A Christmas Matinee

by Mrs. M.A.L. Lane

 

It was the day before Christmas in the year 189-. Snow was falling heavily in the streets of Boston, but the crowd of shoppers seemed undiminished. As the storm increased, groups gathered at the corners and in sheltering doorways to wait for belated cars; but the holiday cheer was in the air, and there was no grumbling. Mothers dragging tired children through the slush of the streets; pretty girls hurrying home for the holidays; here and there a harassed-looking man with perhaps a single package which he had taken a whole morning to select--all had the same spirit of tolerant good-humor.

 

"School Street! School Street!" called the conductor of an electric car. A group of young people at the farther end of the car started to their feet. One of them, a young man wearing a heavy fur-trimmed coat, addressed the conductor angrily.

 

"I said, 'Music Hall,' didn't I?" he demanded. "Now we've got to walk back in the snow because of your stupidity!"

 

"Oh, never mind, Frank!" one of the girls interposed. "We ought to have been looking out ourselves! Six of us, and we went by without a thought! It is all Mrs. Tirrell's fault! She shouldn't have been so entertaining!"

 

The young matron dimpled and blushed. "That's charming of you, Maidie," she said, gathering up her silk skirts as she prepared to step down into the pond before her. "The compliment makes up for the blame. But how it snows!"

 

"It doesn't matter. We all have gaiters on," returned Maidie Williams, undisturbed.

 

"Fares, please!" said the conductor stolidly.

 

Frank Armstrong thrust his gloved hand deep into his pocket with angry vehemence. "There's your money," he said, "and be quick about the change, will you? We've lost time enough!"

 

The man counted out the change with stiff, red fingers, closed his lips firmly as if to keep back an obvious rejoinder, rang up the six fares with careful accuracy, and gave the signal to go ahead. The car went on into the drifting storm.

 

Armstrong laughed shortly as he rapidly counted the bits of silver lying in his open palm. He turned instinctively, but two or three cars were already between him and the one he was looking for.

 

"The fellow must be an imbecile," he said, rejoining the group on the crossing. "He's given me back a dollar and twenty cents, and I handed him a dollar bill."

 

"Oh, can't you stop him?" cried Maidie Williams, with a backward step into the wet street.

 

The Harvard junior, who was carrying her umbrella, protested: "What's the use. Miss Williams? He'll make it up before he gets to Scollay Square, you may be sure. Those chaps don't lose anything. Why, the other day, I gave one a quarter and he went off as cool as you please. 'Where's my change?' said I. 'You gave me a nickel,' said he. And there wasn't anybody to swear that I didn't except myself, and I didn't count."

 

"But that doesn't make any difference," insisted the girl warmly. "Because one conductor was dishonest, we needn't be. I beg your pardon, Frank, but it does seem to me just stealing."

 

"Oh, come along!" said her cousin, with an easy laugh. "I guess the West End Corporation won't go without their dinners to-morrow. Here, Maidie, here's the ill-gotten fifty cents. _I_ think you ought to treat us all after the concert; still, I won't urge you. I wash my hands of all responsibility. But I do wish you hadn't such an unpleasant conscience."

 

Maidie flushed under the sting of his cousinly rudeness, but she went on quietly with the rest. It was evident that any attempt to overtake the car was out of the question.

 

"Did you notice his number, Frank?" she asked, suddenly.

 

"No, I never thought of it" said Frank, stopping short. "However, I probably shouldn't make any complaint if I had. I shall forget all about it tomorrow. I find it's never safe to let the sun go down on my wrath. It's very likely not to be there the next day."

 

"I wasn't thinking of making a complaint," said Maidie; but the two young men were enjoying the small joke too much to notice what she said.

 

The great doorway of Music Hall was just ahead. In a moment the party were within its friendly shelter, stamping off the snow. The girls were adjusting veils and hats with adroit feminine touches; the pretty chaperon was beaming approval upon them, and the young men were taking off their wet overcoats, when Maidie turned again in sudden desperation.

 

"Mr. Harris," she said, rather faintly, for she did not like to make herself disagreeable, "do you suppose that car comes right back from Scollay Square?"

 

"What car?" asked Walter Harris, blankly. "Oh, the one we came in? Yes, I suppose it does. They're running all the time, anyway. Why, you are not sick, are you, Miss Williams?"

 

There was genuine concern in his tone. This girl, with her sweet, vibrant voice, her clear gray eyes, seemed very charming to him. She wasn't beautiful, perhaps, but she was the kind of girl he liked. There was a steady earnestness in the gray eyes that made him think of his mother.

 

"No," said Maidie, slowly. "I'm all right, thank you. But I wish I could find that man again. I know sometimes they have to make it up if their accounts are wrong, and I couldn't--we couldn't feel very comfortable--"

 

Frank Armstrong interrupted her. "Maidie," he said, with the studied calmness with which one speaks to an unreasonable child, "you are perfectly absurd. Here it is within five minutes of the tune for the concert to begin. It is impossible to tell when that car is coming back. You are making us all very uncomfortable. Mrs. Tirrell, won't you please tell her not to spoil our afternoon?"

 

"I think he's right, Maidie," said Mrs. Tirrell. "It's very nice of you to feel so sorry for the poor man, but he really was very careless. It was all his own fault. And just think how far he made us walk! My feet are quite damp. We ought to go in directly or we shall all take cold, and I'm sure you wouldn't like that, my dear."

 

She led the way as she spoke, the two girls and young Armstrong following. Maidie hesitated. It was so easy to go in, to forget everything in the light and warmth and excitement.

 

"No," said she, very firmly, and as much to herself as to the young man who stood waiting for her. "I must go back and try to make it right. I'm so sorry, Mr. Harris, but if you will tell them--"

 

"Why, I'm going with you, of course" said the young fellow, impulsively. "If I'd only looked once at the man I'd go alone, but I shouldn't know him from Adam."

 

Maidie laughed. "Oh, I don't want to lose the whole concert, Mr. Harris, and Frank, has all the tickets. You must go after them and try to make my peace. I'll come just as soon as I can. Don't wait for me, please. If you'll come and look for me here the first number, and not let them scold me too much--" She ended with an imploring little catch in her breath that was almost a sob.

 

"They sha'n't say a word, Miss Williams!" cried Walter Harris, with honest admiration in his eyes.

 

But she was gone already, and conscious that further delay was only making matters worse, he went on into the hall.

 

Meanwhile, the car swung heavily along the wet rails on its way to the turning-point. It was nearly empty now. An old gentleman and his nurse were the only occupants. Jim Stevens, the conductor, had stepped inside the car.

 

"Too bad I forgot those young people wanted to get off at Music Hall," he was thinking to himself. "I don't see how I came to do it. That chap looked as if he wanted to complain of me, and I don't know as I blame him. I'd have said I was sorry if he hadn't been so sharp with his tongue. I hope he won't complain just now. 'Twould be a pretty bad time for me to get into trouble, with Mary and the baby both sick. I'm too sleepy to be good for much, that's a fact. Sitting up three nights running takes hold of a fellow somehow when he's at work all day. The rent's paid, that's one thing, if it hasn't left me but half a dollar to my name. Hullo!" He was struck by a sudden distinct recollection of the coins he had returned. "Why, I gave him fifty cents too much!"

 

He glanced up at the dial which indicated the fares and began to count the change in his pocket. He knew exactly how much money he had had at the beginning of the trip. He counted carefully. Then he plunged his hand into the heavy canvas pocket of his coat. Perhaps he had half a dollar there. No, it was empty!

 

He faced the fact reluctantly. Fifty cents short, ten fares! Gone into the pocket of the young gentleman with the fur collar! The conductor's hand shook as he put the money back in his pocket. It meant--what did it mean? He drew a long breath.

 

Christmas Eve! A dark dreary little room upstairs in a noisy tenement house. A pale, thin woman on a shabby lounge vainly trying to quiet a fretful child. The child is thin and pale, too, with a hard, racking cough. There is a small fire in the stove, a very small fire; coal is so high. The medicine stands on the shelf. "Medicine won't do much good," the doctor had said; "he needs beef and cream."

 

Jim's heart sank at the thought. He could almost hear the baby asking; "Isn't papa coming soon? Isn't he, mamma?"

 

"Poor little kid!" Jim said, softly, under his breath. "And I shan't have a thing to take home to him; nor Mary's violets, either. It'll be the first Christmas that ever happened. I suppose that chap would think it was ridiculous for me to be buying violets. He wouldn't understand what the flowers mean to Mary. Perhaps he didn't notice I gave him too much. That kind don't know how much they have. They just pull it out as if it was newspaper."

 

The conductor went out into the snow to help the nurse, who was assisting the old gentleman to the ground. Then the car swung on again. Jim turned up the collar of his coat about his ears and stamped his feet. There was the florist's shop where he had meant to buy the violets, and the toy-shop was just around the corner.

 

A thought flashed across his tired brain. "Plenty of men would do it; they do it every day. Nobody ever would be the poorer for it. This car will be crowded going home. I needn't ring in every fare; nobody could tell. But Mary! She wouldn't touch those violets if she knew. And she'd know. I'd have to tell her. I couldn't keep it from her, she's that quick."

 

He jumped off to adjust the trolley with a curious sense of unreality. It couldn't be that he was really going home this Christmas Eve with empty hands. Well, they must all suffer together for his carelessness. It was his own fault, but it was hard. And he was so tired!

 

To his amazement he found his eyes were blurred as he watched the people crowding into the car. What? Was he going to cry like a baby--he, a great burly man of thirty years?

 

"It's no use," he thought. "I couldn't do it. The first time I gave Mary violets was the night she said she'd marry me. I told her then I'd do my best to make her proud of me. I guess she wouldn't be very proud of a man who could cheat. She'd rather starve than have a ribbon she couldn't pay for."

 

He rang up a dozen fares with a steady hand. The temptation was over. Six more strokes--then nine without a falter. He even imagined the bell rang more distinctly than usual, even encouragingly. The car stopped. Jim flung the door open with a triumphant sweep of his arm. He felt ready to face the world. But the baby--his arm dropped. It was hard.

 

He turned to help the young girl who was waiting at the step. Through the whirling snow he saw her eager face, with a quick recognition lighting the steady eyes, and wondered dimly, as he stood with his hand on the signal-strap, where he could have seen her before.

 

He knew immediately.

 

"There was a mistake," she said, with a shy tremor in her voice. "You gave us too much change and here it is." She held out to Jim the piece of silver which had given him such an unhappy quarter of an hour.

 

He took it like one dazed. Would the young lady think he was crazy to care so much about so small a coin? He must say something. "Thank you, miss," he stammered as well as he could. "You see, I thought it was gone--and there's the baby--and it's Christmas Eve--and my wife's sick--and you can't understand--"

 

It certainly was not remarkable that she couldn't.

 

"But I do," she said, simply. "I was afraid of that. And I thought perhaps there was a baby, so I brought my Christmas present for her," and something else dropped into Jim's cold hand.

 

"What you waiting for?" shouted the motorman from the front platform. The girl had disappeared in the snow.

 

Jim rang the bell to go ahead, and gazed again at the two shining half dollars in his hand.

 

"I didn't have a chance to tell her," he explained to his wife late in the evening, as he sat in a tiny rocking-chair several sizes too small for him, "that the baby wasn't a her at all, though if I thought he'd grow up into such a lovely one as she is, I don't know but I almost wish he was."

 

"Poor Jim!" said Mary, with a little laugh as she put up her hand to stroke his rough cheek. "I guess you're tired."

 

"And I should say," he added, stretching out his long legs toward the few red sparks in the bottom of the grate, "I should say she had tears in her eyes, too, but I was that near crying myself I couldn't be sure."

 

The little room was sweet with the odour of English violets. Asleep in the bed lay the boy, a toy horse clasped close to his breast.

 

"Bless her heart!" said Mary, softly.

 

"Well, Miss Williams," said Walter Harris, as he sprang to meet a snow-covered figure coming swiftly along the sidewalk. "I can see that you found him. You've lost the first number, but they won't scold you--not this time."

 

The girl turned a radiant face upon him. "Thank you," she said, shaking the snowy crystals from her skirt. "I don't care now if they do. I should have lost more than that if I had stayed."

 

Nicky

Author Unknown,

Facebook post December 2, 2020

 

I have no idea who wrote this but it sure is powerful!  Love the principle.

 

*******

 

In 1979, I was managing a Wendy's in Port Richey Florida. Unlike today, staffing was never a real problem, but I was searching for a someone to work three hours a day only at lunch.

 

I went thru all my applications and most were all looking for full time or at least 20 hours per week. I found one however, buried at the bottom of a four-inch stack that was only looking for lunch part-time. His name was Nicky. Hadn't met him but thought I would give him a call and see if he could stop by for an interview. When I called, he wasn't in but his mom said she would make sure he would be there.

 

At the accorded time, Nicky walked in. One of those moments when my heart went in my throat. Nicky suffered from Downs Syndrome. His physical appearance was a giveaway and his speech only reinforced the obvious.

 

I was young and sheltered. Had never interacted on a professional level with a developmentally disabled person. I had no clue what to do, so I went ahead and interviewed him.

 

He was a wonderful young man. Great outlook. Task focused. Excited to be alive. For only reasons God knew at that time, I hired him. 3 hours a day, 3 days a week to run a grill.

 

I let the staff know what to expect. Predictably the crew made sure I got the message, "No one wants to work with a retard." To this day I find that word offensive. We had a crew meeting, cleared the air, and prepared for his arrival.

 

Nicky showed up for work right on time. He was so excited to be working. He stood at the time clock literally shaking with anticipation. He clocked in and started his training. Couldn't multi task, but was a machine on the grill.

 

Now for the fascinating part.....

 

Back in that day, there were no computer screens to work from. Every order was called by the cashier. It required a great deal of concentration on the part of all production staff to get the order right. While Nicky was training during his first shift, the sandwich maker next to him asked the grillman/trainer what was on the next sandwich. Nicky replied, "Single, no pickle no onion." A few minutes later it happened again. It was then that we discovered Nicky had a hidden and valuable skill.

 

He memorized everything he heard! Photographic hearing! WHAT A SKILL SET. It took 3 days and every sandwich maker requested to work with Nicky. He immediately was accepted by the entire crew.

 

After his shift he would join the rest of his crew family, drinking Coke like it was water! It was then that they discovered another Rainman-esque trait. Nicky was a walking/talking perpetual calendar!

With a perpetual calendar as a reference, they would sit for hours asking him what day of the week was December 22, 1847. He never missed. This uncanny trait mesmerized the crew.

 

His mom would come in at 2 to pick him up. More times than not, the crew would be back there with him hamming it up. As I went to get him from the back, his mom said something I will never forget. "Let him stay there as long as he wants. He has never been accepted anywhere like he has been here." I excused myself and dried my eyes, humbled and broken hearted at the lesson I just learned.

 

Nicky had a profound impact on that store. His presence changed a lot of people. Today I believe with every fiber of my body that Nicky's hiring was no accident. God's timing and will is perfect.

 

This Christmas, I hope we all understand what we are celebrating. We are all like Nicky. We each have our shortcomings. We each have our strong points. But we are all of value. God made us that way and God doesn't make mistakes. Nicky certainly wasn't a mistake. He was a valuable gift that I am forever grateful for.

 

We are celebrating the birth of the ONE that leveled the playing field for all of us. God doesn't care if you are rich or poor, Republican or Democrat, or black or white. He doesn't care if your chromosome structure is perfect. He doesn't care what level of education you have attained.

 

He cares about your heart. He wants us all to love and appreciate the gift HE gave us on Christmas, His son, the Savior, our salvation. His Son that was born to die for our sins. To pay our debt. To provide us a path for eternity.

 

So this Christmas, lets check our hearts. There is a little bit of Nicky in all of us and I suspect there is a Nicky somewhere in your life that is looking for the chance to be embraced. Thank God for that. Thank God for His perfect gift, Christ Jesus.

 

Merry Christmas

A Special Gift for Dad

By Joe F. Martinez

 

My dad was born in 1914 in an Adobe home in northwestern New Mexico. My grandfather was in possession of a land grant given to our ancestors for their help in establishing the New Mexico territories.

 

My great-grandfather and his seven sons built their homes on a bluff overlooking the Brazos River. Although they had all this property, they had no means to do anything with the property. They worked on farms and herded sheep to make a living. At age 10, my dad went to work in a local lumber mill for a wage of 15 cents an hour. His earnings went directly to my grandmother for the needs of the family in that two-room Adobe house, which consisted of three sisters and one brother.

 

From the time Dad was 10 years old, he was always helping his family. Grandfather was a shepherd and was gone for months at a time, so Dad subsidized the family income. Through the years, Dad was always helping others. I can remember him helping neighbors and family with all kinds of chores, carpentry, painting, electrical work and fixing other people's cars. He never asked for pay or accepted pay. He loved to help others.

 

For all the many things he did for others he never really had anything for himself. In 1955 when I was 10 years old, our family consisted of three girls and six boys. My dad worked in the coal mine as a brick mason. It was not easy back in those days to raise a large family with mine wages. To supplement our income, Dad would gather scrap metal, copper, and brass and sell to the recycle center. To save money he would go to the mine tipple where they loaded coal in train cars and picked up chunks of coal for our coal burning stove.

 

On this year as Christmas approached, mother proposed that we get Dad something special — not the traditional new shirt and the things we made at school. We would ask Dad, "What would you like for Christmas?"

 

His answer: "I want you kids and your mom to be happy." That's Dad for you. Always thinking of others.

 

All who could, pitched in and we scrimped and saved — mostly Mother did. As Christmas drew near, we wondered what Mom would get him. We children got really excited about this Christmas. We were more excited for Dad than we were for ourselves. Gosh! We were happy to lay under the Christmas tree and look up at the lights, especially the ones that made bubbles.

One day Mother announced that she was going to Price, Utah, to get Dad's present. We wondered what it would be. Dad would be overjoyed for sure. When Mom got home we asked, "What is it? What is it?" Mom calmly said, "Wait till Christmas." Well, we could not wait, but we did. This made us more excited and Christmas could not come soon enough.

Dad never asked for anything ever, so we thought of all kinds of things he might like. Finally, Christmas arrived. That morning, all of us kids were up waking up Mom and Dad. We wanted to see that gift — that special gift for Dad, the man who always gave, was about to receive.

The excitement mounted. "Dad, hurry open this. Hurry Dad, open this." Mom handed him the present. Slowly, he pulled the wrapper and a blue box appeared. We yelled, "What is it? What is it?"

I looked up at Dad as he opened the little blue box. His eyes narrowed, a tear formed, and his lips quivered. He could not say a word!

I will never forget that look on Dad's face. Finally, he said, "Muchas gracias, familia" and gave us all a hug and a kiss.

I cannot remember what we children got that Christmas, but the beautiful gold Elgin wristwatch was something we talked about for years. Dad loved that watch!

Dad passed in March 1989 and that watch is still ticking, during the Christmas season every year I get Dad's watch out and wear it and think of the Christmas I remember best. 

Charlie’s Blanket

By Wendy Miller

 

Mary hurried to get her children fed and dressed. It was a cold December day, and they had a long way to walk. Mary cleaned houses five days a week; it was the only work she could find that would allow her to also take care of her three small girls at the same time. She would drop the older two off at the elementary school and take 3-year-old Becky with her. The girls came to her for lunch, and she would be back home again before they were home from school in the afternoon. It was a good arrangement, and it kept her off welfare. She wanted help from no one.

 

"Becky," she called, "hurry; we're all ready to go!"

 

Becky ran to the door, a ragged doll with all its hair loved off cradled in her arms. "I'm all ready, Mama, but we forgot to dress Charlie."

 

Mary glanced at the clock then back down at her daughter's smiling face. Quickly she dressed the doll, wrapped it in its blanket, and handed it back to Becky. Then the little family went out into the cold, dark early morning.

 

"Mama," Laura, 7 and the oldest, took Mary's hand, "I'm sorry I forgot Charlie. Are we awfully late?"

 

"No, Laura, we’re not awfully late."

 

“I don’t know why we have to dress that stupid doll of hers anyway," complained Cindy. Since she was 6 and in the first grade, she thought of herself as all grown up and to her, Charlie was a big waste of time. Two years ago, Mary might have agreed with her. They had been well off then and wanted for nothing. Mary's thoughts traveled back to other times and compared them to now. One day everything was fine, and the next day her husband was gone. All he had left behind was a note to say goodbye. No, he had also left behind a wife, three small girls, and an empty bank account.

 

As soon as the shock had worn off, Mary tried to start a new life, but it was so hard. She had never had to work outside the home before. Now she was cleaning houses to keep the girls fed. Their clothes were handed down from her employers' children. Most of all she regretted having to make them walk so far every day, especially in the cold.

 

As for the radical change in lifestyle, the girls had just accepted it as part of life. Laura and Cindy helped as much as they could and tried not to complain. Becky found happiness in her doll. Charlie was her whole world. She never quit smiling as long as she had Charlie. He was always to be dressed for the weather and then wrapped in the special blanket. It was just an old scrap of a blanket someone must have dropped in the parking lot. Becky found it there, Mary washed it, and now it was Charlie’s. Was Charlie a waste of time? No, Mary decided; he was Becky's happiness, and that most certainly was not a waste of time.

 

As they neared the school, the girls hugged Mary as they always did day after day, then ran in. Farther down the street, Mary turned in at the Littles'- Monday’s house. The Littles had been getting ready for Christmas it seemed, because there was a wreath on the door with a big red bow. Mary was prepared to see all the fancy trimmings inside. Becky wasn't.

 

"Ooh, Charlie," she whispered as if her voice might disturb the splendor, "look at what Mrs. Little got." The room was gaily decorated for Christmas, and in the corner stood a huge Christmas tree. The Silver Star shining on the top almost touched the ceiling. Glass ornaments, garlands, and tinsel were tastefully arranged on the branches, and underneath was a mountain of parcels wrapped with ribbons and bows. Mary took Becky's coat and hung it up. The little girl just stood looking at the tree. "Becky, I have to get to work now. Promise you won't touch anything."

 

"I promise, Mama." And she crawled into a big easy chair, and there she stayed for the entire morning, pointing out the pretty ornaments to Charlie and guessing what might be in each of the packages.

 

Laura and Cindy came in at lunch, but they hardly looked at the tree. It hurt to look at it. They knew that there would be no tree for them- just like last year. Money was not to be spent on anything they could do without. They knew it- but it still hurt.

 

The day replayed itself on Tuesday at the Johnsons', on Wednesday at the Harrises', Thursday at the Krebbs', and Friday at the Fishers'. But on Saturday they were home.

 

After spending a week in the various homes all decked in glorious holiday fashion, Becky suddenly seemed to realize that she was missing out on something. "Why does everyone have a tree in the house, Mama? Why are there so many presents? Is it somebody's birthday? Why don't we have a tree?"

 

Mary had known the question would be asked. Laura and Cindy looked up from the floor where they were playing, waiting for her answer. Mary put away her mending and pulled Becky up onto her lap. "You're a very smart girl. It is somebody's birthday, and I'll tell you all about Him. His name is Jesus, and He was born Christmas Day." And Mary told the girls how it came to happen and why there is a Christmas.

 

Becky hugged Charlie close. "Ooh, the poor Baby. Was it very cold in the stable? I wouldn't want to sleep in a stable, would you? I wish I could go there and see it though."

 

"We can see it," Mary said, and she put her daughter off her knee. "Girls, get your coats on. We're going for a walk."

 

Down the street was a church. Every Christmas a large crèche was set up. There was a wooden stable full of straw and large ceramic figures. High above hung a star. The girls were awed by the simple but beautiful scene. It was just as Mary had said it was from the story in the Bible. Becky didn't want to leave, even when the cold seeped through her clothing and made her shiver.

 

The next week was just as hard for them. Everywhere they went, it seemed that the world was taunting them with a Christmas that wasn't to be theirs. In the malls, carols played, and parents loaded up with the latest toys and games. As Mary picked out economy pairs of socks and underwear for the girls' gifts, she tried not to look in the other carts. At Safeway she whipped through the express line with one lone pack of spaghetti for their Christmas dinner. She laughed at the long line-ups of people with their carts full of turkey and fixings. But the laugh was hollow, because she would have loved to be one of those standing in line. Outside, families shouted and laughed as they picked out what each considered the perfect tree and then strapped it to the roof of their car. Mary tried not to notice. It was Laura and Cindy that finally made her heart well over with bitterness.

 

Somehow, when you are an adult, you can take whatever is dished out. You take things in stride and make the best of a situation. But, oh how different it is when your child is hurting! Nothing hurts a mother more than the sorrow of her child. And that's how it was with Mary. The school was focused on Christmas which was only to be expected in December. The teachers had the children making ornaments and stringing popcorn for their trees at home. They wrote letters to Santa. At recess, the children told of the gifts they were expecting. Laura and Cindy said nothing. They did as they were expected in class and tried to avoid the other children at recess. It was at home that they expressed their hurt and anger at the world for leaving them out of Christmas. So the bitterness grew in Mary from the heartache of her girls.

 

Every carol and decoration seemed to make her colder. Every Christmas card or call of "Merry Christmas" made her hate the season more. Laura and Cindy, taking the cue from their mother as children often do, developed the same attitude. Only little Becky was immune. She rocked Charlie in her arms and told him again and again about Baby Jesus, who was born in a stable. She begged the girls daily to take her to the church so she could see the story "for true." They would take her grudgingly and drag her back home long before she was finished looking.

 

Christmas morning came in a flurry of snow. Laura and Cindy woke up cold. They ran into Mary's room and burrowed under the covers with her to warm up. Mary cuddled them close and kissed their foreheads.

 

"Merry Christmas," she said. "Merry Christmas, Mama," they echoed.

 

"I'm afraid there aren't a lot of gifts for you girls, but you go wake up Becky, and you can open what there is, she said resignedly.

 

The girls jumped out of the bed and ran to get their sister while Mary got up and dressed. Too soon, they were back.

 

"Where is she, Mama? We can't find her!" The words hit Mary like a truck. The three raced through the house calling her name checking every closet and corner. They checked the yard and the neighbor's yard. No Becky! They must have missed her when they checked the house, Mary thought. She never goes off alone. They searched the house again.

 

"Dear Lord, please help me find her," she prayed as she rechecked every spot a child could possibly be in. "I'm sorry for my selfishness. The gifts and the dinner that I prayed for are not important. Forget them and just give me back my Becky." She was frantic now.

 

Then she noticed Charlie. He was carefully positioned in a chair facing a window. Mary's heart raced with her thoughts. Charlie was never out of Becky's sight. And where was his blanket? Becky always insisted that his blanket be wrapped tightly around him at all times. Suddenly she knew!

 

"Stay here!" she admonished the girls as she flew out the door into the dark and snowy morning. Down the street she ran, until she could see the church. Then she slowed, and tears of release ran down her face as she caught sight of her daughter. The star from the crèche was shining down on the manger where Becky had climbed in and was busily covering the Baby Jesus with the ratty scrap of a blanket. As she neared, Mary could hear Becky talking:

 

"You must be cold. I knew the snow would be falling on You. This is Charlie's blanket, but we will give it to You. He has me to keep him warm. "She looked up when she heard the footsteps.”Oh! Hi, Mama." Becky smiled her beautiful, innocent smile. “I was afraid He might have thought we forgot about Him on His birthday."

 

Mary plucked her out of the straw and held her tight, the tears now raining unchecked. "I did forget, Honey.... Dear Lord, I'm sorry I forgot." Then she tenderly carried her daughter home, filled at last with Christmas joy.

 

With Christmas carols to cheer them on, they hung the popcorn strings and ornaments on Mary's tallest houseplant. A star made of tin foil perched on the top. They put the presents underneath, and there was just enough to fit nicely under the little tree. And best of all, Mary made a birthday cake. With their hands joined around the table, they all sang "Happy birthday, Dear Jesus, happy birthday to You...."

 

As for Charlie, cradled tightly in Becky's arms-- even without his blanket, he was warm. 

Dad’s Fruitcake

By David Rompf

A few years ago, my father arranged to send me a mail-order fruitcake at Christmastime. Although I had a good job and owned an apartment in Manhattan, he feared my cupboards and refrigerator might be bare. I had recently moved from California, where my parents still lived in their suburban bungalow of 50 years, the house I grew up in.

He wanted me to have a particular brand of fruitcake. Made in Texas, it was famous among fruitcake lovers—or, at least, among people who gave fruitcakes to those who were assumed to love them.

“It reminds me of my mother’s,” he told me in a phone call. “Hers was really moist, with lots of raisins.”

I later figured out that my grandmother’s version, which I never had the chance to taste, was probably a Depression cake, made without milk, sugar, butter, or eggs, scarce commodities when he was a child.

Born in 1932, Dad grew up during the Great Depression in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. On most Christmases, he received two gifts: a pair of homemade socks and a small sack of oranges.

“My mother knitted the socks,” he said. “And those oranges tasted so good.”

Ordering the fruitcake was his way of trying to take care of me from afar, in an era that, in his mind, might at any moment turn economically perilous. Regardless of my middle-aged status, I was still his son.

“It should arrive the first week of December,” he said. “As soon as you get it, let me know what you think.”

I would be going to California for Christmas, as I do every year, and I was looking forward to his gift and to sampling the flavors that transported him to his childhood.

The first week of December passed with no sign of his fruitcake. Delayed by holiday mail, I assumed, or a backlog of orders.

I knew there would be plenty to eat in California. In addition to my mother’s cookies, fudge, and other treats, my father always gave my sister and me each a large bag of assorted foods he called, rather plainly, the “Food Bag.” He produced these from some secret spot only after all the other presents had been opened. One year, I listed the contents of my Food Bag in a notebook. I suppose I wanted a record for myself, for the day when I might not get a Food Bag for Christmas. That year, my bag contained a can of deluxe mixed nuts, a box of whole-wheat crackers, a Belgian chocolate bar, a stick of hickory-cured turkey sausage, a half-pound sack of California red pistachios, some English breakfast tea, and many other items, including an “Oh Deer Super Dooper Reindeer Pooper Jelly Bean Dispenser” filled with jelly beans.

I was 44 when my father gave me that Food Bag, and he was 72.

The bags had an uncanny but undeniable kinship with fruitcakes, featuring a little of this and that thrown together with intriguing results. They were so overstuffed that I often had to put most of the food in a box and mail it home. One year I assembled a few of the healthier items—sardines, rye crisps, dried apricots—and on the way to the airport made a special delivery of my own to the donation center of a local church.

Fruitcake is a polarizing concept, a triggering word. People love it or hate it and like to debate whether it’s cake at all. In some ways, my father’s character resembled a fruitcake: whimsy and a little nuttiness mixed with a sweet foundation.

When we were children and went to the local shopping mall, he liked to spritz on women’s perfume—all of them. This was before men’s cologne counters were common. Once they were, he would transform himself into a pansexual bouquet of exotic fragrances. On our drives home, my mother would say, “You stink! What did you put on this time?”

While working as a meat cutter in grocery stores, he was called Crazy Charlie by his coworkers and was known for workplace pranks, such as pretending to lock someone in the walk‑in meat freezer. But he also gave out instructions to customers who didn’t know how to roast lamb or make stuffing. When he came home from late shifts, he left candy bars under our pillows, thinking we might wake up wanting a snack.

My father believed everyone was always hungry and needed to eat. When we visited him in the hospital during a three-month stay—he was battling a vicious infection after heart surgery—he would ask whether we had eaten and never failed to remind us that the cafeteria would be closing soon.

“At least get a cup of coffee,” he’d say. “Don’t worry about me.”

A fruitcake, in his mind, was a perfect Christmas gift. The culinary jumble of jeweled fruits suggested an extravagance that belied its practicality: Fruitcake can fill your belly and has a long shelf life. In 2017, a fruitcake thought to have been brought on Robert Scott’s Antarctica expedition more than 100 years earlier was discovered to be in “excellent condition.”

The day before my flight to California, the fruitcake still had not arrived. When my father called to wish me a safe trip, he said, “Did you receive it?”

“Not yet,” I said. “It’s probably delayed in the holiday mail.”

“Maybe it’ll be there today.” He fretted deeply about that lost fruitcake.

When I arrived at my parents’ house, he said, “Did you get the fruitcake?”

“No, but I’m sure it’ll be there when I go home.”

As soon as the word left my lips, I realized that home, for them, was a kind of triggering word. Because wasn’t this home? Wasn’t I home now, with my parents greeting me, asking whether I was hungry after the long flight?

In the living room, a Christmas tree stood above piles of presents in glittery paper, and in the spare bedroom, my father, I knew, had hidden our Food Bags, concealed under large towels.

He remained hopeful the fruitcake would come by New Year’s Eve, when I’d be back in Midtown Manhattan, humanity roaring from Times Square.

January, February, and March came and went with no fruitcake. Though my father continued to ask about it, I never once considered lying and telling him yes, the fruitcake had finally arrived and was delicious. Instead, I said, “That cake is orbiting earth, and sooner or later it will land.”

“That’s a good one!” he said.

His sense of humor never wavered, and as time went on he would bring up the perpetual journey of his fruitcake.

“I wonder where it is now,” he’d say.

“It’s taken a detour to Pluto.”

He liked that one too.

“Do you want me to order another, in case it never comes?”

“That’s OK, Dad,” I said. “I’ll wait for this one. It’ll taste even better after touring the cosmos.

Early last December, nearly a year after my father died from a failing heart, I got a call from a staffer at the front desk of my apartment building.

“You have a package,” he said.

I went downstairs to pick it up. The brown box had a FedEx label with a return address in Texas.