The Christmas of the Rag Dolls

By N. Dee Bosen

My cheeks tingled with excitement in the brisk December air, the world was my oyster. Christmas was the pearl nestled deep inside my soaring spirit.

It was 1949, and my first job and regular paycheck meant this was one year I wouldn't have to be satisfied giving homemade gifts. My coat swings rhythmically with my happy steps. I looked at the handsome young man beside me. I was wearing his ring. It encircled my finger just as his love encircled me in a warm, ever-present glow. Bob carried the gifts we had carefully purchased, each one lovingly selected for a special family member. Together we would create a memorable Christmas.

Near the street corner stood a bell-ringing Santa. A donation dropped into his bucket increased my belief that I had the true spirit of this holiday season.

We arrived at my home and carefully placed the beautiful foil-wrapped gifts under the tree. My young sisters and brothers gave appreciative "ooh's" and "aah's." The little ones were bundled off to bed.

After the merriment had settled into a hushed silence, we went into the kitchen. There at the table, with skeins of yarn, scrap materials, scissors and thread, sat Mom and Dad, busily making something. Mom looked up and asked if we would like to help. In her hands she had what looked like a doll, a rag doll. It was. It was a rag doll! A homemade-looking thing, with a face that was too pale. The doll Dad held was no better. A faceless, limp, horrible little thing!

"Come on, pull up a chair," Dad said. "Maybe you can help me get the face right on this one. Which hair looks best? Yellow? Brown? How about some black braids?"

How could they? How could they embarrass me like this in front of my fiancé? Homemade rag dolls for Christmas? Surely, they could do better than that. Weren't things beginning to look up for us? Dad had returned to work after a six-month illness. There hadn't been even a suggestion of another homemade Christmas.

I wanted to cry as I glanced around the room. There stood the galvanized water bucket with the long-handled dipper beside it. Faded curtains on the cupboard shelves hid the home-canned foods. The old kerosene lamps were in their usual place atop the unpainted orange crates.

I was jolted from my thoughts by a deep voice cheerfully answering.

"I like the yellow hair best." Bob gave my blonde curls a quick tug. Picking up the yarn, he clumsily formed it around the pale-faced little rag doll. Pulling a worn wooden chair toward the table, he offered me a seat, then settled himself into an old bentwood chair. It was soon obvious that he had never used an embroidery needle, and the knots and tangles in the yam told me he was unfamiliar with such things. Model airplanes were more his line of handiwork.

Working with hushed voices, we spent hours fashioning bright scraps and tiny stitches into rag dolls. Quietly they were placed under the Christmas tree. Somehow, they didn't seem out of place there; the spiral tin can icicles, the red and green paper chains, the lopsided star that shone with crushed fool’s gold and yellowed glue all blended to create a Christmas-card effect.

I forgot the embarrassment of shedding ropes that crisscrossed the room, fastened in the corners of calcimined walls. A little wooden spool tank with a rubber band motor sat on the slivered floor, its treads carefully carved as Dad notched the rims of empty thread spools. The gifts Bob and I had purchased faded into nothingness.

It was long past midnight when Bob kissed me goodnight and stepped into the cold wintry darkness. Wearily I climbed into bed beside my sleeping sisters. Marilyn's little button nose peeked out from the heavy homemade quilts. Kathleen's blonde hair made a silken web over her cheeks. In another room, David snuggled into the narrow cot with Wayne. I could picture Harry, in his bed, pretending to be asleep.

In the kitchen, Dad gave another stir to the coal stove. Mom still worked at her sewing basket. It would be several hours before they were through. The sun would rise on still busy hands.

I awakened in the morning to the sound of a wooden spool tank clumping across the barren floor and the happy shrieks of young children. As I came into the room, I saw two little girls, their faces radiant, clutching the rag dolls. The foil-wrapped gifts went unnoticed.

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