by Thomas J. Burns
Originally published in Reader's Digest, December 1989)
From its first publication in 1843, A Christmas Carol has charmed and inspired millions. Less well known is the fact that this little book of celebration grew out of a dark period in the author's career-and, in some ways, changed the course of his life forever.
On an early October evening in 1843, Charles Dickens stepped from the brick and stone portico of his home near Regent's Park in London. The cool air of dusk was a relief from the day's unseasonal humidity, as the author began his nightly walk through what he called “the black streets” of the city.
A handsome man with flowing brown hair and normally sparkling eyes, Dickens was deeply troubled. The 31-year-old father of four had thought he was at the peak of his career. The Pickwick Papers, Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby had all been popular; and Martin Chuzzlewit, which he considered his finest novel yet, was being published in monthly installments. But now, the celebrated writer was facing serious financial problems.
Some months earlier, his publisher had revealed that sales of the new novel were not what had been expected, and it might be necessary to sharply reduce Dickens's monthly advances against future sales.
The news had stunned the author. It seemed his talent was being questioned. Memories of his childhood poverty resurfaced. Dickens was supporting a large, extended family, and his expenses were already nearly more than he could handle. His father and brothers were pleading for loans. His wife, Kate, was expecting their fifth child.
All summer long, Dickens worried about his mounting bills, especially the large mortgage that he owed on his house. He spent time at a seaside resort, where he had trouble sleeping and walked the cliffs for hours. He knew that he needed an idea that would earn him a large sum of money, and he needed the idea quickly. But in his depression, Dickens was finding it difficult to write. After returning to London, he hoped that resuming his nightly walks would help spark his imagination.
The yellow glow from the flickering gas lamps lit his way through London's better neighborhoods. Then gradually, as he neared the Thames River, only the dull light from tenement windows illuminated the streets, now litter-strewn and lined with open sewers. The elegant ladies and well-dressed gentlemen of Dickens's neighborhood were replaced by bawdy streetwalkers, pickpockets, and beggars.
The dismal scene reminded him of the nightmare that often troubled his sleep: A 12-year-old boy sits at a worktable piled high with pots of black boot paste. For 12 hours a day, six days a week, he attaches labels on the endless stream of pots to earn the six shillings that will keep him alive.
The boy in the dream looks through the rotting warehouse floor into the cellar, where swarms of rats scurry about. Then he raises his eyes to the dirt-streaked window, dripping with condensation from London's wintry weather. The light is fading now, along with the boy's young hopes. His father is in debtors' prison, and the youngster is receiving only an hour of school lessons during his dinner break at the warehouse. He feels helpless, abandoned. There may never be celebration, joy or hope again. ...
This was no scene from the author's imagination. It was a period from his early life. Fortunately, Dickens's father had inherited some money, enabling him to pay off his debts and get out of prison-and his young son escaped a dreary fate.
Now the fear of being unable to pay his own debts haunted Dickens. Wearily, he started home from his long walk, no closer to an idea for the “cheerful, glowing” tale he wanted to tell than he'd been when he started out.
However, as he neared home, he felt the sudden flash of inspiration. What about a Christmas story! He would write one for the very people he passed on the black streets of London. People who lived and struggled with the same fears and longings he had known, people who hungered for a bit of cheer and hope.
But Christmas was less than three months away! How could he manage so great a task in so brief a time? The book would have to be short, certainly not a full novel. It would have to be finished by the end of November to be printed and distributed in time for Christmas sales. For speed, he struck on the idea of adapting a Christmas-goblin story from a chapter in The Pickwick Papers.
He would fill the story with the scenes and characters his readers loved. There would be a small, sickly child; his honest but ineffectual father; and, at the center of the piece, a selfish villain, an old man with a pointed nose and shriveled cheeks.
As the mild days of October gave way to a cool November, the manuscript grew, page by page, and the story took life. The basic plot was simple enough for children to understand, but evoked themes that would conjure up warm memories and emotions in an adult's heart: After retiring alone to his cold, barren apartment on Christmas Eve, Ebenezer Scrooge, a miserly London businessman, is visited by the spirit of his dead partner, Jacob Marley. Doomed by his greed and insensitivity to his fellow man when alive, Marley's ghost wanders the world in chains forged of his own indifference. He warns Scrooge that he must change, or suffer the same fate. The ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present and Christmas Yet to Come appear and show Scrooge poignant scenes from his life and what will occur if he doesn't mend his ways. Filled with remorse, Scrooge renounces his former selfishness and becomes a kind, generous, loving person who has learned the true spirit of Christmas.
Gradually, in the course of his writing, something surprising happened to Dickens. What had begun as a desperate, calculated plan to rescue himself from debt-”a little scheme,” as he described it-soon began to work a change in the author. As he wrote about the kind of Christmas he loved-joyous family parties with clusters of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling; cheerful carols, games, dances and gifts; delicious feasts of roast goose, plum pudding, fresh breads, all enjoyed in front of a blazing Yule log-the joy of the season he cherished began to alleviate his depression. A Christmas Carol captured his heart and soul. It became a labor of love. Every time he dipped his quill pen into his ink, the characters seemed magically to take life: Tiny Tim with his crutches, Scrooge cowering in fear before the ghosts, Bob Cratchit drinking Christmas cheer in the face of poverty.
Each morning, Dickens grew excited and impatient to begin the day's work. “I was very much affected by the little book,” he later wrote a newspaperman, and was “reluctant to lay it aside for a moment.” A friend and Dickens's future biographer, John Forster, took note of the “strange mastery” the story held over the author. Dickens told a professor in America how, when writing, he “wept, and laughed, and wept again.” Dickens even took charge of the design of the book, deciding on a gold-stamped cover, a red-and-green title page with colored endpapers, and four hand-colored etchings and four engraved woodcuts. To make the book affordable to the widest audience possible, he priced it at only five shillings.
At last, on December 2, he was finished, and the manuscript went to the printers. On December 17, the author's copies were delivered, and Dickens was delighted. He had never doubted that A Christmas Carol would be popular. But neither he nor his publishers were ready for the overwhelming response that came. The first edition of 6,000 copies sold out by Christmas Eve, and as the little book's heartwarming message spread, Dickens later recalled, he received “by every post, all manner of strangers writing all manner of letters about their homes and hearths, and how the Carol is read aloud there, and kept on a very little shelf by itself.” Novelist William Makepeace Thackeray said of the Carol: “It seems to me a national benefit, and to every man or woman who reads it a personal kindness.”
Despite the book's public acclaim, it did not turn into the immediate financial success that Dickens had hoped for, because of the quality production he demanded and the low price he placed on the book. Nevertheless, he made enough money from it to scrape by, and A Christmas Carol's enormous popularity revived his audience for subsequent novels, while giving a fresh, new direction to his life and career.
Although Dickens would write many other well-received and financially profitable books-David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations-nothing would ever quite equal the soul-satisfying joy he derived from his universally loved little novel.
In a very real sense, Dickens popularized many aspects of the Christmas we celebrate today, including great family gatherings, seasonal drinks and dishes and gift giving. Even our language has been enriched by the tale. Who has not known a “Scrooge,” or uttered “Bah! Humbug!” when feeling irritated or disbelieving. And the phrase “Merry Christmas!” gained wider usage after the story appeared.
In the midst of self-doubt and confusion, a man sometimes does his best work. From the storm of tribulation comes a gift. For Charles Dickens, a little Christmas novel brought newfound faith in himself and in the redemptive joy of the season.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Mattie Chitzmats
by Glenn A. Hascall
My next door neighbor was a prune.
I don't mean any disrespect, but she really looked like a four-and-a-half foot prune. I don't have a picture of her but the two closest descriptions of her I can give is either a prune or ET's grandmother. I am really not trying to be disrespectful! I remember her in the fondest of terms.
We called her Granny. If she went by any other name, I never knew it or have long since forgotten it. She kept mostly to herself and would often be seen with a walking stick in hand carrying her wrinkled body through neighborhood alleys.
Her granddaughter (in her 70's) spoke a little English and told us that Granny had come from Mexico in her late 70's after her husband passed away and had stopped celebrating her birthday at 97 (which had been some years before I knew her).
Most people stayed away from Granny. Not only was she very old, but she didn't speak English and wore a variety of tattered clothes. This grandmother, several times over, helped raise several generations of young 'uns.
There would come a time when Granny would find herself alone. And when she was, my mother would make a little extra at suppertime, and my sister I would take it over to Granny's house.
Granny would never come to the door, although she might, occasionally, pull back a curtain and peer through the window at us, her eyes partially hidden by the flowing wrinkles on her face.
So we learned to leave the meal on her doorstep and knock. Once we were a safe distance away, we would see her hand reach outside the door, and the plate and its contents would disappear inside.
The next morning we would hear a knock on our front door, by the time we got there Granny was gone, but she left behind a clean plate with a stack of homemade tortillas still warm from the pan.
Soon it became a neighborly ritual; we would supply her supper and she made sure we were never without fresh tortillas. Granny would never let us actually thank her or even talk to her, but she understood what my family was doing. She appreciated it, and even without words, she let us know of her gratitude.
One Christmas, after we had read Luke chapter two, opened presents, and were enjoying the holiday, I heard the doorbell ring. I didn't suspect Granny because she always knocked.
When I reached the front door I had to look down and I saw a short, toothless, wrinkled lady grinning from ear to ear. She held out a plate of Christmas Tamales and said, "Mattie Chitzmats".
I was so startled to hear Granny speak that her very broken English words didn't register right away. By the time I realized that she had personally wished my family a Merry Christmas she was backing away, waving and grinning. This beautiful, wonderful, toothless prune of a granny had shared Christmas cheer with my family.
As I recall, those were the only two words I ever heard Granny say, but her life spoke volumes. And in that moment of Christmas cheer I came to realize the arrival of our Savior Jesus Christ continues to leave a lasting impression on regular people.
He didn't come just for those of us who speak English. He didn't come just for those who attend church in their very best clothing. He didn't come just for those who had a particular color of skin. He didn't even come just for those who were wrinkle-free.
He came for me. He came for you. And He came for Granny.
A smooth skinned baby and a wrinkled old woman. This, my friends, is the story of a Christmas past and the best Christmas present.
Mattie Chitzmats.
My next door neighbor was a prune.
I don't mean any disrespect, but she really looked like a four-and-a-half foot prune. I don't have a picture of her but the two closest descriptions of her I can give is either a prune or ET's grandmother. I am really not trying to be disrespectful! I remember her in the fondest of terms.
We called her Granny. If she went by any other name, I never knew it or have long since forgotten it. She kept mostly to herself and would often be seen with a walking stick in hand carrying her wrinkled body through neighborhood alleys.
Her granddaughter (in her 70's) spoke a little English and told us that Granny had come from Mexico in her late 70's after her husband passed away and had stopped celebrating her birthday at 97 (which had been some years before I knew her).
Most people stayed away from Granny. Not only was she very old, but she didn't speak English and wore a variety of tattered clothes. This grandmother, several times over, helped raise several generations of young 'uns.
There would come a time when Granny would find herself alone. And when she was, my mother would make a little extra at suppertime, and my sister I would take it over to Granny's house.
Granny would never come to the door, although she might, occasionally, pull back a curtain and peer through the window at us, her eyes partially hidden by the flowing wrinkles on her face.
So we learned to leave the meal on her doorstep and knock. Once we were a safe distance away, we would see her hand reach outside the door, and the plate and its contents would disappear inside.
The next morning we would hear a knock on our front door, by the time we got there Granny was gone, but she left behind a clean plate with a stack of homemade tortillas still warm from the pan.
Soon it became a neighborly ritual; we would supply her supper and she made sure we were never without fresh tortillas. Granny would never let us actually thank her or even talk to her, but she understood what my family was doing. She appreciated it, and even without words, she let us know of her gratitude.
One Christmas, after we had read Luke chapter two, opened presents, and were enjoying the holiday, I heard the doorbell ring. I didn't suspect Granny because she always knocked.
When I reached the front door I had to look down and I saw a short, toothless, wrinkled lady grinning from ear to ear. She held out a plate of Christmas Tamales and said, "Mattie Chitzmats".
I was so startled to hear Granny speak that her very broken English words didn't register right away. By the time I realized that she had personally wished my family a Merry Christmas she was backing away, waving and grinning. This beautiful, wonderful, toothless prune of a granny had shared Christmas cheer with my family.
As I recall, those were the only two words I ever heard Granny say, but her life spoke volumes. And in that moment of Christmas cheer I came to realize the arrival of our Savior Jesus Christ continues to leave a lasting impression on regular people.
He didn't come just for those of us who speak English. He didn't come just for those who attend church in their very best clothing. He didn't come just for those who had a particular color of skin. He didn't even come just for those who were wrinkle-free.
He came for me. He came for you. And He came for Granny.
A smooth skinned baby and a wrinkled old woman. This, my friends, is the story of a Christmas past and the best Christmas present.
Mattie Chitzmats.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Egg Nog
I made this recipe for the first time last night. It is to die for! This homemade egg nog is sooooo much better than egg nog in a carton, and the recipe was easy to prepare.
2 eggs, well beaten
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 quart whole milk
1 c. heavy whipping cream, whipped
nutmeg
Combine eggs, sweetened condensed milk, vanilla, and salt. Gradually beat in milk. Gently fold in whipped cream. Sprinkle with nutmeg. Chill 2 hours before serving.
2 eggs, well beaten
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 quart whole milk
1 c. heavy whipping cream, whipped
nutmeg
Combine eggs, sweetened condensed milk, vanilla, and salt. Gradually beat in milk. Gently fold in whipped cream. Sprinkle with nutmeg. Chill 2 hours before serving.
Baked Sausage and Eggs
Here is a recipe for a breakfast casserole that my family eats each Christmas morning.
6 breakfast sausage links or 1/2 pound bulk sausage
8 ounces sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
1 tablespoon flour
4 ounces Monterey Jack cheese, shredded
6 eggs
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1/2. cup half and half
Cook sausage according to package instructions. Drain off fat; set aside. In a medium bowl, toss cheddar cheese and flour. Place in ungreased 1 1/2 quart shallow round baking dish. Evenly sprinkle with Monterey Jack cheese. In a medium bowl, beat eggs, Worcestershire sauce, and half and half until well blended. Pour over cheese. Arrange sausages in spoke fashion on top. Cover and refrigerate up to 24 hours. About 1 1/4 hours before serving, uncover dish and let stand at room temperature for 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Bake for 35 - 40 minutes or until egg custard is set when dish is shaken. When using bulk sausage, spread evenly on top. Use a 9x13 dish when the recipe is doubled.
6 breakfast sausage links or 1/2 pound bulk sausage
8 ounces sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
1 tablespoon flour
4 ounces Monterey Jack cheese, shredded
6 eggs
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1/2. cup half and half
Cook sausage according to package instructions. Drain off fat; set aside. In a medium bowl, toss cheddar cheese and flour. Place in ungreased 1 1/2 quart shallow round baking dish. Evenly sprinkle with Monterey Jack cheese. In a medium bowl, beat eggs, Worcestershire sauce, and half and half until well blended. Pour over cheese. Arrange sausages in spoke fashion on top. Cover and refrigerate up to 24 hours. About 1 1/4 hours before serving, uncover dish and let stand at room temperature for 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Bake for 35 - 40 minutes or until egg custard is set when dish is shaken. When using bulk sausage, spread evenly on top. Use a 9x13 dish when the recipe is doubled.
The Gift
Author Unknown
Sometimes, life throws us a helping hand when we least expect it.
A few weeks ago, I was rushing around trying to do some last minute Christmas shopping. I was stressed out and not thinking very fondly of the weather right then. It was dark, cold, and wet in the parking lot as I was loading my car. I noticed that I was missing a receipt that I might need later. So mumbling under my breath, I retraced my steps to the mall entrance. As I was searching the wet pavement for the lost receipt, I heard a quiet sobbing. The crying was coming from a poorly dressed boy of about 12 years old. He was short and thin. He had no coat. He was just wearing a ragged flannel shirt to protect him from the cold night's chill.
Oddly enough, he was holding a hundred dollar bill in his hand. Thinking that he had gotten lost from his parents, I asked him what was wrong. He told me his sad story. He said that he came from a large family. He had three brothers and four sisters. His father had died when he was nine years old. His mother was poorly educated and worked two full time jobs. She made very little to support her large family. Nevertheless, she had managed to skimp and save two hundred dollars to buy her children some Christmas presents. The young boy had been dropped off by his mother, on the way to her second job. He was to use the money to buy presents for all his siblings and save just enough to take the bus home. He had not even entered the mall, when an older boy grabbed one of the hundred dollar bills and disappeared into the night.
"Why didn't you scream for help?" I asked.
The boy said, "I did."
"And nobody came to help you?" I queried.
The boy stared at the sidewalk and sadly shook his head.
"How loud did you scream?" I inquired.
The soft-spoken boy looked up and meekly whispered, "Help me!"
It was then that I realized that absolutely no one could hear that poor boy cry for help.
So I grabbed his other hundred and made a run to my car.
Merry Christmas!!
Contributed by my husband who truly has a twisted sense of humor! ;)
Sometimes, life throws us a helping hand when we least expect it.
A few weeks ago, I was rushing around trying to do some last minute Christmas shopping. I was stressed out and not thinking very fondly of the weather right then. It was dark, cold, and wet in the parking lot as I was loading my car. I noticed that I was missing a receipt that I might need later. So mumbling under my breath, I retraced my steps to the mall entrance. As I was searching the wet pavement for the lost receipt, I heard a quiet sobbing. The crying was coming from a poorly dressed boy of about 12 years old. He was short and thin. He had no coat. He was just wearing a ragged flannel shirt to protect him from the cold night's chill.
Oddly enough, he was holding a hundred dollar bill in his hand. Thinking that he had gotten lost from his parents, I asked him what was wrong. He told me his sad story. He said that he came from a large family. He had three brothers and four sisters. His father had died when he was nine years old. His mother was poorly educated and worked two full time jobs. She made very little to support her large family. Nevertheless, she had managed to skimp and save two hundred dollars to buy her children some Christmas presents. The young boy had been dropped off by his mother, on the way to her second job. He was to use the money to buy presents for all his siblings and save just enough to take the bus home. He had not even entered the mall, when an older boy grabbed one of the hundred dollar bills and disappeared into the night.
"Why didn't you scream for help?" I asked.
The boy said, "I did."
"And nobody came to help you?" I queried.
The boy stared at the sidewalk and sadly shook his head.
"How loud did you scream?" I inquired.
The soft-spoken boy looked up and meekly whispered, "Help me!"
It was then that I realized that absolutely no one could hear that poor boy cry for help.
So I grabbed his other hundred and made a run to my car.
Merry Christmas!!
Contributed by my husband who truly has a twisted sense of humor! ;)
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Giving IS Better
by Will Wright
Joan spent last summer working at a dude ranch in the rugged and beautiful mountains of Idaho’s Sawtooth National Forest just north of Sun Valley. She still had three hundred dollars she had saved from the summer’s work. Not bad for a sixteen year old.
As Christmas approached, Joan spent several hours thinking of the exciting ways she could spend her savings. It was awkward having so much money to spend when her parents had so little for Christmas. Joan’s dad was still recovering from an expensive operation. Medical expenses had wiped out the family savings. So it was going to be a low budget Christmas this year. Joan told her parents they could use her money, but they wouldn’t consider the idea. “It’s your money, dear. You earned it; you spend it,” they said.
Joan’s father and her brothers loved snowmobiling. They did not own a snowmobile, but friends occasionally asked them to go along with them. For days after their snowmobiling trips, they would recount with laughter and delight the things they did and the scenes they saw. Whether it was flying at full speed across a snow-covered meadow or watching a herd of elk moving through the timber, their eyes sparkled, and their voices spoke in excited tones as they shared their snowmobiling experiences with the rest of the family.
About two weeks before Christmas, Joan heard her parents talking in low, serious tones in their bedroom. Joan did not want to eavesdrop, but she sensed something was wrong–she slipped closer to the door. Joan’s father was explaining that one of his friends needed to sell one of his snowmobiles. He was willing to let it go for less than half of its value–only three hundred dollars. Joan heard her mother say, “That is such a great deal; isn’t there some way we can spare the money for it?” They discussed things they could do, but it came down to the fact that if they bought the snowmobile, the children would not have Christmas presents. Finally, Joan’s father, in a disappointed voice said, “We just can’t do it; we will have to wait for another opportunity.”
Joan slipped back to her room. She could do it! She would be broke, but it was exciting to think she could make her parents’ dream come true. But what about the things she planned to buy for herself? Then think of the look on her parents’ and brothers’ faces when they saw the snowmobile in their front yard! What fun the family could have together on their own snowmobile! Joan tossed and turned in her bed that night. This was one of the hardest decisions she ever faced, and she could not discuss it with anyone. What to do?
When she woke up the next morning, Joan felt clam. All doubt was gone. She knew exactly what she wanted to do. Her spine tingled with excitement as she planned her strategy. She called her dad’s friend who wanted to sell the snowmobile. Yes, he would sell it to her for the same price – three hundred dollars. No, he would not tell anyone, so it would be a surprise. He said he and his sons would shine it up and place it in Joan’s front yard about midnight on Christmas Eve.
Joan’s thoughts of how she planned to spend her three hundred dollars on herself were quickly overshadowed by the continuous delight she enjoyed as Christmas Day drew nearer. It was terrible, she thought, being so happy and excited and not being able to tell anyone why you felt that way.
Finally! Christmas Day arrived. That morning the children ran downstairs to open their presents. Joan had peeked outside earlier, and there the snowmobile sat in the middle of the front yard in eight inches of fresh snow. Their friends had polished the snowmobile until it gleamed. A big red ribbon went all the way around it, and a large red bow was on the seat. Joan was never happier!
The snowmobile was still hidden from the family by the living room drapes which Joan had drawn before she went to bed. Everyone, but Joan, had their full attention focused on opening the presents under the tree. Finally, Joan’s oldest brother parted the drapes to see how much snow had fallen that night. “Hey Dad, there is a snowmobile on our lawn,” he said. Dad looked puzzled. They pulled the living room drapes open. They saw the ribbon and the bow – ribbons and bows belonged on gifts, not on snowmobiles left by chance in your yard! Joan’s father glanced at his wife, but her puzzled look said she was not the key to the mystery. Dad and the boys flew out the front door and leapt on the seat of the snowmobile while hollering in wild delight. They started the motor and sped off with Dad giggling like a teenager.
Mother looked at Joan’s sheepish grin and thought to herself: It cost three hundred dollars; Joan has three hundred dollars!
“Joan!” she exclaimed as Joan broke into an ear to ear grin. “I’m so proud of you. I just don’t know what to say.”
Joan’s mother did not have to say anything. On that beautiful, snowy Christmas morning, Joan learned for herself what we have all been told: It IS better to give than to receive.
Joan spent last summer working at a dude ranch in the rugged and beautiful mountains of Idaho’s Sawtooth National Forest just north of Sun Valley. She still had three hundred dollars she had saved from the summer’s work. Not bad for a sixteen year old.
As Christmas approached, Joan spent several hours thinking of the exciting ways she could spend her savings. It was awkward having so much money to spend when her parents had so little for Christmas. Joan’s dad was still recovering from an expensive operation. Medical expenses had wiped out the family savings. So it was going to be a low budget Christmas this year. Joan told her parents they could use her money, but they wouldn’t consider the idea. “It’s your money, dear. You earned it; you spend it,” they said.
Joan’s father and her brothers loved snowmobiling. They did not own a snowmobile, but friends occasionally asked them to go along with them. For days after their snowmobiling trips, they would recount with laughter and delight the things they did and the scenes they saw. Whether it was flying at full speed across a snow-covered meadow or watching a herd of elk moving through the timber, their eyes sparkled, and their voices spoke in excited tones as they shared their snowmobiling experiences with the rest of the family.
About two weeks before Christmas, Joan heard her parents talking in low, serious tones in their bedroom. Joan did not want to eavesdrop, but she sensed something was wrong–she slipped closer to the door. Joan’s father was explaining that one of his friends needed to sell one of his snowmobiles. He was willing to let it go for less than half of its value–only three hundred dollars. Joan heard her mother say, “That is such a great deal; isn’t there some way we can spare the money for it?” They discussed things they could do, but it came down to the fact that if they bought the snowmobile, the children would not have Christmas presents. Finally, Joan’s father, in a disappointed voice said, “We just can’t do it; we will have to wait for another opportunity.”
Joan slipped back to her room. She could do it! She would be broke, but it was exciting to think she could make her parents’ dream come true. But what about the things she planned to buy for herself? Then think of the look on her parents’ and brothers’ faces when they saw the snowmobile in their front yard! What fun the family could have together on their own snowmobile! Joan tossed and turned in her bed that night. This was one of the hardest decisions she ever faced, and she could not discuss it with anyone. What to do?
When she woke up the next morning, Joan felt clam. All doubt was gone. She knew exactly what she wanted to do. Her spine tingled with excitement as she planned her strategy. She called her dad’s friend who wanted to sell the snowmobile. Yes, he would sell it to her for the same price – three hundred dollars. No, he would not tell anyone, so it would be a surprise. He said he and his sons would shine it up and place it in Joan’s front yard about midnight on Christmas Eve.
Joan’s thoughts of how she planned to spend her three hundred dollars on herself were quickly overshadowed by the continuous delight she enjoyed as Christmas Day drew nearer. It was terrible, she thought, being so happy and excited and not being able to tell anyone why you felt that way.
Finally! Christmas Day arrived. That morning the children ran downstairs to open their presents. Joan had peeked outside earlier, and there the snowmobile sat in the middle of the front yard in eight inches of fresh snow. Their friends had polished the snowmobile until it gleamed. A big red ribbon went all the way around it, and a large red bow was on the seat. Joan was never happier!
The snowmobile was still hidden from the family by the living room drapes which Joan had drawn before she went to bed. Everyone, but Joan, had their full attention focused on opening the presents under the tree. Finally, Joan’s oldest brother parted the drapes to see how much snow had fallen that night. “Hey Dad, there is a snowmobile on our lawn,” he said. Dad looked puzzled. They pulled the living room drapes open. They saw the ribbon and the bow – ribbons and bows belonged on gifts, not on snowmobiles left by chance in your yard! Joan’s father glanced at his wife, but her puzzled look said she was not the key to the mystery. Dad and the boys flew out the front door and leapt on the seat of the snowmobile while hollering in wild delight. They started the motor and sped off with Dad giggling like a teenager.
Mother looked at Joan’s sheepish grin and thought to herself: It cost three hundred dollars; Joan has three hundred dollars!
“Joan!” she exclaimed as Joan broke into an ear to ear grin. “I’m so proud of you. I just don’t know what to say.”
Joan’s mother did not have to say anything. On that beautiful, snowy Christmas morning, Joan learned for herself what we have all been told: It IS better to give than to receive.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
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.
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.
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