CHRISTMAS, 1965

CHRISTMAS, 1965

My mother never shied away from change. She just charged ahead, moving to her own bugle call, waiting until the battle was over to consider the consequences.

Not even Christmas was safe.

Christmas at our house was the biggest day of the year, a day filled with glitter and magic and warm kitchen smells. Aromas, both savory and sweet roamed through every room. Nanny and Pappaw would appear soon after Mama put away breakfast dishes, uncles, aunts, and cousins drifting in throughout the day. By the time dinner was ready, family decorated every piece of furniture.

But the Christmas magic always started the night before.

After dinner on Christmas Eve, we’d all pile into the station wagon and head for church. Even in those years when the temperature refused to drop, I felt an unmistakable crispness in the air as we sang Christmas hymns and listened to the pastor recount the story of the first Christmas. When the service concluded and we greeted old friends, my heart felt brand new—all shiny and clean.

Then some mother would look at her watch and we’d scatter like dandelion fluff in the breeze. Parents never had to mention bedtime twice on that night. We'd climb into pajamas, set treats out for Santa, and scamper into our beds without argument. Hunkering underneath blankets, we’d squeeze our eyes shut and try our best to fall asleep.

“Katy, are you awake?” Pete would ask, too loudly. Our two bedrooms were side by side so a whisper wouldn’t work, but Mama and Daddy were just down the hall, and we weren’t supposed to be talking.

“Shush, Pete!” I’d spit through clenched teeth. I was trying to hit that elusive spot where Pete could hear me, but parents could not.

“Pete, go to sleep!” Dee Dee would holler, thinking about Santa but not parents.

“I'm trying to sleep!” Katy would moan.

“Kids, if you don’t shut up and get to sleep, Santa will not stop at this house!” The thorniness in Daddy’s voice made concentrating on sleep easier. We didn’t want to make him mad, and we didn’t want to be awake when Santa arrived. We respected the big man’s rules; no one wanted him to skip our house.

Before the sun raised an eyebrow, we would wake up and beg Mama and Daddy to let us turn the knob that opened the magical door. That door, just a plain ‘ol wooden door leading from the hallway to our living room every other day, was the only thing separating us from the miracle that was Christmas morning. When we shoved it open, we would squeal with delight as a room filled with toys and surprises greeted us. Lights on the tree burned even brighter against the darkness, dancing off silver icicles dangling on branch ends. The room didn’t just glow, it glittered. We didn’t realize the living room was so small it didn’t take much to fill. To us, it was a gigantic toy paradise.

I was eleven the year it changed.

***

My mother was no wilting rosebud. She was as kind as she was strong, the two characteristics coalescing into one force of nature. It was her dynamic kindness that forever transformed the way we celebrated Christmas.

The year was 1965 and Mama left work early to drop off a gift for her best friend. Marilyn owned a little beauty shop on the other side of town. Her shop and other businesses faced one way, and a row of small, shabby houses faced the other, chain link fences separating them. It was Friday afternoon before Christmas Day on Sunday, and Mama was humming a Christmas tune as she parked. She loved everything about the Christmas season and wasn’t shy about exposing the fact. When she stepped out of her car and headed toward Marilyn’s shop, she noticed a group of kids around our ages playing in their backyard on the other side of the fence.

“Hey, kids,” she hollered. “Y’all ready for Santa Claus?”

I wasn’t there to witness the scene, but I didn’t have to be. I can see her in my heart just as clearly as if I had. That big ol’ smile of hers, the one that immediately set folks at ease, slid off her face and disappeared into asphalt beneath her feet after the oldest of the group walked over to the fence. In hushed tones, he told her they weren’t celebrating Christmas that year. “Mi madre es sick, Señora,” he said. “She is in the hospital and the bills are so high.”

Mama looked at the house, looked back at the children who reminded her of her own, glanced at the gift in her hand, and determined on the spot that hell would freeze over before she let those children go without Christmas. She marched into the shop where Marilyn stood, deft fingers rolling around a woman’s mane. Three or four others lined the wall, one under the dryer’s plastic dome, flipping through magazines and chatting about nothing important. Draping an arm across her friend’s shoulders, Mama informed Marilyn she would not be receiving the gift that was her reason for dropping by.

“Marilyn, do you have any idea what’s going on with the family who lives behind this building?” she asked.

“I barely have time to know what’s going on with my own family right now, Thelma. This is the busiest season of my year.”

“There are five kids living right behind this shop who won’t have any Christmas this year,” Mama blurted, “because their mother is sick, and their father is struggling to pay hospital bills.” As she turned toward the rest of the room, Mama had everyone’s attention. She used her index finger to make her point, hoping at least a couple of Marilyn’s clients would join her crusade.

“We are not letting those kids go without Christmas! They are already going through enough.”

After ordering Marilyn to hand out our telephone number Mama headed back to her car, not even noticing if the children were still playing. She turned the key, revved the engine, tore out of the parking lot, and sped home.

Barreling through the front door, Mama went straight to the kitchen, got out the church directory, and started dialing. We knew that look; we didn’t know what was behind it, but we saw Determination leading the charge.

“Kids,” she said between phone calls, “each of you needs to choose one gift from under the tree. Be sure your name is on it and put it on the table. You can keep that gift, but the others will go to some kids who won’t have Christmas unless we help.” She must have caught a glimpse of Katy and she added, “Oh! And Santa’s helping too so this Christmas will be a little different than we’re used to.”

Then she started dialing again. She didn’t look back, she knew better. She could sense our four stricken faces, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. She knew if she looked she would melt, and Determination would escape her grip.

We stood without moving, trying to untangle the words. It was as if she had spoken in a foreign language. One gift? No Christmas? What?

“Sandra, this is Thelma Prescott . . .”

She didn’t even stop to tell us the story. We had to figure it out through conversations she had with other kids’ parents. Mama explained later but at the time she was driven, trying to beat a clock that refused to slow down.

As we gathered around the dinner table that night, Mama made time to tell us about the five children who had so touched her. We listened, silently, as she told us how they reminded her of us. We had counted down every day until Christmas and were elated, that morning, to see there was only one day left before us and Santa. She figured they felt the same. When she explained about their sick mother, and that they weren’t going to have a Christmas, I felt a big hand around my chest, squeezing it tight.

My mother hadn’t kept her soft heart to herself. Like a handful of wildflower seeds tossed into the air, she had shared it with her children from the time we were small. Tears streamed down every one of our faces. Years later, when I had children of my own and realized how much our parents gave up for those glittery Christmas mornings, the impact was even stronger. Today some would ask why she didn’t just go to the toy store and buy more presents. The simple answer is, there was no money left. The only way Mama could get those children a Christmas was to give them ours.

By the time we climbed into bed, my mother had gathered food, gifts, and miscellaneous other items for the family no one knew existed a few hours before. She had rounded up a Christmas tree, complete with decorations, presents for each of the children—and their parents—and a full Christmas meal complete with our Christmas turkey and several of our favorite pies.

We never did get to meet those kids who changed our Christmas celebration; she didn’t take us with her to deliver theirs.

Christmas morning that year lacked the glitter, but none of the magic as we shoved open the door to a mostly empty living room. Still, the lights on our Christmas tree glowed brighter than ever as we imagined five faces on the other side of town. I don’t remember the couple of toys Santa brought me that year, but I do remember how proud I was of my mother. I remember the warmth I felt as I considered the real meaning of Christmas. I thought of the shepherds, how they left their sheep, running off without thinking. Like my Mama, who had changed our Christmas without thinking. I considered how they must have felt, awe dispelling darkness as they crowded together to worship the newborn king. Our dynamic, kind, and unselfish mother had made us every bit a part of that night as the shepherds.

Sitting on the couch with Daddy, watching her children open their meager gifts, tears filled Mama’s eyes then spilled onto her robe. Our mama didn’t often cry, so we were startled to see her wet emotions flowing in full view. We all moved toward her, tears reaching our eyes as well.

“Mama, what’s wrong?” I asked, gently patting her arm.

“Thelma?” Daddy wrapped his long arm around her.

Wiping her face, Mama tried to smile and tell us she was fine. But when she opened her mouth, the floodgate washed away again. It took her a bit, but she was finally able to choke out, “I’m so sorry for making you kids give up your Christmas.”

Those tears didn’t last long after we pounced, mangling her in a group hug.

From that Christmas forward, the Prescott family celebrated differently. Sure, we still had the fun, the food, and the family, but the way we looked at our gifts was never the same.

Mama had already given us the best Christmas present we would ever receive.