.” Lisa’s favorite said, “Dear Santa, I’d like real glass slippers. Size three.” Kim’s number
one: “Bring any toy. It doesn’t matter. I know that everything is so
spencive.
” Mine was from Adam: “Dear Santa, if you are real can you please give me a science kit? If you aren’t real can somebody else
get me a science kit?”

Kids’ letters to Santa are pretty darn cute. When a child really wants something badly, he’ll write in capital letters then
go crazy with the exclamation marks. (“PLEEEEEASE BRING ME A TURTLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!”) Sometimes the papers are just lines and
scribbles. Fortunately, their moms “translate” at the bottom of the page. If a child has moved recently, he’ll leave detailed
directions to his new home or even a map. Once in a while, a child will reprimand St. Nick. (“Santa, last year I asked for
an alligator and all I got was a hamster! I hope you’ll do better next time.”) Rarely will a child sign his last name. (“Hey
Santa. Matthew here.”) There’s no reason to, of course. Santa knows who he is.