By Colleen Pulley
My earliest memory of Christmas was when I was about four. I can still remember the happiness as I squealed when Dad took me out of bed, threw me into the air and hugged me. Then he carried me into the tiny living room, and there was a tree that would have won Charlie Brown’s heart. Its needles were brown, and the thin limbs could hardly hold the weight of the string of outdoor lights. But to me the most wonderful thing was a dime store rubber doll, dressed as an angle, that spread the Christmas spirit into the bare room.
We were living in Nebraska, and the weather was bitter cold that Winter. They were hard times. Those years after the war saw many people out of work. The soldiers had come home to families and the factories that had provided jobs to support the war effort were empty. My Dad, like many others found himself out of work. Dad had family in Illinois, and was able to get a job there in a factory.
When Dad told my Mother, I can imagine her anxiety. She merely smiled, and told him we would make due. There were four children in our family, which meant my mother was a master at making every penny count. With the reality of no cash until money would arrive from Illinois, Mother smiled at my father, and told him not to worry. We all gave him hugs and kisses as we said our goodbyes early the next morning.
Mother would take me and my two sisters every weekend to Martha Green’s house. She was an elderly lady who needed Mother’s help because she had severe arthritis. We complained and frowned, and dragged our feet as we followed behind her. The meager coins she received for her labors kept the electricity on, and the tiny house reasonably warm. She did all these sacrifices without a word of complaint.
One day, Martha told Mother there were three large boxes she wanted her to bring in from a back bedroom. Mother brought them into the living room and set them next to Martha’s chair.
When Mother was buttoning up our coats to go home, Martha said she wanted her to have the boxes. “I used to sew and knit a lot before I got arthritis and I thought you could put this stuff to good use,” she said with a smile. Mother thanked Martha and gave her a hug, as she wiped tears from her eyes.
It took three trips to finally get all three boxes home. We wanted to look in the boxes, but Mother shook her head as she put them into her bedroom. “You can see what I make them into when I am finished.”
My mother had an old pedal Singer Sewing Machine that had been her mother’s. It sat in a corner of her bedroom. During those two months before Christmas, we kids would listen to the whirring of the machine, wondering what she was making from those three large boxes Martha had given her. When we asked, she would smile and shake her head. Eventually, the three boxes from Martha became scarves, ruffled aprons, pillowcases, and braided rugs to put our feet on in the cold mornings.
About every two weeks a letter from my Father would arrive with enough money to pay the bills. We would each write a note and enclose it with the letter Mother sent back to him in Illinois. As we said our prayers, we would ask that Dad would be safe until he came home at Christmas.
My Dad later said the small amount of money he got while working at the factory in Illinois was able to pay the rent on our house. But for him, home was a garage he shared with five other men trying to take care of their families. He said that some nights he went without food to allow a little more money to be sent home.
Four days before Christmas the men arrived at the factory in Illinois to work and found the doors locked. With no money, Dad jumped a freight train back to Nebraska. He arrived two days later. He was still thirty miles from town, and after an hour of walking, a produce truck stopped and gave him a lift the rest of the way home. Dad said he told the driver where he had been, and where he was going.
As the driver pulled to a stop, he told my Dad to wait a moment. He opened the glove compartment and handed my Dad a bag of colorful hard Christmas candies. “Share these with your little ones and get something nice for your wife.” His gnarled hand reached into his pocket, and handed a wadded bill to my Dad. “Have a Merry Christmas, Glen.” He said with a grin, and with that the truck left.
Dad unwrapped the wadded bill and his mouth fell open, for there was a fifty-dollar bill. Dad tried to flag the truck down, but the driver only rolled his window down and waved, as it disappeared around the corner.
When Dad came into the house, he found my Mother adding the finishing touches to our family Christmas. My Mother told me later how she had scrimped and saved to get a chicken for our Christmas dinner and had hoarded two pumpkins and six potatoes to make mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. The dime store doll dressed in her homemade angel garments and a crooked halo balancing on her head was placed on the tip of the tree by Dad. Then with a booming voice he roused my older brother and sisters and swooped me out of my bed to the most glorious Christmas a child could have. I still appreciate that memory of a little girl being tossed into the air, and her Daddy hugging her close, and bringing Christmas into his family’s hearts.
Many years have passed since that cold Nebraska Christmas of my childhood. Christmas Present seems to be filled with brighter lights, high resolution pictures, gifts that are bigger and faster, and the goodies are flavored with spices that were much too expensive to buy in my childhood. But this I do know. We all need to have that certain memory which imprints the holiday that stands out in our minds. It is not about the most expensive gift. It is the one which tells you that you are loved. That, my friends is the most prized gift you can receive. May you find this, and share it with the ones you love.
Merry Christmas* Until later…Colleen
Key Words – Christmas, family, sacrifices, memory, gifts, love
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