Our Matchbox Christmas

Author Unknown

It was a rainy California Christmas Eve. Our tree was lit
up, and it shone through the large picture window of
our home in military quarters at Port Hueneme. My
husband would finally be spending Christmas with us.
He had often missed the holidays due to deployments,
leaving me and our three small children alone for
Christmas. He had just returned home from Vietnam
and would be home for six months. Then he would have
to go back to fighting the war in Vietnam.

Our children, six, four and two years old, were
anxiously waiting for their daddy to return from
battalion headquarters. He had to “muster and make
it.” Their little noses had been pressed against the big
frosty window almost all afternoon, waiting for him to
come back home.

Their daddy was a Seabee, and we were all as proud of
him as we could be, but we often struggled to make
ends meet. Once a month, I would buy a month’s worth
of groceries, and this month, I had managed to squeeze
in a large turkey and all the trimmings, to cook for our
Christmas Eve meal, but money for presents was
scarce. I had bought my husband a small gift, and he
had bought me one. The children each had a handful of
tiny department-store toys, all individually wrapped and
waiting for the big day. There were no names on the
small gifts; I could feel through the paper and tell what
they were.

I saw my husband’s car headlights cut through the dark
winter mist that engulfed our home. I pushed back my
hair and straightened my clothes. The children and I
rushed to the door. This was our big night! It had been
our tradition back home in Texas to eat our big meal on
Christmas Eve night, and this year we were going to eat
better than we usually did. Our little table was laden
with all sorts of tasty-looking food. Each of the kids
would get to open one present, and Santa Claus would
be coming after they went to sleep.

To my surprise, when I opened the door to give my
husband a big kiss, standing behind him were three
burly Seabees. They hung their heads as they entered
our home, as if to apologize for intruding on our family
feast.

“Honey,” my husband said, almost apologetically,
“these are some of the guys who were with me in
‘Nam. Their families are thousands of miles away. They
were just sitting in the barracks, and I asked them if
they wanted to come eat with us. Is it okay if they
stay?”

I was thrilled to have Christmas company. We, too,
were thousands of miles away from friends and family.
It had been so long since we had “entertained.” We
gladly shared our small feast with those three huge
Seabees. After dinner, we all sat down in the living
room. The children started begging to open their gifts.
I sat them down and walked over to the tree to get
them each a tiny wrapped gift.

As I glanced up, I could see my husband’s friends
sitting there looking sad and distant. I realized how
bittersweet it must feel to be here with us. I knew they
must be thinking about their own children, wives and
homes. They were staring down at the floor, lost in the
loneliness of the season, trying to shake the horrible
memories of the war they had just left — a war to
which they would soon return.

Quickly, I scooped up six colorfully wrapped Matchbox
cars. I called each of our children’s names, and they
quickly opened their presents. Soon, all three of them
were rolling their cars on the floor.

I walked over to the men. “Well, what do you know?” I
said. “Old Santa must have known you were going to be
here!”

Those big old Seabees looked up in surprise. They
opened their treasures: a Matchbox car for each of
them. Within seconds after they opened the gifts,
those men, grinning from ear to ear, were down on the
floor playing with their tiny cars.

I looked up at my husband. “How about me?” he asked.
“Did Santa leave me anything?”

I reached under the tree and handed him a tiny present
also. He joyfully joined our children and his friends.
They must have played for hours. They ate, told funny
stories and laughed while they rolled those race cars
around on the floor.

I watched them there, filled with pride. These men had
fought for us and kept us free. Free to have nights like
this one, and others that were to come.

I didn’t really know these men, but there they were,
sitting on our floor. They would have given the world to
be back home with their loved ones, but it wasn’t
possible. They had committed to defend our country.
They were trying to make the best of an awful time in
their lives.

Soon, the races were over, the food was almost all
devoured, and each of the men said their goodbyes and
left our home, their faces shining with new hope. In
each of their hands, clutched tightly, was a tiny
Matchbox car.

Years have passed since that Christmas Eve night. Two
of the men returned from the war. One didn’t.
We have seen them over the years, visited their
homes, met their families. The men have swapped war
stories while the women shared “left at home to do it
all by ourselves” stories. Our children played together.

When we first met again, I was surprised to learn that
every one of the men had kept their cars in their
pockets when they were in ‘Nam. When times got
tough, and everything would get still, the men would
quietly take out those little cars. They would give each
other a grin, as if to promise that there would be
another race and that they would see another day.

And they showed me how, high on a mantel, or proudly
displayed in a shadow box, safely tucked away from
harm, they still have their tiny Matchbox cars!

An Elf’s Tale

by Tyree Dillingham

It was six o’clock at the mall, and I was as exhausted as an elf on Christmas Eve. In fact, I was an elf and it was Christmas Eve. That December of my sixteenth year, I’d been working two jobs to help my parents with my school tuition and to make a little extra holiday money. My second job was as an elf for Santa to help with kids’ photos. Between my two jobs, I’d worked twelve hours straight the day before. On Christmas Eve, things were so busy at Santaland that I hadn’t even had a coffee break all day. But this was it -- only minutes more, and I’d have survived!

I looked over at Shelly, our manager, and she gave me an encouraging smile. She was the reason I’d made it through. She’d been thrown in as manager halfway through the season, and she’d made all the difference in the world. My job had changed from stress-filled to challenging. Instead of yelling at her workers to keep us in line, she encouraged us and stood behind us. She made us pull together as a team. Especially when things were their craziest, she always had a smile and an encouraging word. Under her leadership, we’d achieved the highest number of mall photo sales in California.

I knew it was a difficult holiday season for her -- she’d recently suffered a miscarriage. I hoped she knew how great she was and what a difference she’d made to all her workers and to all the little children who’d come to have their pictures taken.

Our booth was open until seven; at six, things started to slow down, and I finally took a break. Although I didn’t have much money, I really wanted to buy a little gift for Shelly so that she’d know we appreciated her. I got to a store that sold soap and lotion just as they put the grate down. “Sorry, we’re closed!” barked the clerk, who looked as tired as I was and didn’t sound sorry at all.

I looked around and, to my dismay, found that all the stores had closed. I’d been so tired I hadn’t noticed.

I was really bummed. I had been working all day and had missed buying her a present by one minute.

On my way back to the Santa booth, I saw that Nordstrom was still open. Fearful that they, too, would close at any moment, I hurried inside and followed the signs toward the Gift Gallery. As I rushed through the store, I began to feel very conspicuous. It seemed the other shoppers were all very well-dressed and wealthy -- and here I was a broke teenager in an elf costume. How could I even think I’d find something in such a posh store for under fifteen dollars?

I self-consciously jingled my way into the Gift Gallery. A woman sales associate, who also looked as if she’d just stepped off a fashion runway, came over and asked if she could help me. As she did, everyone in the department turned and stared.

As quietly as possible, I said, “No, that’s okay. Just help somebody else.”

She looked right at me and smiled. “No,” she said. “I want to help you.”

I told the woman who I was buying for and why, then I sheepishly admitted I only had fifteen dollars to spend. She looked as pleased and thoughtful as if I’d just asked to spend $1500. By now, the department had emptied, but she carefully went around, selecting a few things that would make a nice basket. The total came to $14.09.

The store was closing; as she rang up the purchase, the lights were turned off.

I was thinking that if I could take them home and wrap them, I could make them really pretty but I didn’t have time.

As if reading my mind, the saleslady asked, “Do you need this wrapped?”

“Yes,” I said.

By now the store was closed. Over the intercom, a voice asked if there were still customers in the store. I knew this woman was probably as eager to get home on Christmas Eve as everybody else, and here she was stuck waiting on some kid with a measly purchase.

But she was gone in the back room a long time. When she returned, she brought out the most beautiful basket I’d ever seen. It was all wrapped up in silver and gold, and looked as if I’d spent fifty dollars on it -- at least. I couldn’t believe it. I was so happy!

When I thanked her, she said, “You elves are out in the mall spreading joy to so many people, I just wanted to bring a little joy to you.”

“Merry Christmas, Shelly,” I said back at the booth. My manager gasped when she saw the present; she was so touched and happy that she started crying. I hoped it gave a happy start to her Christmas.

All through the holidays, I couldn’t stop thinking about the kindness and effort of the saleswoman, and how much joy she had brought to me, and in turn to my manager. I thought the least I could do was to write a letter to the store and let them know about it. About a week later, I got a reply from the store, thanking me for writing.

I thought that was the end of it, until mid-January.

That’s when I got a call from Stephanie, the sales associate. She wanted to take me to lunch. Me, a fifteen-dollar, sixteen-year-old customer.

When we met, Stephanie gave me a hug, and a present, and told me this story.

She had walked into a recent employee meeting to find herself on the list of nominees to be named the Nordstrom All-Star. She was confused but excited, as she had never before been nominated. At the point in the meeting when the winner was announced, they called Stephanie -- she’d won! When she went up front to accept the award, her manager read my letter out loud. Everyone gave her a huge round of applause.

Winning meant that her picture was put up in the store lobby, she got new business cards with Nordstrom All-Star written on them, a 14-karat gold pin, a 100-dollar award, and was invited to represent her department at the regional meeting.

At the regional meeting, they read my letter and everyone gave Stephanie a standing ovation. “This is what we want all of our employees to be like!” said the manager who read the letter. She got to meet three of the Nordstrom brothers, who were each very complimentary.

I was already a little overwhelmed when Stephanie took my hand. “But that’s not the best part, Tyree,” she said. “The day of that first store meeting, I took a list of the nominees, and put your letter behind it, with the 100-dollar bill behind that. I took it home and gave it to my father. He read everything and looked at me and said, “When do you find out who won?”

“I said, ‘I won, Dad.’”

“He looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Stephanie, I’m really proud of you.’”

Quietly, she said, “My dad has never said he was proud of me.”

I think I’ll remember that moment all my life. That was when I realized what a powerful gift appreciation can be. Shelly’s appreciation of her workers had set into motion a chain of events -- Stephanie’s beautiful basket, my letter, Nordstrom’s award -- that had changed at least three lives.

Though I’d heard it all my life, it was the Christmas when I was an elf -- and a broke teenager -- that I truly came to understand that the littlest things can make the biggest difference.

Stocking Feet Faith

by Patricia Lorenz

After twenty years of driving buses for the county transit system, John thought he’d seen everything. But something happened one cold December day in the early 1980s in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, that changed all of that.

John was worrying about his problems just like the next guy. Wondering how he was going to pay the December gas bill. Wondering if he’d be able to buy any Christmas presents that year. Wondering if he was ever going to get ahead of the game.

On that cold, dreary, gray-sky day before Christmas, the temperature was ten degrees and it was trying to snow. Every time John opened the bus door, a blast of cold air slapped him in the face.

“Lousy time of year,” John grumbled. “Just plain lousy.”

As usual, around 3:00 p.m., John was driving his bus down Wisconsin Avenue. At Marquette Prep School, a private boys’ high school, he picked up the usual group of students. It seemed to John that as Christmas drew closer, the high school boys grew louder and rowdier.

Pushing and shoving, they stumbled to the back of the bus. “Rich kids,” John mumbled disgustedly to himself. Most of the boys from the prep school lived in the ritzier suburbs and would be transferring off his bus in a mile or so.

A few stops later, John pulled up in front of the Milwaukee County Medical Complex grounds where a woman was waiting in the bus shelter. She looked to be about forty years old and pregnant, her dingy gray coat tattered from collar to hem. When she pulled herself up the steps of the bus, John noticed she was wearing only socks, no shoes.

“Good Lord, woman, where are your shoes?” he blurted out without thinking. “It’s too cold to be out without shoes! Get on in here and off that cold sidewalk!”

The woman struggled up the steps, pulling her gray buttonless coat around her protruding belly. “Never mind my shoes. This bus goin’ downtown?”

Still staring at her feet, John answered, “Well, eventually we’ll get back downtown. Have to head west first, then we’ll turn around.”

“I don’t mind the extra ride, long as I can get warm. It’s cold out there. Wind must be comin’ off the lake!”she sighed as she handed John her money and sat down on the front seat.

The high school kids in the back started in. “Hey, lady, nice coat!”

“That a Saks Fifth Avenue special?”

“Doesn’t she know we don’t serve patrons without shoes?”

John felt like strangling every one of those kids. To distract the woman from their remarks, he continued his conversation, “Yup, it’s a rough time of year all right.”

The woman sat up straight in her seat and smoothed the wrinkles in her coat. “Sure is. I got eight kids. Had enough money this year to buy shoes for every one of ’em, but that was it. I got some slippers at home, but I didn’t want to get ’em all wet in case it snowed.”

John kept the conversation going. “Yep. It ain’t easy with Christmas and all. Money’s scarce. And if this weather doesn’t warm up, I’m wonderin’ if I’ll have enough to pay the gas bill.”

“Mister, you just be glad you got a place to live and a job. The good Lord will take care of you. Always has for me.”

John couldn’t believe that a woman who didn’t have any shoes was telling him to stop worrying.

Before long, the bus was at the end of the line, time for the kids to get off and transfer to other buses that would take them to their comfortable suburban homes.

As the boys filed off, one young student named Frank, a freshman who had been sitting just a few seats behind the woman in the gray tattered coat, stopped in front of her and handed her his new leather sport shoes, saying, “Here, lady, you take these. You need ’em more than I do.”

And with that, Frank, a fourteen-year-old kid, walked off the bus and into the ten degree evening in his stocking feet.

The busy Christmas season that year turned out better for John than all the other years and months put together.

And it wasn’t just because when the woman tried on the shoes she let out a whoop and a holler. “Why, they fit perfect! Can you believe that? Perfect. Nice and warm, too. Bless the Lord. Mister, I told you not to worry ‘bout nothin’. Don’t you see? The Lord always provides. Always.”

On a bus heading west, John’s faith in God and in mankind was completely restored on that cold gray day in Milwaukee by a woman wearing a very expensive pair of sport shoes.

Substitute Santa

by Jay Frankston

There's nothing so beautiful as a child's dream of Santa Claus. I know, I often had that dream. But I was Jewish and we didn't celebrate Christmas. It was everyone else's holiday and I felt left out -- like a big party I wasn't invited to. It wasn't the toys I missed, it was Santa Claus and a Christmas tree.

So when I got married and had kids I decided to make up for it. I started with a seven foot tree, all decked out with lights and tinsel, and a Star of David on top to soothe those whose Jewish feelings were frayed by the display and, for them, it was a Hanukkah bush. And it warmed my heart to see the glitter, because now the party was at my house and everyone was invited.

But something was missing, something big and round and jolly, with jingle bells and a “Ho! Ho! Ho!” So I bought a bolt of bright red cloth and strips of white fur and my wife made me a costume. Inflatable pillows rounded out my skinny frame, but no amount of makeup could turn my face into merry old Santa.

I went around looking at department store impersonators sitting on their thrones with children on their laps and flash-bulbs going off, and I wasn't satisfied with the way they looked either.

After much effort I located a mask maker and he had just the thing for me, a rubberized Santa mask, complete with whiskers and flowing white hair. It was not the real thing but it looked genuine enough to live up to a child's dream of St. Nick.

When I tried it on, something happened. I looked in the mirror and there he was, big as life, the Santa of my childhood. There he was . . . and it was me. I felt like Santa, like I became Santa. My posture changed. I leaned back and pushed out my false stomach. My head tilted to the side and my voice got deeper and richer and a "MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE."

For two years I played Santa for my children to their mixed feelings of fright and delight and to my total enjoyment. And when the third year rolled around, the Santa in me had grown into a personality of his own and he needed more room than I had given him. So I sought to accommodate him by letting him do his thing for other children. I called up orphanages and children's hospitals and offered his services free. But, "We don't need Santa, we have all sorts of donations from foundations and . . . thank you for calling." And the Santa in me felt lonely and useless.

Then, one late November afternoon, I went to the mailbox on the corner of the street to mail a letter and saw this pretty little girl trying to reach for the slot. She was maybe six years old. "Mommy, are you sure Santa will get my letter?" she asked. "Well, you addressed it to Santa Claus, North Pole, so he should get it," the mother said and lifted her little girl so she could stuff the letter into the box. My mind began to whirl. All those thousands of children who wrote to Santa Claus at Christmas time, whatever became of their letters?

One phone call to the main post office answered my question. They told me that, as of the last week of November, an entire floor of the post office was needed to store those letters in huge sacks that came from different sections of the city.

The Santa in me went “Ho! Ho! Ho!” and we headed down to the post office. And there they were, thousands upon thousands of letters, with or without stamps, addressed to Santi Claus, or St. Nick, or Kris Kringle, scribbled on wrapping paper or neatly written on pretty stationary. And I rummaged through them and laughed. Most of them were gimme, gimme, gimme letters, like "I want a pair of roller skates, and a Nintendo, and a GI Joe, and a personal computer, and a small portable TV, and whatever else you can think of." Many of them had the price alongside each item . . . with or without sales tax.

Then there were the funny ones like: "Dear Santa, I've been a good boy all of last year, but if I don't get what I want, I'll be a bad boy all of next."

And I became a little flustered at the demands and the greed of so many spoiled children. But the Santa in me heard a voice from inside the mail sack and I continued going through the letters, one after the other, until I came upon one which jarred and unsettled me.

It was neatly written on plain white paper and it said: "Dear Santa, I hope you get my letter. I am eleven years old and I have two little brothers and a baby sister. My father died last year and my mother is sick. I know there are many who are poorer than we are and I want nothing for myself, but could you send us a blanket, cause mommy's cold at night." It was signed Suzy. And a chill went up my spine and the Santa in me cried, "I hear you Suzy, I hear you." And I dug deeper into those sacks and came up with another eight such letters, all of them calling out from the depth of poverty. I took them with me and went straight to the nearest Western Union office and sent each child a telegram: "GOT YOUR LETTER. WILL BE AT YOUR HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA." I knew I could not possibly fill the need of all those children and it wasn't my purpose to do so. But if I could bring them hope. If I could make them feel that their cries did not go unheard and that someone out there was listening . . . So I budgeted a sum of money and went out and bought toys. I wasn't content with the five-and-ten cent variety. I wanted something substantial, something these children could only dream of, like an electric train, or a microscope, or a huge doll of the kind they saw advertised on TV.

And on Christmas Day, I took out my sleigh and let Santa do his thing. Well, it wasn't exactly a sleigh, it was a car and my wife drove me around because with all those pillows and toys I barely managed to get in the back seat. It had graciously snowed the night before and the streets were thick with fresh powder. My first call took me to the outskirts of the city. The letter had been from a Peter Barsky and all it said was: "Dear Santa, I am ten years old and I am an only child. We've just moved to this house a few months ago and I have no friends yet. I'm not sad because I'm poor but because I'm lonely. I know you have many things to do and people to see and you probably have no time for me. So I don't ask you to come to my house or bring anything. But could you send me a letter so I know you exist." My telegram read: "DEAR PETER, NOT ONLY DO I EXIST BUT I'LL BE THERE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA."

We spotted the house and drove past it and parked around the corner. Then Santa got out with his big bag of toys slung over his shoulder and tramped through the snow.

The house was wedged in between two tall buildings. The roof was of corrugated metal and it was more of a shack than a house. I walked through the gate, up the front steps and rang the bell. A man opened the door. He was in his undershirt and his stomach bulged out of his pants. "Boje moy " he exclaimed in astonishment. That's Polish, by the way, and his hand went to his face. "P-p-please . . ." he stuttered, "p-please . . . de boy . . . de boy . . . at mass . . . church. I go get him. Please, please wait." And he threw a coat over his bare shoulders and, assured that I would wait, he ran down the street in the snow.

So I stood in front of the house feeling good, and on the opposite side of the street was this other shack, and through the window I could see these shiny little black faces peering at me and waving. Then the door opened shyly and some voices called out to me "Hya Santa" . . . "Hya Santa".

And I “Ho! Ho! Hoed” my way over there and this woman asked if I would come in and I did. And there were these five young kids from one to seven years old. And I sat and spoke to them of Santa and the spirit of love which is the spirit of Christmas.

Then, since they were not on my list, but assuming from the torn Christmas wrappings that they had gotten their presents, I asked if they liked what Santa had brought them during the night. And each in turn thanked me for . . . the woolen socks, and the sweater, and the warm new underwear.

And I looked at them and asked: "Didn't I bring you kids any toys?" And they shook their heads sadly. "Ho! Ho! Ho! I slipped up," I said "We'll have to fix that." I told them to wait, I'd be back in a few minutes, then trudged heavily through the snow to the corner. And when I was out of their sight, I ran as fast as I could to the car. We had extra toys in the trunk and my wife quickly filled up the bag, and I trodded back to the house and gave each child a brand new toy. There was joy and laughter and the woman asked if she could take a picture of Santa with the kids and I said, sure, why not?

And when Santa got ready to leave, I noticed that this five year old little girl was crying. She was as cute as a button. I bent down and asked her "What's the matter, child?" And she sobbed, "Oh! Santa, I'm so happy." And the tears rolled from my eyes under the rubber mask.

As I stepped out on the street, "Pan, pan, proche . . . please come . . . come," I heard this man Barsky across the way. And Santa crossed and walked into the house. The boy Peter just stood there and looked at me. "You came," he said. "I wrote and . . . you came". He turned to his parents. "I wrote . . . and he came." And he repeated it over and over again. "I wrote . . . and he came." And when he recovered, I spoke with him about loneliness and friendship, and gave him a chemistry set, which seemed to be what he would go for, and a basketball. And he thanked me profusely. And his mother, a heavy-set Slavic-looking woman, asked something of her husband in Polish. My parents were Polish so I speak a little and understand a lot. "From the North Pole," I said in Polish. She looked at me in astonishment. "You speak Polish?" she asked. "Of course," I said. "Santa speaks all languages." And I left them in joy and wonder.

And I did this for twelve years, going through the letters to Santa at the post office, listening for the cries of children muffled in unopened envelopes.

In time I learned all that Santa has to know to handle any situation. Like the big kid who would stop Santa on the street and ask: "Hey, Santa, where's your sleigh?" And I'd say, "How old are you son?" And he'd say, "Thirteen." And I'd say, "Well, you're a big fellow and you ought to know better. Santa used to come in a sleigh many years ago, but these are modern times. I come in a car now." And I'd hop in the back seat and my wife would drive off.

Or the kid who would look at me closely and come out with, "That's a mask," pointing a finger. And you never lie to children so I'd say, "Sure, son, of course. If everybody knew what Santa really looks like they'd bother me all year long and I couldn't get my things ready for Christmas."

Or the mother who would whisper so her young son couldn't hear, "Where do you come from?" I'd turn to the child and say, "Your mom wants to know where I come from, Willy." And he'd say, "From the North Pole, Mommy," with absolute certainty. And she'd nudge me and whisper, "You don't understand. Who sent you? I mean, how do you come to this house?" I'd turn to the boy and say, "Hey, Willy, your mom wants to know why I came to see you." And he'd say, "Cause I wrote him a letter, Mommy." And I'd pull out the letter and she knows she mailed it, and she's confused and bewildered and I'd leave her like that.

As time went on, the word got out about Santa Claus and me, and I insisted on anonymity, but toy manufacturers would send me huge cartons of toys as a contribution to the Christmas spirit. So I started with 18 or 20 children and wound up with 120, door to door, from one end of the city to the other, from Christmas Eve through Christmas Day.

And on my last call, a number of years ago, I knew there were four children in the family and I came prepared. The house was small and sparsely furnished. The kids had been waiting all day, staring at the telegram and repeating to their skeptical mother, "He'll come, Mommy, he'll come." And as I rang the door bell the house lit up with joy and laughter and "He's here . . . he's here!" And the door swings open and they all reach for my hands and hold on. "Hya, Santa . . . Hya, Santa. We just knew you'd come."

And these poor kids are all beaming with happiness. And I take each one of them on my lap and speak to them of rainbows and snowflakes, and tell them stories of hope and waiting, and give them each a toy.

And all the while there's this fifth child standing in the corner, a cute little girl with blond hair and blue eyes. And when I'm through with the others, I turn to her and say: "You're not part of this family are you?"

And she shakes her head sadly and whispers, "No."

"Come closer, child," I say, and she comes a little closer. "What's your name?" I ask.

"Lisa."

"How old are you?"

"Seven."

"Come, sit on my lap," and she hesitates but she comes over and I lift her up and sit her on my lap. "Did you get any toys for Christmas?" I ask.

"No," she says with puckered lips.

So I take out this big beautiful doll and, "Here, do you want this doll?"

"No," she says. And she leans over to me and whispers in my ear, "I'm Jewish."

And I nudge her and whisper in her ear, "I'm Jewish too. Do you want this doll?" And she's grinning from ear to ear and nods with wanting and desire, and takes the doll and hugs it and runs out.

It's been a long time since I last put on my Santa suit. But I feel that Santa has lived with me and given me a great deal of happiness all those years. And now, when Christmas rolls around, he comes out of hiding long enough to say, "Ho! Ho! Ho! A Merry Christmas to you, my friend."

And I say to you now, “MERRY CHRISTMAS, MY FRIENDS.”

The Puppy Who Wanted a Boy

by Jane Thayer

One day Petey, who was a puppy, said to his mother, “I’d like a boy for Christmas.”

His mother, who was a dog, said she guessed he could have a boy if he was a very good puppy. So the day before Christmas, Petey’s mother asked, “Have you been a very good puppy?”

“Oh, yes!” said Petey. “I didn’t frighten the cat.”

“You didn’t?”asked Petey’s mother.

“Well, ah, I just frightened her a little,” said Petey. “And I didn’t chew any shoes.”

“Not any?” said his mother.

“Just a teeny-weeny chew,” said Petey.

“All right,” said his mother. “I guess you’ve been good. Anyway, you’re awfully little. I shall go out and get you a boy for Christmas.”

But when Petey’s mother came back, she looked worried. “How would you like a soft, white rabbit with pink ears for Christmas?” she said to Petey.

“No, thanks,” said Petey.

“How about some fish? They’re nice,” said Petey’s mother.

“I don’t like fish,” said Petey. “I’d like a boy.”

“Petey,” said his mother, “there are no boys to be had. Not one could I find. They’re terribly short of boys this year.”

Petey felt as if he couldn’t stand it if he didn’t have a boy.

Finally his mother said, “There now, there must be a boy somewhere. Perhaps you could find some dog who would give his boy away.”

So Petey hopefully started off. It wasn’t long before he saw a collie racing with a boy on a bicycle. Petey trembled with joy. “If I had a boy on a bicycle,” said Petey, “I could run like everything! I’ll ask the collie politely if he’ll give his boy away.” So Petey leaped after the bicycle. He called out to the collie, “Excuse me. Do you want to give your boy away?”

But the collie said no, he definitely didn’t, in a dreadful tone of voice. Petey sat down. He watched the collie and his boy until they were out of his sight. “I didn’t really want a boy on a bicycle anyway.” said Petey.

After a while, he saw a red setter playing ball with a boy. Petey was just delighted. “If I had a boy to play ball with,” said Petey, “I’d catch the ball smack in my mouth.”

But he remembered how cross the collie had been. So he sat down on the sidewalk and called out politely, “Excuse me. Do you want to give your boy away?”

But the setter said no, he definitely didn’t, in a terrifying tone of voice! “Oh, well,” said Petey, trotting off, “I don’t think playing ball is much fun.”

After a while he met a Scotty walking with his boy and carrying a package in his mouth. “Now, that is a good kind of boy!” said Petey. “If I had a boy to carry packages for, there might be some dog biscuits or cookies in the package.”

But he remembered how cross the collie and the setter had been. So he stayed across the street and shouted at the top of his lungs, but polite as could be, “Excuse me. Do you want to give your boy away?”

The Scotty had his mouth full of package, but he managed to say no, he definitely didn’t, and he showed his sharp teeth at Petey. “I guess that wasn’t the kind of boy I wanted either,” said poor Petey. “But my goodness, where will I find a boy?”

Well, Petey went on and on. Up busy streets, dodging the cars, looking in stores and around corners. Down quiet lanes where dogs rushed to their fences and yelped at him. He asked every dog politely. But he couldn’t find a single dog who would give his boy away. Petey’s ears began to droop. His tail grew limp. His legs were so tired. “My mother was right,” he thought. “There isn’t a boy to be had.”

As it was getting dark, he came to a large building on the very edge of town. Petey was going by very slowly because his paws hurt, when he saw a sign over the door. The sign said: “Orphans’ Home”.

“I know what orphans are,” Petey said to himself. “They’re children who have no dog to take care of them. Maybe I could find a boy there!”

He padded slowly up the walk. He was so tired, he could hardly lift his little paws. Then Petey stopped. He listened. He could hear music. He looked. Through the window, he could see a lighted Christmas tree and children singing carols. Petey looked some more. On the front step of the orphans’ home, all by himself, sat a boy! He looked lonely. Petey gave a glad, little cry. He forgot about being tired. He leaped up the walk and landed in the boy’s lap.

Sniff, sniff went Petey’s little nose. Wiggle, wag went Petey’s tail. He licked the boy with his warm, wet tongue. How glad the boy was to see Petey! He put both of his arms around the little dog and hugged him tight.

Then the front door opened, “Goodness, Ricky,” a lady said, “what are you doing out here? Come in and see the Christmas tree.”

Petey sat very still. The boy looked up at the lady. Then he looked down at Petey. The boy said, “I’ve got a puppy. Can he come, too?”

“A puppy!” The lady came over and looked down at Petey. “Why,” she said, “you’re a nice dog. Wherever did you come from? Yes, bring him in.”

“Come on puppy,” said the boy, and in they scampered. A crowd of boys was playing around the Christmas tree. All the boys rushed at Petey. They all wanted to pick him up. They all wanted to pet him. Petey wagged his tail. He wagged his fat, little body. He frisked about and kissed every boy who came near.

“Can he stay?” the boys asked.

“Yes,” said the lady. “He may stay.”

“Come on, puppy,” Ricky said. “Get your supper.”

“We’ll fix you a nice, warm bed!” cried anther boy.

“We’ll all play games with you,” said a third.

“Who ever would think,” said Petey to himself, “that I’d get fifty boys for Christmas!”

Another Christmas Carol ~ Story of Joel

by Joel

The kids on the bus asked, "You coming to the basketball game tonight?"

"I can't. My grandmother's coming to visit tonight." Joel was patient in his repeated denials. There was no visit from grandmother, of course, just another of Joel's well devised covers for the truth. Joel never went anywhere but straight to the house.

Blake House had been Joel's and his mother's home for the first four months of the school year. The place wasn't bad. There simply wasn't any privacy. Sharing a room with his mother was easier since she started going to night school. Many nights by the time she returned, Joel was already in pajamas and ready for sleep.

For Joel's mom, Blake House, in spite of the difficulties, was nothing short of a miracle. She knew it was hard on a boy of Joel's age, but it was a comfort to know that he realized it was necessary for them. One more day with her husband may have been the end of her or her son, and Joel knew it too. In a way, it was his growing intervention in the assaults that convinced her they had to leave.

For Joel, things had a calm predictability and the days went by quickly. His mom, though, was tormented by uncertainty. With the help of the Blake House staff, she had found a part-time job and a grant for vocational training. In spite of their support, it was hard to imagine a time when she might stand on her own. She married young and never learned a way to support herself; this was a tough way to learn.

As Christmas approached, she started preparing Joel for the reality of the upcoming holiday. She'd say they would have a nice dinner with the staff and the other families at Blake House, and then they would walk a few blocks north to take in the view of downtown from the overpass. She would explain that, with luck, they could be in their own home by March, and they would have a private Christmas and presents.

"I don't need Christmas, and I don't need presents," Joel grumbled each time.

"Scrooge!" she quipped back.

She was proud of his effort to deal with his envy of other children's holiday excitement at school. He was so serious though. She wished there was something she could do to give him a lighter heart and a happier Christmas.

On the Saturday before Christmas the families and staff were enjoying their holiday supper when Joan, the house counselor, called Joel's mom into her office.

"Do you have any plans tonight?" Joan asked.

"Joel and I are going to walk downtown to the overpass to look at the lights and decorations a little later."

Joan pointed out the front window of her office, "Maybe you'd prefer to ride instead of walk." Curbside sat a polished, black Lincoln Town Car with the front window rolled down. The driver saluted a friendly acknowledgment.

"I don't understand," was all Joel's mom could get out before Joan continued.

"An anonymous friend of Blake House has made arrangements for you and Joel to have use of this car for the next five hours … which will come in very handy since the performance is across town. If you leave now, you'll have time to get in some shopping before the show. What d'ya say? I thought so!" Joan smiled and led her out of the office to get Joel.

"Ma'am," said the driver opening the door as the two approached the car.

"What's up with this, Mom?" blurted Joel as the second door shut.

"We're going to the show," she said bewildered, holding up her hands.

As the driver settled back into the Lincoln, he turned and smiled, saying, "I'll be taking you to the mall before the show. And I was asked to give this to you first." The driver produced an envelope and gave it to the lady before he turned to set off.

"Please forgive this intrusion into your privacy," the note began. "I hope you accept this invitation to a Christmas celebration. Enclosed you will find two tickets to tonight's performance of 'A Christmas Carol' and a small token of appreciation for your loving care of Joel."

The tickets and a $100 gift certificate slipped into her hand.

The note continued, "Christmas is a time of hope and of gratitude. In hopes of a prosperous New Year for you, and in gratitude to loving mothers like you, I wish you a Merry Christmas. Remember, you are never alone in this world because where love lives, friends always follow, seen or unseen. Sincerely, The Spirit of St. Nicholas. P.S. You do not need to tip the driver."

"What's wrong, Mom?"

"Nothing, honey," she whispered through tears, hugging her son. "We're gonna go Christmas shopping, my little Scrooge!"

The mother and son felt special that magical night and for many days and nights that followed. The excitement of the performance and the touching story of the play stayed with Joel and his mother for a long time.

It took a little longer than planned for them to get their own home, but by the following summer, they began what was to be many years of stable and prosperous living. For that time and forevermore, Christmas became their favorite time of year.

Our "Family"

by Linda Snelson

My daughter Gina was in Mrs. Melton's fourth grade class. After only a month in school, she began to come home on a regular basis asking for pencils, crayons, paper, etc. At first I just dutifully provided whatever she needed, never questioning her.

After ongoing requests for items that should have easily lasted a mere six weeks of fourth grade, I became concerned and asked her, "Gina, what are you doing with your school supplies?" She would always respond with an answer that satisfied me.

One day, after supplying the same thing only a week earlier, I became irritated with her pleading for more and sternly asked her once more, "Gina! What is going on with your school supplies?" Knowing her excuses would no longer work, she bent her head and began to cry. I lifted her tiny chin and looked into those big brown eyes, filled now with tears. "What?! What is wrong?" My mind was racing with all sorts of ideas. Had she been bullied by another child? Was she giving her supplies to him or her to keep from being hurt, or to gain their approval? I couldn't imagine what was going on, but I knew it was something serious for her to cry. I waited for what seemed like an eternity for her to answer.

"Mom," she began, "there is a boy in my class; he doesn't have any of the supplies he needs to do his work. The other kids make fun of him because his papers are messy and he only has two crayons to color with. I have been putting the new supplies you bought me in his desk before the others come in, so he doesn't know it's me. Please don't get mad at me, Mom. I didn't mean to tell you a lie, but I didn't want anyone to know it was me."

My heart sank as I stood there in disbelief. She had taken on the role of an adult and tried to hide it like a child. I knelt down and hugged her to me, not wanting her to see my own tears. When I pulled myself together, I stood up and said, "Gina, I would never get mad at you for wanting to help someone, but why didn't you just come and tell me?" I didn't have to wait for her to answer.

The next day I visited Mrs. Melton. I told her what Gina had said. She knew John's situation all too well. The oldest of four boys, their parents had just moved here, and when the school presented them with the school supply list for all four grades, they were overwhelmed. When the boys came to school the next week, they barely had the necessities: a few sheets of paper and a pencil each.

I asked Mrs. Melton for the list from all four grades and told her I would take care of it the next day. She smiled and gave me the lists. The next day, we brought the supplies in and gave them to the office with instructions to give them to the boys.

As Christmas neared, the thought of John, his brothers and family weighed heavily on my mind. What would they do? Surely they would not have money for gifts. I asked Mrs. Melton if she could get me their address. At first she refused, reminding me that there was a policy that protected the privacy of the students, but because she knew me from my work at the school and involvement on the PTA board, she slipped a piece of paper into my hand and whispered, "Don't tell anyone I gave it to you."

When my family began to set the stage for our traditional Christmas Eve, which was usually held at my house, I simply told them all that my husband, the kids, and I did not want gifts, but instead we would prefer to have groceries and gifts for our "family."

As the girls and I shopped throughout the holiday season, they delighted in picking things out for the four boys. Gina was especially interested in things for John. Christmas Eve came and my family began to arrive. Each of them had bags of food and gifts wrapped for the children. My living room was full and the excitement was contagious.

Finally at 9:00 we decided it was time to take our treasures to them. My brothers, dad, uncles and nephews loaded up their trucks and set out for the apartment complex address that Mrs. Melton gave us. They knocked on the door, and a little boy appeared. They asked for his mother or dad and he ran away. The guys waited until a young man, hardly more than a child himself, came to the door. He looked at the men standing there with arms full of gifts and bags full of groceries and couldn't say a word. The men pushed past him and went straight to the kitchen counter to set the bags down. There was no furniture. It was an empty one bedroom apartment with a few blankets on the floor and a small TV where they obviously spent their time. A Christmas tree was the result of the kids bringing in a bush they had found in the field behind the complex. A few paper decorations made in their classrooms made it look like a real Christmas tree. Nothing was underneath. The boys and their parents stood without speaking as the men sat down bag after bag. They finally asked who had sent them, how did they know them and so on. But the men just left them with shouts of "Merry Christmas!"

When the guys got back to my house they didn't say a word. They couldn't. To break the silence, my aunt stood up and began to sing "Silent Night," and we all joined in.

When school resumed, Gina came home daily telling of John's new clothes and how the other children now played with him and treated him like the rest of the children. She never told a soul at school about what we did, but every Christmas since that one she will say to me, "Mom, I wonder what happened to John and his family?" While I'm not quite sure of the answer, I'd like to think that John and his family were somehow helped by my daughter's gift.