Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (20 page)

BY CHERIE TROPED

A
t the age of thirteen, Veronica was tiny. She wore her hair pulled back in two braids, which were always neatly tied with ribbons. Every Saturday, she painfully made her way into the hospital, pausing to rest for a moment at the Information Desk where I worked as a volunteer.

My greetings to her were always rewarded with a luminous smile, as she made her way to the elevator for her kidney dialysis treatment. I noticed she was always alone.

“My grandma drops me off,” she explained. “It makes her too sad to be in the hospital. You see, my momma died here last year.”Veronica and her mother shared more than just memories — they shared lupus — an autoimmune disease that literally attacks the body from within.

Veronica's kidneys were badly damaged. One had been removed and the other wasn't working well enough to cleanse her body of toxins. Veronica admitted the doctors were worried about her and that she was scared. She needed to have her remaining kidney removed.

On Christmas Eve morning, I noticed her name on the Intensive Care unit of the hospital patient roster and raced up to see her. She looked even tinier in the huge hospital bed with her brightly colored ribbons spread across the pillow. Still, she managed a huge smile when she saw me.

“Well, they took my other kidney,” she said. “But the doctors are looking for a new one for me.” Her smile widened. “Maybe I'll get a new kidney for Christmas.” Exhausted from the surgery and the pain, and the knowledge that without a new kidney her life would be even harder, Veronica succumbed to blessed sleep.

Unless they found a donor organ for her, she would be forced to have dialysis treatments for the rest of her life. I looked around the hospital room. Nothing in it spoke of the holiday season. Instead of Christmas ornaments, tinsel, and a stocking, there was only an I.V. pole.

Being Jewish, my family doesn't celebrate Christmas, but I knew something had to be done for Veronica, and done that night. It was Christmas Eve, and no matter what, this child needed a Christmas (or Chanukah) miracle.

I didn't know what to do. Because I had to remain at my desk and the hospital was short-staffed due to the holiday, I called my father and explained the situation.

“Daddy,” I pleaded. “We've got to do something!”

That night, my father and mother delivered a fully decorated tree to Veronica's room as she lay asleep in her bed. I took the huge bag of presents from my mom and put them near the tree, which was beautifully but strangely decorated with a half-dozen large red Christmas ornaments.

My mother smiled at my confusion. “Your father never bought Christmas ornaments before,” she said. “I guess he thought bigger was better!”

When Veronica opened her eyes the next morning, the first thing she saw was my dad, in a red sweater, standing next to the tree with presents piled high alongside it.

“Oh, Santa,” she cried, “Merry Christmas.” As sleep overtook her again, she whispered, “And thank you … Santa.”

Daddy mumbled a quiet “Ho-ho-ho” and exited the room quickly.

As he told me what had happened, he wiped his eyes. “Must have gotten a cold,” he muttered.

Though miracles don't always happen when you want them to, the fact that they happen at all is enough for most of us to cling to, and Veronica was no different. She finally got her new kidney, and even though it wasn't in time for Christmas, she was thrilled and happy, and best of all, healthy.

It's been years now, but I will never forget that sad little tree decorated with the huge ornaments that matched my father's generous heart, and the little girl who asked for only one thing that Christmas — a kidney.

BY JOAN FITTING SCOTT

T
he Coogan family was big and boisterous. With six children — five girls and one boy — there was always something going on. According to my mother, simple joys filled their summer days with picnics and swims in the local lake. When day ended, the family retired for the night with the front door unlocked. Since air conditioning hadn't yet made its now-essential presence felt, my grandmother hosed off the roof on hot summer days so that the house would cool by evening. A backyard filled with crabapple trees provided abundant shade — and ample opportunity for a good round of apple slinging.

Though it was a simple time, it was also a hard time.

The Great Depression had just begun, and my grandparents were forced to make a number of adjustments in order to cope with life's new scarcities. That included renting their house to a wealthy doctor and moving to simpler quarters to make ends meet. My grandmother, a woman my mother described as an astute business person, stretched the few dollars Grandpa brought home each week.

December 1932 brought Seattle's usual dose of rain and bluster. My mother was fourteen years old that year, and next to youngest in a family where it was sometimes hard to get recognition or a fair share. As Christmas approached, it became clear that the clan's few dollars wouldn't provide much in the way of new clothes or gifts. Mama already wore hand-me-downs. New clothes would have been a Christmas blessing, but this year, the holidays wouldn't mean goodies under the tree. And yet, as always, there would be riches in the form of good but simple fare, dear friends, and family love.

It grieved my mother that her one gift under the Christmas tree that year was a single pair of underpants. Though disappointed, she derived some sense of pleasure in the fact that they were hers and hers alone. No one else had ever worn them.

“They were brand new,” she said proudly, as she recapped the holiday for me many years later. “And,” she added, the corners of her mouth turning up into a soft smile, “they were all mine.”

Mama understood the underpants were practical — as were each of the gifts her siblings received. She knew also that necessities came first when money was scarce. But understanding and accepting isn't always enough. She recalls shedding a secret tear over her gift, the one piece of clothing that hadn't even entered her mind when she thought of all the possibilities that might await her beneath the Christmas tree.

After she contained her disappointment and set it aside, she opened her heart to the holiday and allowed something else to touch her deeply that day. Laughter enveloped her as family and friends gathered to share the warmth, the chilly rain outside notwithstanding. She remembers how her sister, Isabelle, had banged out the carols on the piano, an instrument the family had managed to retain, and how everyone gave Christmas renditions their all. She recalls how pleased everyone had been that Grandma had once again shown an uncanny ability to produce something from nothing, gracing the table with a small turkey. As she retells the story, she says she could almost hear the chatter and laughter that blotted out the paucity of culinary luxuries as the family sat down to eat that day so long ago.

Far from being bereft that day, she had in fact been the recipient of a great gift. She learned the true meaning of Christmas, and that's something she will never forget or take for granted.

BY MICHAEL M. ALVAREZ

I
pull up slowly and stop near the chained gate. For the hundredth time, I read the sign: KEEP OUT PRIVATE PRO P-ERTY. As I wait for my friends, Larry and Tony, to arrive, I glance at the house again.

Old Man Valentine's house hasn't changed much since I was a child. It still looks a little scary. I smile as I recall the first time we ventured onto that porch. It had been 1964, and we were fearless.

“I dare you!” Tony said.

“I double dare you,” Larry added.

I stood between the two best friends any eleven year old could have, and swallowed the huge lump in my dry throat. It was two days before Christmas, and everyone was getting ready for the holidays. Mom was baking, and I had just helped Dad put up the foil tree with the rotating colored lights. We three boys had found a few minutes to ourselves, and had walked directly to this house as if pulled there by some invisible force.

“C'mon, Mikey, you gonna stand there all day or you gonna go up and knock on the door?” Tony challenged.

“I'll go if you guys come with me,” I answered.

“Okay,” they agreed.

Slowly, one cautious step at a time, we moved toward the house that most people in town swore was haunted. The story was that when Old Man Valentine's wife was alive, they were both happy and friendly with everyone in town. Then Mrs. Valentine got sick. No one really knew what was wrong with her, but after a while, neither of them left the house. Some days, Old Man Valentine went into town to buy groceries and pay bills, but the rest of the time he and his wife stayed inside their big, rambling house.

A few years later, someone in town said they'd heard from Doc Johnson that Mrs. Valentine had died. Someone else said Old Man Valentine went crazy and kept his wife's body somewhere inside the scary old house. Perhaps, they said, he might have buried her in the backyard.

When we finally stood in front of the splintered front door, we blinked rapidly, hoping we weren't making a mistake. Taking a deep breath, I gave Tony and Larry a thumbs-up sign, and we all knocked on the door at the same time.

“Go away!” bellowed Old Man Valentine from behind the door.

Though ready to run, we stood our ground. In the next heartbeat, the front door screeched and began to open slowly. We could see only darkness beyond. We waited a moment, wondering if we had really heard a voice or if we had imagined it. From somewhere in the darkness, the voice sounded again, friendlier this time.

“Well, might as well come in, boys. And close that door — it's freezing outside.”

We looked at one another, our eyes huge in our pale faces. Once we had stepped inside, the front door swung shut.
Trapped!
my mind screamed. The only moment of clarity I recall was a question that repeated over and over in my mind:
What would the Lone Ranger do?

I didn't have time to figure it out, because the voice came again.

“I'm in the kitchen, boys. Just follow the light,” the voice said. I looked at Tony and Larry. I'm sure the Lone Ranger would have gotten more details before he followed that shaft of light, but when my friends started moving toward the voice, I went with them. The aroma of freshly baked cookies reached us as we neared the light.

When we peeked inside the kitchen, we were startled to see an elderly man with white hair opening the oven door. Old Man Valentine didn't look like a monster. He was old, but he didn't look like any of us had imagined. He was a little hunched over, and used a walking cane that was carved out of mesquite. He looked up and nodded.

“Just in time, my friends,” he said, as he pulled a tray of cookies from an ancient oven. “I'd like your opinion on my pumpkin cookies. I tried to follow Millie's recipe, but I'm afraid I'm not as good a cook as she was.” He moved to the table and sat down.

We stood in the doorway, tongue-tied. Finally, we moved to the table and joined him.

Tony's tongue came untied first. “You don't look crazy.”

The way Old Man Valentine stared at Tony, I thought we were goners for sure, but the strangest thing happened. The old man threw back his head and belted out the biggest laugh I'd ever heard!

When he was able to stop laughing, he smiled. “I'm not crazy, boys. Guess just a bit lonely most of the time. When I think of Millie being gone, I get a bit sad, but I ain't crazy.”

“This is good!” Larry said, munching a cookie.

The cookies were good. Tony and I slowly chewed one cookie, swallowed it carefully, and then tried another.

“Sorry,” the old man said, shrugging his shoulders. “I don't have any milk.”

We were perfectly happy without milk, but before we could say so, Tony blurted out another question, which had us squirming in our chairs.

“So where's your wife?” Tony asked, as he took another bite of his cookie.

The old man leaned on his cane and gently shook his head. “Suppose in the same cemetery where she was buried twenty years ago. Got cancer, Millie did. 'Course the docs didn't know what to do in those days. All they could do was watch her fade away.” Mr. Valentine looked at the floor, his lips drawn tight.

I swallowed the cookie and then cleared my throat. “I'm sorry about your wife.”

A sad smile appeared on his face and he looked up at me. “I miss her the most around the holidays. Millie loved cooking during the holidays,” he murmured, then went silent again.

That day, in 1964, we discovered the truth about Old Man Valentine. He wasn't a mean, crazy, old man who lived in a large, spooky house. He was just a gentle, quiet man, who loved his wife very much and cherished her memory. He wasn't a man to be frightened of — he was a man who needed friends, especially around the holidays.

We made a pact that day: The three of us would always get together for the holidays and visit Mr. Valentine.

The flash of headlights interrupts my thoughts as two cars pull up. I smile when I see Tony and Larry step from their cars, ready and eager — as am I — for another holiday visit with Mr. Valentine.