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We are pleased to announce the award winning essays of the First PLWP Yuletide Essay Contest. They are:
FIRST
PLACE
The
Littlest Gift by Beth Bennett To
read award winning essays, simply click on the title. |
All Essay Contest Entries
We are very pleased and proud to share the entries of the 2002 essay contest. We feel each of the essays are winners. They are listed in order of receipt as they are generically labeled. No editing has been done to the entries...spacing adjustments have been done to satisfy graphic design of page.
On behalf of the judges, we thank each participant for this special gift to all of us.
To read entries, simply click on Entry # or scroll down page.
| Entry # |
Author |
Title |
| 1 | Jimmie "Toad" Turner | The Christmas I Learned True Meaning 12-07-02 |
| 2 | Shari Lynn Weaver |
Twas the Night Before
Christmas (my version) |
| 3 | Pauline Neck | A Rain Forest Christmas |
| 4 | Larry Royston
|
Merry Christmas |
| 5 | Sister Mary Grace Flynn | A Christmas Ode |
| 6 | Georgia Cruz | God's Wrapped Gift |
| 7 | Gordon D. Hardacre | The Poetical Parkinsonian : Professor and Patient |
| 8 | Patsy Turner |
Santa Claus Has Been Had |
| 9 | Shari Lynn Weaver | ...No Title... |
| 10 |
Neil G. Fleming |
Life is Good |
| 11 | Bridgette Howard | ...No Title... |
| 12 | Kerry Mitchell | ...No Title... |
| 13 | Beth Bennett
|
The Littlest Gift |
| 14 | Lynda McKenzie | The Christmas Gift |
| 15 | Lynda McKenzie | The Christmas Bazzar |
| 16 | Kathy Maggio | Cookies |
| 17 |
W. T. Smail (Bill)
|
First Snow |
| 18 | Ann T | The Day I Ruined Christmas |
The Christmas I Learned True
Meaning 12-07-02
by Jimmie "Toad" Turner
In order for you understand
the significance of my most memorable Christmas, & how I learned it’s true
meaning, I must start on Thursday, July 3rd, 1980.
We were moving back to
Arkansas from So. California. I had built a 4X8 box on the top of my ‘72 Ford
3/4 ton pick up truck bed, & it was full to level with our every
possession. My wife & four children, ages 5-8, were in the front of the
truck with me & it was stifling hot. In fact, one of the worst heat waves
in history, & we had no air conditioning.
All of a sudden my truck
started smoking & making a rattling noise. I was near an exit to Elk City,
Oklahoma, so I pull off of the highway. Thankfully there was a gas station open
there. The mechanic said my thermostat had stuck & my warning dash light
was out. I had driven too far with a very hot motor & there was oil in the
water. The only thing I understood was that the motor was shot, & no help
was to be had till Monday, & this was Thursday afternoon. It was literally
106 degrees in the shade & there was no shade.
After many calls, I reached a
brother that would come rescue us, if we could pay for his gas. I was broke, so
I sold my truck for $200 to the gas station mechanic. We unloaded the truck
& waited 8hrs for my brother. Since we weren’t paying customers we had to
wait outside in the heat.
We had rented, in advance, a
small 2 bedroom house, that was 24mi, one way, from town. My brother had us
there by the night of July 4th. No electric till Monday, but we had shelter. So
there we were, 24mi out in the sticks, no car, no fans, no appliances, &
just enough money for the electric to be turned on. At least we had well water.
We were on 105 acres that was
largely wooded, so I took the .22 & hunted. The timber had been selective
cut, so there were a lot of “tops” there. My landlord, Ron, furnished a chain
saw & gas, & paid me $10 a rick for firewood, to be resold at a later
date. Cutting & stacking firewood in 105+ heat was no fun. I’d work awhile,
be sick, rest awhile, & start over. The next week, Ron picked me up &
he bought a used refrigerator. I thought I was just there to help load it, but
tears flooded me when he said, “This is yours. You’ll pay it off by working my
farm, part time.” Shoveling liquid chicken litter on a commercial poultry farm
for $3 an hour’s no fun either.
Days turned to weeks & we
existed by the grace of God, though I can’t really say how. I thought we were
in hard times but little did I know they were just starting. The heat wave was
over & it was mid October. & I was “disking” a field for Ron. First you
break fallow ground with a disk. Then you go back & pick up large roots
& rocks & haul them away. I was in a very low gear & hopped off the
moving tractor, tossed a big root on the disk & was climbing up on the
tractor when my muddy boot slipped on the belly pan into the moving tire. The
tire grabbed my over-alls & pulled my right foot & leg through a 4”
space, between the tire & belly pan. This resulted in my ankle breaking on
both sides, & would take a year to heal.
In November we run out of
propane & stayed out for six months. We heated & Patsy cooked with a
woodstove. I had stockpiled plenty of wood, but had not split it. I would get
on my knees & split the wood because I was in a cast. My 6yr old twin boys
would carry & stack it. We took ice cold showers with unheated well water.
During this time people I
never saw, before or since, dropped of groceries or a few dollars. Hunger &
strife will put pride in its place. I learned the meaning of “praying in
supper.” Water gravy & beans with no grease or salt, was normal table fare.
Groundhogs, raccoons, squirrels, robins, woodpeckers & such were “chicken”
to the kids. And then it was Christmas time & there was NO money.
Christmas 1980 looked worse than bleak, until Christmas Eve. Don
McGee, a newly acquired friend & some of his friends had bought out a whole
garage sale of toys. They repaired the broke ones, refurbished the used ones,
& added some brand new ones. They also added a food basket with fixings for
a grand Christmas dinner. The night before Christmas I learned what Christmas
truly meant. It was/is the best Christmas of my life.
Actually, I had been receiving
the Christmas spirit for months, without realizing it. Strangers willing to
answer the call of God, thereby meeting my urgent need. They gave freely,
willingly, & respectfully. I learned the true meaning of Christmas is
living it all year long even though it’s formally celebrated just once a year.
I learned that time can be a
greater gift than money. I experienced manna from Heaven in ways not
understandable or believable to man. In many ways, the year after July 3rd,
1980, was the best of my life. I learned to trust in God & He never failed
me. I realized I had a partner in Patsy that never complained, nor could be run
off. I experienced true friendship. Now I know why the hardest lessons are
those remembered best.

Twas the Night Before
Christmas (my version)
by Shari Lynn Weaver
Twas the night before
Christmass and all through the house
All the creatures were
sleeping - all but Parky the mouse.
The stockings were hung up on
the stairway rail
With the wish that Santa would
fill them up well
The little ones were all
tucked in nice and warm
While Parky the mouse creeped
up and down his home
Come back to bed now Parky -
Momma mouse said to him
Oh I'd love to sweetie, but i can't
sleep in bed
My hands are all shaky and my
legs just as bad
And I really don't think sleep
for me will be had
Parky jumped with a start as
he heard such a clatter
And Momma mouse got up too -
to see what was the matter
As they looked out their
window at the fresh blanket of snow
They understood the noise came
from above - not below
Santa was there with his
twinkle in his eye
And Parky chuckled when seeing
his belly so wide
Hey Momma - look at that -
when Santa starts laughing
It looks just like me when pd
starts me shaking
Now Parky you are funny - you
are making me smile
Let's go back to bed and rest
for a while
So Santa can get right back to
the task
Of filling our stockings with
things we would ask
So Parky and Momma toddled
back to their bed
And dreamt of a Merry Merry
Mouse Christmas
And that is enough said..
A RAIN FOREST CHRISTMAS
by Pauline Neck
My home town is a beautiful
place,
but all this rain is a real
disgrace.
Santa and elves must learn how
to swim,
the worry is making them
terribly thin.
The sleigh must be fitted with
mast and a rudder,
to sail through the puddles
with hardly a
shudder.
Their snorkles a-flapping and
'wet gear' on
tight,
the reindeer are looking a
terrible sight.
While you are still sleeping,
all cosy and hot,
Santa and reindeer are
sneezing a lot.
So don't worry my friend on
Christmas Eve night,
the sound that you hear before
morning's light--
It isn't the patter of hooves
in the snow,
it's the squelch of reindeer galoshes - ho ho ho!

Merry Christmas
by Larry Royston
The first Christmas season
since finding out
What my body's recent quirks
have really been about
Things seem even dearer,
very precious now to me
This holiday feels so much
more than just lights upon a tree
The house is warm and cozy,
decorated up for Christmas day
The year winds down we face
the future whatever comes our way
The smells are deeper, music
sweeter and treats made to entice
As the old year ends the new
is here, born through the cold and ice
I take much comfort from
nature and the lessons that it brings
From the shining glisten of a
snowflake to the clear notes a bird may sing
I've noticed them before but
this year it is clean and new
Things have become all boiled
down to what is pure and dear and true
I am writing these words of
the holiday if only just to say
From one who lives with PD,
living each and every day
Merry Christmas to you and
yours and a great year of good cheer
If we just hold on together we
can more than persevere
|
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: I am 42 years old. I am originally from Hawaii but I live in the Atlanta area now. I am very newly diagnosed with Parkinson's as I was told it was what my condition is called just a little over a month ago. I have been noticing the initial symptoms for about a year, though. My wife Jan and I recently celebrated our third anniversary. We have six cats in what you can probably imagine is a very cozy one-bedroom apartment. I spent 10 years as a vocational counselor for people with various physical and emotional challenges but now I sell books online. |
A Christmas Ode
by Sister Mary Grace Flynn
This is an ode to Santa Claus
who came to me one day in June. Yes, June!
He is not wedded to December visits.
And here is why he came.
It seems a year or two ago
My left hand began to tremble, a scary thing indeed,
Nothing could make it stop.
Did I say I am a nun? Yes, I am a Catholic Sister who does what
she is told to do.
Obedience, tis called, a holy
vow that if you keep, it will keep you!
"Go to a
doctor," no mistake, it was an
order given.
"See a neurologist and
ask what's wrong."
My doctor was from India,
gentle, kind and very good to me.
Once I taught his daughters,
lovely girls, all three.
His sad brown eyes told me a
tale, the end of which I knew.
"Parkinson's," he
said, "But we'll take care of you."
He plied me then with
pills--blue and grey and white.
They chased away the tremor;
no other troubles seemed insight.
Until . . .
I took a few short steps and
then began to hurt;
The walking caused me, oh such
pain!
My back and thighes would ache
and ache.
Because our halls are very
long, in fact, I'd say it's true--
Almost a mile there is between
my cell and chapel pew.
But resolution of this state
was never far away.
"I need a scooter,"
said I, "Oh, please get me a scooter soon."
And that's what Santa brought
to me
Even though 'twas June
God's Wrapped Gift
by
Georgia Cruz
To show He was for all
mankind,
He came as One so poor,
And walked with us, with dusty
feet,
And said "I am the
Door"
He lived a life that were
there ink
enough, and parchment too,
Could never tell the Story ,
of His great love for you.
So when we see the Christmas
lights,
And how our spirits they do
lift,
Let us also remember,
That day To the world,
God's wrapped "Gift".
Note: This author is not a member of PLWP but cares about those who do have Parkinson's. She requested that we share the following site with our members: http://supersign.tripod.com/thecure.htm
The Poetical
Parkinsonian : Professor and Patient
by Gordon D. Hardacre
My disease is just irksome, not fatal,
(symptoms truncal and limb and palatal):
Does one find, with
PD,Apoptotic debris
In projections
non-nigrostriatal ?The results from this site anatomic
(Mainly motor, and some autonomic)
Include slowing of gait---
Festination is late---
Not to mention effects economic.
(Don’t mistake my PD for senescence,
Though this word-play suggests adolescence !):
MDS
summons allTo confer in this Hall,
Where, of wisdom resides the quintessence !
(1)You may meet
A. E. Lang or A. Lees,They reflect MDJ’s expertise;
(2)Doctors
Brooks, Fahn and LynchOr
Dubois, in a pinch, (3)Can be heard on a range of disease.
"Is PD from a toxin or gene ?
Vicious germ or abnormal protein ?"
(4)Symptoms…..imaging…..drugs,
Pharmaceutical plugs,
Lectures, parties and much in between!
Years ago, through the meadows I romped,
Now, I’m slow where I used to be prompt;
What we need, to move free,
Is less
3-O-MD –-That’s achieved by inhibiting
COMT.Levodopa
to start? It’s a flip, (5)I, your scribe – a GP, take
ReQuip:Oh, L-Dopa’s alright,
(One can dream every night !)
Now my legs really move at a clip !
This, my "abstract"’ is typed, so to suit
Normal vision – my script is minute;
With my anosmic nose
And a tremor that shows…..
Life has challenges one can’t refute.
Many questions remain – here are what-I-mean –-
Is protection conferred by
rasagiline ?…..Is risperidone right
For those visions at night ?…..
And can tremor be stopped by
mirtazapine ??Yes, PD will continue to vex
Many scholars…..it’s hugely complex;
But
its cause…..here proposed,(See my data enclosed)
(6)…..Not no coffee, but far too much sex ! (7)
Gordon D. Hardacre
MD, CCFP, FCFP
Santa Claus Has Been Had
by Patsy Turner
To begin this story, we went
to visit an aunt in Topeka, Kansas, one year for Christmas. Shortly after we
arrived they decided that they were going to have to go rent a Santa Claus for
their party. Usually Uncle Glen played Santa, but for some reason this year he
did not. No Santa was available on this short of notice, so Aunt Anita
suggested going and getting a Santa Claus suit. But who would be Santa?
Everything was set up. Aunt
Anita and others went shopping. The very next day was the Christmas party.
Santa arrived in all his
glory. The kids never noticed the limp, and Santa Claus played the part to the
hilt. He passed out presents to young and old alike. Everyone sat on Santa’s
lap. You would have thought that he had played this part for many years. He was
a pro. Everyone was in stitches from the things he said, and did. To prove all
of this I still have the video. It was such a hit, that we began to have Santa
visit our house every year.
We now live in a big 2 story
house. You could go out our bedroom door, circle the house and come in the
living room door. So now we play Santa and Mrs. Claus every year. We would get
up early and dress in our outfits, and sneak around the house. Then when we got
close to the door, we would start saying, "Ho!Ho!Ho! Merry Christmas, and
all the babies would run to the door to let us in.
Then it was time to pass out
presents. Everyone from Great grandma and grandpa to the smallest baby sat on
Santa’s lap. When all was about over, our grandson, came up to Santa, and said,
"Pa, is that you?" Which Santa tried to prove that he was the real
Santa. Our grandson tried to pull the beard, to see if it was real. Then he
just disappeared for a while.
It was time for Santa and Mrs.
Claus to ride away. Everyone came out to say good-bye. We snuck around the
house and into our bedroom to change clothes and to return to the scene in the
living room.
It wasn’t long before our
grandson came back into the room. He said, "Pa, come here." Now he
was only 5 yrs. old at this time. So Pa followed him to our bedroom. He pointed
to the bed and said, "Now put it on."
There lay the Santa Claus Suit
in full living color. Pa (Santa) had been had.
We laughed until we were plum
tuckered out. For such a small child,
he was very smart.
Time and traditions change
every year, but the excitement of the happy looks on the children’s faces stay
the same, they are just passed down from one generation to another.

by Shari Lynn Weaver
M emories of long ago
E veryone loves to get together
R eminisce about childhood dreams
R rockin' around the christmas tree
Y ummy treats for all to enjoy
C candy, cake, cookies and condiments
H appy faces all around the table
R aising their glasses in cheer
I love Christmas traditions
S haring food and gifts and
laughter
T oo soon the day is done
M any good memories to hold on to
A nd of course there is always next year
S o have yourself a Merry Christmas!!!!!!!!
Life is Good
by Neil G. Fleming
AS i write this collection of
words ,it would be my preferance that these thoughts and feelings be dedicated to every living thing on this
planet ,and for that matter , any planet. I had adopted a query of wearing a baseball style hat
with the saying "Life is good" it also included a little skinny
fellow who , epitomized the quotation. Without knowing , this would
become the ralling cry that
screamed out from the belches of my soul , a message that i was , or so i
thought , proud of. Then the
darkness set -in. I wa s on a crash to hell! My life fell into
disarray and despair. I lost my son to misunderstandings and
lack of communication . My love of life , a girlfriend who trusted me and actually loved me,
abandoned me and rightfully so for i had taken up arms with an old foe
"Gambling". Due to worsening Parkinson's , my life as productive and meaningful worker
was to never be again . My plate was full and my cup was
spilling over .
It was then that the unbelievable occurred . I was to become a hideous monster
that without regard for friends or
loved ones , was to forever brand my self "An attempter of Suicide" The holiday season seemed
surrealiistic and distant . Lfe was "not good" or so i thought.
Then an angel appeared to me . Not an
angel that was in the sense of the word
pious or foreboding, but in the
simplest of manifestations , a human
being who, just happened to be one of my dearest friends . She did not judge
nor did she purport to have my salvation a hand . Without
hesitation she started a
regime that has it's basis in the spirit of our holidays whether
it be Christmas , Haunakka, or Kwaansa. She laid bare her soul and took my well being and put it to the forefront
. We phne deach other every day and she even dug deep int her own pocket
and helped me out with some of her holiday money that i came to find out, had
been much needed for her own family's holiday.
Without a doubt, ths dear angel had come to me in
my worst moment and was the spirit of not only holiday cheer but
a genuine caring human being who
was the catalyst for saving my future
on this big globe and
restoring the proud insignia that i had worn on the ball hat that i used to wear
that always had been my heroic
statement "Life is Good" She quite literally brought me
back to the world of the living
and gave me
a look into the real
reasnon we are all thrust together
in this universe , compassion , love
and genuine care about ourselves and the plight of
those who, by some quirk , have lost
their way and need some help to "get home whereLIFE IS
GOOD"..........
by Bridgette Howard
I call Christmas the cycle
holiday-everything works in a cycle and don't we expect the same things to
occur each year? We look forward to the
stores putting their decorations up a little too early (or do we?) and we
expect to see our Sunday newspapers littered with bright ads. Our daily news shows highlight the top gifts
for kids then show ruthless parents in hot pursuit of them ( tickle-me-Elmo,
beanie babies). We look forward to
making Christmas lists, a time when everyone returns to their childlike stage
of mapping out fantasies. The malls are
crawling with moms, dad, teenagers and grandparents searching for that perfect
gift. In school students squirm in their
seats, twiddle their thumbs and mouth to each other the number of days until break
during that boring math class. We look
forward to seeing the charmingly tacky Christmas sweaters with the matching
sequined shoes and of course the ubiquitous "Santa hat".
Christmas is also a time when schools have clothing drives to remind students that there are others who are less fortunate. In general, its important to step back from the globe of festivity and express gratefulness for all the blessings granted throughout the year. For some, the cycle may seem broken one year because of economic downfall or loss of a loved one. But as long as love exists in the heart the spirit of the cycle will never break. Somehow that evergreen lit with golden charms and multicolored lights bring a small joy into the atmosphere. Joy comes in many forms, while drinking eggnog, opening gifts, seeing friends and family happy or while singing Christmas carols. So as I say, Merry Christmas! and Happy Cycling!
by Kerry Mitchell
This is the season for joy and
mirth,
for giving and peace on earth,
for telling the one you care
about
how much her love is worth.
This is the season for caring,
and doing a little sharing,
giving of yourself
and asking how others are faring.
This is the season for tidings
and gifts,
and giving a loved one a lift,
and telling an old friend
how much he's been missed.
This is the season for wreaths
and toys,
for excited boys and girls,
but most importantly
a time for peace in the world.


The Littlest Gift
by Beth Bennett
Francine grumbled as she tried
to make her way past the old woman standing cheerfully next to the bright red
kettle. Giving the golden bell in her
hand a gentle ring as Francine approached, the old woman sang out “Merry Christmas!” Francine quickly averted her eyes as she
pushed through the crowded doors of the grocery store, trying hard to shrug off
the anger that those ‘bell-ringers’ always seemed to evoke. “What fools!”, she thought to herself” Merry
Christmas indeed! As if anyone even
cared about the TRUE meaning of Christmas anymore!”. Francine continued to rant as she slowly meandered through the
aisles. She sighed as she placed a few
more frozen dinners into her shopping basket and then made her way toward the pet
food aisle. As she rounded the corner,
she saw the store manager, busy stacking 20lb. bags of dog food. He swiftly turned his head and smiled at
Francine. “Merry Christmas Mrs. Green!”
he boomed, “Picking up some treats for the kitties?” he inquired with a
giggle. “No” Francine spouted, “Just
another day to me Sam.” She replied, trying to keep her tone light. As she gazed over the selection of cat food,
“Besides, I don’t think my cats know what tomorrow is. Do you Sam?” The store manager somewhat surprised by Francine’s reply, lowered
his head a bit as the smile slowly slipped from his face. He stood silent for a moment as if he were
searching for just the right words to say, blinked a few times, then walked
over to the pet stocking display and removed a plastic stocking of cat toys and
treats and walked back to where Francine stood. Stretching his arm out with stocking in hand, “What about one of
these Mrs. Green? Surely, they must
need some new toys to play with!” the manager pressed on. Francine turned her head slowly and peered
down over her glasses to better inspect the package now mere inches from her
nose. “See?” the manager quickly
pointed out before Francine could reply, “this one has those fury little mice
in it! My cat goes nuts over
these! What do you think?” his voice
now sounding about an octave higher, his eyes shinning bright and looking
hopeful once again. “Hmmmm, No, I don’t
think so Sam. Not today anyway, maybe
after the first of the month”, Francine sighed as she re-directed her attention
to the endless rows of tiny cans.
Again, the smile on the store manager’s face sunk as he lowered his
outstretched hand and drew the plastic stocking in towards his chest and then
reached into his shirt pocket for the bright red marker safely tucked
inside. Francine continued to scan the
rows of cans and began carefully selecting her cats’ favorite flavors and
placed them into her shopping basket, oblivious to the store manager still
standing just behind her. As she placed
the last can of cat food into her basket and began to turn towards the store
mamger to bid him farewell, again, she was met by his outstretched hand still
holding the plastic stocking. Francine
peered even harder at the package and squinted her eyes to read the red scribbled
message that the manager had scrawled.
Slowly, she deciphered the words “Free of Charge. Today Only!” followed
by the initials S.C. She gazed deep
into the store manager’s eyes, somewhat surprised that she had never notice
their brilliant blue color; she nearly forgot what she was about to say. “Oh No, I just couldn’t she stated as her
lips grew into a tiny smile. “Besides
Sam, like I said they don’t know what tomorrow is, they’re just cats!” she
continued to explain as she gently pushed the plastic stocking back towards the
manager. “Well,” the store manager
slowly replied, again searching for just the right words, “that may be true
Mrs. Green but they’ll know what to do with these mice for sure!” Francine smiled as she nodded her head in
agreement and lifted her hand slowly to accept the plastic stocking. “I guess you’re right there” Francine
replied, her smile disappeared as she gazed at the package in her hand. Francine looked up at the manager and gazed
deep into his eyes, “Thank you Sam!” she began. Before she could say another word the store manager broke in “No
problem Mrs. Green!” his smile now stretching wide across his face, “I hope you
all have fun tomorrow, you have a happy holiday now okay?” he called as
Francine made her way to the end of the aisle and disappeared around the next
corner. “We’ll do our best!” Francine
replied softly, knowing only she could hear her words. Francine added the last item, a small loaf
of bread, to her now half full basket and proceeded to the check out line.
The store was bustling this
snowy Christmas Eve and as Francine stood in line her mind drifted back to the
time when she too worked in a grocery market across town, now used as a
Salvation Army store. She recalled how full her life was then, struggling to
raise her children alone, working long hours at the store all day only to come
home at night to a stack of unpaid bills.
She remembered the nights she would sit silently at the kitchen table,
her head resting in her folded arms, she would gently sob knowing she could
barely make ends meet and all the while wishing she could do so much more for
her children. “How odd”, she thought to
herself as the line slowly moved along, “I was so much happier then in spite of
all our troubles.” The line inched
forward and Francine carefully began removing each item from her basket and
placed it on the counter, still lost in her memories of the life she once
knew. As she reached to pull the
plastic stocking from her basket, Francine’s thoughts were suddenly pierced by
the intermittent ‘plunk…plunk….plunk’ of coins being dropped into the kettle
where the old woman still stood gently ringing the bell. ‘PLUNK…PLUNK….PLUNK’ the muffled sound
continued and reminded Francine how irritated she was as she entered the
store. With an angry scowl, Francine
glared through the crowd trying to see the source of the now nearly grating
clammer. ‘PLUNK….PLUNK……PLUNK’.
Francine still could not see who was dropping the coins ever so slowly
into the old woman’s collection kettle.
‘PLUNK…..PLUNK……..PLUNK’, with each drop of a coin Francine grew more
annoyed until finally, now first in the check out line, she caught a glimpse of
the little girl standing at the kettle.
As the cashier slid each item over the scanner she spoke to Francine who
was by now studying the little girl with some concern. “Oh! I see you found one of our Manager’s
Specials?” the cashier rang out, again, halting the thoughts now racing through
Francine’s mind. “How awful to leave
such a young child unattended in this day in age!” Francine thought as she
quickly muttered back to the cashier.
“Yes, wasn’t that nice?” Francine replied, “I almost never….” She tried
to continue. “Oh, don’t give it a
second thought” the young and somewhat overly giddy cashier interrupted as if
knowing what France’s next words were.
“Mr. Clark does this every Christmas Eve….” the cashier continued to
explain. But, Francine was now totally
absorbed in watching the small girl still standing at the kettle,
‘PLUNK…. PLUNK….. PLUNK’. Francine
watched as the child struggled with mittened hands to carefully ensure that
each coin reached its destination safely without falling to the floor. Francine fumbled briefly through her change
purse for some loose coins as she waited for her change from the cashier, still
intently watching the little girl drop yet another coin into the kettle. The cashier cheerfully tittered, “Now, not
too many of those eggnogs tonight Mrs. Green!” as she handed Francine her
change with a smile and a wink. “Oh,
okay…I’ll do that!” Francine replied, only half-hearing what the cashier had
said. Her thoughts now intensely
focused on the little girl, Francine gathered up her grocery bag and headed
towards the collection kettle, determined to help the child mends her ways and
silence the now nearly deafening ‘PLUNK…..PLUNK…….PLUNK’ of the coins being
slowly dropped into the collection kettle.
As Francine knelt down to
speak to the little girl she could see that her blonde hair was tangled and
messy where it poked from beneath her hat.
“Where are your Mommy and Daddy?” Francine demanded. The old woman’s bell silenced, “Oh, it’s
okay…..this is my little friend Katie” the old woman explained. “She keeps me company while her Daddy gets
some groceries, don’t you Katie?” the old woman smiled down at the little
girl. She smiled proudly and nodded her
head. Francine set her bag of groceries
next to her feet and still kneeling, began to reach for the little girl’s
mittened hands. “You know, if you take
off your mittens, you can put your pennies in the kettle much faster and
easier!” Francine instructed as she gently pulled a mitten from one of her
hands. Francine took hold of the little
girl’s hand and felt that it was freezing cold. “Oh my goodness! That’s a mighty cold little hand you have there
Katie!”, Francine said now looking directly into the little girl’s eyes. “We walked!” Katie proudly replied. “You did?” Francine retorted as she looked
up at the old woman. The smile now gone
from her face, the old woman nodded her head in agreement as Francine slipped
the slightly damp mitten back over the little girl’s hand. “So, where did you get all of those pennies
Katie?” Francine began to inquire, half-expecting to hear the words ‘piggy
bank’ in return. “These are my pennies
from heaven, my Mommy sends them to me!” the little girl said softly with a
sparkle in her eyes that took Francine quite by surprise. “They are?”
Francine said with a tone of wonderment in her voice but a bit of
sadness now in her eyes. The blonde
haired little girl nodded as her smile too ran away from her cherub-like
face. “Mommy went to live in heaven but
she sends me three pennies every day! See?”
PLUNK….”I”….PLUNK……”Love”…….PLUNK…”You!” “Daddy saves them for me every day and when we go shopping I send
them back to Mommy! See?” ….PLUNK …..”I”……PLUNK…..”Love”…….PLUNK….”You!”. The little girl beamed as she turned back
towards Francine her face all aglow with delight. Francine was so awe-struck by the little girl’s reply she could
hardly think what to say next. “Ohhh” was all she could muster. Francine scrambled for words to close the
seemingly long pause “You know,” she said softly to the little girl, “that’s a
very good idea Katie!” she encouraged.
“You see, I had a little girl that went to live in Heaven too, a long,
long, time ago.” Francine explained as she fished some pennies from her purse
and placed them one at a time into the kettle.
PLUNK…. I” ….PLUNK…..”Love” …..PLUNK….”You” Francine repeated as the
little girl watched her every move with excitement in her eyes. “See?
How was that? Francine whispered
to the little girl, now standing right next to her knee. The little girl turned to face Francine and
smiling slowly nodded her head. “Was
she your baby?” Katie innocently inquired.
“Yes, she was.” Francine said softly.
The little girl slowly wrapped her arms around Francine and gave her a
gentle hug. Francine now nearly in
tears, hugged the little girl in return and then scooped up her bag of
groceries. “Well Katie, it was very
nice to meet you!” Francine said as she slowly stood up. “Now you be sure to
give your Daddy one of those nice big hugs too, okay?” she concluded with a
smile. The little girl smiled up at
Francine and gave her a nod, “I will.” the little girl replied softly as her
gaze returned to the pennies still clenched in her mitten. She then turned to resume her task. Francine looked into the eyes of the old
woman as if say she were sorry but the old woman just smiled warmly, her eyes
now welling with tears and said “Merry Christmas” softly as she made her way
back through the crowded exit. As the
automatic doors swung open the cold air stung Francine’s face with an icy blast
but she smiled when she heard the resounding PLUNK…. PLUNK…. PLUNK of little Katie’s
coins being dropped into the kettle again.
Francine made her way slowly to her car where she sat for what seemed
liked minutes, still somewhat shocked by the exchange that had just taken
place. As she swung the bag of
groceries over her lap to the passenger seat the plastic stocking toppled out
onto the floor, reminding Francine of the kind store manager. She quickly snapped it up from the floor and
tucked it back into the shopping bag and began the drive home, now looking
forward to a relaxing evening watching her cats play with their new toys.
When Francine opened her door,
both cats were sitting right there in front of the door, not a usual habit for
them she thought to herself. “What?”
Francine scolded, “what makes you think I have something in here for you?” she
asked looking down at them with a coy smile.
The cats looked up at Francine and Mr. Wiskers responded with a long
‘meeeeeooow’ while Mrs. Paws began to wind herself between Francine’s feet,
nearly tripping her as she turned to set the shopping bag on the sofa. “Okay, okay you two, just be patient while I
get these things put away!” Francine lectured, “THEN we’ll see if we have
anything for you!” she continued with a giggle. Once Francine had the groceries stored away and her frozen dinner
in the oven, she grabbed the scissors and the plastic stocking and settled down
in her comfortable chair. She tossed
the first fury mouse out to the cats.
As Francine watched the cats play with their newfound toy, her mind
couldn’t help but drift back to the little girl. She still couldn’t understand how a child so young could still be
so happy after suffering such a tragedy so young in life. “Ah,” she thought to herself, “it’s because
she IS so young!” “The years of longing
will surely strip all of that away in time”, she reasoned. Francine knew all too well what a lifetime
of grieving could do. “She used to
happy be too, didn’t she?” she silently wondered. “Surely she must have enjoyed Christmas time at some point in her
life? As a child perhaps?” she asked
herself. It had been so long since she
had felt that kind of joy it was hard for her to remember being happy. “Where did the magic of the season go?” said
lamented, not quite sure if she actually said it aloud. “Was it the years of struggle to put a few
gifts under the tree for the kids that made the season loose it’s
sparkle?” “Or was the death of her own
daughter that robbed her of the joy?”
Just when Francine could barely contain the emotions she felt as the
result of her encounter with the little girl earlier that evening, her thoughts
were once again halted by the wailing of the oven timer telling her that her
dinner was ready.
Francine settled down with her
dinner, back in the comfort of her favorite chair and switched the television
to the nightly news. The cats were now
growing tired of their first fury mouse so Francine tossed out another and then
a third. She giggled as they scurried
to catch their new prey. “And we have
yet another house fire to report.” the news announcer cuts in, “early this
morning a local family was left homeless when a fire ripped through their
two-story home…” he continued to report.
Francine thought to herself, “See? That’s what I mean! So little to be happy about these days for
so many people, bad news around every corner!” she ranted on “Who wouldn’t be
depressed?”. Francine’s attention swept
back to the news as they showed the homeowner.
“Hey, we’re all safe, that’s all that matters!” the man continues with a
small smile, “We didn’t loose anything that can’t be replaced!” Then they cut back to the announcer and he
concludes the story by saying that the dwelling was not insured. Francine, now incensed by the last tidbit of
information, began to shout aloud “Yeah, right buddy! You must still be in shock! NO INSURANCE!?!” she wrangled
on. “We’re all safe, that’s all that
matters” Francine repeated, “What is he? DRUNK?” still shouting at the
television. The monolog now getting
louder, Mrs. Paws stopped playing and scampered over to Francine and gave her
leg another rub. Francine reached down
and gave Mrs. Paws a scratch on the ear, “What’s the matter with these people
Pawsy? Don’t they see all the suffering
out there?” she pleaded, knowing no answer would be forthcoming. Francine pushed the TV. tray away from her
chair and put her tired feet up on the foot stool, rested her head back and
closed her eyes. “Funny” she thought,
“all the faces you see day after day, yet you can’t see their pain or their
joy….and they can not see yours.” Francine sighed as she pulled an afghan
blanket around her shoulders and continued to mull over the days events. Then, clearly she saw them. The store
manager, the little girl and the old woman at the collection kettle. She could
see all of their eyes and faces even clearer now in her own mind. “The
cashier?” she thought “Gee whiz, did I even look at her at all?” Francine
wondered and began to feel a bit guilty for not remembering to look at her too
and for the foul mood she was in when she first arrived at the grocery
market. She still felt confused,
something about that little girl, little Katie, that left her feeling unsettled
and sad. “Even dropping the three
pennies in the collection kettle and saying “I”…”Love”…”You” couldn’t begin to
wash away the years of sorrow!” Francine silently resolved as she pulled the
afghan even more snugly around her shoulders and closed her eyes even tighter,
trying harder than ever now not to burst into tears. “All those eyes” Francine whispered “and the only ones I wished I
could see…”and with those thoughts, Francine drifted off into a deep sleep.
As Francine slept in her big
comfy chair all snuggled and warm she had a most unusual dream. In her dream, Francine thought she saw the
little girl from the store standing all alone with her back facing
Francine. She called out to the little
girl again and again, “Katie? Katie is that you?” but the little girl just
stood there as if she had not heard Francine’s calls to her. Francine dreamed that she then walked to
where the little girl stood, knelt down just has she had earlier in the store
that day, but still the little girl did not turn around to greet her. Francine gently placed her hand on the
little girl’s shoulder and again she softly asked, “Katie? What are you doing
here all alone?” Just then the little
girl turned to face her and Francine’s heart nearly stopped beating when she
realized that she was looking at the face of the daughter she had lost so many
years ago. Francine gasped for air and
then silently gazed into her daughter’s eyes, as deep blue as she remembered,
her skin still like that of a porcelain doll.
“Marie” Francine softly whispered her name as she thought her heart
would burst with joy any second! Then
the little girl gently took Francine’s hand.
She could barely stand to look away from the eyes she had missed for so
long, but slowly Francine looked down to where she could now feel the little
girls’ hand upon her own. The little
girl gently turned Francine’s hand over and tugged on her fingers to free them
from the tight fist they had formed.
PLINK…. PLINK….. PLINK chimed the coins.
One by one the little girl dropped three shiny, new pennies into
Francine’s open hand. Before she could
look up into her daughter’s eyes again the little girl threw her arms around
Francine’s neck and squeezed her tight.
“I miss you too Mommy” the little girl whispered into Francine’s
ear. The very next thing that Francine
heard was the low melody of Mr. Wiskers purr as he slept warmly in her
lap. Francine sighed squeezed her eyes
tighter, now realizing that it all had been just a dream. “Oh why did that one have to end?” Francine
moaned to herself, “such a wonderful dream!” she thought. Francine wished she could fall quickly back
into slumber, back to her wonderful dream.
She began to pull her clenched fist from beneath the warm afghan in
order to pet Mr. Wiskers velvety soft fur.
“Surely that’ll put me back to sleep,” she thought. Francine’s eyes opened wide as she suddenly
realized that she was holding something in her hand! Tears began to stream down her cheeks and one by one, plink,
plink, plink they sounded as they hit the three shiny new pennies in Francine
Green’s hand.
The End

The Christmas Gift
by Lynda McKenzie
Sally and Will loved
Christmas. It was probably their most
favourite time of the year. They knew that Christmas was the
birthday of a very special baby and they enjoyed celebrating that birthday.
Every year they played a part
in the pageant at church and helped
collect food for the food bank in their neighbourhood.
They liked to go with their dad to cut down a Christmas tree and watch their mom's face as
dad tried to get it into the house without leaving a trail of snow and pine needles. They liked to make paper chains and drape
them on everything that didn't move. They really liked baking cookies and helping
decorate them with chewy gumdrops and tiny sparkles.
But probably their most
favourite part was going with their dad on Christmas Eve day, to deliver presents to everyone
they wouldn't be seeing the next day.
They couldn't understand why their mom never went with
them. For some strange reason, she said
she preferred to stay home! She said she had things to do. As far as Sally and Will were concerned,
things looked pretty much done to
them!
Off they'd go, presents piled
around them, to the first names on the list.
There they would take the presents in and be
greeted by relatives and friends who always commented on how much they had grown and on how
quickly the year had passed since last Christmas.
Sally and Will would smile and
agree as they thought to themselves…….……'of course we've grown since last time,
and its really been far too long since last Christmas!" But that was just to themselves.
Usually the last house on
their list was the home of their very special aunt. She was one of those people who had the knack
of always knowing exactly what to get for someone. Gifts from her always smelled
wonderful, or rattled mysteriously or were shaped in the oddest ways. The contents were always just right – a
coonskin cap for a budding Daniel Boone, a diary with a gold lock for a
shy preteen, a toy for a child who got knit shirts and socks from everyone else .
And the wrappings! Shiny foil papers, big loopy bows and
coordinating tags made it seem almost a shame to open
them……almost, that is. Sally and Will made sure these gifts had a place of honour under their
tree. Every so often they would give
them a little shake or squeeze or sniff.
Then, when it was nearly time for bed, they were allowed to open one gift.
"Just one mind you" their mom would say and they would answer, "Awww mom. . .". Then their mom would smile and say, "I mean it you two… just one!" Sally and Will would laugh as they pretended to try to decide which one it would be. They nearly always picked the gift from their special aunt, and the year they didn't they wished they had.
One Christmas Eve gift Sally
opened a box wrapped in silver paper
tied with a white velvet ribbon. Nestled in crisp white tissue was a white
fur hat and muff. She carefully put the white on, adjusted its angle
and then slid her hands into the cosy depths of the muff. Sally somehow knew that this white
hat with the matching muff was magical .
She could be. . . . Heidi, tragically waiting for her
grandfather to find her…she could be. . . . a famous actress regally
acknowledging her adoring fans . . . she could be. . . a talented ballerina preparing for her
first staring role on stage. . . .. . . . . . .. she could be whoever she wanted to be!!!!
The years passed and Sally and
Will grew up as children do. They grew
too old for Christmas Eve drives with
their dad. They had families of their
own and became busy with their own family
traditions. The lovely lady who gave
them such wonderful memories became childlike herself. Her days were spent in a world where it was
always Christmas, or maybe never Christmas. For her, all Christmases have faded into the
heavy mist where forgotten memories go and
Christmas next year may never come.
But Sally wanted this
Christmas to be special for her aunt.
Sally knew just what to do. She looked and looked.. She looked
everywhere until she found the perfect gift. When she finally found it she looked for the
most perfect wrappings. And then she
nestled the white fur hat and muff in crisp white
tissue, put them in a box, wrapped the box in shiny silver paper, and tied a white velvet ribbon
around the box. Then she wrote on the
matching tag,
To Auntie Doreen,
With love from Sally
Now you can be whoever you
want to be too.

The Christmas Bazaar
by Lynda McKenzie
People on their way in, their
arms empty, pushing past people on
their way out, their arms full of wonderfully shaped bags and boxes. A sweet
whiff of candy apples, fudge and hot cider every time the doors to the school opened. Hand painted signs on the brick wall
outside and more inside giving directions to the tea room, the white elephant
table, the bake table, the nursery.
It is time once again for the
Christmas bazaar. On this particular
Saturday, the gym seemed more crowded than usual so it wasn’t
until the afternoon that I noticed
their plain, unadorned booth over by the girls’ change room door.. No draped
velvets or professional backdrops, just an old wooden Sunday school stacking
table in the corner.
On one end was a colourful mound
of knitted goods; small and large children's sweaters, mittens, and cosy hats
complete with under-the-chin ties and ear flaps. Obviously knit with more
attention to practicality than style they were more sturdy and functional than
colour coordinated. Several miniature wooden stage coaches, a small bright red
hay wagon, and two wooden train engines with assorted cars completed the
display.
A white haired couple sat behind
the table. She looked up occasionally at prospective customers but kept her
attention on the clicking needles in her hands.. The faded blue cornflowers on
her apron reflected softly in her eyes, and she always smiled as her handiwork
was examined and discussed. The tall thin man gently opened and closed the tiny
leather latched doors on the hay wagon and proudly stroked the smooth varnished
tops of the coaches. He had the largest hands I have ever seen, his fingers
were blunt and deep lines crisscrossed his skin like the cracked dirt floor of
a remote desert.
I don't know whether it was the
type of day, or whether people just weren’t thinking of practicality or
dependability, but the smiles on the couple's faces grew wearier as the
afternoon progressed and most of their handiwork remained on the table. A
mother, pushing a stroller and balancing a baby on her back bought the hay
wagon, a impeccably dressed grandma, after much humming and hahing finally
purchased one of the sweaters, and an excited little boy emptied his pockets
for one of the train engines. I wondered how many sweaters and stage coaches
they had hoped to sell that afternoon. Looking past their brave smiles, their
sagging shoulders suggested they hadn't reached their goal. Still, they sat
close together on their two straight backed stacking chairs, his dry, rough hand
gently cradling her small blue veined hand as if it were a fragile antique
figurine.
People had come from great
distances that day to see this craft show and there were a lot of beautifully
made items in the room but I kept returning to the corner where the knitting
and wooden toys shared a table.
Later that evening my family
laughed as I showed as I unpacked my Christmas bazaar treasures. They know the
closest I've ever been to the wild west is watching Daniel Boone on
television. They also know no one in
this house wears a hat that ties under the chin anymore. Maybe one day I'll
tell them the story behind the wooden stage coach that sits on my bookcase all
year ‘round and the knitted cap tucked in my treasure drawer. And then again,
maybe I won't.
Cookies
by Kathy Maggio
Warm, fragrant cookies, fresh
from the oven bring each of us home every year at Christmastime. You can’t
think of them without thinking of something else, memories. It is these warm
memories that these delightful morsels give us, that call us home, and nothing
is better than being home for Christmas.
Some of my first cookie
memories are of Mom, my great grandmother. Mom was a round woman, not fat, just
rounded in the right places, so that giving her a hug was a pleasure. She and Dadda,
my great-grandfather, lived upstairs from my grandparents, Nonny and Boppy.
When Nonny told Mom that I was coming, she would disappear into her upstairs
kitchen, not emerging until a huge batch of sugar cookies were cooling on clean
white dishtowels laid out on her green formica kitchen table. Mom never paid
much attention to recipes, and often wondered why things didn’t turn out like
they should, but her sugar cookies were an exception. They were always thick,
powdery, and smelling of vanilla and nutmeg. Always perfect. Sometimes she
would dust them with colored sugars to surprise me. Every Christmas, and
whenever I want to feel her love, I still roll out a few dozen of her prized
cookies on the same old green table that was handed down to me by Nonny.
My grandmother, Nonny, is
still alive, and even though she is nearing her ninety-first birthday, she
still occasionally bakes cookies. Christmas is one of those times. My box came
just the other day, and even though my aunt does most of the baking now,
Nonny’s love is still in the box. So are the memories. Nonny was the only
person who let me sit on the cupboard and “help” with the baking, and even
sample the dough. However else were you to know if the cookies were going to
taste good? Nonny also kept more exotic ingredients on hand than we had at
home. She thought that it was perfectly fine to be extravagant with small
things, like adding fancy toppings, or chopped dates. Most importantly, she
always praised me for doing a wonderful job, whether it was sifting, mixing, or
decorating the cookies. In her eyes I could do no wrong, so whenever I have
baked with my children, I have tried, but not always succeeded, to be less
critical, more like Nonny was to me.
My mother also was sparing
with the criticism when it came to baking. At Christmastime, my mother used to
bake dozens of different kinds of cookies. She would make up the many kinds of
dough, and then let my three brothers and myself decorate them. It was quite an
accomplishment to be able to bring out several dozen cookies of amazing variety
whenever a visitor called, or whenever we felt the need (which was all the time
during the holidays). Mom taught me the how-to’s, how to measure correctly, how
to transpose measurements, and any other math or how-to for life lessons that
she could slip in. Soon, I was the designated cookie baker in the family, but
at Christmas, mom was still queen of the kitchen.
Now, after raising six
children of my own, I’ve noticed that the traditions of the holidays especially
bond us together. The children are coming home for Christmas this week, and am
all set. The cookie cutters are out and the pantry is stocked. All is ready for
the upcoming cookie baking marathon.
As soon as the cinnamon,
nutmeg, molasses, and clove scents waft through the kitchen, I will be
home…sitting up to the big green table with my great grandmother; sitting on
the cupboard, stirring up the dough with Nonny; and carefully measuring
everything perfectly with my mother. They will all be here. It will be
Christmas.


First Snow
by W. T. Smail
First Snow is an acrylic on canvas painting by Charles W. Gibbons. First Snow is also a poem written by me after my two best friends, Mechele and Rick, purchased the painting from Mr.Gibbons and gave it to me, the only Parkisonian in the group as a Christmas present. First Snow is a relatively small painting (16''X20") but its effect on me was large and helped me deal with my plight. First Snow is a forest scene, but through the trees and snow there's some light. I'm always looking and hoping for the cure of Parkinsons and relate the cure to the light. First Snow has become a treasured Christmas gift.
First Snow becomes a wall of my bedroom cave
warming the beat of my heart
conjuring all that i crave
First Snow and this man becomes boy
walking through a white winter wonderland
nineteen sixties joy
a loving house of learning stands on the wood’s other side
lessons for life waiting there
closer with each powdered stride
lessons that some day will be put to the test
not till the last page is turned
do i want judged with the rest
thirty years later in a white sterile tower the bad news is
told
your smile will fade
and your face grow cold
what then .....three more walls, three more seasons
darkness meant for Job comes out of the blue
no rhyme, or reason
is this special room to become my prison cell
surrounded by beauty
living in hell
it’s not what i had in mind for my bedroom cave
not here in the land of the free
between the houses of the brave
prisons of the brain can play mean tricks
posing an impenetrable
imaginary mortar, envisioned brick
but this wintered wall i could easily scale
better to fly through First Snow
than slowly die in jail
i jump from the wall into the white eternity
grasping my fate, my faith
reckoning with certain uncertainty
First Snow is covering the anger of spring
now my anger too
over what the coming years may bring
my flight is broken when a sleeping bulb punctures my heart
“snap out of it boy
it’s not yet your time to depart”
i lie in First Snow as it melts helped by a tear
from deep inside i hear Joan
“smile with your heart,
give them the best of life’s souvenirs
slowly i stand and gaze back into my cave room
cleansed by First Snow
there’s no sense of doom, no gloom
i enter the room on a wing and a prayer
i turn and face First Snow
and stare, and stare
|
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: I'm 52 years old and live with my partner, Rick and our three cats. We live in a beautiful small town in the Pennsylvania mountains near Pittsburgh. I was diagnosed in 1994 and have done fairly well for the past eight years (with some up and downs). When people ask me why I think I've done so well I tell them: the excellent medical care I have received at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center and the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida (Dr. Bohnen and Dr. Eidelman respectively), exercise, massage, acupuncture, yoga, my chiropractor and my incredible friends and family who give me so many reasons to be well and engaged in their lives.....I am truly blessed. I continue to work in my family's automotive business (we represent 10 franchises outside of Pittsburgh). We employ apx. 300 people and most are aware of my Parkinsons. I have unyielding hope that I will be one of the first people cured in the near future and focus on today till then. |
THE DAY I RUINED CHRISTMAS
by Ann T
In the early fifties when
tinsel, Toni-dolls, and Lionel trains ruled, Christmas represented a one-shot
chance for my five siblings and me to fulfill our wishes. In those days, we
never received toys at any other time - not even on our birthdays - so
Christmas was pretty much it. The days leading up to Christmas passed
agonizingly slowly as we wondered what we would get. By first grade, I had
pretty much dismissed the idea of Santa Claus, so I knew my mother did the
shopping, and I knew where she hid the goodies - the front bedroom closet.
When I was growing up in West
Philadelphia, my parents' front bedroom was pretty much off limits to the
children unless you were the baby and your crib shared their room. However,
there were certain times when we kids managed to make surreptitious forays into
their inner sanctum. During these invasions, I had many tempting options. A
solitary little girl, I would stroke my mother's stole unfazed that the pelted
victim's own head and visage stared back at me with reproach. I would check out
my father's only suit, entranced by the fabric which reminded me of shad roe, a
treat my father often brought home to my ailing, pregnant mother and which she
had shared her with me. I loved it, and thereafter, felt a craving whenever I
saw that suit. Best of all were the nights my parents were out, and I was
allowed to lie in their bed and watch the moving shadows on the ceiling caused
by passing cars' headlights as they drove down Cedar Avenue.
That bedroom and its treasures
always tempted me, but the Christmas season made it irresistible. You see, as
my mother shopped, Christmas presents were stored in her closet, a fact that we
weren't supposed to know. My brother, who was a year older than me, took on a
Hardy boy brother to my Nancy Drew self and and inspected the closet whenever
circumstances allowed. Jimmy would check out the goods and report back to me as
the gifts piled up. Through the 24 days of Advent, we searched and ferreted, discovered
and rejoiced, and anticipated and anguished for the day the presents would be
ours.
One Christmas promised to be a
very rewarding one. Among other things, Jimmy and I found a cardboard desk and
a typewriter. The desk, I assumed, was for him, and the typewriter was for me.
However, the gift stuffed in the closet which enthralled and obsessed me was a
metal dollhouse. I had coveted just such a dollhouse in the department store
while shopping with my mother. It was held together by bendable tabs and
sported real artwork on the metal wall over the painted fireplace. I was beside
myself and could hardly sleep waiting for the big day when I and my tiny
plastic doll family could move in.
Christmas Day finally arrived,
but first I had to endure what I considered the down side of the holiday. My
mother awoke me at 4:00 A.M., and I dressed in an angel's gown my mother
fashioned for me from a white sheet, tinsel encircling my waist and serving as
a halo on my head. As a member of the school choir, I had to sing at the 5:00
A.M. mass. I was an unwilling member of the Transfiguration Choir, a position I
hated and a real challenge for both me and the nun who led the choir since I
insisted on singing alto in the midst of sopranos. "Who IS that?" she
would repeatedly demand as my discordant voice filtered through, but I
persisted undiscovered. Choir on Christmas had a dampening effect on me. The
hour was so early, and the previous night's sleep so scant, that I pretty much
greeted every Christmas pre-dawn morning ready to lose the contents of my
stomach. When the last Adeste Fidelis and the like were sung, my weary parents
and I arrived home. By now my siblings were awake, and together we dove into
the presents while the smell of bacon and eggs cooking wafted in from the
kitchen.
At first all seemed fine. An
old doll sat atop my pile, dressed in a newly sewn red print outfit made by
Mom. I gave it a hurried examination, but my thoughts were on bigger game. The
desk and typewriter boldly beckoned and my brother and I headed for them. But
what is this? We both grabbed for the typewriter! Old allegiances evaporated as
we got in a tug of war, then an argument. Each of us was adamant about whom the
typewriter was for, and our bickering became louder. Finally my parents emerged
from the kitchen. My father's sternly declared that neither of us would get
either gift, and my mother's fatigue caused her voice to quaver as she pointed
out our selfishness on a day when we were receiving so much. I was stung by her
reprimand and still remember the pall our fight had thrown over the
festivities. "You've ruined Christmas!" she pronounced and returned
to the kitchen. We all continued opening presents, but the aura of peace and
joy was punctured and deflated, and while the others eventually recovered
somewhat, I felt miserable. To make matters worse, there was no dollhouse.
Whispering, I told Jimmy, and we both looked carefully and repeatedly through
the piles of wrapping paper, but no dollhouse appeared. My father turned on the
train set, and the locomotive puffed its pill-induced smoke, traveling its
endless route. Breakfast was devoured, the other kids went off to Mass, and I
neatly arranged everyone's pile (a self-appointed task I pursued religiously
throughout Christmas week), but no dollhouse. We knew it sat forgotten in the
front bedroom closet. Ruination of Christmas coupled with pre-dawn choir
singing and no dollhouse were too much to bear. I took my newly dressed doll to
my room and crying, fell asleep.
Eventually, of course, my
mother remembered the stashed away dollhouse and put it under the tree to greet
me after my nap. My happiness was anti-climatic by then, but - probably for the
first time in my young life - I felt gratitude. My brother's and my outburst, my
mother's disappointment in us, and the deflation of exhilaration our squabble
caused made me think for the first time about the giver. I knew I had been
greedy and thankless, and I held myself accountable.
Many Christmases have passed since that day, but the day I ruined Christmas made me realize that Christmas's true meaning is entwined in family and compassion and sharing, not in the gifts. However, the knowledge I gained on that dismal Christmas is perhaps the best present after all.