Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (6 page)

BY NELIA J. GREER

I
do not remember receiving much individual attention from my grandfather. He tended to be an unassuming man, who preferred to sit quietly amid the commotion of family gatherings. But in 1937, the year I was five years old, Nebraska's capricious weather presented us with a “white” Christmas that led to a beautiful moment of understanding and joy between the youngest in the family and the eldest.

Times were hard during those Depression years, and simple pleasures were defined by frequent family gatherings, where plain food was served with love and gifts from the heart provided the sustenance to persevere. Snow covered the ground as my father's large extended family drew together at the home of my grandparents, as was the custom on that special day. Cheerful greetings and the aroma of good food greeted us, as family after family entered through the back door.

All brought gifts, and carried them to the living room where the Christmas tree, decorated primarily with handmade ornaments, stood in the recess of a bay window. Most gifts under the tree were the work of loving hands as well. Among them were the soft toy balls Grandma Belle made out of left over yarn, ranging in size from tennis ball to that of a softball. Crocheted covers, resembling cupped doilies, provided child-and house-safe gifts to each of those youngsters she held close to her heart.

The round oak table in the dining room had been extended to its ultimate length, covered with snowy-white linen, and dressed with the best china and silver. When all was ready for the noon meal, the platters and bowls of food for an abundant Christmas feast were carried in. Grouped around the table, each standing behind their assigned chair, everyone joined in the traditional family blessing.

While the adults seated themselves, we children were ushered to the kitchen table, similarly provisioned. Seated on youth chairs or boosted with pillows, and babies in high chairs, we didn't mind being separated from parental watchdogs. There, under the gentle supervision of our youngest aunt, Aunt Harriet, we conversed spontaneously and laughed uproariously at our childish witticisms as we feasted on chicken and dumplings, Grandma Belle's customary main course for Christmas dinner.

At the meal's conclusion, Aunt Harriet and Aunt Alida began to shepherd us into the far bedroom.

“Come along,” said Aunt Alida. “There's a big surprise waiting for you outdoors, and you must be dressed warmly!”

Our curiosity piqued, as we all wondered aloud at this unusual activity. Finally, when all were sufficiently swathed against the cold, Aunt Harriet directed, “Hush now, and follow me.”

So anxious were we, we were right on her heels as she led us through living room, dining room, and kitchen. A little “push and hurry up” soon had us out the back door and down the steps. There, at the gate beyond the fenced yard, we spotted Grandpa Will with a horse and sled! Grandpa was dressed in his heavy barn jacket and cap with ear flaps. He waved a mittened hand as we approached.

“Come along, we're going for a sleigh ride!” he called cheerfully. This was his domain, in which he was clearly in charge, and loving every minute.

Down the walk and through the gate we ran, clamoring aboard the sled's small four-by-six foot, blanket-covered, rough lumber top. Because the deck was fastened to metal runners the height of wagon wheels, Aunt Harriet had to help some of the littlest of the bunch. The sled's common use was to haul hay to the livestock when snow covered the ground. It surely wasn't fancy, but my cousins and I were so thrilled at the prospect of a sleigh ride with Grandpa, you would have thought it the counterpart of Santa's conveyance!

Soon all six of us were arranged on the sled — laughing and chattering, and filled with excitement. When Grandpa turned to see if we were ready to go, I noticed a little smile curving the corners of his mouth and a twinkle in his light blue eyes. I smiled back, happy to be sharing this moment with him.

“Hold on now,” advised our proud grandfather. There were no seats or even a handrail to grasp, so we sat with thick mittens clinging to the deck edges and to each other.

“Giddy-up, Lady.”

Lady, a plow horse unused to human cargo was a little hesitant at first, but under Grandpa's calm guiding hand, she soon settled into a rhythmic trot, and the sleigh bells Grandpa had appended to her harness began to jingle merrily. One cannot imagine if Lady had feelings of privilege or felt put-upon for this duty, but clearly she was Grandpa's choice for this day's jaunt, and I like to think she felt as proud of Grandpa.

We were momentarily silenced by this new experience, as we traversed the half-mile to town and back. Clouds above threatened more snow, but that didn't dampen our spirits as we began to get into the adventure and sang “Jingle Bells” at the top of our lungs. We called out “Merry Christmas!” to everyone we saw. Here and there, we glided past youngsters braving the cold to try out a new Christmas sled or attempting to roll the powdery snow into the rounded segments of a snowman.

In less than an hour, we were returned to the homestead and deposited at the gate, chilled through and through, but exuberant from the thrill of our excursion.

I must admit to a slight feeling of superiority at a surmised envy on the part of those children we saw on the street. I realize a homemade utility sled is of lowly origin and intended only to serve a practical purpose; it was Grandpa Will's desire to do something special — within his realm — for his grandchildren that made us feel privileged. Even at that tender age, I understood and appreciated his gift.

BY BARBARA JEANNE FISHER

A
s a five-year-old child, I was a coward at heart. I remember so well how excited I was that Santa was coming and bringing us something special, and how I reacted when he finally arrived. True to character, the minute Santa knocked on the door, I screamed, “I have to go potty!” and ran to the bathroom to hide. Somehow, Mom managed to get me into the living room, where Santa gave me a rubber baby doll, but all the coaxing in the world didn't get me on his lap.

Instead, my sweet baby brother, Bernie, was lifted to the place of honor, smiling and cooing. As soon as Santa put Bernie down, however, Bernie picked up my new baby doll. The doll was my one gift and I was frantic he'd harm her in some way. I quickly grabbed the doll by the feet — begging Bernie to let go of the doll's head. He wouldn't. With a whoosh and a splash of tiny white foam balls, I was left holding the doll's body, while her head rolled across the floor. I was crushed, but in her magic way, Mom somehow managed to stuff most of the foam balls back into my baby doll, and twist her forlorn head back on.

My sister, four years older than I, was last to sit on Santa's lap. JoAnne feared if she didn't believe in Santa, she wouldn't get a present. She played the “perfect child” role all the way to the end, thrilled with the miniature sewing machine she received. I watched in amazement as JoAnne sat there hugging and kissing Santa for several minutes. Mom and Dad were so proud of her!

But later, when Santa was saying goodbye, JoAnne ran back to him, hugged him tightly once more, and whispered, “Good job! Goodbye, Uncle Urbie.”

When Christmas came the following year, I was braver, but it didn't matter — my siblings and I all had the mumps. Santa wouldn't be making an appearance in our house this year. To make matters worse, Dad had gotten a bonus and announced he'd purchased a very nice gift for us to share. He was very upset that we were all sick, especially on Christmas.

You can't imagine our surprise on Christmas morning when we scooted from our sick beds to see our presents. When we walked into our huge farmhouse living room, we found a gym set waiting for us, complete with a slide and swings!

Dad had stayed up late on Christmas Eve to assemble it — right in the house — just to cheer us up! We were the only children we ever knew who had a gym set in their living room! Despite the mumps, we enjoyed swinging and sliding all day long, and Mom and Dad enjoyed watching us!

But that was the fifties. Rather than a handful of gifts, more thought went into one special gift. Reflecting on my childhood, I believe families back then were closer. Going to church to celebrate the birth of Christ always came before parties and presents, and because sometimes we received only one gift, we learned to share. We also learned that sometimes less was quite a bit more, and even when the gifts were less than we had hoped for, we knew — no matter what — that we were always loved.

BY ARTHUR BOWLER

O
nce upon a time, there were no malls. At Christmas time, you were forced to search for treasures in the stores of a large city or in the Mom and Pop shops on Main Street. I spent many afternoons roaming through Peterson's Five and Dime downtown. It had everything from candy to sewing accessories to snow shovels, but shopping there was not easy. It was known as “Grouch Peterson” in honor of its unfriendly proprietor, whose favorite expressions were “Don't touch that!” and “You break it, you take it.”

The store was dark and dusty and the wooden floor creaked as you walked through the aisles. This made it easier for Peterson to keep his eye on your every move over his half glasses, as if he suspected you were about to steal something. He was the owner and the only employee. If you had a question or, God forbid, a complaint or a return, you had to deal with him. He was not a popular man in town, and I suspect he knew it. There were seldom any sales in those days, and certainly never with Grouch Peterson.

Yet, in 1961, in a town with just a handful of businesses, there weren't too many choices for an eleven-year-old boy to find a Christmas present for his mother. Peterson's was it, and one day in December, I got a glimpse at the real Peterson, and he surprised me.

Snow had been falling heavily for hours, and it looked like school would be cancelled the next day. Long before the sun set that afternoon, the streets were bare. People had gone home early to avoid being stuck in the storm. Peterson lived alone above the store, so getting home was no problem for him. As I entered, I found neither customers nor Peterson himself. Back then, there was no music in stores, and the shop was dead quiet except for the occasional rumble of a snowplow as it made its way down Main Street. I started wandering through the aisles, feet creaking on the floorboards. When Peterson emerged quietly from the back room, it appeared — even to my eleven-year-old eyes — that he had been crying.

“Hello, Mr. Peterson,” I said quietly. There was no response, just a short wave of the hand. “Looks bad out there,” I muttered, searching for some kind of conversation.

“Um,” he answered.

He was holding a piece of paper in his hand. In unusual frankness, he explained that he was going to be alone for Christmas. A widower with only one child, his daughter, who lived abroad, had written him a letter — the only reliable form of communication from overseas — to say that she would not be able to make it home for the holiday. It was too much for Grouch Peterson, and for me.

For many years, I had seen Peterson as a cranky old man, to be avoided and made fun of. Now, I felt sorry for him.

Without a second thought, I looked him straight in the eye and said, “Mr. Peterson, why don't you come to my dad's church on Christmas Eve? It'll be real pretty, with lots of candles and nice songs, and afterwards a few people always come to our house for something to eat and to be together for a while. Why don't you come, too?”

Peterson stared at me with a blank expression. The light of a passing snowplow flashed across his chiseled face, wrinkled from years of work and loneliness. Our eyes locked, and after a moment of silence that stretched into what seemed like forever, he finally answered.

“Well, maybe I will,” he said with the hint of a smile.

And so, among the faithful at the candlelight Christmas service, there was a surprising new visitor, a man who had cried out for one of the most basic of human needs. Although I felt really good about what I had done and I never looked at Peterson as a grouch again, it wasn't until I was a grown man that I recognized that simple act for what it was. When I did, tears pooled in my eyes and a feeling of pride for the little boy who had walked into Peterson's store that afternoon and offered friendship to a grouchy old man poured from me. And as I wiped my eyes, I felt prouder still of the grouchy old man who was able to accept that friendship for what it was.