Christmases Remembered
The Christmas I remembered best was when my father had just hired on as a welder at Jeff Boat. A fall at work caused him to break his arm and miss work when a strike happened. Despite being part of the union, he was on sick leave when they chose to strike and was denied strike pay. This was the death knell for our Christmas. Living on a farm provided us with staples such as chicken, eggs, milk, and everything my mother had canned. My mother tried to prepare us telling us Santa might not be able to bring us much this year. I’m not sure if this made much of an impression because everyone knew Santa was magical.
Our old dolls vanished and my mother became very interested in creating tiny doll clothes she insisted were for my cousin’s doll. My father took advantage of scrap lumber and hammered together tiny doll cradles and dollhouses when he wasn’t helping neighbors who repaid my father with livestock feed, dog food, and occasionally, venison. The dog food came in handy because we had four large Germans Shepherds, the result of my mother’s attempt to get into the dog breeding business without success.
That Christmas Eve we could stay up late and watch It’s A Wonderful Life and munch on an oversized box of cheap chocolates a neighbor passed on. Could be my parents knew this was the most they could offer us. We trooped off to bed sleepy, but hopeful that Santa would come through for us.
I remember standing at the window and peering outside at the moonlit snow hoping to spot in the distance a sleigh and reindeer without luck. Eventually cold drove us under the covers dreaming of what might be. Sometime later, a cacophony of dogs barking mingled with a woman’s shriek had us kids sprintng to the window only to see a car reversing down our driveway chaperoned by German Shepherds, who raced the unknown driver back to the road.
My father ran outside barefoot, clutching his rifle. From our second-floor window, we watched him pick up a stocking out of the snow. Mother joined him and carried in wrapped packages that had been abandoned in the driveway when the dogs came charging out of the barn. Without saying a word, the three of us knew not to mention what we had seen.
The next day we were pleasantly surprised with stockings and gifts. Even my mother and father received a gift and the dogs got a large can of dog bones. For years, we never knew who our generous visitors were and in some ways, that served us. Anyone we met, from neighbors to church members, could be our secret givers. Believing anyone was capable of this kindness made my world a better place.
The Christmas I remembered best was when my father had just hired on as a welder at Jeff Boat. A fall at work caused him to break his arm and miss work when a strike happened. Despite being part of the union, he was on sick leave when they chose to strike and was denied strike pay. This was the death knell for our Christmas. Living on a farm provided us with staples such as chicken, eggs, milk, and everything my mother had canned. My mother tried to prepare us telling us Santa might not be able to bring us much this year. I’m not sure if this made much of an impression because everyone knew Santa was magical.
Our old dolls vanished and my mother became very interested in creating tiny doll clothes she insisted were for my cousin’s doll. My father took advantage of scrap lumber and hammered together tiny doll cradles and dollhouses when he wasn’t helping neighbors who repaid my father with livestock feed, dog food, and occasionally, venison. The dog food came in handy because we had four large Germans Shepherds, the result of my mother’s attempt to get into the dog breeding business without success.
That Christmas Eve we could stay up late and watch It’s A Wonderful Life and munch on an oversized box of cheap chocolates a neighbor passed on. Could be my parents knew this was the most they could offer us. We trooped off to bed sleepy, but hopeful that Santa would come through for us.
I remember standing at the window and peering outside at the moonlit snow hoping to spot in the distance a sleigh and reindeer without luck. Eventually cold drove us under the covers dreaming of what might be. Sometime later, a cacophony of dogs barking mingled with a woman’s shriek had us kids sprintng to the window only to see a car reversing down our driveway chaperoned by German Shepherds, who raced the unknown driver back to the road.
My father ran outside barefoot, clutching his rifle. From our second-floor window, we watched him pick up a stocking out of the snow. Mother joined him and carried in wrapped packages that had been abandoned in the driveway when the dogs came charging out of the barn. Without saying a word, the three of us knew not to mention what we had seen.
The next day we were pleasantly surprised with stockings and gifts. Even my mother and father received a gift and the dogs got a large can of dog bones. For years, we never knew who our generous visitors were and in some ways, that served us. Anyone we met, from neighbors to church members, could be our secret givers. Believing anyone was capable of this kindness made my world a better place.
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