By Louise H. Hall
The crumpled newspaper ad boldly stated the fact: “$169.97 plus tax.” The two older boys would finally purchase the biggest Christmas secret the four young children had ever kept from their parents.
The secret began months earlier, but it wasn’t until the Sunday after Thanksgiving I became an accomplice. Around 9 p.m. I received the whispered phone call.
“Nam, would you take me and Scott to Fred Meyer next Saturday?”
It was 12-year-old Lee inviting me into their scheme. They needed a car and a driver. Who better to ask than their grandmother?
The following Friday, I received my second phone call. I assured the young collaborators I would pick them up at the appointed time. I renewed my pledge of secrecy.
Months earlier, the four children did odd jobs to earn enough money for their grand gift. That’s a daunting task for children ages 12, 10, 8 and 6 years old. The older boys mowed lawns and baby sat. The two younger children collected aluminum cans and diligently saved their pennies. All saved birthday money and allowances.
Finally, the day of accounting came. Eight-year-old Andrea contributed $32.00 and 6-year-old Doug added $19.00. Neither were paltry sums, considering how enticing birthday money is when it is crisp and new.
On Thanksgiving Day, the children huddled over the voluminous newspaper ads and waded through all of the options. Finally, the four youngsters found the gift they dreamed of. The months of earning, saving, counting and whispering were finally coming to a conclusion!
As promised, Saturday afternoon I picked up the two boys. As they jumped into the car, they proudly thrust the crinkled newspaper ad in my face. While focusing my eyes, I amazingly queried, “Do you kids really have $169.97?”
“Yep!” came the dual reply, “and we even have enough for tax!”
We arrived at the store and the boys immediately found the exact item they wanted. A salesperson focused her attention on me. To her, my two young companions were only secondary.
I turned her attention to the boys and said, “They are making the purchase. Not me.”
At first, she didn’t seem to understand, and she continued to promote the more expensive model to me. After another gentle reminder, she realized the two young boys were making the purchase. They were using their own money. And it was for their parents.
I watched the quota-minded sales lady soften into an understanding individual who was astonished that these two young boys were more focused on buying a secret gift for their parents than calculating how many gifts they could get for themselves. She gave them full attention and taught them all the fundamentals of their secret gift.
As the two boys walked confidently to the check-out counter, I walked ahead of them and turned and watched 12-year-old Lee hand the clerk the crumpled wad of bills. As the clerk carefully arranged and counted the money, I wondered how long before the lengthy line of serious-faced Christmas shoppers would become disgruntled.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find the salesperson.
“I have to tell you something. Those boys have made my Christmas. This is the nicest experience I’ve had all season. Imagine being so unselfish!”
As her feelings tumbled out, the impatient attitude of the people in line melted away. They became interested and involved. I could see two husky men smile as they realized what was happening. Other shoppers joined in. The rigid line became a semi-circle around the boys.
The unorganized money required counting four times. Several people joined in and nodded as they repeated, “Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty,” until all collectively arrived at $181.00. A cheering section for the home team!
The cashier handed Lee the receipt and 59 cents change. The group applauded and cheered. As we left the store, Lee threw the 59 cents into the Salvation Army kettle.
Christmas Day arrived. Their grandfather and I were invited to share of the joy of opening the gift. Armed with video camera, we were escorted to the boys’ bedroom where the surprise would take place.
Previously, the children instructed Mom and Dad to leave the house for 10 minutes. When they returned, they were to follow written clues. It was an old-fashioned treasure hunt!
Hearing the parents coming, we muffled our giggles of anticipation. The door opened, and the children jumped from behind the bed and boomed, “Surprise!” After admiring the unique wrapping, Mom and Dad opened the gift. They were shocked and thrilled at the same time. But mostly they were grateful.
It was more than a new vacuum cleaner. It verified that life’s lessons taught by loving parents were being incorporated into the lives of their children.
Although the snow of Christmas 1988 melted into spring, the thoughts of four young children saving and sacrificing for their parents comes often to my mind and to my heart. In future years, the vacuum cleaner will be worn out. But I will always remember the surprised salesperson, the cheering shoppers, the giggling children and the grateful parents. And I will rejoice in the warmth of love radiating in the faces of family members. This special Christmas secret dreamed and accomplished by four unselfish little children is the Christmas I remember best.
Friday, December 14, 2018
Thursday, December 13, 2018
The Joy of Giving
By Diane Cahoon
Christmas was nearly four months away when I met my new fourth-grade class for the 1980 school year. As a second-year teacher, I was delighted with the prospect of sharing the coming year with this exceptional group of 31 eager and enthusiastic students. I did not know, however, that one of these students would help to give me the Christmas I remember best.
Amid the sea of scrubbed faces, shiny new shoes and fashionable school outfits, one boy stood out in stark contrast to the rest. Bret was a colorful sight in his bright orange plaid shirt and dingy green plaid slacks. His shoes were scuffed and worn and at least two sizes too large. The laces were frayed, held together by several large knots, strategically placed to make the ends long enough to hold the oversized shoes in place. Though Bret's fashion ensemble seemed bizarre, his facial expression was anything but comic. His dark, serious eyes peered from beneath long brush-like lashes. His gaze was slightly melancholy, yet there was a warmth in those eyes, an undeniable spark of hope. He returned my smile, and I instantly knew I had found a friend.
As the weeks passed, I learned that one of the unique things about Bret was his lifestyle. He and his family lived, basically, a pioneer existence in isolation from neighbors and friends. They made their home in a remote canyon where they had established a homestead. Their home consisted of mobile homes, tents and shacks. They managed to do without most modern conveniences. Water was obtained from a well. It was heated on a wood-burning stove. There was no electricity or telephone service. Money was a scarce commodity.
Bret seemed to be an island in so many ways; I feared he would be an outcast. I was surprised to learn that he was rather warmly accepted by the other boys and girls. Bret had a sincere, humble quality about him which seemed to endear him to others. Although he lacked the material possessions the other children enjoyed, he never seemed to feel sorry for himself, and never complained. Still, he spent much of his time alone and would often sit and gaze wistfully at the other children as they worked and played together.
Christmas approached with the usual high levels of excitement. The children's wish lists grew daily as they shared their holiday dreams. Bret remained quiet, but the enthusiasm of others was contagious. Sometimes the flicker of hope in his mysterious eyes would grow into a cozy flame, warming my heart. I would wonder what kind of Christmas Bret would have. Would there be presents for him? And how would he feel if those presents didn't come?
The pure and innocent hearts of children are always willing to share. The miniature Christmas tree on my desk was soon hidden by the generous gifts of thoughtful students. Finally, on the last day of school before the holiday break, it was time to open the gifts!
One by one, I opened gifts, gave hugs and expressed my thanks. I was moved by this outpouring of affection from these students I loved. The gifts were all as unique as their givers and it was an enjoyable time for all of us.
"Open mine next, Teacher!" was the expression repeated by student after student that day. We rejoiced in the festive atmosphere which pervaded the schoolroom. Conspicuously silent, however, was Bret. I began to wonder if, perhaps, he did not bring a gift and was feeling left out. I wanted to tell him that it didn't matter. He caught my gaze and his smile reassured me. I winked at him and continued.
The last package under the tiny tree was a small, square box with slightly soiled paper. A neatly printed gift tag attached to the box announced proudly: "Merry Christmas, From Bret."
A gift from Santa himself could not have been more exciting to me at that moment. As I opened the little box, nestled in crumpled tissue paper, was a lovely rhinestone ring. The pale green stone sparkled brightly as I slipped it on my finger for all to see. Bret grinned shyly as he came forward to accept my gratitude.
As the children left school that day, nearly flying on wings of anticipation, I couldn't help but wonder what the holiday held for Bret. I thought about buying some small gifts and leaving them for him anonymously, but I had no idea how to find the homestead. All I could do was hope and pray that he would have a happy Christmas.
I became engaged that Christmas Day and was soon preoccupied with my own good news and plans for my forthcoming marriage. It wasn't until I returned to school after the holiday break that I turned my attention back to the children.
The day after we returned to school, the children were permitted to bring one of their Christmas gifts to share with the other students. I walked around the room admiring the children's treasures. As I approached Bret, I noticed the oversized bag beneath his desk and asked him to show me his gift.
A look of pride filled his eyes as he removed from the bag a well-worn Parcheesi game. "I got two shirts, too," he said, "and some oranges and two candy canes. I had such a nice Christmas."
As I looked into his shining eyes, I finally learned something that Bret had discovered long ago. The joy of Christmas is not in what one receives, but in how one receives it. Bret knew his gifts were not expensive, or even new, but they were given with humility and love, pure and sweet, and that made all the difference.
Each time I open my little jewelry box and see the sparkling rhinestone ring, I think of Bret. He will always be a part of me and a reminder of the Christmas I remember best.
Christmas was nearly four months away when I met my new fourth-grade class for the 1980 school year. As a second-year teacher, I was delighted with the prospect of sharing the coming year with this exceptional group of 31 eager and enthusiastic students. I did not know, however, that one of these students would help to give me the Christmas I remember best.
Amid the sea of scrubbed faces, shiny new shoes and fashionable school outfits, one boy stood out in stark contrast to the rest. Bret was a colorful sight in his bright orange plaid shirt and dingy green plaid slacks. His shoes were scuffed and worn and at least two sizes too large. The laces were frayed, held together by several large knots, strategically placed to make the ends long enough to hold the oversized shoes in place. Though Bret's fashion ensemble seemed bizarre, his facial expression was anything but comic. His dark, serious eyes peered from beneath long brush-like lashes. His gaze was slightly melancholy, yet there was a warmth in those eyes, an undeniable spark of hope. He returned my smile, and I instantly knew I had found a friend.
As the weeks passed, I learned that one of the unique things about Bret was his lifestyle. He and his family lived, basically, a pioneer existence in isolation from neighbors and friends. They made their home in a remote canyon where they had established a homestead. Their home consisted of mobile homes, tents and shacks. They managed to do without most modern conveniences. Water was obtained from a well. It was heated on a wood-burning stove. There was no electricity or telephone service. Money was a scarce commodity.
Bret seemed to be an island in so many ways; I feared he would be an outcast. I was surprised to learn that he was rather warmly accepted by the other boys and girls. Bret had a sincere, humble quality about him which seemed to endear him to others. Although he lacked the material possessions the other children enjoyed, he never seemed to feel sorry for himself, and never complained. Still, he spent much of his time alone and would often sit and gaze wistfully at the other children as they worked and played together.
Christmas approached with the usual high levels of excitement. The children's wish lists grew daily as they shared their holiday dreams. Bret remained quiet, but the enthusiasm of others was contagious. Sometimes the flicker of hope in his mysterious eyes would grow into a cozy flame, warming my heart. I would wonder what kind of Christmas Bret would have. Would there be presents for him? And how would he feel if those presents didn't come?
The pure and innocent hearts of children are always willing to share. The miniature Christmas tree on my desk was soon hidden by the generous gifts of thoughtful students. Finally, on the last day of school before the holiday break, it was time to open the gifts!
One by one, I opened gifts, gave hugs and expressed my thanks. I was moved by this outpouring of affection from these students I loved. The gifts were all as unique as their givers and it was an enjoyable time for all of us.
"Open mine next, Teacher!" was the expression repeated by student after student that day. We rejoiced in the festive atmosphere which pervaded the schoolroom. Conspicuously silent, however, was Bret. I began to wonder if, perhaps, he did not bring a gift and was feeling left out. I wanted to tell him that it didn't matter. He caught my gaze and his smile reassured me. I winked at him and continued.
The last package under the tiny tree was a small, square box with slightly soiled paper. A neatly printed gift tag attached to the box announced proudly: "Merry Christmas, From Bret."
A gift from Santa himself could not have been more exciting to me at that moment. As I opened the little box, nestled in crumpled tissue paper, was a lovely rhinestone ring. The pale green stone sparkled brightly as I slipped it on my finger for all to see. Bret grinned shyly as he came forward to accept my gratitude.
As the children left school that day, nearly flying on wings of anticipation, I couldn't help but wonder what the holiday held for Bret. I thought about buying some small gifts and leaving them for him anonymously, but I had no idea how to find the homestead. All I could do was hope and pray that he would have a happy Christmas.
I became engaged that Christmas Day and was soon preoccupied with my own good news and plans for my forthcoming marriage. It wasn't until I returned to school after the holiday break that I turned my attention back to the children.
The day after we returned to school, the children were permitted to bring one of their Christmas gifts to share with the other students. I walked around the room admiring the children's treasures. As I approached Bret, I noticed the oversized bag beneath his desk and asked him to show me his gift.
A look of pride filled his eyes as he removed from the bag a well-worn Parcheesi game. "I got two shirts, too," he said, "and some oranges and two candy canes. I had such a nice Christmas."
As I looked into his shining eyes, I finally learned something that Bret had discovered long ago. The joy of Christmas is not in what one receives, but in how one receives it. Bret knew his gifts were not expensive, or even new, but they were given with humility and love, pure and sweet, and that made all the difference.
Each time I open my little jewelry box and see the sparkling rhinestone ring, I think of Bret. He will always be a part of me and a reminder of the Christmas I remember best.
Wednesday, December 12, 2018
‘Tis Better to Give
By Jennifer Yardley Barney
I knew I was not supposed to be quite so excited. I was too old for that. At age eleven, the oldest and my mom’s “grown up” girl, I had to keep my cool. I was in middle school after all. But every chance I got, when I was alone, I checked each present under the tree. I read every tag and felt every package, guessing at the contents within. I had examined each gift so often that I could tell which present went to which person without even looking at the tags.
It had been a tough year for my family. Whenever my mom looked over at the tree and scattered presents, she would sigh and warn us, “There won’t be as much for Christmas this year. Try not to be disappointed.” Christmas had traditionally been a time for my parents to spoil us. In years past, the presents would pile up and spill out from under the tree, taking over the living room. I had heard the phrase “giving is better than receiving,” but thought that whoever had said that must have been out of their mind. Getting presents was the whole point! It was the reason I couldn’t get to sleep on Christmas Eve.
On Christmas morning, we eagerly waited in the hallway until Dad told us everything was ready. We rushed into the living room and let the wrapping paper fly. We made weak attempts to wait and watch while other family members opened their presents, but as the time passed we lost our self-control.
“Here’s another one for you,” said Mom as she handed me a package. I looked at it, confused. Having spent so much time examining the presents before Christmas, I recognized this one. But it had not been mine. It was my mom’s. A new label had been put on it, with my name written in my mother’s handwriting.
“Mom, I can’t…”
I was stopped by my mother’s eager, joyful look—a look I could not really understand.
“Let’s see what it is, honey. Hurry and open it.”
It was a blow dryer. Though this may seem but a simple gift, to me it was so much more. Being an eleven-year-old girl, I was stunned. In my world, where receiving outweighed giving by light years, my mom’s act of selflessness was incomprehensible. It was a huge act. Tears filled my eyes and I thought in disbelief about how much my mom must love me to give up her Christmas so I could have a few more presents.
I have always remembered that Christmas fondly. It had such an impact on me. As an adult with children in my life whom I adore, I can now understand my mom’s actions. I see how she was not “giving up her Christmas” as I had thought but was finding an even greater joy in her Christmas because giving truly is better than receiving. My mom’s simple act meant the world to me.
I knew I was not supposed to be quite so excited. I was too old for that. At age eleven, the oldest and my mom’s “grown up” girl, I had to keep my cool. I was in middle school after all. But every chance I got, when I was alone, I checked each present under the tree. I read every tag and felt every package, guessing at the contents within. I had examined each gift so often that I could tell which present went to which person without even looking at the tags.
It had been a tough year for my family. Whenever my mom looked over at the tree and scattered presents, she would sigh and warn us, “There won’t be as much for Christmas this year. Try not to be disappointed.” Christmas had traditionally been a time for my parents to spoil us. In years past, the presents would pile up and spill out from under the tree, taking over the living room. I had heard the phrase “giving is better than receiving,” but thought that whoever had said that must have been out of their mind. Getting presents was the whole point! It was the reason I couldn’t get to sleep on Christmas Eve.
On Christmas morning, we eagerly waited in the hallway until Dad told us everything was ready. We rushed into the living room and let the wrapping paper fly. We made weak attempts to wait and watch while other family members opened their presents, but as the time passed we lost our self-control.
“Here’s another one for you,” said Mom as she handed me a package. I looked at it, confused. Having spent so much time examining the presents before Christmas, I recognized this one. But it had not been mine. It was my mom’s. A new label had been put on it, with my name written in my mother’s handwriting.
“Mom, I can’t…”
I was stopped by my mother’s eager, joyful look—a look I could not really understand.
“Let’s see what it is, honey. Hurry and open it.”
It was a blow dryer. Though this may seem but a simple gift, to me it was so much more. Being an eleven-year-old girl, I was stunned. In my world, where receiving outweighed giving by light years, my mom’s act of selflessness was incomprehensible. It was a huge act. Tears filled my eyes and I thought in disbelief about how much my mom must love me to give up her Christmas so I could have a few more presents.
I have always remembered that Christmas fondly. It had such an impact on me. As an adult with children in my life whom I adore, I can now understand my mom’s actions. I see how she was not “giving up her Christmas” as I had thought but was finding an even greater joy in her Christmas because giving truly is better than receiving. My mom’s simple act meant the world to me.
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
The Russian Christmas Angel
By Tim Hess
In the fall of 1996, our family was involved in the final stages of adopting a 12-month-old baby girl from Russia. Her name was Svetlana Abakumetz. Svetlana was born in the remote peasant village of Sosnovka in eastern Siberia.
At 8 days old, Svetlana’s parents left her at an orphanage because she had been born with a cleft lip and palate. Her humble peasant parents were unable to care for her or have this disfiguring birth defect corrected.
In early December 1996, we were notified by the Russian government that either my wife, Suzanne, or I had to appear before a Russian judge in the Siberian port city of Vladivostok to receive final approval for the adoption. We were shocked to learn that our court date was Dec. 24. Christmas was not celebrated in Vladivostok because the communist Soviet government had done away with Christmas decades earlier. We decided I would go to Russia and leave my wife at home to manage the family.
With a heavy heart, I kissed Suzanne and our seven children goodbye and boarded an airplane four days before Christmas. I would be gone for 11 days.
Christmas Eve day dawned bitterly, cold and gray, in Vladivostok. The city had no decorations or any hint that it was Christmas. I made my way to the courthouse, where I spent Christmas Eve afternoon waiting on a hard wooden bench in the dreary and dimly lit corridor of a rundown Russian government building. As I waited my turn to appear before the judge, I had plenty of time to think about the many blessings my family and I had received in helping us find this little girl. I was alone in a very foreign and strange city on Christmas Eve, yet I was filled with happiness. I was not lonely, sad or afraid.
Months earlier, we had chosen the simple, beautiful name of “Mary” for our little girl. She would be named Mary Svetlana. Now at Christmas, our hearts were filled with joy that our little daughter would have the same name as the Savior’s mother.
About 4:30 in the afternoon, I was finally called into the courtroom. The judge was a stern-looking woman of about 60 years old in black robes. There were about 10 other government officials in the room. I was asked to stand. My translator, Natasha Goncherova, stood at my side.
The judge started the questioning by asking me to tell the court about my family and our home. The judge also asked about my employment, our neighborhood and my religious beliefs. The judge asked other questions, including, “How do your children feel about this adoption?” “Are you aware of Svetlana’s deformity?” and “What are your plans to have her birth defects corrected?”
The judge’s final question was, “You have not yet seen this child. How do you know that you or your family will not reject this child … when you see how ugly she is?”
Emotions welled up in me and tears came to my eyes as I pondered the answer to this question. I could not find the words to fully express the feelings of my heart. The best I could do was to say to the judge, “My wife and I have seen Svetlana’s picture. Our children have seen her picture. We love Svetlana, and we will never, ever reject her.”
With this, the 20 minutes of questioning was concluded, and I was asked to wait in the hall while the court considered my case.
After about 10 minutes I was called back in, and the judge said words to the effect of, “You are hereby granted permission to adopt Svetlana Abakumetz.” At that, I immediately went around and shook each of the officials’ hands and repeated over and over the only Russian word I knew: “Spasiba.” (Thank you.)
The next day was Christmas, and I spent the entire day at an obscure little orphanage surrounded by dozens of beautiful little children. There I met our daughter, tiny 12-month-old Svetlana, the most beautiful little Christmas angel I had ever seen. We spent the entire happy day together playing and getting acquainted. This blonde angel had a gaping hole in her lip and a crooked nose, but she was alert, happy and bright-eyed, and she squealed and laughed as she bounced on my knee.
It was Christmas Day in eastern Siberia. For me, there would be no family gatherings, presents or turkey dinner. But the great blessing and joy of bringing this sweet little Christmas angel into our family made this the most bounteous Christmas of my life.
In the fall of 1996, our family was involved in the final stages of adopting a 12-month-old baby girl from Russia. Her name was Svetlana Abakumetz. Svetlana was born in the remote peasant village of Sosnovka in eastern Siberia.
At 8 days old, Svetlana’s parents left her at an orphanage because she had been born with a cleft lip and palate. Her humble peasant parents were unable to care for her or have this disfiguring birth defect corrected.
In early December 1996, we were notified by the Russian government that either my wife, Suzanne, or I had to appear before a Russian judge in the Siberian port city of Vladivostok to receive final approval for the adoption. We were shocked to learn that our court date was Dec. 24. Christmas was not celebrated in Vladivostok because the communist Soviet government had done away with Christmas decades earlier. We decided I would go to Russia and leave my wife at home to manage the family.
With a heavy heart, I kissed Suzanne and our seven children goodbye and boarded an airplane four days before Christmas. I would be gone for 11 days.
Christmas Eve day dawned bitterly, cold and gray, in Vladivostok. The city had no decorations or any hint that it was Christmas. I made my way to the courthouse, where I spent Christmas Eve afternoon waiting on a hard wooden bench in the dreary and dimly lit corridor of a rundown Russian government building. As I waited my turn to appear before the judge, I had plenty of time to think about the many blessings my family and I had received in helping us find this little girl. I was alone in a very foreign and strange city on Christmas Eve, yet I was filled with happiness. I was not lonely, sad or afraid.
Months earlier, we had chosen the simple, beautiful name of “Mary” for our little girl. She would be named Mary Svetlana. Now at Christmas, our hearts were filled with joy that our little daughter would have the same name as the Savior’s mother.
About 4:30 in the afternoon, I was finally called into the courtroom. The judge was a stern-looking woman of about 60 years old in black robes. There were about 10 other government officials in the room. I was asked to stand. My translator, Natasha Goncherova, stood at my side.
The judge started the questioning by asking me to tell the court about my family and our home. The judge also asked about my employment, our neighborhood and my religious beliefs. The judge asked other questions, including, “How do your children feel about this adoption?” “Are you aware of Svetlana’s deformity?” and “What are your plans to have her birth defects corrected?”
The judge’s final question was, “You have not yet seen this child. How do you know that you or your family will not reject this child … when you see how ugly she is?”
Emotions welled up in me and tears came to my eyes as I pondered the answer to this question. I could not find the words to fully express the feelings of my heart. The best I could do was to say to the judge, “My wife and I have seen Svetlana’s picture. Our children have seen her picture. We love Svetlana, and we will never, ever reject her.”
With this, the 20 minutes of questioning was concluded, and I was asked to wait in the hall while the court considered my case.
After about 10 minutes I was called back in, and the judge said words to the effect of, “You are hereby granted permission to adopt Svetlana Abakumetz.” At that, I immediately went around and shook each of the officials’ hands and repeated over and over the only Russian word I knew: “Spasiba.” (Thank you.)
The next day was Christmas, and I spent the entire day at an obscure little orphanage surrounded by dozens of beautiful little children. There I met our daughter, tiny 12-month-old Svetlana, the most beautiful little Christmas angel I had ever seen. We spent the entire happy day together playing and getting acquainted. This blonde angel had a gaping hole in her lip and a crooked nose, but she was alert, happy and bright-eyed, and she squealed and laughed as she bounced on my knee.
It was Christmas Day in eastern Siberia. For me, there would be no family gatherings, presents or turkey dinner. But the great blessing and joy of bringing this sweet little Christmas angel into our family made this the most bounteous Christmas of my life.
Monday, December 10, 2018
We Can’t Afford Christmas
By John Bass
The December of my second-grade year, I was excited. And I don't mean a little bit; I mean sugar-fueled-ADHD-holiday excited. Christmas was coming and I could hardly stand myself. It was about three weeks before Christmas and my parents had decided that we would drive over to California and have Christmas with my grandparents. As a result, they didn't see the necessity of getting a Christmas tree or making purchases because they would do all that in California.
But my young, hyper mind could not really wrap itself around that. We needed a Christmas tree, decorations and presents; I bothered my dad ad nauseam, asking him when we were going to get a tree, when we would decorate said tree, when we would buy presents, when we would wrap them, and when is Christmas! Finally, my poor besieged father had had enough. In frustration he blurted out, "We are not having Christmas! We can't afford it!"
Well, that did the trick — it shut me up. It’s interesting to look back now as I think about it. I wasn't really upset by it. I took it as the gospel truth; I mean, it had come from my dad and he would be the one to know, so I accepted it. I abandoned all thoughts of Christmas and just continued on with my normal life; however, when my teachers at school would ask me, “John, are you excited for Christmas?” my response was, “We’re not having Christmas, we can't afford it.” And when my Sunday School teachers would ask if I was excited for Christmas, I would again answer, “We are not having Christmas, we can't afford it.” This was my answer to anyone who would ask, and I said it until about two weeks before Christmas.
My family was sitting in the front room when the doorbell rang. I answered the door and, lo and behold, right in the middle of the porch was a Christmas tree. I couldn't believe my eyes! It was a Christmas miracle. My parents were dumbfounded. Where could it have come from? Why would somebody give us a Christmas tree? Not knowing anything better to do with it, we took it in and decorated it.
The next night we were watching TV when the doorbell rang again. I ran to the door and on the porch was a giant box of presents! My sisters and I danced rings around the box while my bewildered parents again wondered why people were giving us things.
During the next four to five days, the doorbell continued to ring; each time the porch would magically replenish itself with food, presents, decorations and Christmas trees. (We got three Christmas trees that year; the first two we decorated and the last one we just leaned in the corner.) Our pirates' hoard of presents went halfway across the living room. That's after my mom donated one half of them to Goodwill. I was so overjoyed that I was about to explode; I didn't care where this stuff came from, but my parents were going nuts.
My poor mother — in her women's group at church, she had gotten involved in a program to help the less fortunate in the neighborhood, and had donated some homemade caramels to be handed out. You can imagine her surprise when one of those knocks at the door was the women's group, unknowingly, and very charitably, giving my mother her own caramels and wishing her a merry Christmas. I can vividly remember my mother yelling out as she closed the door, "Why do people think we are poor?"
That was the best Christmas ever. I think my sisters and I got every single toy that was created and advertised that year.
It wasn't until I was a teenager that I finally realized my mistake in announcing to the world that we were too poor to have Christmas. And it wasn't until my late twenties, with all of us sitting around the dining room table for another Christmas, and Mom said, “Do you remember that Christmas when everybody thought we were poor?” that I finally worked up the guts to tell her. I could tell that time had not diminished my mother's feelings about the situation when she ran at me with her hands outstretched as she screamed, “People thought we were poor!”
But I will always remember it as the best Christmas ever.
The December of my second-grade year, I was excited. And I don't mean a little bit; I mean sugar-fueled-ADHD-holiday excited. Christmas was coming and I could hardly stand myself. It was about three weeks before Christmas and my parents had decided that we would drive over to California and have Christmas with my grandparents. As a result, they didn't see the necessity of getting a Christmas tree or making purchases because they would do all that in California.
But my young, hyper mind could not really wrap itself around that. We needed a Christmas tree, decorations and presents; I bothered my dad ad nauseam, asking him when we were going to get a tree, when we would decorate said tree, when we would buy presents, when we would wrap them, and when is Christmas! Finally, my poor besieged father had had enough. In frustration he blurted out, "We are not having Christmas! We can't afford it!"
Well, that did the trick — it shut me up. It’s interesting to look back now as I think about it. I wasn't really upset by it. I took it as the gospel truth; I mean, it had come from my dad and he would be the one to know, so I accepted it. I abandoned all thoughts of Christmas and just continued on with my normal life; however, when my teachers at school would ask me, “John, are you excited for Christmas?” my response was, “We’re not having Christmas, we can't afford it.” And when my Sunday School teachers would ask if I was excited for Christmas, I would again answer, “We are not having Christmas, we can't afford it.” This was my answer to anyone who would ask, and I said it until about two weeks before Christmas.
My family was sitting in the front room when the doorbell rang. I answered the door and, lo and behold, right in the middle of the porch was a Christmas tree. I couldn't believe my eyes! It was a Christmas miracle. My parents were dumbfounded. Where could it have come from? Why would somebody give us a Christmas tree? Not knowing anything better to do with it, we took it in and decorated it.
The next night we were watching TV when the doorbell rang again. I ran to the door and on the porch was a giant box of presents! My sisters and I danced rings around the box while my bewildered parents again wondered why people were giving us things.
During the next four to five days, the doorbell continued to ring; each time the porch would magically replenish itself with food, presents, decorations and Christmas trees. (We got three Christmas trees that year; the first two we decorated and the last one we just leaned in the corner.) Our pirates' hoard of presents went halfway across the living room. That's after my mom donated one half of them to Goodwill. I was so overjoyed that I was about to explode; I didn't care where this stuff came from, but my parents were going nuts.
My poor mother — in her women's group at church, she had gotten involved in a program to help the less fortunate in the neighborhood, and had donated some homemade caramels to be handed out. You can imagine her surprise when one of those knocks at the door was the women's group, unknowingly, and very charitably, giving my mother her own caramels and wishing her a merry Christmas. I can vividly remember my mother yelling out as she closed the door, "Why do people think we are poor?"
That was the best Christmas ever. I think my sisters and I got every single toy that was created and advertised that year.
It wasn't until I was a teenager that I finally realized my mistake in announcing to the world that we were too poor to have Christmas. And it wasn't until my late twenties, with all of us sitting around the dining room table for another Christmas, and Mom said, “Do you remember that Christmas when everybody thought we were poor?” that I finally worked up the guts to tell her. I could tell that time had not diminished my mother's feelings about the situation when she ran at me with her hands outstretched as she screamed, “People thought we were poor!”
But I will always remember it as the best Christmas ever.
Sunday, December 9, 2018
A South Dakota Christmas Social
By Rogert Thompson
As a young boy and teenager, I liked to spend my summers and Christmas vacations on my grandparents' farm they rented in northeastern South Dakota. Long summer days kept us busy with field work growing grain. Winters, though less busy, kept the cows in the barn which required bringing hay in from the haystacks for their feed, and necessitated constant shoveling of cow manure to keep the barn clean.
The basics of life seemed more difficult in the winter as temperatures outside dropped. Milking twice a day, hoisting icy pails of water from the well in the yard for all the cooking, washing and bathing, trips to the outhouse with its frosted wood seat, retrieving coal/wood/corncobs for the black kitchen cook stove as well as for the parlor stove all caused chapped hands, very cold feet and red noses.
This seemed ok and even unique for me since I lived the rest of the year in a town, but pretty monotonous for grandma’s family, who spent the long winters with these chores every day. Not much happened out of the ordinary in winter, not even meals, usually salt pork, potatoes and milk gravy.
I was 13 in December 1927 when I again visited the farm. Only two of my grandparents’ 10 living children remained at home, though others occupied nearby farms. Aunt Ida, 22, decided a party would definitely brighten up the short, frigid days that Christmas season. She created handwritten notes to take to all the surrounding farm families. That fairly flat part of South Dakota had little to break the wind, and roads piled with drifting snow made travel by old Model-T Fords impossible.
So, with me in the saddle of our pony and my younger cousin, Marvin, sitting behind, the two of us set out to deliver the party invitations. I remember plowing through some big drifts, but we succeeded in reaching every near neighbor.
At the final farm we put the pony in the barn and headed for the house to get warm. The two young men of the family arrived the same time we did in a wooden bobsled pulled by horses, bringing provisions from the local village store 5 miles away. The four of us sat at the kitchen table as their mother served us freshly baked bread just out of the oven along with jam. Delicious! When we finished, my cousin and I got back on the pony and returned to Grandma’s, completing our part of the preparations for the holiday party.
Winter chores seemed less tedious as everyone on our farm and neighboring farms anticipated my family’s upcoming Christmas social. When the day came, neighbors arrived in their cars (the roads now open from the snow) for an evening of entertainment. With the few furnishings in the parlor moved elsewhere, the kerosene lamps lit, and the pine board floor ready for dancing, the festivities began. My Uncle Alfred would trade off playing the fiddle and the banjo, and an accordion rounded out the musicians. Dances had long been a source of inexpensive recreation for farm families, most often on summer Saturday evenings. The dancers would leave a little money for the musicians in the hat left on the floor. Many who came knew the fox trot, the waltz, the two step, the schottische and square dancing. Though inept and shy, even I was enticed onto the floor a few times. As a family affair, the children enjoyed the music with their twirling around as much as the adults enjoyed dancing. For older men past their dancing days, they socialized in an upstairs bedroom playing the card game whist.
At midnight the music stopped and we all ate “lunch”. Each family brought some food, mostly sandwiches and cake to share. My grandma provided coffee, rolls and the sweat cream butter she churned in her wooden churn (the family’s major source of cash). When all had eaten, everyone resumed dancing and we danced until four in the morning. But cows on the farms would soon need milking, so reluctantly the menfolk went out to start the cars, and the families bundled up for their return home.
Our holiday celebration had no decorations and no gifts. The guests wore the best clothing they owned, inexpensive material and simply sewn. No one had much. But the fun of mingling with each other, of music and dance, of shared food and laughter, made that Christmas season most memorable to me.
As a young boy and teenager, I liked to spend my summers and Christmas vacations on my grandparents' farm they rented in northeastern South Dakota. Long summer days kept us busy with field work growing grain. Winters, though less busy, kept the cows in the barn which required bringing hay in from the haystacks for their feed, and necessitated constant shoveling of cow manure to keep the barn clean.
The basics of life seemed more difficult in the winter as temperatures outside dropped. Milking twice a day, hoisting icy pails of water from the well in the yard for all the cooking, washing and bathing, trips to the outhouse with its frosted wood seat, retrieving coal/wood/corncobs for the black kitchen cook stove as well as for the parlor stove all caused chapped hands, very cold feet and red noses.
This seemed ok and even unique for me since I lived the rest of the year in a town, but pretty monotonous for grandma’s family, who spent the long winters with these chores every day. Not much happened out of the ordinary in winter, not even meals, usually salt pork, potatoes and milk gravy.
I was 13 in December 1927 when I again visited the farm. Only two of my grandparents’ 10 living children remained at home, though others occupied nearby farms. Aunt Ida, 22, decided a party would definitely brighten up the short, frigid days that Christmas season. She created handwritten notes to take to all the surrounding farm families. That fairly flat part of South Dakota had little to break the wind, and roads piled with drifting snow made travel by old Model-T Fords impossible.
So, with me in the saddle of our pony and my younger cousin, Marvin, sitting behind, the two of us set out to deliver the party invitations. I remember plowing through some big drifts, but we succeeded in reaching every near neighbor.
At the final farm we put the pony in the barn and headed for the house to get warm. The two young men of the family arrived the same time we did in a wooden bobsled pulled by horses, bringing provisions from the local village store 5 miles away. The four of us sat at the kitchen table as their mother served us freshly baked bread just out of the oven along with jam. Delicious! When we finished, my cousin and I got back on the pony and returned to Grandma’s, completing our part of the preparations for the holiday party.
Winter chores seemed less tedious as everyone on our farm and neighboring farms anticipated my family’s upcoming Christmas social. When the day came, neighbors arrived in their cars (the roads now open from the snow) for an evening of entertainment. With the few furnishings in the parlor moved elsewhere, the kerosene lamps lit, and the pine board floor ready for dancing, the festivities began. My Uncle Alfred would trade off playing the fiddle and the banjo, and an accordion rounded out the musicians. Dances had long been a source of inexpensive recreation for farm families, most often on summer Saturday evenings. The dancers would leave a little money for the musicians in the hat left on the floor. Many who came knew the fox trot, the waltz, the two step, the schottische and square dancing. Though inept and shy, even I was enticed onto the floor a few times. As a family affair, the children enjoyed the music with their twirling around as much as the adults enjoyed dancing. For older men past their dancing days, they socialized in an upstairs bedroom playing the card game whist.
At midnight the music stopped and we all ate “lunch”. Each family brought some food, mostly sandwiches and cake to share. My grandma provided coffee, rolls and the sweat cream butter she churned in her wooden churn (the family’s major source of cash). When all had eaten, everyone resumed dancing and we danced until four in the morning. But cows on the farms would soon need milking, so reluctantly the menfolk went out to start the cars, and the families bundled up for their return home.
Our holiday celebration had no decorations and no gifts. The guests wore the best clothing they owned, inexpensive material and simply sewn. No one had much. But the fun of mingling with each other, of music and dance, of shared food and laughter, made that Christmas season most memorable to me.
Saturday, December 8, 2018
A Small, Snow-Covered Tree
By Darrell Smart
One day, shortly before Christmas, our third child and first son, Bay, was born. As I said good-bye that evening to my exhausted but joyful wife and left the hospital, the warmth and joy that accompanied the birth of my son overwhelmed the cold chill of that clear December night.
The following December we celebrated the first birthday of our dark-eyed, dark-haired son. The day after Christmas, during an evening of games at the home of my in-laws, our revelry was interrupted by an awful shriek from my mother-in-law: “He’s not breathing!” She had gone to check on Bay, who had been sleeping on her bed, and discovered his cold, lifeless body. We immediately rushed our son to the hospital, attempting CPR on the way. We were grief-stricken to learn that nothing could be done to save his life. He had died from sudden infant death syndrome.
Since then, Christmas has been filled with a much deeper meaning for our family. Each year on Christmas Eve when we take down our other children’s stockings to fill them, one solitary stocking is left on the fireplace mantle. Throughout the remainder of the holiday the stocking serves as a reminder of Bay.
Each year, around the time of Bay’s birthday, my wife and I drive to the cemetery where he is buried. At each visit we find that someone else has arrived before us and placed something on our son’s grave: one year it was delicate, small flowers; the next year, a stuffed bear; the next, a little Christmas tree decorated with miniature ornaments. We have no idea who is responsible; the gifts, which touch us deeply, are never accompanied by a note or card.
When I hinted to my mother-in-law that I knew her secret, she denied responsibility. The following year while she and my father-in-law were serving a Church mission abroad, we again found that someone had placed a gift on our son’s grave. Even after inquiring with other family members and friends, we were unable to solve the mystery.
Ten years after our son’s death, a series of snowstorms prevented us from traveling short distances. As a result, our annual visit to our son’s grave site was delayed until several days after Christmas. When we finally made it, we saw a small, decorated Christmas tree, mostly buried in the snow, standing bravely at the head of Bay’s small grave. The effort it must have taken for someone to get to the cemetery through the heavy snowfall overwhelmed us. Tears streamed down our faces as we realized that someone still shared our grief and loss.
After that, we were more resolved than ever to discover the identity of our benefactor and thank him or her for showing us such compassion. But as we reflected more, we realized that whoever was doing these acts of kindness did not want to be identified. We decided to allow our friend to remain anonymous. We replaced our need to thank our friend with a desire to simply live better.
It is now harder for us to speak ill of or criticize any of our friends or family members, because any one of them may be our anonymous friend.
Often while doing service, my wife and I pause to examine our hearts: are we doing good things to be seen by others or for the pure love of Christ and of our fellowmen?
For us, charity—humble and never seeking its own—is symbolized by a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, half-buried in snow, resting in a quiet cemetery.
One day, shortly before Christmas, our third child and first son, Bay, was born. As I said good-bye that evening to my exhausted but joyful wife and left the hospital, the warmth and joy that accompanied the birth of my son overwhelmed the cold chill of that clear December night.
The following December we celebrated the first birthday of our dark-eyed, dark-haired son. The day after Christmas, during an evening of games at the home of my in-laws, our revelry was interrupted by an awful shriek from my mother-in-law: “He’s not breathing!” She had gone to check on Bay, who had been sleeping on her bed, and discovered his cold, lifeless body. We immediately rushed our son to the hospital, attempting CPR on the way. We were grief-stricken to learn that nothing could be done to save his life. He had died from sudden infant death syndrome.
Since then, Christmas has been filled with a much deeper meaning for our family. Each year on Christmas Eve when we take down our other children’s stockings to fill them, one solitary stocking is left on the fireplace mantle. Throughout the remainder of the holiday the stocking serves as a reminder of Bay.
Each year, around the time of Bay’s birthday, my wife and I drive to the cemetery where he is buried. At each visit we find that someone else has arrived before us and placed something on our son’s grave: one year it was delicate, small flowers; the next year, a stuffed bear; the next, a little Christmas tree decorated with miniature ornaments. We have no idea who is responsible; the gifts, which touch us deeply, are never accompanied by a note or card.
When I hinted to my mother-in-law that I knew her secret, she denied responsibility. The following year while she and my father-in-law were serving a Church mission abroad, we again found that someone had placed a gift on our son’s grave. Even after inquiring with other family members and friends, we were unable to solve the mystery.
Ten years after our son’s death, a series of snowstorms prevented us from traveling short distances. As a result, our annual visit to our son’s grave site was delayed until several days after Christmas. When we finally made it, we saw a small, decorated Christmas tree, mostly buried in the snow, standing bravely at the head of Bay’s small grave. The effort it must have taken for someone to get to the cemetery through the heavy snowfall overwhelmed us. Tears streamed down our faces as we realized that someone still shared our grief and loss.
After that, we were more resolved than ever to discover the identity of our benefactor and thank him or her for showing us such compassion. But as we reflected more, we realized that whoever was doing these acts of kindness did not want to be identified. We decided to allow our friend to remain anonymous. We replaced our need to thank our friend with a desire to simply live better.
It is now harder for us to speak ill of or criticize any of our friends or family members, because any one of them may be our anonymous friend.
Often while doing service, my wife and I pause to examine our hearts: are we doing good things to be seen by others or for the pure love of Christ and of our fellowmen?
For us, charity—humble and never seeking its own—is symbolized by a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, half-buried in snow, resting in a quiet cemetery.
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