Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (17 page)

BY MARCIA E. BROWN

“A
ll I want for Christmas is a new, bright-blue Schwinn girl's bike!”

That was my wish, plea, and mantra for more than a year.

For the three years since I had learned how to ride a bicycle in 1940, my wheels had been serviceable, but that's where it ended. They got me around, yes, but they were an embarrassment to me, for they were attached to a very old, rusty boy's bike that my Dad had bought for five dollars at a police auction.

It had not been easy to learn to ride a bicycle so large that my short legs could not reach both pedals at the same time. Even at the age of twelve, I was unable to brake with both feet. My method of halting was to try to swing one leg over the high bar that made it a boy's bike and jump off as the bike slowed down, which didn't always work on the hills in my hometown, and scraped knees were a constant badge of thwarted effort.

As I moved into the sensitive teen years, my girlfriends all had girl's bikes, which they gracefully mounted and dismounted. They could also wear skirts to ride. Pleated skirts, white blouses, saddle oxfords, and bobby socks were the uniform of the day, not casual pants. A new feminine-designed bike became a serious issue for me.

My dream was to own a bright-blue girl's Schwinn. But at that time, companies like Schwinn were geared to “war production.” They were permitted by the Federal Government to manufacture only a limited number of bicycles during each year of World War II, and long waiting lists soon formed. How many were allotted to northwest Arkansas dealers I have been unable to learn, but I know from experience it was mighty few. Between wartime shortage and the lack of parental funds for such a luxury, it did not look as if my wish would be granted anytime soon.

A year passed. Christmas came and went and I was still peddling the old boy's bike.

As another Christmas approached — 1943 — my longing for a girl's bike remained strong. But it was tinged with realism. I no longer believed in Santa Claus, and I knew that all over the country thousands of youngsters were wishing for new bicycles. For me to wish was to wish for a miracle.

On Christmas Eve, heavy snow fell on Fort Smith. It was not unusual that Dad, a newspaperman, did not come home until well after I was in bed. I woke on Christmas morning feeling sad. Because of gas rationing and Dad's work schedule, we were not going to my grandparent's for our usual joyful time with extended family, either. Snow and sleet from the night before had left our town at the southern end of the Ozarks Mountains covered with snow and ice. I lay in bed a long time, expecting a less-than-wonderful Christmas.

When at last I stepped from my unheated back bedroom into the living room, I came into brilliant morning sunshine sparkling on the blue metal of a brand new girl's Schwinn bicycle parked next to our small Christmas tree!

Miracle of miracles! It was the bicycle of my dreams. A red bow was tied to the large metal basket in front of wide chrome handlebars. A headlight for night riding rested above the blue and white front fender. Behind the comfortable seat was a passenger seat with springs for holding school books. There was even a bell on the handlebar. It was the Cadillac of bicycles for a young girl! At last I, too, could cycle to school wearing a pleated skirt, just like my friends.

Unknown to me, however, my grandfather had submitted his name along with a deposit to a Fort Smith bicycle dealer more than sixteen months earlier. My father — who had not been working late — had, in fact, walked the bike home five miles through sleet and snow on Christmas Eve, and my mother had stayed up later still to dry and polish every inch of chrome and painted metal. To this day, it brings tears to my eyes when I think back and realize, unbeknownst to me, my entire family had been wishing for a miracle, too, that Christmas. And the miracle they unselfishly sought was for me.

BY HELEN LUECKE

B
abs, my older sister, and I sat on the plane and stared out into the fluffy white clouds. I tried unsuccessfully to shut out the happy festive sounds of the people around us.

“Cozy, are you okay?” Babs asked. I nodded, not speaking.

“Merry Christmas,” the flight attendant said, as she passed out refreshments. She flipped her head so everyone could see the cute red-and-green elf cap she wore. Laughter filled the plane. I wiped my eyes with the soggy tissue and leaned back against the seat. It was December 23, 1973, a few days before Christmas, but I wasn't happy. Babs and I were on our way home to see our father for the last time.

Sandra, our younger sister, was waiting for us when the plane landed. Once we were settled in the car, we began the short drive to Memphis, Texas.

“How's Momma?” I asked.

“She's doing good, but it bothers her because Daddy doesn't know her. He won't recognize ya'll either,” Sandra said sadly.

“Do the doctors still say it's hardening of the arteries?” Babs asked.

Sandra nodded, “The past year he has really gone down. The last couple of months he hasn't been able to get out of bed. Remember how he used to get on his knees and pray the sweetest prayers? Now he doesn't know what a prayer is.”

We drove in silence. Memories of Daddy flooded my mind. “Remember when he bought us a bicycle and taught us how to ride it?” Laughter filled the car. Babs and Sandra joined in with, “Remember the softball games, the fishing trips, his vegetable gardens, and how he taught us to skate?” All the kids in the neighborhood loved to come over to our house and play because Shack, Daddy's nickname for Shackelford, which was his real name, would come out and play with us.

By the time we arrived home, we were laughing so hard about Daddy teaching us to drive we had to catch our breath.

“He should have a gold medal for that accomplishment,” Babs said.

We pulled up in front of the old familiar house and went in. Momma met us at the door with a hug. A green fir Christmas tree sat in the corner with flashing lights and sparkling decorations; the smell of fried chicken, biscuits, gravy, and peach cobbler filled the room; and a blast of nostalgia encircled me. I wanted to run and jump into my daddy's strong arms and feel him swing me around. I closed my eyes and let the moment pass.

I wasn't prepared for the change. His small, firm, wiry body was thin and bony.

I kissed his sunken cheek and whispered, “Hi, Daddy, I love you.”When there was no response, no recognition whatsoever, I turned and hurried into the kitchen. Babs, Sandra, and Momma soon followed. We sat at the table, loaded with our favorite meal, with no appetites. The family of our childhood was around the table, but one important member was missing.

Finally, Momma said, “Let's take our coffee and cobbler into the living room.”

We made small talk about the weather, the Christmas tree, and our flight, then Momma took over the conversation and got down to business.

“The doctor said Shack could live a month, two at the most. He can't get out of bed, he doesn't know anyone, and he doesn't eat much.”

I took a bite of peach cobbler as Momma continued, “You know that your daddy is a Christian. He's ready to go home to be with Jesus.” She took a sip of coffee and added, “

The next two days, visit with Shack, talk with him, sing, and enjoy this special time that God has given us to be with him.”The next morning, I went into Daddy's room. He sat propped up in bed. I climbed up beside him and took his frail hand. I looked into his pale blue eyes.

“Daddy, I'll never forget the basketball you gave me for Christmas when I was in the sixth grade. I bounced that ball until it was threadbare. Because of you and that ball, I became a better player. I think that was the best gift ever.”

Daddy squeezed my hand, and for a minute, I thought he remembered the ball and understood what I had said. Then he asked, softly, “Do you know the woman who takes care of me?”

I nearly cried. “That's your wife. She takes good care of you. She loves you. We all do,” I whispered.

I stayed in his room for several hours talking, singing, combing his hair, and rubbing lotion on his arms. Babs and Sandra visited with him the rest of the day while Momma — determined this would be a good Christmas for the whole family — stayed busy in the kitchen cooking turkey and dressing and baking pies and cakes for Christmas Day.

Later that evening, Sandra's family came up to join us for Christmas Eve gifts. We included Daddy in everything. When we sang “Silent Night” and “Away in a Manger,” he smiled and nodded. Then we gave him his presents: pajamas, fuzzy socks, and a blue house coat.

We kissed him goodnight, then went into the kitchen to help Momma get things ready for Christmas dinner. That night in bed, I thought of the good time I had spent with Daddy, and I knew I had only one more day before I would have to leave. Then it would be goodbye — maybe forever.

“Lord,” I prayed, “If it be Your will, let Daddy recognize me just once. Let me see his blue eyes sparkle with that
Hi, Cozy, I love you
look. Amen.”

Christmas Day dawned cloudy and gray, with huge silent snowflakes drifting down. During the morning, the preacher and several members from the church stopped by to see Daddy, and Aunt Mae came by with banana pudding and rolls. At noon, we brought Christmas dinner in to Daddy and sat with him. He ate some mashed potatoes, a small portion of white turkey, and some banana pudding. After a while he dozed off, so we went into the living room.

I was curled up on the couch, ready for a nap, when we heard a noise in Daddy's room. Afraid he had fallen out of bed, we rushed to his room. Daddy was kneeling beside his bed, his head bowed, his hands folded. His weak voice was now strong as he gave praise, glory, and love to the Lord. We listened with tears streaming down our faces. Minutes later, he stood and climbed back into bed.

Because of Daddy's deep faith, God had given him — and us — the perfect Christmas gift: the strength to say his last prayer the way he always had — on bended knees.

BY BRIDGET BALTHROP MORTON

I
discovered the truth about Santa the year I turned nine. My family had spent the summer in a small house on Pensacola Bay, swimming on the beach or getting lost in the backwoods, then falling asleep to the lullaby of waves. We loved our old house on the water, even though the house had only two bedrooms and we were a family of six children.

Like an army on the march, we kept trying new sleeping plans. Should all the girls sleep in one bedroom, with the boys on the porch, and our parents in the large master bedroom? Or, should the parents move to the living room so the boys could have the bedroom and the girls could go in the big room? We tried these plans and more. Nobody expected privacy. My mother occasionally sighed that she had no place to sew, not that she had time for it anyway. We dreamed that one day we'd know which bed was really ours.

The year before, Santa had brought me a Madame Alexander doll, with dark curls around a smiling face. She looked nothing like me, and I adored her. I played with my dolls, unlike my sister Mary. Her much grander Queen Victoria doll remained perched primly, in her gold brocade, on a dresser in whichever room we slept. Mary forbade us to touch her, and so she remained what she had been: a beautiful doll, untouched and unsoiled. I brushed my doll's hair till her curls were matted, her sweet face as dirty as my own. We tramped through the same puddles to bake mud pies, and if I remembered to wash my face, I scrubbed hers with the same washcloth.

Need I say my doll was naked? I can't even remember her original clothes. My doll and I didn't bother much with clothes, but Mother insisted that I at least had to wear them.

I still have that doll in the back of my closet, though I can't remember her name. Maybe, like my sleeping arrangements, I renamed her on a daily basis. I know for certain she had more than one personality. Some days, she was better than I would ever be, and far, far worse on others. But she always understood me perfectly.

That fall, her nakedness began to bother me, so I asked Santa to bring her a ball gown. I even remember my letter. I wrote that the color didn't matter, as long as the evening gown sparkled. The details I left to Santa.

I waited distractedly for Christmas. I remembered Santa liked bright red. I did not, and I doubted my doll did, either. I had not asked for anything else.

On Christmas Eve, our parents delivered their annual bedtime directives. No one was allowed out of bed before dawn or to enter the living room alone. We would all go in together, as always. We children, bouncy and nervous, nodded. Only recently have we shared our memories of breaking those rules.

That Christmas Eve when I woke, my parents had already returned from Midnight Mass. When I moved slightly, I saw Christmas lights reflected in the windows. Gradually, I heard the comforting sounds of my family sleeping and climbed down from the top bunk bed. I stared at my sister in the lower bunk and struggled with my conscience. The living room was so close. No one would ever know.

The Christmas tree shimmered in impossible quiet. I refused to look in the corner where my name was placed — the spot where my gifts would be. I knew precisely what my siblings had asked for, and I padded reverently from name to name. Santa had provided the secret wish of every child in my family, a gift each had really wanted. I wondered how he did it.

I was still afraid to look for my doll's dress.

Finally, more afraid of being discovered than of what I might see, I turned toward the corner where my gift should be. There was my doll, where I'd left her to wait for her new gown. She wore a white satin dress with a fitted bodice and a princess skirt. The white tulle overlay was awash with gold glitter. The dress twinkled as brightly as the tree. I reached out but I did not touch. I had never seen such a beautiful dress.

Something glimmered in the corner of my eye. A sky-blue evening gown hung nearby. I caught my breath and held it. The dress looked exactly my size, but I would have to wait until morning to be sure. This dress was simpler than my doll's, but floor length, and the skirt was studded with diamonds. When I closed my eyes and imagined heaven, it looked like that dress.

I crept back to bed more mystified than before. I had not known I wanted that dress until I saw it. But now that I had seen it, I could think of little else. Pondering this, I drifted back to sleep.

In the morning, the dress fit as if it had been tailored for me.

However had Santa done it? I asked over and over.

My brother, against every rule, dribbled his new basketball into the house. He stopped beside me, nearly growling at my continued question.

“When will you learn?” he asked, stupefied at my ignorance. “Santa knows everything!”