Christmas
THROUGH A CHILD'S EYES
True Stories That Capture
the Wonder of the Season
EDITED BY
HELEN SZYMANSKI
Copyright © 2008 by F+W Publications, Inc. All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by Adams Media, an F+W Publications Company 57 Little field Street Avon, MA 02322 www.adamsmedia.com
ISBN 10: 1-59869-644-0
ISBN 13: 978-1-59869-644-8 (paperback)
ISBN 13: 978-1-44050-111-1 (EPUB)
Printed in the United States of America.
J I H G F E D C B A
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— From a Declaration of Principles jointly adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and Adams Media was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed with initial capital letters.
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For information, please call 1-800-289-0963.
This book is dedicated to the memory of Barbara Anton. She had a way with words and a lot of great stories to tell.
Contents
Introduction
Shared Popcorn by J. Hogan Clark
The School Desks by Connie Sturm Cameron
The Sweetness of Giving by Megan (Molly) D. Willome
Santa's Messenger by Lynn ruth Miller
The Adventures of Baby Jesus by Cheryl K. Pierson
Christmas Eve Delivery by Christine E. Collier
A Christmas Aha! by Charlene A. Derby
A Special Christmas Card by Dorothy Baughman
A Gift of Love by Bess Antisdale
My Long Brown Stockings by M. DeLoris Henscheid
Grandpa Will's Gift by Nelia J. Greer
Sometimes Less is More by Barbara Jeanne Fisher
Santa Is Real by Jo E. Gray
Seeing Is Believing by Patsy Thomas
Let There Be Light by Emmarie Lehnick
Burnt Toast and Tinsel by Barbara Kiffin
A Million Stars Looked Down by Jewell Johnson
Boy to the World! by Caroline B. Poser
Getting Christmas by Shauna Smith Duty
Safely Home by Delbert L. Bieber
All I Want for Christmas by Marie (Nikki) Esselstein
Mother Knows Best by Sharon Sheppard
Evergreen by Leslie J. Wyatt
A Good Song for Shaving by Frances Hill roberts
Getting It Right by Helen C. Colella
An Aunt Sunne Christmas by Lynn ruth Miller
Growing Up Cool by Nancy Jo Eckerson
The Christmas Gifts by raymond L. Atkins
Time of Delight by Vivienne Mackie
A Different Kind of Carol by Amy Ammons Mullis
The Lonely Christmas Tree by Marilyn Jaskulke
Belonging to Winter by Faith Sherrill
Finding Santa by Debra J. Rankin
The Baby Jesus Bed by Kathleen M. Muldoon
Through the Innocence of Childhood by Barbara Jeanne Fisher
The Christmas Tree Hunter by Ann Hite
Disappearing Act by randy Jean Bruskrud
Christmas Giving by Linda Kaullen Perkins
The Empty Chair by Delbert L. Bieber
The Stranger with the Cardboard Suitcase by Shirley P. Gumert
Giving and Receiving by Claudia McKinney Mundell
Window Shopping by Connie Vigil Platt
Wishing for Miracles by Marcia E. Brown
The Perfect Gift by Helen Luecke
The Truth about Santa by Bridget Balthrop Morton
The Saint and the Santa by Annemarieke Tazelaar
A Musical Miracle by Al Serradell
The Last Apple by Dmitri Barvinok
Forty Dollars by Donna Sundblad
Memories of a Refugee Camp Christmas by renie Burghardt
Grandpa's Love by Stella Ward Whitlock
A Gift for Veronica by Cherie Troped
So Little, So Much by Joan Fitting Scott
Holiday Visitors by Michael M. Alvarez
Home for the Holidays by Wayne r. Wallace
Some Gifts Cannot Be Wrapped by Lynne Cooper Sitton
In the Nick of Time by Mimi Greenwood Knight
The Hairbrush by Bob rose
Mother Nature to the Rescue by Georgia A. Hubley
Dancing with Daddy by Marilyn olsein
The Sweeping Angel by rita H. Strong
An Inexpensive Gift by Matthias L. Niska
Miracles by Carrillee Collins Burke
Yes, Deborah, There Really Is a Santa Claus by Linda Bruno
All that Glitters by Marcia E. Brown
The Tea Set by Mary L. Hardwick
A Doll for Jane by Barbara Anton
Memories Will Follow by Cindy Nappa McCabe
Love for Father by Lese Dunton
Contributors
Acknowledgments
A special thank you is extended to all who helped take this book from idea to reality: my family, my agent, Kate Epstein, all of the authors who submitted their work — and especially all of our readers — my in-house editor, Andrea Norville, and everyone at F+W Publications, Inc. I'd also like to offer my sincerest gratitude to Paul Harvey — the Voice of America — for his glowing endorsement, and also to June Westgard, his loyal assistant, for being such a lovely person. Thank you for believing in me and for being there when I needed you. In closing, I extend my deepest gratitude to the Lord, who gives me great visions, holds my hand when I need it, and always, always believes in me.
Introduction
Like you, I love Christmas. And how could we not? Everything from decorations to Baby Jesus work overtime to keep a smile on our faces. Every year — without fail — holiday magic is so thick I can serve it to my family on a spoon. Gift giving and receiving seems to have the same effect on each of us as it did on the Grinch — you can actually feel your heart swell!
Christmas time is magical. Nothing else touches us quite the same. Christmas and the memories it stirs up are thought provoking as well as humbling. It's a time when the best of our character spills forth and the worse part of our personality disappears. We are kinder, more understanding, more apt to forgive. If it were Christmas everyday, perhaps hatred would be wiped out, wars would no longer need to be fought, and neighbors and families would remember to love one another.
Because I truly believe in the miracle of Christmas, it is my hope that through Christmas Through a Child's Eyes: True Stories That Capture the Wonder of the Season we can keep those special, magical feelings alive year round. As you read the memories my authors have graciously chosen to share, I ask that you also recall your own favorite memories and share them with a loved one or neighbor — better yet, share them with a stranger — so that the wonderful feeling of Christmas can continue to flow unhindered from one heart to the next.
I hope, like me, you'll keep this book nearb
y to warm your heart and renew your spirit and remind you of the things in life that really matter. From my heart to yours — wishing you a Merry Christmas every single day of the year.
— Helen Szymanski
The Stories
Shared Popcorn
by J. Hogan Clark
The winter of 1948 was bitter cold. December popped up on the calendar with blustery winds and torrents of snow and freezing rain. But my sister, Carol, and I hardly noticed. December also meant Christmas, and we couldn't wait for the festivities to begin.
One evening, as Christmas Eve neared, Mom and Dad decided to treat Carol and me to a movie. We almost never got to go to a movie and we were ecstatic. For a grand total of sixty cents (the movie admission was fifteen cents, popcorn was a nickel, and soft drinks were a dime), my sister and I could have an entire evening of entertainment and snacks. It just didn't get any better than that.
Though it had stopped snowing, a fierce north wind cut through my heavy coat as I climbed into the backseat of our old Oldsmobile. On the trip to the movie house, I rubbed my hands together to stay warm and to keep my excitement from bubbling over. Carol stared straight ahead, her right hand clasped into a fist, a death grip on our money as the car bounced and slid down the road. The roads were still treacherous, with thick pockets of accumulated snow and ice covering most of the surfaces, but Dad had maneuvered these roads before in inclement weather. He skillfully coasted to a stop in front of the movie house with plenty of time to spare. Carol and I exchanged grins. We wouldn't miss the cartoons, a possibility we'd both worried over.
As soon as we exited the vehicle, Dad waved goodbye and drove off, leaving us to our own adventures. The wind whipped wisps of snow across streets and down the sidewalks in a mini blizzard, and the whistling sound it made as it rushed around buildings and through tree branches seemed to intensify the cold. I couldn't wait to get inside the movie house!
As we stood in line shivering, I noticed a young girl about my sister's age, and a smaller sibling, probably her brother, who looked to be about five years old. Their shoulders hunched against the frigid wind, they huddled together next to the movie house entryway. Though the girl's chin was tucked beneath a heavy scarf and the boy wore galoshes and thick mittens, the stabbing wind tugged at their lightweight jackets and I knew they had to be freezing. To make matters worse, the little boy was sobbing, his tears leaving shiny wet tracks down his red, swollen face.
As I watched, the girl's bare hands dove in and out of the pockets in her pink jacket and blue jeans. As soon as her cold hands would find a pocket, she'd manipulate the contents, searching in vain for something. Visibly upset, she attempted to comfort her brother. Try as she might, however, the girl couldn't bring closure to her brother's tears, nor find what she so desperately searched for.
Though I knew it was rude to stare, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the scene unfolding before me. As the ticket line dwindled, my sister and I drew closer to the distraught youngsters. That's when I heard the young girl explain to her brother that she couldn't find the last twenty-five cents.
Evidently, they, too, had been dropped off at the movie house, and wouldn't be picked up until after the movie. And without the missing twenty-five cents, they could no longer purchase their movie tickets.
I felt a pang of sympathy; I could imagine that happening to my sister and me instead of them. Not knowing what else to do, I turned my eyes away sadly and stared at the back of my sister's jacket.
It seemed like an eternity before we reached the ticket booth window. With tickets in hand, Carol turned and began walking toward the entry doors. By now, the boy's wails had subsided somewhat, but his little body shook uncontrollably as his sister wrapped her arms about him in an attempt to soothe away the hurt and cold.
Obediently, I followed my sister, fully expecting her to open the door and walk in. Abruptly, she stopped. As I maneuvered past her to prevent myself from knocking her over, she turned and handed two dimes and a nickel to the girl with the sobbing brother. It was as if the Christmas Spirit had descended on her that evening, because out of nowhere, her compassion for the two stranded, freezing children overcame her desire for popcorn and a soft drink.
I understood what she felt, because I felt it, too. The look of surprise and pure elation on the other children's faces made me feel ten feet tall! I was sure my chest would swell to the point of popping the buttons off my coat! A heated flush raced through me and I smiled as wide as a Jack-o-lantern. I was so proud of my sister that I no longer felt the cold. I basked in the warmth of her goodness that night, and am happy to say that over the years the feeling of pride for what she had done has never gone away. I don't recall what movie we saw that night, but I will never forget the bag of popcorn we shared. It was the best bag of popcorn I've ever consumed, and all because I shared it with the best sister anyone could ask for.
The School Desks
BY CONNIE STURM CAMERON
As I trudged through the softly falling snow, Christmas lights gradually illuminated the homes in my neighborhood. It was Christmas Eve, 1967, and I was almost done with my paper route. The hushed beauty of the winter dusk scene invited me to slow my anxious steps. My ten-year-old mind, awed by the beauty of nature, wondered why the world seemed so quiet when it snowed. Even the sound of my own breath seemed to reverberate in my ears.
Normally, I kept my newspapers in the basket on my bike and rode up and down the driveways in my neighborhood to deliver them, but when it snowed, it seemed easier to don my rubber boots and walk to each front porch. My favorite house on Connway Drive was where my best friend, Cindy, lived. We had promised to call each other as soon as we finished opening our gifts the next day — as long as the party line wasn't in use.
Lights were being turned on in houses up and down the street and when I walked to their front doors to drop the newspaper, I heard more and more laughter and excitement: Families were gathering in anticipation of Christmas festivities.
After tossing my final newspaper, I began my trek home. It was time for dinner, and as usual, I was starving. But it was hard to hurry. There is something magical about Christmas Eve, and that night I felt it in the air. It was as if every child in the whole world was holding their breath, wondering if their long-awaited GI Joe or Thumbelina doll would be under the tree when they awoke the next morning.
When I finally arrived home, I stopped in front of our house and stared — it was so beautiful. The colored lights lit up the night sky and the snow surrounding the lights seemed to absorb the color of each bulb. My father and older brother, Tim, had strung large, red Christmas bulbs all along the roof of our ranch home, and had trimmed the two blue spruce trees flanking our driveway with hundreds of vibrant blue lights. At that moment, as my eyes darted back and forth between the two decorations, I couldn't decide if red or blue was my favorite. Dad had even decorated the bushes bordering the front of our house with multicolored lights, and Mom had hung red flickering Christmas bells in our bedroom windows.
My heart sang with the beauty of it all.
Oh blessed Christmas! One more day to go! What would the next twenty-four hours hold for me? I tried hard to remember all the things I had wanted for gifts. My sister was too old for her Barbie dolls, so I had a lot of her hand-me-downs; however, it would be nice to get the new Skipper doll. My real love, though, was playing schoolteacher. I even had a makeshift school set up in our basement. My younger brothers, Danny and Gary, were my students, along with Cindy. I had saved my paper-route money and bought a chalkboard, chalk, and other small school supplies. My “students” used an old lawn chair and overturned buckets for seats, and a well-worn card table as their desk.
I spent hours planning lessons and giving tests. But if it weren't for the treats my mother graciously allowed us to have each day, I'm certain my students would not have participated. The promise of homemade potato candy with peanut butter swirled inside or no-bake oatmeal cookies kept everyone pretending to be interested
for hours!
I hoped to have a real classroom one day, and secretly prayed God would work it out.
“Are you sure all you want for Christmas is a Skipper doll?”my mother had asked just the other day.
“Yeah. Well, maybe some more school supplies … like scissors and colored pencils,” I added.
Before going to bed that night, my sister and I grabbed one flashlight and my three brothers grabbed the other. That way, if we woke up in the middle of the night, we could sneak into the living room to see how many presents Santa and our parents had left for us. Because our father was a pressman for the local newspaper and brought home the butt-ends from the huge rolls of newsprint paper that was used on the printing presses, presents for all seven in our family would be wrapped alike. Our living room would be a sea of off-white boxes in every size and shape.
Finally, Christmas morning arrived. I was certain our squeals of laughter and cries of joy could be heard throughout our neighborhood with each gift that was opened, especially when Gary got his new bicycle! My older siblings and I were all jealous because we had to share the same beat-up bike. Our tradition, though, was that each year one of us kids would get something big. This year it was Gary's turn.