Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (25 page)

BY BARBARA ANTON

A
s one of eight children of an impoverished coal miner, Jane had never had a doll. She was aware that her father couldn't afford to buy toys for his six daughters and two sons, but she was confident Santa would bring the doll she yearned for so passionately. She knew that jolly, generous Santa had a workshop at the North Pole where busy elves worked all year long making toys for good little girls and boys.

Each year her heart brimmed with hope, but every Christmas came and went with no doll for Jane. Santa left only a tangerine and a few walnuts in her Christmas stocking.

Each year Jane wished even harder. She remained confident that one day Santa would leave a curly-haired doll that fit perfectly in the crook of her arm. As each Christmas approached, anticipation flowered in her breast. But the years passed, and the doll never materialized.

Eventually, Jane developed into a charming, red-haired beauty. She married, and after two years, a baby boy arrived. She named him Richard David, and she cuddled him, nurtured him, and for Christmas dressed him in short, royal-blue velvet pants and an ivory-hued satin shirt.

As soon as Richard learned to talk, he rebelled. He was the quintessential man's man. There would be no Little Lord Fauntleroy outfits in his closet.

Jane acquiesced, and as each Christmas approached, her meager savings were spent on the little toy trucks, trains, and planes so dear to her little boy's heart. She derived satisfaction from watching him enjoy the rewards of having been a good little boy. Jane was so caught up in his enjoyment, she almost forgot about her longing for a doll under her Christmas tree. Almost.

Jane's generous spirit even extended to me, her niece. One Christmas, she gifted me with the beautiful big doll she had always dreamed of embracing. How she enjoyed watching me cradle that doll in my arms! The doll's hair was arranged to provide a loop for attaching the huge ribbon bows that were worn by children in that era, and she and I changed the doll's hair ribbons frequently, always plumping them to spectacular heights.

In the 1950s, with her son grown and her husband gone, Jane found she had outlived her savings. When looking through the classified pages in search of employment, she came across an ad for assistant to the “doctor” in a doll hospital. She applied immediately. The doctor recognized her love of dolls and her eagerness to assist in their renewal, so even though she had no experience, he hired her.

Working beside the doctor, Jane learned to clean and refurbished dolls to pristine condition before returning them to their owners. She lovingly replaced missing fingers, re stuffed damaged bodies, and repaired eyes that no longer closed in sleep.

One day, when the doctor discarded a doll he thought was beyond repair, Jane rescued it from the trash bin. In the comfort of her home, the reconstruction began. Bodywork included replacing one arm, rebuilding several toes, and repairing a chipped tooth.

Jane used a long hatpin to untangle matted hair, one strand at a time. Combed free of tangles, she wound tiny bits of hair on makeshift rollers, and then styled the doll's hair into a mass of golden curls.

Each missing eyelash was individually replaced and crimped. Facial cracks were filled in, cheeks sanded to their original smoothness. With a touch of red, lips once again took on a healthy glow.

When the doll had been restored to perfection, Jane went to Woolworth's Five & Dime on her day off and bought a McCall's doll-clothes pattern. With meticulous care, she cut, basted, and fashioned pale yellow organdy into a dress she then trimmed with white lace. She purchased tiny white shoes and socks and a wide-brimmed straw hat she hand-decorated with daisies and forget-me-nots. Dressed in newly found splendor, Jane's doll resembled a princess. She named the doll Janine, because it sounded like Jane, but was more elegant.

Her masterpiece completed, Jane placed the doll in a box on a bed of white tissue. Wrapping the box in glossy red-and-green paper printed with Christmas trees and wreaths and tying it with a red, tinsel-edged ribbon, Jane set the box on a shelf in her linen closet, where it remained until the night before Christmas.

In the starry silence of Christmas Eve, Jane removed the box from the closet and placed it next to a tiny tree that she had festooned with shiny bells, tinsel, and lights. Then she relaxed in her familiar armchair to watch Lawrence Welk and his carolers on the television. Throughout the evening, she stole furtive glances toward the gaily wrapped package, but refrained from opening it. She retired early, eager for morning to arrive.

On Christmas morning, Jane lay awake in the dusk before dawn, her heart racing with anticipation. As she watched the window for the first hint of sunshine, she felt the years slip away. By the time the golden orb of the sun had crept over the windowsill, Jane was no longer sixty years old, but rather a young six-year-old child, hoping fervently the one gift she had always wanted would be under the tree this year. Jane threw aside the quilt, slipped her feet into slippers, and hurried toward the Christmas tree.

Quivering with delight, she picked up the gaily wrapped box and pulled the end of the silver-edged bow. When the ribbon parted, she slid trembling fingers beneath the red-and-green paper. It crackled and tore away. Then, for the first time in sixty years, Jane, one of eight children born to a poor but hardworking miner, lifted the lid, pushed the tissue paper back, and beheld the exquisite doll that was hers and hers alone.

“Oh, Santa,” she whispered, breathlessly. “She's just what I always wanted.”

BY CINDY NAPPA MCCABE

I
open the door to the cellar and walk down six steps, counting each one as I descend. I want to remember everything — every little thing. I'm alone now, no one to invade my thoughts. Mom and Dad have departed, off to their new house across town. Two of my sisters also left, and my other sister just went outside with her video camera to capture, for the last time, the outside surroundings of our family home.

I stand at the landing by the door and turn to reach for the light switch beneath the wall-mounted fixture. I hesitate, and then decide the grayness of the late afternoon brings in enough light — just the right amount of light for my melancholy mood. I start down the next small flight. When I get to the sixth step, two steps before the end, I stop and look out into the room. I remember standing here before.

I was eight years old. My cousin, Sharon, stood behind me, one step above. We sang “Away in the Manger,” pretending we were Kathy and Janet Lennon appearing on “Lawrence Welk's Christmas Special.” Despite the fact that everyone in the crowded room was talking at once, Sharon and I sang on.

Our cousin, Anthony, looked up from his folding chair.

“Shut up, you two! You call that singing?”

We made a face at him and continued singing, louder now. The huge gray and white Formica table was completely covered with platters of fish, tangerines, grapes, cookies, and mixed nuts. The nuts are in their shells, because otherwise they cost too much.

I decided that when I was rich and famous, I would provide unshelled nuts for this party. Salted!
But would Grampa feel badly about not using his special cast-iron nutcracker shaped like a dog?
My sister, Debbie, just five, sat between Grampa and Daddy, trying to crack a nut. Daddy took over and I heard him say, “You can't do this yourself! You have to be careful or you'll crack your fingers!”

“No, I won't!” she yelled.

Daddy gave her one of
those
looks and she quieted down. He held the walnut in place and pushed hard on the dog's tail. The dog's jaws cracked the nut and it spit out shell and nut pieces. Daddy caught them, discarded the shell pieces, then offered the nut pieces to Debbie. She frowned at him, ignoring his offering. So he picked up a piece and ate it himself. She grabbed the rest of it and Grampa laughed. I decided I would also buy shelled nuts.

We stopped singing. No one noticed.

I made my way through the chairs holding aunts, uncles, and cousins until I reached Gramma. She was sitting by the cupboard, close to the large bowl of punch. The bowl looked like crystal, but it was really plastic. Strawberries, once frozen, floated in the red fruit drink.

“Can I have some punch, Gramma?” I asked. Right away, I realized I should have said, “May I?” but Gramma didn't correct me. I know she didn't even mind, because her English was what they call “broken.” I liked the way she talked, though, and hoped she never got it fixed.

She looked at me and smiled. I loved her smile. All evening, she had a worried look on her face. It made her look mad, but she wasn't. Mommy says it's because she's nervous that an argument will happen when everyone is together. But I didn't remember there ever being an argument on Christmas Eve. Ever.

Gramma handed me the cup of punch. I pretended the cup was rare crystal and not plastic. I drank my punch quickly, and then asked for another, hoping to get a strawberry this time.

Now, years later, the cellar appears smaller.
However did we all fit?
By the time I was in my teens, older cousins were dating or married, and soon they had children of their own. Before Gramma left this world for a better place, where she would never have to worry about a fight breaking out, she not only had twenty-four grandchildren, but also twenty-four great-grandchildren!

We lived upstairs from Gramma and Grampa. The other families lived nearby, two right next door, and another two just up the street. Until Gramma passed away, we gathered here every Christmas Eve — New Year's Eve, too. It was how we started and ended the holiday season. But that was years ago.

The lowering sun breaks through the clouds and light spills in through the window above the sink, like the lens of a movie camera. Thousands of dust particles dance frantically in its path, and I am transported in time once again.

This time I was twelve years old. Grampa sat at the table sneaking cookies. We laughed at his antics.

“John, no more!” Gramma exclaimed. “Let the others eat!”

Grampa made a face at her when she turned away; we stifled our laughter. Gramma looked crabby again, but she wasn't, really. Except, maybe a little at Grampa.

I watched as Grampa opened the gift Gramma had given him. We all knew what it was. He held up his gift, revealing two white dress shirts.

“Thank you, Clara,” he said. “Very nice.”

We all agreed, though we'd seen those two shirts before. We raved about how nice they were to stop ourselves from laughing. They were the same two shirts he opened last year, the year before, and even the year before that! Once the festivities were over, Gramma put them back in the drawer at the bottom of his dresser. Next year, she would pull them out and wrap them again.

Lost in my memory, I smile. Gramma was passing out Christmas envelopes. When she handed me mine, I thanked her and opened it quickly, even though I knew what I would find. I took out three crisp, brand-new one-dollar bills. They were so perfect — no creases or marks at all. I thought they must have been made for her to give us. Even though the older grandchildren knew you couldn't buy much with three dollars, we all appreciated it.

Sweet, dear Gramma. She was like the woman in the bible who had so little, but gave it all. That is true giving, I think, as my eyes roam lovingly around the tables, over the precious faces. That's what Christmas always was in this house, what Christmas always should be.

I hear my sister Kathi call my name, and the Christmas party disappears.

“Cindy?” she calls. “Are you down here?”

I walk to the bottom of the stairs and look up to see her standing on the landing. “Yep,” I reply. “Just taking one last look.”“I know,” she says, walking down a few steps.

One glance at her red swollen eyes and I know she's been crying. She understands that this place was where the best Christmases took place. She understands, and is having as much trouble as I am walking away and leaving our memories behind.

Finally, we can stay no longer. “Let's go,” I say.

We walk back up the stairs, our legs heavy with regret. Without turning around, we exit. But when next our hearts seek Christmas and our thoughts return in time to this house, this basement, we discover the truth — all the memories born here have clung to our souls and moved with us.