Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (15 page)

BY RANDY JEAN BRUSKRUD

W
hen I was a little girl, Santa Claus always made house calls on Christmas Eve, bringing his round-bellied cheer, along with gifts for my brother and me. On those December nights, as the scent of roasting turkey filled the kitchen and arriving relatives crowded the family room with excited chatter, I had but one goal: to keep track of my father's whereabouts. My reason being, somehow, every year, he managed to miss Santa's visit.

“We're out of film for the camera,” he'd say. “I'll just zip downtown and be back in no time. I promise.”

Meanwhile, Santa came and went while Daddy was gone.

“We need cream for the coffee, honey,” he'd shout into the living room from the kitchen, his hand already on the doorknob. “It'll only take twenty minutes for a run to the grocery store.”

Meanwhile, Santa came and went while Daddy was gone.

Year after year, no matter how hard I tried to keep him home and in my line of vision, my father thwarted my efforts every time.

This Christmas would be different, I vowed.

“Where are you going?” I demanded as he headed toward the rear of the house.

“To the bathroom,” he whispered with a sheepish grin that failed to fool me.

“No way! Use the one off the kitchen,” I suggested. “It's closer to the front door and if Santa arrives, you'll hear him.”

“Ah,” he said as he switched course. “Good idea.”

I waited outside the door, tapping my foot, confident in my plan.

“Leave your father in peace,” my mom said from the kitchen as she basted the turkey.

“I can't,” I insisted stubbornly. “It's almost time for Santa to get here, and I don't want Daddy to miss him again!”

She sighed, brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, and eyed me wearily. “Don't argue, honey. I need you to set the table.”

Well, I could hardly disobey. Reluctantly, I headed for the dining room with plates and silverware. As I positioned each knife with its blade pointing in and lined up the forks and spoons with careful precision, I thought about my conversations with Santa at the mall. This year, I'd asked for a Patty Playmate doll — a doll nearly as big as me that I could dress in my own clothes. I was concerned about whether Santa would be able to fit her in his sleigh, and was glad he didn't have to bring her down our chimney.

About five minutes later, I heard a loud pounding on the front door. I gave a moment's thought to rousting my dad from the bathroom, but decided I couldn't keep Santa waiting outside in the chilly December air.

Daddy had managed to be “gone” again. But as Santa's booming presence filled the living room, I quickly forgot Dad's absence. Santa was explaining something about not being able to bring the gift I'd requested and I didn't want to miss a word of it.

“We were all out of Patty Paige dolls,” he said solemnly, “but I brought you something else I hope you'll like.”

Patty Paige dolls?
Did Santa mean Patty Playmate? Daddy always said Patty Paige doll, too. Funny how they both made the same mistake, I thought in surprise. Glancing down at Santa's shoes, I realized they were the same kind of shoes Daddy wore, too! Feeling a rush of pride that such an important man shared so much in common with my own father, I smiled.

As I stared in awe at Santa, I suddenly remembered something. “Mommy, where's that new suit for Santa? Don't you want to give it to him?” She seemed to pale. “You know. The one I found in your closet. You said Santa needed an extra one.”

Santa, however, was too busy to wait. “I'll get it next year,” he assured me. “I have to go now, because my next stop's a long way from here. I'm off to North Dakota to visit a little girl named Lindsay Larson.”

My mouth dropped open. “That's my cousin!” I exclaimed.
I mean, what were the odds?
I was truly amazed.

With a final rendition of “Ho-Ho-Ho,” Santa departed, and my brother and I settled in to open the packages he'd brought. I was so involved with my presents I didn't even notice when Daddy came out of the bathroom.

BY LINDA KAULLEN PERKINS

A
s the lime green 1950 Chevy crawled backward, I knew Daddy's eyes were shifting from the rearview mirror to the side mirrors. Normally, I would be helping him park the car from the backseat, saying things like, “Don't get too close to the curb, Daddy” or “Did you see that black car back there?”Today, I was too busy to offer the wisdom of a six year old.

My fingers dipped into the coin purse. “One, two …” I counted in a whisper. My heart quickened. What if, somehow, a quarter had slithered behind the sofa cushions unnoticed when I had counted the change earlier? Thoughts of a thieving couch worried me. No one suspected the worn sofa as a change gobbler, until it was turned upside down to fit through the front door and coins showered in every direction.

“Three, four, five,” I finished counting. With my allowance piled high in one hand, I breathed a sigh of relief. Five quarters had been there earlier this morning and five were there when I counted right before we left the house. Nothing had happened to my precious savings on the drive to town.

“Whoa, Nellie,” Daddy said to the car, turning off the key.

I giggled at Daddy and scooted toward the door.

He winked at me. “I'll wait here while you two shop,” he said.

Mama put some money in the parking meter and I slammed the car door.

“Woolworth's will have what you're looking for,” Mama said, nodding in the direction of the dime store.

“I can only spend a quarter for the girl's gift,” I reminded her.

“Yes,” she said, reaching for the brass handle of the heavy door. The wooden floor creaked as we stepped inside and the aroma of cooking food made my stomach growl. Somebody had probably ordered one of those big juicy hamburgers, and a thick chocolate malt. I squeezed my arms across my stomach.

“Do you feel okay?” Mama asked.

I nodded. “That food smells so good.”

“We're having hamburgers for supper tonight,” she said, slipping a shopping basket over her arm.

We walked up and down the aisles, past the hairnets, Pond's cold cream, white gloves, garters, and nylon stockings. Then Mama stopped in front of a counter stacked with thin boxes. “These might make good presents for your teacher,” she said, showing me the contents.

“But she likes perfume,” I whined.

“Do you know what kind to buy?” Mama's studied me with loving brown eyes.

I shrugged. “Maybe I should get the handkerchiefs. What about the blue ones?”

“I think those are very nice.” Mama smiled. “They're in a box and will be easy to wrap. But,” she tapped me on the nose with her finger, “it will take three of your quarters.”

“Okay.” I sighed. “At least I don't have to spend a whole dollar.”

“Where shall we look for the girl's gift?” Mama asked.

“The toy aisle!” I shouted, hurrying ahead of Mama up the ramp into the toy section.

“If I knew who would get the present, it would be easier,” I complained.

“True.” Mama nodded. “But sometimes,” she paused and looked at me, “the person who needs your gift most will get it.”

I didn't understand Mama's thinking. The teacher would number all the girl's presents and then we would draw numbers. Each gift would go with the matching number. The teacher would do the same for the boys. How could anyone possibly get the present they needed?

I fingered the book with paper dolls. “I could buy this.”

“Look around a bit,” Mama advised. “You don't want to buy the first thing you see. Lots of things here cost a quarter. I see jump ropes, jacks, puzzles, and checkers.”

“Here's a dress-up kit. It has real high heels and play lipstick.”

“How much is it?” Mama asked.

“Fifty cents.” I frowned and put it back, and picked up another item. “Mama, look! A Tiny Tears doll! You can put water in her bottle and she cries real tears. If I could only buy her for one of the girls,” I moaned. “But she costs way too much.”

“Look here,” Mama said. “You can get these two things for a quarter.”

A coloring book and crayons didn't quite compare to the doll, but that's what I ended up carrying to the cash register. With quarters cupped in my hand, I offered them to the sales clerk.

“I'll pay the sales tax,” Mama said, handing the clerk several pennies.

Heaviness filled me at the loss of my coveted money. It must have shown on my face because Mama patted my shoulder.

“Remember, it is better to give than to receive,” she said softly. I nodded, fisting the bag in one hand. It crinkled and slapped against my pocket with the lone quarter, reminding me that my money was nearly gone and yet consoling me at the same time.

Back at home, I couldn't wait to wrap the gifts. Smiling at my eagerness, Mama took a filled shopping bag out of the closet.

“I've saved this paper from last year, and it's full of wrinkles,” she said.

Disappointed at the colorful but wrinkled paper, I whined, “But, Mama, I want the presents to look nice.”

“That's why I'm setting up the ironing board,” she said patiently. “Go look in the kitchen closet for a box for the coloring book and crayons.”

“Why do I need a box? I can wrap them like this.”

She raised her eyebrows as she looked at me. “You don't want it to look sloppy. A gift should be like an honorable person — good on the inside and tidy in appearance.”

When I thought about it, I had to agree.

Just as she said, the ironed paper looked good as new as Mama wrapped and taped and snipped. She turned the package upside down and showed me from beginning to end how to make the package tidy.

“The ends will be a little harder to do,” she explained as she got to the last part. “First, I'll push this top piece down and then fold the sides in like this. Make sharp creases with your hand. Bring the bottom piece up and tape. Now you do the other end.” She slid the package in front of me.

I pushed the top piece down. She scooted close to me and said, “Fold it right there.” I did what she said, but my side didn't look as neat as hers.

She cut a length of ribbon and wrapped it around the gift. “Put your finger there while I tie the knot,” she said. Leaning close, she smiled, “Sometimes, it takes two people to do a job.” After she tied the bow, she showed me how to run the ribbon over the scissor blade to make it curl.

I stared in awe at the tidy package in front of me. “It looks beautiful, Mama! But,” I added wistfully, “I still wish it had a Tiny Tears doll inside.”

“Well, the girl that gets this might need a new coloring book and crayons,” she said.

A surprising thing happened the day of the Christmas party: The girl who got my gift showed me the broken crayons in her desk. “I've been begging Mom for some new ones,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Thanks!”

As if helium balloons were tied to my toes, I skipped home. “Mama,” I yelled happily, yanking open the front door, “she needed the crayons!”

Mama smiled, leaning down to hug me as I barreled into her arms. “See!” she said, grinning. “She got the right present!”

Many years later, I realize how blessed I was to receive Mama's gifts of love and wisdom. She took every opportunity to teach me about life — whether it was about giving gifts, accepting gifts from others, or plainly and simply doing the right thing. But mostly, Mama showed me how to live — and that's the best gift any mother can pass on to her children.

BY DELBERT L. BIEBER

T
here was an empty chair at the kitchen table on Christmas day, and I could not help but stare at it and wonder. In the 1950s, the kitchen table was the hub of family life. Well, at least it was on our farm. The kitchen table was where we all met at least once every day, most days twice, and quite often thrice.

The kitchen table was where we shared soup, broke bread, devoured roasts, and savored pie. It was where we licked our fingers and our wounds. It was where we prayed and laughed and cried together, told the stories of our lives, and learned the history of our heritage. It was where we learned to laugh at ourselves and with each other.

The kitchen table always had enough space for one more. It was where we entertained guests and strangers, who were no longer strangers at meal's end. It was where the extended family gathered on holidays and where the preacher sat when he came to visit.

Between meals, the kitchen table was where we pretended to do our homework while we played dots and tic-tac-toe. It was where the insurance man spread the papers from his briefcase beside a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. It was where Mom and Dad read us the Bible before bedtime. And it was where we received backrubs and hair cuts.

Cataract blindness and a broken hip ended Granny's attendance at the kitchen table. She couldn't descend the stairs anymore and come to the kitchen table — not for breakfast, not for lunch, not for supper. And now, on this Christmas day, I just stared at her empty chair and imagined she was still there.

I had already taken Granny's meal to her bedside, just like I did every day, just like I would continue to do. Mom always fixed a tray of soft foods of bran flakes or oatmeal for breakfast, soup or a soft-boiled egg for lunch, and tiny pieces of meat, mashed potatoes, and well-cooked vegetables for supper. Sometimes she made a special treat of shoo fly pie and ice cream.

Each time I carried the tray into Granny's bedroom, she apologized for the inconvenience. I'm not sure I ever convinced her, but to serve her was not an inconvenience. It was an honor.

Sometimes she asked me to read her passages from the Bible while she ate. Sometimes she asked me to tell her what was happening on the farm. Sometimes she asked me to look out of her window and describe the view. Sometimes I just sat in the big over-stuffed chair in the corner and marveled at the beauty that came from somewhere beneath her wrinkled skin and clouded eyes. Sometimes she told me stories about her twelve children, the friends she had lost through two world wars, and sometimes she talked about the Great Depression and how she fed the hobos who came from the rail yard. During our talks, she told me about her own childhood and growing up on the farm with seventeen brothers and sisters. Once in a while, she would sing a little song in Pennsylvania Dutch and then translate it into Dutch-English for me. And when she told me how proud she was of all her grandchildren, I sat a little taller in the overstuffed chair.

In time, the portions on her tray shrank.

As the weeks passed and her strength waned, I put a little stool beside her bed, where I sat and helped guide the spoon to her mouth. Later, she just let me handle the spoon, the cup, and the napkin myself. There were fewer conversations now, more silence, less singing, more reflection.

That morning as I leaned over to place the familiar kiss of departure on her forehead, she stroked my face with her bony, wrinkled hands. The mystery of innocent love reached across the chasm of the generations and connected our souls one more time. In that instant, I knew Granny would soon leave the farm altogether for a better place. But now, moments later on this crisp Christmas morning, as I looked at the chair at the kitchen table now empty of Granny's presence, I almost smiled. Granny's presence wasn't gone. I knew where it was. It was in my heart, and I knew it would always be there.