Mrs. Schwartz's Ornaments

By F. Rex Nielsen

On Christmas morning, Santa had brought a blue, Schwinn five-speed bicycle with sports handlebars and a blue speckled seat. I couldn't wait to ride it, even though nothing but snow and ice covered the ground. The excitement of Christmas morning was the climax of the entire year, especially to a 7-year-old boy who had just received his first bicycle.

After a special breakfast of egg and sausage omelet, Father let me ride my bicycle as we delivered fruit baskets to the old ladies in our neighborhood. They were all poor and lived in rundown houses like all the houses in our neighborhood. Many of them lived alone, having emigrated from Europe and outlived their husbands. I was quick to show off my new bicycle. The old ladies would smile and pat me on the head. With a tear in their eye, they would tell us about their grandchildren and how they wished to see them and share Christmas with them. I guess I was the next best thing. In fact, we were their only visitors.

The last fruit basket was for Mrs. Schwartz, an old lady who lived in the most rundown house of all. Father knocked on the door while I slammed on my brakes and skidded into the next yard. She still hadn't come to the door by the time I walked back and leaned my bicycle against the gate of the weather-worn picket fence.

Finally, the door opened just a crack, and a big, distorted eye peered at us through a thick horn-rimmed lens. She smiled, opened the door and invited us into her home. It was a single room with a light bulb dangling from a frayed cord. Her cot was against the back wall, a small icebox was in the corner, and in front of the window was a nightstand on which an old foot-and-a-half artificial Christmas tree stood. Father gave Mrs. Schwartz the fruit basket, which was about the same size as her icebox. Her room was so cold that the fruit would do just as well on top of the icebox as in it. The only warmth in the room radiated from the Christmas tree, even though there were no lights.

I was so enchanted by the glass ornaments on her tree that I completely forgot to show her my new bicycle. Each ornament was hand-blown glass from her home in Germany: a star, a bell, two wooden shoes, a bluebird and a little baby Jesus. The sun flickered off the colored glass, sending sparks of reflected light throughout the room. Her priceless ornaments, along with a Christmas card her daughter in Chicago had sent last year, were the only signs of this special season.

She was not much taller than I was. Slowly, she shuffled over and stood next to me, one hand on my shoulder and the other hand steadied by an oak cane. I listened intently to her heavy German accent as she told the story of each ornament.

She, too, had a tear in her eye as we waved good-bye.

The next day, father took me back to Mrs. Schwartz's home. She said she had a Christmas gift for me. I eagerly unwrapped the gift, not noticing the bare nightstand in front of the window. I took the lid off the old shoebox and pushed aside the shredded wood packing. Inside the box were her treasured ornaments — her life's possessions.

I had a big lump in my throat as I tried to tell her that I couldn't keep them. She just smiled and patted my shoulder. When she saw in my eyes that I had given in to her wishes, she said, "I vant ya to haf my Christmas ornaments. You enjoy dem so much as I do. I vill not be here next Christmas. I vant you to haf dem. Please!"

Mrs. Schwartz died the next month. Her daughter in Chicago sent a check to pay for the funeral expenses. Father spoke at the service, attended by nine old ladies and me.

My blue Schwinn five-speed has been stored in the garage for many years now. But every Christmas, I put up the little tree and watch the sun flicker off the colored glass ornaments, sending sparks of colored light throughout the room.