Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (24 page)

BY LINDA BRUNO

B
eing called to the hospital because your parents have been in an auto accident is always a scary thing. But when you're fifteen and eleven, as my sister Deborah and I were, it is more than scary — the word “terrifying” comes to mind.

It was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, a September day filled with blue skies and promises of fun. We had gone to visit my aunt, uncle, and cousins. We had been there just a short time, when our parents decided to go out for pizza. We cousins stayed home, goofing around and generally aggravating one another as cousins do. When the phone rang mid-afternoon, we had no reason to believe that our lives were about to change forever.

My seventeen-year-old cousin, the only one who had a driver's license, drove us to the hospital. We were told that my aunt was dead and both my parents were in critical condition. My uncle, miraculously, had survived the crash with minor cuts and abrasions.

The next few days were a blur. I don't remember how we got home that night or even if we did. I don't remember how much school we missed. I do remember feeling like I was suddenly all alone in the world, even though my sister was there with me.

We were told the hospital had notified the Red Cross, who had made arrangements for our brother to be sent home from the war in Korea, not only to see his critically injured parents, but also to take care of Deborah and me.

Mom was sent home from the hospital first. Nineteen days later Dad returned home, wearing a face mask to protect his facial bones as they healed. Because Dad's jaw had been wired shut for the time being, Mom fixed food he could sip through a straw. But Dad was becoming increasingly frustrated, not only by his physical circumstances, but also his inability to go to work and earn a living — a sure sign of manhood for a male born in the mid-'20s. As a stay-at-home mom who had never learned to drive, there was no way for Mom to obtain employment to supplement our dwindling funds. There was also no way for us kids to help out. Though we lived in the country, farming season was over, and neighbors had no need for hired hands this time of year.

As Christmas drew near, any semblance of joy or anticipation was sadly lacking in our household. There would be no gifts. There was barely enough money to keep food on the table and the heat turned on — not a thought you want to dwell on in the midst of a bitterly cold Ohio winter.

Then one bleak December evening, as we sat playing yet another game of cards to pass the time, our dog began barking furiously. Since we rarely had visitors, especially on cold, dark winter nights, we assumed she must have seen a wild animal. But as her barking intensified, we all became unusually still. Crime was nearly unheard of in our neck of the woods, but you could never be too sure.
Had someone heard about our situation and decided to take advantage of us?

As we sat unmoving, we heard the faint sound of bells. The tinkling noise got louder and louder, until my fifteen year-old sister suddenly blurted, “It's Santa Claus!” As we all chuckled uncomfortably, someone pounded on the door.

With our eyes riveted on the tiny window in the middle of the door, Dad shuffled forward and cautiously opened the door.

Deborah had been right! Santa Claus had found us, despite the narrow back road, despite the cold, dark winter night, and despite — or maybe because of — our desolate circumstances. After Santa handed us candy and fresh fruit, he handed my dad the one thing that could make him find some joy in this holiday season: cold hard cash.

After visiting for a few minutes, Santa departed, leaving behind a family that now believed in miracles. Although Dad patiently explained that our visitor was, in fact, a dear friend from work, simply delivering the money collected by fellow employees, Deborah was never fully convinced. For weeks, she talked about the night Santa visited us. The disdain of others didn't dampen her innocent joy at experiencing the kindness of a fellow human being, whether he was the real thing or not.

And she has continued to believe.

Over the years, Deborah has faced many hardships, including divorce, the death of both parents, and the devastating diagnosis of lung cancer, but through it all, she has managed to maintain a child-like faith in the goodness of mankind. These days, Deborah is the one others turn to in their own desperate times — to borrow her hard-earned money, which may or may not be paid back; to borrow a spare bed for a few nights before they try once again to get life back on track; to borrow a shoulder to cry on. She is always available and willing to help whenever possible.

Now, as I think back on it, I'm convinced Deborah always knew the truth. She knew Santa Claus was real even when others did not. She knew that to some of us, Santa Claus represented a stranger with a big red sack and oodles of candy and presents, but that to others he is a loved one disguised in a red suit and fake beard. And she knew that to others, he is a good-natured coworker bearing much-needed and much-appreciated gifts donated by other coworkers, who care enough to help.

As for me, I knew all along that there was another kind of Santa Claus. This Santa Claus comes disguised as my sister, Deborah, who is always ready with a helping hand or a kind word. But regardless of what disguise Santa Claus takes on when he shows up in our lives, what mattered most yesterday matters most today, and what will still matter most tomorrow is not that Santa Claus's appearance changes depending on the location and the situation, but rather that Santa Claus does in fact exist, as long as we continue to believe.

BY MARCIA E. BROWN

W
ith the growing interest in all-natural dairy products from cows untreated by hormones, many milk producers are returning to glass bottles with caps, reminiscent of those used in the 1930s and early 1940s. Today's caps feature metallic paper bonded to cardboard color coded to the product within: skim, low fat, or whole milk or cream. In the days before World War II, our favorite dairy, serving eastern Oklahoma, topped its bottles of milk in beautiful foil caps of red, green, gold, and silver aluminum. Whole milk, with its thick layer of cream, buttermilk, skim milk, and whipping cream each had its own identifying color. Twice a week, deliveries to our house made a colorful display.

At the creamery, these bright metal caps were stamped from rolls of thin aluminum. The resulting discarded strips were long “ribbons” of foil about four inches wide, perforated with holes from the punched-out circular caps.

At Christmas, just after the attack on Pearl Harbor, a neighbor who worked for the creamery brought home a bin of these discarded strips, which he thought were pretty. His wife and five children, recycling long before the word was coined (in the 1930s, it was called “making do”), strung the colorful ribbon-like garlands around their Christmas tree, and all the neighbors admired the shiny stuff.

When Mama and I saw our friends' unique decorations, Mama was fascinated. Perhaps it was because that was the Christmas when glittery fragile ornaments, such as shiny balls and icicles, disappeared for what was soon dubbed “the duration of the war,” a phrase quickly shortened to The Duration. Even before that fateful month and President Roosevelt's declaration of a state of war, metal had begun to disappear from the domestic scene. Anticipation of the war's needs brought a quick end to the shiny aluminum milk bottle caps, right along with the disappearance of metal coat hangers and wrought iron fences.

On examining our neighbors' idea for using the colorful discards from the dairy, Mama saw that each corner where a circle had been stamped out left a perfect triangle. When our friends offered her a share of their find, Mama started cutting out little triangles from the thin aluminum, sewing them together on her old White pedal sewing machine, and making garlands so lightweight that the slightest movement of air sent them spinning and shimmering.

So was born a cottage industry in our family that flourished for The Duration. At Mama's request, our generous neighbor arrived one day dragging an enormous eight-foot box. Inside was the last of the available milk-cap foil scraps to be found anywhere, as wartime also meant conversion to cardboard caps for milk bottles.

When I hear teachers today trying to explain to children what a million of something looks like, I wish I could show them what a million little aluminum triangles resembled! For surely Mama, Grandma, and I must have cut out a million triangles of foil! We wore out scissors and skin. Mama — never one to let a good idea lie idly — was not only interested in decorating our house, he saw a potential way for us to earn Christmas spending money in the bargain!

For months, during the years of the war, we cut out triangles in the evenings, and by day Mama sewed them into long strips, like tinsel. She also stitched hundreds of short lengths to hang at the ends of Christmas tree branches to replace metallic icicles that had gleamed so invitingly on festive prewar Christmas trees.

In the fall, we assembled our goods into tissue-paper packets. The prettiest multicolored garlands sold for twenty-five cents; packages of three icicles were ten cents. Around Thanksgiving, we began our sales campaign.

A neighbor's son, also eager to earn spending money, completed our sales force. With Mama following, he and I shopped our wares door to door. We repeated a sales pitch I thought I would never forget, which ended with the declaration that our decorations “will not tarnish, burn nor bust!”

We were a success!

Folks were delighted to buy something new and glittery to decorate with during the drab war years. Young couples just setting up housekeeping were especially glad to buy from us. Each year we sold our entire stock. By December 1944, except for what Mama kept for our own use, we had sold our entire supply.

Even now, sixty-plus years later, I occasionally meet someone who was one of our Christmas decoration customers, or who is the child of a former customer. And true to form — just as we promised — our unusual decorations have not “tarnished, burned, nor busted!”Each year, as I carefully unpack our WWII Christmas decorations, I think of Mama, Grandma, and I working together to create this lasting holiday glitz made of scraps. And I remember the late autumn evenings, pungent with the smells of the season, when we walked through our small-town neighborhoods to sell our homemade Christmas crafts. And truly there is nothing quite as rewarding as that memory.

BY MARY L. HARDWICK

I
t was the most beautiful thing my five-year-old eyes had ever seen — a child-sized porcelain tea set, decorated with redbirds. I was enthralled — in love from that point forward with not only the tea set, but redbirds, too! Best of all, it came in a wooden box that doubled as a miniature storage cabinet. Each perfect little dish had its very own compartment. It was an item I had not even asked for, hadn't even realized I wanted. Thank heavens Santa Claus knew me so well!

I hosted many tea parties for my dolls and stuffed tiger, Jeff, using my little dishes and the child-sized table and chairs my siblings and I shared. Grape juice filled the tiny teapot over and over, which, in turn, was poured into the four dainty teacups. Crackers iced with peanut butter rested on the platter to be shared by all.

Time did not diminish my passion for this most perfect of gifts. My afternoon tea party became an after-school get together. I nibbled on snacks with Jeff and my faithful dolls, as I related all that I had learned in class. Then, one day the unthinkable happened. I rushed home to find my older sister, Terry, using the table as she colored, cut, and glued Valentines.
How dare she!
She knew I always had a tea party after school.

“Terry, you need to leave right now! This is my time,” I shouted.

“I'm not moving,” Terry replied without looking up. “This table belongs to all of us, and besides Mama told me to work in here.” She glanced up at me with a smirk on her face.

That smirk was all it took. Before she had a chance to say another word, I snatched her package of construction paper.

“Give it back!” Terry yelled. She stood up and grabbed at the colored paper, trying to tug it out of my hands. After a few tugs back and forth, I had an idea.

“Here,” I said smugly, and abruptly turned loose, intending to make her fall. And fall she did, right up against the dresser behind her — the very dresser my beloved tea set was perched upon.

I watched in horror as the wooden case tipped forward. The individual pieces slid from their compartments, bounced, and then tumbled over the edge, bound for the hard oak floor. The shattering tinkle of breaking glass vibrated in my ears. I stared in shocked dismay at my prized porcelain, now lying in shards.

Not one piece was salvageable.

Heartbroken, I turned to Mama, who promised to replace it. Over the years, I received many different tea sets, though none had redbirds on them. I still have the “replacement” tea sets, but none comes close to meaning as much as that first one did, the one received with a child's delight so many Christmases ago.

Christmas was magical back then. Unexpected gifts, such as the beautiful redbird tea set, were treasures that found a special place in my heart because they were such a wonderful surprise. Don't all adults long to return to childhood, when Christmas was excitement, when the simplest of gifts became cherished memories? Oh, we try to duplicate that joyous time, but because we adults are able to satisfy our wants all year long, surprises become fewer and fewer. Sadly, even our parents, who knew us better than we knew ourselves back then, are no longer able to provide those wonderful “Santa” moments.

Reality and time creep stealthily into our conscience as we age. We lose childhood innocence. When we were children, even the smallest gifts — gifts we hadn't thought to put on our wish list became our most cherished ones. A lowly “Made in China” dime-store tea set, powered only by imagination, cost a pittance in comparison to the electronic items that top most want lists these days; but sometimes, even when the presents are large and expensive, they don't manage to do the trick. Unfortunately, we tend to forget that giving bigger, better, and more-expensive gifts is not what Christmas is all about. We run ourselves ragged trying to find the true spirit of the season, which once again captures that childish anticipation.

Five Christmases ago, Terry presented me with a gift wrapped in red metallic paper, adorned with a golden bow embossed with sprigs of holly. In the maddening way of an adult, which I so hated as a child, I carefully opened the present. I plucked the bow from the top and set it aside, then cautiously lifted each tab of tape, careful not to tear the paper. I even took the time to fold the shiny foil paper and lay it aside for later use.

When I flipped the box over, I was speechless. Tears burned in the back of my throat, and then filled my eyes, blurring the lights on the Christmas tree until they smeared together like a watercolor painting.

“It isn't much,” Terry said softly, “but I thought you would like it.”

Measured against time and my own adult hands, the miniature redbird tea set I now held in my hands seemed so diminutive, yet each tiny cup overflowed with precious memories. Terry's gift was a link to my past — to our past — and to days of childish abandon. It was tea parties and time spent together, on a little table, on a sick bed, in a blanket tent pitched on dining chairs in the living room, on the back porch, and even on a colorful quilt spread out on the grass under a hot South Carolina sun. The impact on my heart was immeasurable.

Terry passed away recently, and I miss her dearly. Although she assumed her gift wasn't much because it was small, her loving thoughtfulness made it the most cherished gift I have ever received. It will forever represent a lifetime of love and memories between two sisters, and an unspoken apology for an accident that had never been her fault in the first place.