Fifteen-Cent Surprise

by Jean Matthew Hall

It was December 1963. Jack and I wanted to give each other something special on our first Christmas together, but we had no extra money for gifts. We had dated, fallen in love, and married all in the span of three months. We were young, in love, and broke--flat broke.

Jack was a private in the Marine Corps. He was stationed at the Naval Weapons Station, Charleston, South Carolina. The nicest house we could afford on Jack’s ninety-dollar-a-month salary was half of a rickety old duplex. It sat smack-dab in the middle of a cow pasture on the backside of Goose Creek. It was drafty, the roof leaked, and it had no hot water. But we were together, and that was what mattered most to us.

Unknown to me, as December rolled along, Jack was determined to surprise me with something on our first Christmas together. On December 19, he hid a small hatchet under his field jacket. He slid his hands into his work gloves, pulled his cap down to keep his ears warm, and took a moonlit stroll to the back side of the cow pasture. About an hour later he returned with a pathetic little pine tree and a huge grin. That little tree’s scrawny branches spread out like angels’ wings to me. I welcomed the surprise with childish delight.

“Here’s an empty coffee can, Jack. We can stand the tree in it,” I said. Jack filled the coffee can with South Carolina clay and jammed the tree’s tiny trunk into it. I draped one of my scarves around the can. Then I decorated the pitiful tree with my earrings, necklaces, and bracelets. The rhinestones glittered like tinsel. “It’s not the biggest tree in the world, but it’s the most beautiful Christmas tree I’ve ever had,” I said as I planted a kiss on Jack’s cheek. I leaned on his strong shoulder and sighed with happiness.

But Jack wasn’t satisfied. He wanted a gift to place under that tree. On Christmas Eve he stopped at the PX on his way home from duty. He had a grand total of twenty-one cents in his pocket. For an hour he walked up and down the aisles searching for something—anything—he could buy for the love of his life with such meager savings. He had almost given up when his eyes locked onto a small sign that read “15 cents” He grabbed one, paid for it, and headed home with his treasure tucked inside the pocket of his field jacket.

That night Jack and I ate bologna sandwiches in front of our Christmas tree. We sang Christmas carols and snuggled near the gas space heater. Around midnight Jack disappeared into the bedroom. He reappeared with his right hand hidden behind his back. His mouth went dry and his hands shook as he announced, “Close your eyes now. It’s a surprise.”

“Oh, Jack, you shouldn’t have spent money on a gift. We can’t afford it.”

“I couldn’t let Christmas come and go without doing something special for the most beautiful girl in the world. Close your eyes, and hold out your hand.”

I must admit I was excited. I giggled like a kid. Jack placed his treasure in my open palm. “I know it isn’t much. But, well, it’s your favorite and you’re my favorite.” He exhaled loudly. “Merry Christmas!”

I opened my eyes. Resting in my palm was a miniature box containing four chocolate-covered confections. I pulled the little treasure close to my heart, then wrapped both arms around my hero’s neck.

“This is the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received. It’s so good to be loved by you, Jack. I can’t believe that you’re all mine. You’re the best thing about my life.”

In the years that followed, our finances improved. Each Christmas the trees got fancier. Each year the presents got bigger and more expensive. But for thirty-four Christmases one gift occupied a place of honor under our Christmas tree. Every year until his death, Jack gave me his love--wrapped in a box of chocolate. And every year he became more and more my hero.