Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas (23 page)

As Christmas Eve drew closer, we began to suspect certain members of the family as they tried to fool us by both their kind and sly actions.

Some family members had a kinder Santa than others.

Some received little; others more. Some postmarks originated from in state, and some from out of state.

Mysteriously, though some family members lived out of state, it was not their postmarks that were found on cards!

The suspense continued.

I, too, connived with people to mail my cards from distant places and schemed to fool my unsuspecting recipient of kindness. I put forth an effort to show love, thoughtfulness, and good will in innovative ways, while trying to determine my own Secret Santa with trickery and bribes.

As the days dwindled down, some knew for sure who their kindhearted friend or Secret Santa was—at least, they thought so. Other people were still awaiting their signs of good will. Other family members remained stumped at the benevolence shown them . . . could another family member actually be so kind?! Kindness and gifts given anonymously hold a thrill all their own. That year, and the succeeding years, left us each with a deep-seated feeling of consideration for others.

Christmas Eve arrived, and anticipation was in the air. Everyone was accusing all the others of ignoring or lavishing them with kindness. Some felt cheated and stated so, while others felt the generosity poured at their feet.

By the time gifts were given out at the beginning of the evening from the Secret Santas, all were cheering to play it again the next year. Some promised to be better in their distribution of kindness, and all were laughing and joking at the scheming that had occurred.

We repeated the game of Secret Santa for a few more years, but time evolved, people moved away, and new traditions were started.

Sometimes, when I remember the Secret Santa game, I think it should not take a game to promote kindness, but if it does, we should all play twelve months out of the year.

Betty King

A Secondhand Christmas

In the winter of 1975, my parents divorced. My mother had a chronic heart condition that made it impossible for her to work, and the two of us couldn't quite make ends meet that first year on our own.

In previous years, Christmas had been a grand event in our home. Money had always been scarce, but my parents scrimped and saved for the holidays.

My first memories are of bright lights, rich smells, and a pile of gifts with my name on them. That year, however, would be different. My mother received a meager Social Security check each month that almost, but not quite, covered the bare essentials, with nothing left for the luxuries of Christmas.

I remember that most of our meals consisted of potatoes and the big blocks of American cheese that the government passed out at the Social Security office. My mother, alone for the first time in her life, found it difficult to put aside her own hurts and fears and participate in the holidays. I do remember that we had a small tree and brought a box of decorations down from the closet shelf, but there wasn't much joy in our home that year.

One thing that did worry my mother was the lack of money for gifts that year. She fretted over this for weeks, but there were no funds for presents. One day, a neighbor told her about a local toy charity, an organization dedicated to providing donated presents for children in need. My mother applied for the program and visited their office, bringing home a small box of gifts that she wrapped
and hid under her bed.

The night before Christmas, we ate our baked potatoes, and Mom read to me from a book of children's Christmas stories. Just before bedtime, there was a knock at the door, and my mother answered to find a young woman who had just moved in next door to us. She was Hispanic, spoke very broken English, and had twin sons who were my own age.

She was also divorced and was in financial straits as bad as, or worse than, our own. She came to the door asking to borrow some flour, and she looked so exhausted that my mother invited her in and made her a cup of tea. I was hustled off to bed, lest I still be up when Santa made his appearance, and they stayed up and talked awhile.

I remember my mother coming into my room later and gently waking me up. Sitting on the side of my bed, she asked if I minded if we had company for Christmas. I said no, unused to voicing my opinion in such matters.

Then she took my hand and asked if it would be all right if Santa gave some of my presents to the two little boys next door. I thought about this for a while, wondering why Santa couldn't bring them their own presents, but somehow my young brain sensed that it would make my mother happy. She hadn't seemed happy in a long while, so I hesitantly agreed. Mother kissed my forehead, and I went back to sleep.

The next morning, I awoke to the most wonderful smell wafting under my bedroom door. Hunger banished even the memory of Christmas from my mind, and I ran from my room to the kitchen to find the source of that glorious aroma. I skidded to a stop as I rounded the corner into a strange, dark-faced woman standing at my mother's stove. She was rolling out tortillas and dropping them into a smoking pan, while a large pot bubbled noisily on the back burner.

I blinked once or twice in confusion until my mother walked in, then remembered that we had company, and even more importantly, that today was Christmas! I spun on my heels and ran into the living room to look under the tree. Two little Mexican boys sat, looking uncertainly around them, on our couch. Several small wrapped packages lay beneath the tree.

Mom followed me in and began to pass out presents. There were just enough for one gift each. I gazed longingly at the brightly wrapped packages in these strangers' hands, knowing I had almost possessed them, and clutching my solitary present tightly to my chest.

I unwrapped the box to find a G.I. Joe action figure, the old-fashioned kind with the moving knees and elbows. It usually came with a little rifle and backpack, and a string that you pulled to make him say cool army things, but mine didn't have a rifle or a backpack, and there was only a hole in the back where the string had once been. I stood there in the middle of the living room, my lip trembling, clutching my broken toy.

I looked to see what the other boys had received, the gifts I had missed out on. One package revealed a cap pistol (without caps) and a worn plastic holster (I had a much nicer set in the toy box in my room). The second box revealed a plastic bag full of Legos in various shapes and sizes. I stood there and watched these two boys whooping and laughing like these were the only toys they had, turning their meager gifts over and over in awe, and suddenly I realized that these
were
the only presents they had.

Soon, I would learn that these two, who would become my closest pals, each had exactly two shirts, two pairs of pants, and a worn sleeping bag that they shared on the floor of their room.

As I watched my mother talking to this strange woman in our kitchen, tears running down their cheeks, I was suddenly happy that she had woken me up, that Santa had shared my presents with these boys. How terrible would it have been to wake up with nothing under the tree, no presents to play with, no Santa at all?

The boys, Jay and Julio, followed me to my room, where I showed them, to their amazement, the wealth of my toy box.

Soon we were playing like old friends, until we were called out for a breakfast of seasoned eggs and potatoes wrapped in fresh, warm tortillas. I ate the best breakfast I could ever remember.

I'll never forget that morning, as I'll never forget my friends from Mexico who taught me there is always something to be thankful for, often much more than we think.

Perry P. Perkins

I Remembered Anthony

K
eep a good heart. That's the most
important thing in life. It's not how much
money you make or what you can acquire.
The art of it is to keep a good heart.

Joni Mitchell

I maneuvered easily through the Wal-Mart parking lot, congratulating myself on my wisdom in avoiding the day-after-Thanksgiving rush. It wasn't much busier than a typical Saturday, and I was grateful that I had avoided the first day of Christmas shopping frenzy.

Three Marines were standing in front of the store, collecting for the Toys for Tots drive. Their crisp, perfectly tailored uniforms reminded me of my Marine son-in-law who had spent so much time away from my daughter and grandchildren serving his country. This year, he would not be home for Christmas.

“Have a good day, Ma'am,” the Marine closest to me said in reply to my smile.

“You do the same,” I said, thinking about my son-in-law, but also about how sad it is when kids have so little. Some of us complain about our wants, and yet we have so much. My own children never did without gifts and probably had more than they needed.

My mind wandered as I approached the front entrance, and the electric doors parted. As I walked through, I felt a tug of sadness as I wondered just for a moment,
What if I
couldn't give my children anything? Or what if my grandchildren
had no gifts for Christmas?
The thought made me unusually sad, considering it was a gloriously beautiful day and terrific for shopping. I grabbed a shopping cart and made a note at the end of my long shopping list to pick out an appropriate gift to drop in the box on my way out.

After a two-hour, five-lap tour around the huge store, my list dwindled to one small item dangling at the end: Christmas Gift—Toys for Tots. I wheeled toward the bulging toy aisles, stalking the perfect gift—a soft, cuddly doll for a little girl. Quickly, a darling Cabbage Patch Doll that would stay nestled in the arms of a little girl graced the top of my mounded shopping cart.

I headed toward the checkout, but my shopping cart made an abrupt stop. I stood in front of the display feeling a sense of urgency, as if I was forgetting something. I looked at the enticing boxes of race-car tracks, and suddenly I remembered—Anthony.

Over twenty-five years ago, six-year-old Anthony, his little sister Cassie, his mother, and his aunt lived in the tiny duplex next door to us. They didn't live there long— perhaps four or five months, extending through Christmas.

It was long enough to note that things were difficult for the family. They lived modestly, and it wasn't unusual to find them without electricity in response to unpaid power bills. I tried to do what I could, but it wasn't much. I tried harder not to judge as I noticed that cigarettes and beer seemed the only things not in short supply.

That Christmas, like others, my children were up early opening gifts, scampering around the neighborhood, and showing off their loot. As I passed my traditional array of holiday baked goods across the fence to my neighbors, Cassie strutted by with her new baby doll in a stroller.

Anthony, smiling proudly, waved his only Christmas gift—a race-car track. While my own kids went from gift to gift as each lost its momentary thrill, these two kids spent hours on Christmas day playing with their beloved toys. I was surprised when one of my children noticed and announced somberly, “Mom, they only got one toy.”

The following day, I was drawn by a bit of commotion outside. I stepped outside to see Anthony's mother put a box in the backseat of the car. Anthony stood there crying as the car pulled away. I wasn't sure what had happened until my six-year-old daughter clarified it later.

“Mom, Anthony told me his mom took his race car back to the store!”

“Really, why?”

“She said that they needed the money.”

“Did they take Cassandra's doll back, too?”

“No, just Anthony's.”

Later, I saw Anthony sitting on their front porch with his hands folded and his eyes staring down at the cracked concrete below his feet while Cassandra played in the grass with her doll. The little boy looked up, and his eyes mirrored the depth of heartbreak and disappointment he had already faced in his six short years of life. My husband and I talked about going out and buying him another race-car track, but even if we found room on our overextended credit cards, it was likely that it would end up for sale at the swap meet or returned stealthily to the store for a refund. Instead, my husband took his own slot-car set that was only a couple years old and in perfect condition and gave it to him. Anthony smiled when he saw the racetrack, but I know it didn't make up for the disappointment of having his gift returned.

That evening, our family discussed in-depth the new revelation to our children: not everyone has a pile of presents under their tree. They were shocked and sad that this little boy had received only one gift, and then it was taken away. As parents, we were sad that we could not explain or fix the situation. Occasionally, I thought about Anthony and how the challenges of his young years might have affected him. Did they make him bitter or stronger?

I decided then that every year at Christmas I would make sure we did something to honor the children who might not get a gift.We gave to individual families that we heard about or gave through church or various organizations, like Angel Tree and Toys for Tots. I did this for several years, but over time, our children grew up, married, and had children of their own, and life seemed to race forward one holiday to the next.