Like thousands of other little girls in 1932, Mother had been duly warned that Santa wouldn’t be leaving any presents that year.
It was the height of the Great Depression, a time of anxiety for most families. The familiar world had collapsed, taking with it the sense of security that all would be well. Even in a small farming town like Derry, New Hampshire, the reverberations from the stock market crash of 1929 continued to shake everyday existence into strange new forms and turn the simplest pleasures into unaffordable luxuries.
My grandfather was away in Wisconsin, working for a cousin who manufactured “billiard tables, of all things,” as my grandmother said to anyone who asked, turning it into a pun.
“I guess some folks still have deep pockets.”
But Grandfather did mail money home every two weeks, and between that and my grandmother’s pittance for taking in sewing, my mother was fed and clothed.
“You and I don’t need presents to be happy,” my grandmother started telling her at Thanksgiving. “Not as long as we have each other.”
My mother pretended to agree, but inside, she was a grievously disappointed ten-year-old.
“No tinsel, no new ornaments, no strings of lights,” Grandmother
said. “Even so, Annie, I expect the spirit of Christmas won’t be tarnished one whit,” she added.
As for cookies, cakes, pies, and fudge, those luxuries were no longer coming out of my grandmother’s kitchen-not even for the holidays. This Christmas Day they’d share a dessert of old-fashioned Indian pudding made with cornmeal and molasses, sweet enough for a child at any time but Christmas.
Although the holidays were much less commercialized back then, people of all ages still liked getting gifts and giving them. Mother cudgeled her brains trying to think of what she could make for Grandmother.
“I wasn’t like her,” Mother told me years later with a rueful laugh. “I couldn’t sew a straight seam or knit a stitch without tangling one of the needles in my hair or poking the cat with it.”
Finally, after many sleepless hours, she hit on the perfect gift. My mother would offer to clean the ashes out of the old black kitchen stove for a whole year, a chore she despised.
As for a tree, “Why chop down a poor little thing?” Grandmother said. “We’ll pop up some popcorn, string it, and put it in our big tree out front for the birds to eat.”
On Christmas Eve, the two went caroling, serenading the neighbors while a white, powdery snow swirled around them like the beneficent robes of an angel. That was wonderful enough, but early on Christmas morning, my mother opened her eyes to a miracle.
There on her little side table sat a perfect creche, a manger, two funny-looking creatures that had to be a donkey and a cow, a tiny crib with a little figure in it, and two larger kneeling figures, Mary and Joseph.
The extraordinary thing, though, was that not only could the entire tableau fit on the palm of her hand, it was light as a feather. Every piece was composed of paper in the same blended shades of green, gray, and cream.
When she held the figures closer, my mother couldn’t believe her eyes. They were made of money!
She saw that each dollar bill had been meticulously folded and creased. Although she hadn’t yet learned the word “origami,” my mother knew she was beholding something very special. Running to wake up my grandmother with the little paper manger scene held carefully in both hands, she wondered if a miracle had occurred for her mother, too. Naturally, in the way of all good stories that are cherished down the generations, it had. My grandfather was lying in the bed next to my grandmother.
“I hitchhiked some, and walked some, and took a train, and then a bus and then walked some more,” my grandfather said as the three of them snuggled together. “And, you know how I covered the last few miles? I hitched a ride in a sleigh pulled by the slickest reindeer you ever did see.”
My mother set up the manger scene on the quilt, so her folks could marvel at it, too. “So, Annie,” her father asked, “how are you going to spend all that money?”
My mother’s eyes widened. “Daddy, I’m never going to spend it. It’s too precious.”
He laughed and laughed, hugging her hard. “I guess that’s a good lesson for these times,” he finally said. “We all just have to remember that there really are things much more important than money.”
My mother certainly did remember and taught me this lesson too. That is why, to this day, the same little manger scene rests gently on the mantel, gathering interest with every passing Christmas.
Christmas Story 03-2009 • Wayne R. Wallace
A Bike For Christmas
Tommy Miller wanted a red Schwinn Flyer bicycle more than he had ever wanted anything in all his ten years. He had seen a picture of one in a Sears & Roebuck Co. catalog, and that had started his dream. One Saturday morning, when he accompanied his dad into town, the dream became a tangible possibility. There, in the front window of Mr. Harris’s Western Auto store, sat the most beautiful red Schwinn Flyer Tommy had ever seen. He stared at it longingly, then followed his dad inside. Tommy fingered the chrome fenders carefully as his father talked with Mr. Harris.
Tommy’s dad was a rookie Oklahoma State Trooper on his first duty station in the small southern Oklahoma town of Marietta. The family of five had rented a tiny house just outside town. It was old and drafty, but it was all they could afford on the young patrolman’s salary.
Though Tommy fell in love with the red metal dream in the window, he knew it could never be his. Where would that kind of money come from? Still, he couldn’t get it out of his mind. That night, Tommy took a deep breath and approached his parents, almost ashamed to even ask.
“Dad, you know that red Schwinn Flyer we saw at Mr. Harris’s store today?”
Ray Miller put down his paper. “Yes, it sure was a good looking bike, son.”
“Dad, I want that bike for Christmas,” Tommy blurted. “I’ll never ask for anything else, honest!”
“Tommy, I don’t know . . . It’s a lot of money, and we just don’t have it right now,” Mr. Miller explained.
“We’d love to get it for you if we could, sweetheart, but we’ll just have to see,” Tommy’s mother said as she pulled him close for a kiss. “Now off to bed, young man.”
She turned to her husband as Tommy shut the bedroom door. “Ray, I’d sure like to get Tommy that bike. He works so hard around here, and he’s done so well in school. Isn’t there something we can do?”
“We’ll work it out somehow,” he said, reassuringly. “Maybe I can get a little off-duty security work. We should be able to save enough by Thanksgiving.”
On Christmas Eve, Tommy and his brothers went to bed early. Tommy could think of nothing but the bike. It was on his mind every waking moment, and in his dreams, when he finally slept.
The next morning, the two younger boys ran into the family room and began opening packages. Tommy hung back. He knew that the bike cost a lot of money . . . money his parents didn’t have. But when Tommy walked into the family room to join his brothers, there it was, waiting for him. It wasn’t the one he’d seen in Mr. Harris’s store. This one was better. It was gorgeous: a special edition Schwinn Flyer, much fancier than the one pictured in the catalogue. This one had white wall tires, chrome handlebars, and spoke wheels. It boasted a leather seat with springs and three gears! It was the best bike in the whole world, and now, it belonged to him!
Many years later, in 1978, Tommy, his wife, Kenna, and their young daughter, Stacey, were on their way to Dallas for the Christmas holiday. As they approached the Marietta exit, Tommy asked, “Kenna, do you mind if I stop and have a look at my oId hometown? I’d like to see how it’s changed.”
“Not at all,” Kenna replied. “It should be fun.”
Main Street was decorated with garlands and lights, but Tommy noticed that most of the businesses he remembered had closed or had been bought by more modern franchises.
When he realized that the old Western Auto Store was still open, he pulled up in front.
“Let’s go in here,” Tommy said. “Mr. Harris is an old friend.”
As soon as they entered, Tommy spotted an old man standing behind the wooden counter and smiled. He would have known Mr. Harris anywhere, even after all these years.
“Hello, Mr. Harris,” he said. “You probably don’t remember me, but-”“Tommy Miller!” Mr. Harris exclaimed. “Of course, I remember you! You used to come in here with your dad-you and your brothers.”
The display of bicycles caught Stacey’s eye, especially a small red tricycle, just her size. As Tommy watched his daughter’s eyes light up, another young child came to mind.
“I remember when my mom and dad got me my first bike for Christmas,” he murmured.
Mr. Harris chuckled. “It came from my store. Christmas of ‘55. I remember it because I had sold the only red Schwinn I had just a couple of days before your dad came in.
We had a blue one left, but it had to be red, he said. I told him I would order another one. It would be here in plenty of time for Christmas. Well, the bike didn’t come in until the day before Christmas Eve. When he came to get it, we discovered it wasn’t the same one he’d ordered, but a much more expensive model. He didn’t have the money to pay the difference, and it was way too late to re-order. He was just about the nicest fellow I’d ever met, and he did a wonderful job with the highway patrol and all, so-I just made the balance on that fancy bike a Christmas gift from me. It moved him to tears ... he thanked me over and over again.”
“I know that meant a lot to him,” Tommy replied quietly. “Dad never thought that he was anything special, but . . . he sure was to me.”
“How is your dad, Tommy?” the storekeeper asked. “I haven’t seen him in years-not since your family moved up north.”
Tommy hesitated a moment. “He was killed in the line of duty three years ago,” he said quietly. Tommy’s gaze rested on the bicycles gleaming brightly in the window, a reminder of the sacrifices his parents had made for him so long ago. “He died on Christmas Eve.”
Mr. Harris was deeply touched by Tommy’s story. Sadly, he extended his hand for Tommy’s farewell handshake. It was then that he noticed Tommy’s daughter couldn’t take her eyes off of the tricycle in his display case.
‘Just a minute,” he said. He walked to his display case and wheeled out the shiny, red tricycle. “Here you go, Miss Stacey-Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, Mr. Harris, we can’t possibly ... “ Tommy began, but the storekeeper waved him off with a grin.
“It’s a gift for the little one, Tommy.”
Mr. Harris chuckled as Stacey touched the red metal in awe and then climbed up onto the seat. He had seen that look before.
Glancing up at Tommy, he explained, “Some things never change ... like kids and bikes at Christmas.”
