Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (16 page)

BY SHIRLEY P. GUMERT

I
t was my grandma, my dad's mother, who had bought the brightly colored inexpensive print of “The Last Supper” that hung above the old sideboard, next to my parents' oak dining table. Pictorial Jesus and his Twelve Apostles observed every meal prepared in my parents' kitchen, heard every blessing, saw all our family gatherings. Feasts my mother and aunts set out at Christmastime surely must have astonished those staid images. Sometimes, our laughter did indeed shake the mirrored frame that held the picture.

At Christmastime, foods and desserts covered the sideboard. And always, in the center of everything, stood a cake stand topped by a four-layer, lighter-than-air, white cake with white seven-minute icing and all the grated coconut that would stick to it. That cake was my dad's favorite Christmas dessert.

After all these years, I am the one who ended up with the tall cake stand. And though I seldom bake a coconut cake, I have many memories that revolve around my precious cake stand.

As I think about Christmas, one special memory from the 1960s comes to mind.

Christmas was in full swing — the hugging, comparing, sharing. We'd opened gifts, walked down to the pond and back, and waited for aunts and uncles to bring still more food — until bowls covered even the washer and dryer, and Dad had to find extra chairs to accommodate everyone. Then we feasted, family style.

Eventually, every plate was clean, clear down to the blue Currier-and-Ives patterns. Well, a few of us hid our helpings of turnips — our grandmother's favorite vegetable. When we were down to just the womenfolk and a few children in the kitchen, with one aunt brewing coffee and another two washing and drying dishes, Mom began to reminisce.

“We have so much now,” said Mom. “It's not like other years — those War years when we couldn't get sugar to make pies. We made raisin pies, though, and ribbon cane syrup pies, and we had our house full of young soldiers from the base over at Tyler. For that day, at least, they were our family.”

She shook her head as she remembered, wondering where the time had flown.

“It's not like Depression days now,” Mom continued. “When we had hobo after hobo drop off from freight trains and find their ways to our back door, to ask for any kind of food. We shared what we had, usually vegetables we grew and canned ourselves, or biscuits with bacon stuck inside. We had Christmas, though.”

Mom's recollections were interrupted by Dad, who entered the kitchen in a rush. We all looked up expectantly.

“There's a young man — walking, hitchhiking,” he explained. “He says he's on his way to a buddy's place. Says the buddy has found a job for him — if he can get there in time.” He shook his head. “Says he'll gladly pay for a meal — humph! — like we'd take money for food! He's not eaten all day. No café's open on Christmas Day. He won't come in — says he's dusty from the road.”

Long before Dad finished the story, Mom had already begun filling a plate. Her eyes sparkled. She pulled leftovers out of the refrigerator and urged aunts to find “tastes” of every good thing available.

“He can come in,” she added. “He's welcome here in our house.”

“He says he'll wait outside, with us men,” said Dad, as he poured a tall jar of sweetened tea, and then found napkins and cutlery.

I watched as one of my aunts filled a plate with desserts and then put the entire meal on a plastic tray — the one with a poinsettia print — and took the food out.

Leaning against a fencepost, near the highway, the young man sat on his suitcase, soaking up sunshine. Dad handed the tray to the stranger, and later told us how hungry the man must have been.

“He sure liked that food — all that food,” Dad said, adding, “I'd accidentally put two pieces of coconut cake onto his tray, so I helped him eat that.” Knowing how much Dad enjoyed coconut cake, we all grinned. “He was real pale skinned, thin, looked like he'd slept in those clothes. I offered him a jacket, a cap, whatever he needed, but he wouldn't take anything.”

“Where was he from?” asked my grandmother. “Around here?”

“Well, he did like the sweet potato pie and turnips, so I guess he knew something,” Dad teased. “Several of us offered him a ride, but he said he'd catch a lift — hitchhike — did not want to bother us.”

My mom made a small cry. “Bother? It's Christmas! He came here to us, and it's Christmas!”

“Well, he didn't have much, but he did keep up some pride,” Dad said. He shook my hand firmly. He said ‘Thank you. Tell all who made this meal, thank you.' I told him to come back some day, and let us know how the world's treating him in his new job, when he's among friends.

“He just smiled, and he walked out by the highway with his suitcase in hand. He walked up the road a little way, and he put out his thumb to hitchhike. He didn't walk more than a hundred yards when a trucker stopped to pick him up. I guess the trucker figured it was the right thing to do at Christmas.”

While Dad relayed the story, I sat beside the table, looking up at the picture of Jesus and his Twelve Apostles. I swear Jesus smiled. Then I looked at the remnants of our family feast and saw the last of the coconut cake on the cake stand. It suddenly appeared more elegant than any other cake on any other Christmas Day, and I was filled with joy to be part of a family that included a woman who made the best coconut cake and a man who knew how to share his coconut cake with a stranger.

BY CLAUDI A MCKINNEY MUNDELL

W
e stood in the Singer store, our rubber boots leaving little puddles of melted snow on the showroom floor. Gran and Mom gazed longingly at a sewing machine wrapped under a bright-red velvet bow while we waited patiently.

“Mother, you could so use this machine for Christmas!”declared Mom. “Your old machine is going to the shop much too often these days.”

Though Mom sewed us simple sundresses and corduroy pants when she had time, it was her own mother who was the family seamstress. Gran made our Easter dresses, winter coats, Halloween costumes, swimwear, and whatever the latest style she found in the McCall's or Simplicity pattern books. She sewed us pinafores and neon-colored skirts layered with miles of rickrack. Occasionally, she even stitched our dolls outfits that matched our own.

Gran ran her hand longingly over the Model 401, heavy with sturdy beige metal parts. “It has discs that allow all kinds of decorative stitches. I could even monogram the girls' dresses if I had this machine,” she fantasized out loud. “I am getting tired of fighting that old machine, begging it to sew.”

Then she glanced down at us girls who were listening, but were anxious to move on to the Kress Five and Dime Store. “Well, we will see. Christmas is only a few weeks away, and Grandpa said he had something very special for me this year — that he splurged on me. Maybe this is it.”

She smiled down at us. “Now, who wants to look at the painted turtles in the dime store?” Nodding happily, we grabbed her hand and helped move her toward the door. “Anyone for hot cashews?” she asked. We nodded again, more than ready.

Gran had barely finished our red plaid satin Christmas dresses that year when her old machine jammed up and had to be hauled in for yet another repair, just four days before Christmas. With black velvet collars and cuffs, the dresses were ready except for buttons and hems, which Gran did by hand. Mom helped with the handwork, hemming one dress while Gran worked on the other.

“I hope Dad knows to shop at the Singer store, Mother,” Mom said under her breath so that Grandpa wouldn't hear. “Surely, he realizes what you truly wanted this year.” As they talked hopefully about Grandpa's promise of something special, both yearned passionately for that Singer Zig-Zag to be under the tree.

But when we arrived early Christmas Eve to pick up our grandparents for Midnight Mass, Gran had opened her special gift already. The gift had not come in a big box and was not the much-needed sewing machine. Instead, Gran was wearing a mink stole! It was beautiful and soft, luxurious and rich. Grandpa had splurged all right. Thinking he had chosen well, he was proud of his purchase. Gran wore it to Mass, along with an appreciative but weak smile.

Our mom was peeved with her dad for spending so much on a frivolous item when the sewing machine was needed and so wanted, but she didn't say anything to him. Instead, she cornered Gran. “How could he do this?” she snipped in her loudest hushed voice, as we all marched out the door and into the crisp night.

“Shhh,” Gran replied, her smile ever present. “He does not need to know I'm disappointed.”

“But we all dropped hints and he knows your sewing machine is always broken,” Mom pressed.

“Yes, but he
needed
to give me this,” Gran explained. “This is what he thinks any woman would want. He thinks he has done well — answered a woman's dream. Let him have that for Christmas.”

Gran never complained. She wore the fur on a few isolated occasions and then left it stored most of the time on a shelf in the closet. Occasionally, when we begged to see the mink, she took it down. When we were in high school, we borrowed it for our proms. We were certainly overdressed for a Kansas prom, but Grandpa was proud all over again that we had it to wear. Now, years later, I have the mink in a box stored at my house. Sometimes I take it out, admire its beauty, and rub my hands on the soft fur.

At Christmas, when memories flood back on the sounds of carols, the smell of pine, and the sight of red velvet bows, I remember the joy in Grandpa's eyes, that he could provide such an opulent gift. I also remember the pain of disappointment in Gran's eyes, that it was not what she really wanted, and her generous acceptance of the gift with no complaint.

It was the true Christmas spirit of giving and receiving and, as a child in the midst of that particular season, that one exchange taught me so much. Grandpa gave his best, and Gran graciously received it.

BY CONNIE VIGIL PLATT

C
hristmas during the Great Depression resulted in few store-bought items beneath my tree. But at the age of six, all I recall was that my parents and a favorite uncle made my holiday special. They brought in a huge log for the fireplace, and we sang carols around the piano while my mother played. And to be sure Santa could get down the chimney after we had gone to bed, the adults stayed up and waited.

Shortly after midnight, my father woke us from our sound sleep and told us Santa Claus had come and gone already! We hurried from our beds and marveled at the presents that had mysteriously appeared.

“Did you see him?” I asked anxiously.

“No, I didn't see him,” Dad answered. Then he explained that he'd gone to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and when he came back, everything was already there.

Earlier that year, I had spotted a pair of boots in a store window and fallen in love. They were the most beautiful boots I'd ever seen! Though we didn't have money to buy anything, my sister and I had gotten window shopping down to a fine art. I could imagine how those boots would look and feel on my feet. I wanted those boots; I didn't care what color they were as long as they were cowboy boots — but black would be nice. Because I knew money was in short supply at our house, I also knew those boots were something only Santa Claus could bring me. I went home and wrote the necessary letter, sending it up the chimney in smoke, hoping the great man would get it in time.

For the next month, I tried my best to be a good obedient child. It seemed as if everything was against me. I was late getting home from school. I lost my book. I even forgot to feed the dog!

That Christmas, when I was handed my last present, I hoped with all my heart that Santa had gotten my letter. I unwrapped the box in my lap carefully, doing my best to save the paper so we could use it again next year. My heart skipped a beat: There was a picture of a pair of boots on the lid. But I knew enough not to get my hopes up yet — boxes were also saved from year to year.

But when I opened the box, there they were: shiny black cowboy boots! I was so excited I almost dropped the box. Grabbing a pair of new socks, I tried to pull the boots on. But try as I may, I couldn't get them past my instep!

They were perfect … except they were at least one size too small. There was no way they could be returned — even I knew that. Swallowing hard, I refused to let tears of frustration fall.

“Didn't you tell Santa what size you wore?” my mother asked.

“I guess not,” I replied softly.

Dad took the boots from me and rubbed oil on them until the leather became soft and pliable. Then mother found a pair of thinner socks and helped me pull the boots on. I was ecstatic! I strutted around the house the rest of the night with aching feet. I didn't care; I had my boots! And I knew Santa had brought them, too, because I knew my parents didn't have the money to buy them.

When I woke the next morning, I clomped into the kitchen with my boots on. They were still tight, but were slowly adjusting to my feet.

Mother laughed when she spotted me. “Did you sleep in them?”

“No,” I answered proudly, “I got them on by myself.”

I wore those boots until there was nothing left but strings of leather.

By today's standards, my family had been poor. But that Christmas I was the richest child in the world. I received not one, but two of the most wonderful gifts a child could ever ask for. Not only did I get the boots I adored, but I learned — without a doubt — that there really is a Santa Claus, too!