Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (22 page)

BY BOB ROSE

B
ecause it would be the family's first Christmas without my mother, none of us knew what to expect that December. Since my earliest memories, Mom had been the hostess for all of our holiday gatherings. But seeing how lost we all were this year, my wife, Kathy, stepped up to the plate and took over.

She prepared Thanksgiving dinner at our house that year, which helped make the transition for the first holiday without Mom. But, despite Kathy's efforts, in our hearts none of us were sure what to expect when we once again congregated at Dad's house for Christmas.

Dad did his best to make the place festive. He dug out all the Christmas decorations and placed them where he remembered them being in previous years. He even gathered evergreen boughs to line the mantel, and then placed the ceramic “Santa Claus Sleeping in a Chair,” painted by Mom before I was born, among the needles. The Nativity set that had graced their home since the Christmas of 1945 held a place of honor on the sideboard in the dining room. When Kathy and I and our three boys arrived from our home, some eight hours distant, we took on the task of decorating the seven-foot-tall Douglas fir Dad had purchased. Memories flooded my mind as we placed the ornaments on the tree. Each one held a story and invoked a different and unique memory that included Mom.

On Christmas Eve, Kathy again stepped in and prepared a scrumptious turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Careful to keep tradition strong, she served dinner on the dining room table that had once been my grandparents' — even Mom's favorite salt and pepper shakers, purchased in the late 1940s, a snowman and a Christmas tree, were on the table, as always. Dad set a fire in the fireplace, and Christmas music played softly in the background, compliments of the collection of Goodyear Christmas records my folks had amassed over the years.

Immediately after dinner, we bundled up the children and headed for Christmas Eve services at the community church that had been our family's place of worship for three generations. We exited the white steeple-topped church with the sounds of the glorious traditional carols of the day echoing in our hearts, and arrived home to the lingering smells of turkey and dressing, the fire in the fireplace, and the freshly cut evergreen tree. By this time, our boys — ages seven, three, and ten months — were anxious to get into the living room to open their presents.

Everything was as it should be — with the exception that Mom wasn't there.

The boys' excitement overcame the pall created by Mom's absence, and we all found ourselves caught up in their delight. Our eldest son, Justin, a first grader and beginning reader, played Santa. Soon all the gifts had been delivered.

When most of the gifts had been opened, I spied something behind the tree.

“Santa,” I said, as Justin tore into his first package, “I think you missed one.”

Justin conducted a final check, spotted the present, and crawled to the back of the tree to retrieve it. The tag read, To Justin — From Grandma.

We all stared at the box as Justin ripped away the paper, until all that was left in his hand was a red-and-blue Superman hairbrush — the perfect present for a little boy just assuming his own grooming duties. Tears formed in Dad's eyes.

“Mom evidently purchased the brush the previous spring,” he explained. “Then wrapped it, and stowed it in the hall closet to be retrieved at Christmastime. I found it a few weeks ago and waited until no one was looking to slip it under the tree for Justin to discover.”

Because my parents lived in rural Wyoming, a hundred miles from the closest mall, Mom had always made the most of every shopping trip. She often bought gifts well in advance and stashed them away. The hairbrush for her eldest grandson was her last such purchase.

I put my arm around Justin as he ran the brush through his hair for the first time, and I saw the smile appear on his face — tentative at first, then growing into an ear-to-ear grin. It was the same grin I'd seen on his face before, when his grandmother had placed her hand on his head gently and combed her fingers through his blonde hair. And it brought about a moment of understanding for all of us: It made us realize you can never really lose someone you love.

Without a doubt, the first Christmas we spent without Mom was a tough one. But when Justin opened the box containing the Superman hairbrush, a rush of reality enveloped us. Mom's love would always be with us. And now, thirty years later, I can honestly say not a Christmas has gone by since when we haven't thought of that hairbrush and what it meant to each of us on that very tough first Christmas.

BY GEORGIA A. HUBLEY

I
remember Saturday morning, December 15, 1945 as if it were yesterday. I jumped out of bed, giddy with happiness. While it was not Christmas Day, it was an exciting day. It was the day for my family's Christmas tradition — going to the woods and cutting down an old-fashioned Christmas tree!

“Don't forget to wear your heavy mittens,” Mom said. “You don't want your hands to get cold or have your fingers pricked by the cedar-tree branches.”

As I put on my mittens, I thought of all the paper-bird decorations I'd be making for the tree. Mom had already strung popcorn into garlands, but we would also be baking gingerbread cookies, as a final touch. As always, Mom would insist all the cookies be hung on the tree, but we knew she'd give in and let us sample one or two. Just thinking about the adventures that awaited me today brought a smile to my face. But as I raced to the stairway, I overheard a conversation that slowed my step.

“Money's scarce. There's not much money for Christmas this year,” Dad said.

“Oh, don't fret,” Mom replied. “We'll make do with what we have on hand. Besides, you always find a way to get us through hard times. Wait and see.”

Even at the age of six, I knew what not having enough money for Christmas meant. But at that moment, chopping down our Christmas tree was all that mattered to me.

As I hurried downstairs, Dad shouted, “Let's head for the woods!” Giggling with excitement, I got in line behind Dad.

We had a system. Dad led the way with an axe in one hand and a ball of twine in the other hand. Mom, my brother, and I followed, trudging through the snow in search of the best cedar in the forest. When we reached the woods, we spotted a grove of six cedar trees.

“Pick the one you want and I'll chop it down,” Dad said, standing back so we could all get a good look.

I saw an abandoned bird nest in one of the cedar trees. “Oh! Let's get this one!” I squealed. My four-year-old brother agreed.

This tree was perfect for us. It was approximately five feet tall, was irregular in shape, and had graceful dense branches adorned with clusters of prickly, bur-like, dark-green foliage. I was glad Mom reminded me to wear my heavy mittens!

After Dad chopped down the cedar tree, he wrapped twine around it several times and then tied the end of the twine into a long handle so we could all help carry our load. I peeked at the bird nest tucked in the branches and shivered with excitement as I visualized my very own folded, white paper dove sitting in it.

As we neared our farmhouse, we heard a car horn honk repeatedly. Looking around, we spotted a man and woman, whom we didn't recognize, standing beside a car parked on the gravel road that ran parallel with our farm.

Dad squinted at them through the bright sunlight. Then he lowered the tree to the ground. “They must be stuck in a snowdrift,” he said.

We quickly leaned the cedar against a snow-covered tree stump and turned to offer our help. Bur rather than wait for us to come to them, the couple climbed over the split rail fence and walked toward us.

When they were close enough to be heard clearly, the man looked at Dad. “Did you chop down your own Christmas tree?”

“We sure did,” Dad said. “Are you having car trouble?”

The man smiled. “No. We've come to the country to find a special Christmas tree. We were hoping you could help us.” He looked from Dad to Mom, hopefully. “We'll pay you.”Stretching his hand out to shake my father's hand, he introduced himself. “Name's Jim, and this here's Emma.”

After introductions were made Dad smiled, looked at our tree, and then back at the couple. “How 'bout a cedar?”

“No,” Jim said with a confident shake of his head. “We'd like a dead tree.”

We looked at him in surprise.

“You really want a dead tree for a Christmas tree?” Dad asked.

“Yes,” Emma said, “with smooth branches that can be displayed on a table.”

Mom's brow puckered. “How do you decorate a dead tree?”

“We wrap each branch in cotton to resemble snow, and then decorate it with real bird nests that we've collected in our travels.” She glanced at the surrounding countryside and inhaled deeply as if she enjoyed the out-of-doors. “And we attach dried leaves, flowers, and bird ornaments on the branches. It's to be a Mother Nature's Christmas tree.”

Never having heard of such a tree, my parents and brothers had gone quite silent. But when I thought about it, I decided it probably would be a wonderful tree.
Hadn't we just chosen our tree because it had a bird nest in it?

“We have a bird nest in our tree, too.” I offered.

Emma's eyes lit up. She looked at me eagerly. “Would you like to sell it?”

Immediately, I regretted mentioning the bird nest. At the same time, I remembered the conversation I'd just heard in the house — money was scarce. Would I lose our bird nest? Instead of answering her, I blinked to keep the tears from falling.

“Our bird nest isn't for sale,” Dad said. Pointing his axe toward the woods, he signaled everyone to follow. “Come, let's go to the woods and see if Mother Nature has a tree waiting for you.”

I smiled. My dad knew the bird nest is what made our tree special, too!

As soon as we found a dead tree, we hauled it back to their car where Dad helped them stuff it carefully into the trunk so the branches wouldn't break.

Then Jim turned to Dad, “Thank you for helping us find our tree. Here's $20 for your trouble. Merry Christmas!”

I smiled as Dad and Jim shook hands again. I knew $20 was a lot of money — surely it was enough so that money wouldn't be scarce at our house for Christmas.

Dad smiled at Mom as he stuffed the money in his pocket.

Mom smiled back. “You always find a way to get us through hard times.”

Dad grinned and gave Mom a hug. Then he looked back at the woods and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Thank you, Mother Nature. Merry Christmas!”

BY MARILYN OLSEIN

L
iving in a small town in Texas during World War II was tough, especially at Christmas. My father, disqualified from the Armed Forces because of his age, was working in an auto factory in Michigan, trying to earn more money than farming paid.

When I remember my childhood, the phrase “dirt poor” comes to mind, but we — Mama, my brother, my two sisters, and me — always managed a wonderful Christmas. Mama's family came to our house for dinner, and Mama made pans of Swedish cardamom rolls, the sweet smell filling the whole house. Grampa would bring in a couple of chickens for Mama to roast and fry, and we'd have cornbread dressing, white and sweet potatoes, corn, and green beans that Gramma had canned. We ate, laughed, sang, and carried on all day and into the night.

Not long after that hateful war ended, Mama sat us down on the screened porch and told us we'd spend our next Christmas in Michigan. We were moving to Detroit to be with Daddy.

I was terrified. We all were — even Mama, I think. Detroit was at least a hundred thousand times bigger than Melvin, Texas.

“Mama, doesn't it snow up there … a lot?” Phyllis asked. At twelve, she was the eldest.

I was born in Texas and, at the age of seven, I could remember seeing snow only once — the Christmas the Army gave all my uncles holiday leave. Uncle Steve, Mama's youngest brother and my favorite, chased me down a slippery road and washed my face with a handful of cold, melting flakes.

“It's not like snow in Texas,” I said. “Detroit snow is black.”

“Don't tell fibs, Marilyn,” Mama scolded. “Snow is white, wherever it falls.”

“Maybe it's white when it first comes down in Detroit, but Daddy's letter said coal smoke from the factories makes it black,” I insisted. I imagined Detroit as a city without color, all black, gray, and white.

“You'll find out soon enough,” Mama said. “We'll be in Detroit for the first snowfall.” She saw my face cloud up. “And crying won't change things.”

I didn't want to spend Christmas in a cold, dirty city with a stranger, for that's what Daddy had become to me.

Daddy immigrated to the States from Sweden as a grown man. When I was three, he left Texas, tenant farming, and us to work “Up North.” He planned to earn enough money to send for us. First, he worked in the shipyards in Portland, Oregon, then in an auto factory in Detroit. During the four years we were separated, I forgot what he looked like. What turned out to be worse, I forgot what he sounded like.

When we got off the train in Detroit, Mama hugged and kissed Daddy and then introduced us girls. He didn't need to be reminded of his son's name — his namesake. He spoke to me first, and held out his arms. I started to cry and held tight to Mama's hand.

My young ears had learned to understand a Texas drawl with a slight Swedish accent — my mother and her family are also Swedish. Daddy's thicker accent had taken on a completely foreign Yankee twang. I didn't understand him. None of us did, except Mama, and his frustration was intense.

For weeks, Mama spoke to him in Swedish and then told us in English what he'd said. It was almost Christmas before I could understand him quickly enough to keep him from yelling for Mama whenever he tried to say anything to me.

A few days after Thanksgiving, Daddy was included in a layoff. We were eating breakfast, getting ready for school, when Mama sat down next to me — something she'd never done. My heart fell into my stomach, and I couldn't take another bite of cocoa and toast. I had a feeling something awful was coming.

“There won't be much Christmas this year,” she said slowly.

“I'm being good, Mama,” Eric said.

“Yes, you are, but Daddy lost his job for a little while. It's so the auto company won't have to give him holiday pay. They'll hire him back after New Year's, but right now, it'll take all our money to buy groceries, pay the rent, and keep coal in the furnace.”

“That's okay,” I said through my tears. “We'll have a big one next year.”

I didn't know it at the time, but back then, Detroit had an old newsboy organization called
The Good fellows
. Daddy swallowed his pride and put our names on their “Needy Kids” list.

Goodfellows
gave Eric a toy car. Phyllis, Sonja, and I got dolls, each one different. It was the only doll I ever got for Christmas. Because the gift hadn't come from my parents, I almost felt disloyal when I held her in my arms. I still remember her silky blonde hair and ruffled blue dress, and how perfect she looked.

On Christmas morning, I woke to the sound of music I remembered hearing when I was little. Daddy was in the kitchen, listening to a radio station that played Swedish music! I slipped out of bed and peeked around the door. He began to sing in Swedish while he stirred a pot of oatmeal, then he twirled and danced a schottische around the kitchen. I was overflowing with happiness at the familiar sounds and sights. Watching Daddy dancing alone made me giggle out loud.

“
God Jul, litet dotter
,” he said and swept me up in his thick arms.

“Merry Christmas, Daddy!” I responded happily.

I held tight to his neck, and laughed while he sang, as we spun around the kitchen floor. I smelled his spicy aftershave and rested my cheek against the coarseness of a beard he could never completely shave off.

It no longer mattered that the snow wasn't white, that the day was cold and gray, or even that the beautiful doll was a gift from strangers. It was Christmas morning, and I was dancing with the Daddy I remembered.