The Gift

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The Gift

A Christmas story from my childhood

When I was small, the idea of writing a note to Santa or even whispering with my sisters what we might want for Christmas was a foreign concept. But this didn't bother me. There was so much else to enjoy about the season. For one, we were out of school for two whole weeks. That alone was a godsend.

And, being unaware of how annoying all the hoopla around Christmas can be for people who don't celebrate the holiday, I was ecstatic that carols were everywhere: in our school assemblies, on sidewalks where Salvation Army recruits sang of joy and jingled bells for donations, inside of department stores, and on TV and radio. I absolutely adored Christmas carols, especially ones with ancient, timeless melodies.

Then there were the cards.

My stepmother would pull out her Underwood manual typewriter and a crinkled list of names and addresses. She'd sign cards and type envelopes, which my sisters and I would then lick closed.

A treasure trove of cards slid in through our mail slot, too. Some depicted gorgeous, glittered scenes of wise men approaching Bethlehem or Mary holding baby Jesus; others had cozy rooms with fireplaces and Christmas trees with presents piled high, or snow falling outside a home with a horse-drawn carriage out front and Santa and his reindeer flying overhead.

And the snow. There was always snow back then in Chicagoland. And in December winter was new. We hadn't yet faced January's mercury hovering mercilessly near zero, February's dark, brutal nights closing in forever, or the gray slush of March slopping at roadsides. Winter in December was aglow with kindness. And there were the smells of cookies baking, bright decorations everywhere, and little gifts sent back and forth with neighbors, each sharing a specialty, including a fruitcake brick or two. All these things made it easy to forget about this whole gift thing.

This isn't to say my sisters and I didn't receive presents. We did, but since we were not allowed to ask for anything, our parents didn't know what we longed for. We usually got the same things, like maybe headbands, only in different colors so we could tell them apart. Nothing memorable. But there was one gift so unsettling it was impossible to forget. I received an enormous bride doll with long yellow curls, blue eyes, a white dress, veil and shoes, and silver tiara. I was seven years old, and, standing, it almost reached my shoulders. I, the youngest child, was the only one given a doll. Mystified, my sisters and I gaped at this bug-eyed thing staring back at us.

You see, one day, when our stepmother was watching us not long after our mother's death, my sisters and I, at three, four and five years old, were playing with dolls. They were naked because we, their doctors, were examining them. This is a perfectly normal game for preschoolers, and especially normal for us, because our mother's father was a real doctor. When she was alive, we spent golden hours with him, and we picked up on little things like taking a pulse and having someone open their mouth and say ah. But our stepmother found us at play and freaked out. Monsters, she called us. She snatched up the dolls and said we could never play with dolls again. And so we didn't.

Four years later, though, there sat this hulking surprise. I didn't have a clue what to do with it, not just because of the ban on dolls, but also because our father frowned on imaginary play. He wanted no stories, no tomfoolery, nothing irrational. The doll sat on our piano for the duration of vacation. Then I dragged it to our room and shoved it into the closet.

By the time the next Christmas rolled around, the doll had disappeared, and I never asked where it went. Not expecting much that year, my sisters and I came to the living room and saw a huge present under the tree. One gift for the three of us. It was a very long rectangle, about a foot and a half wide, and maybe four inches deep. We pulled off the bows and ribbon, took off the wrapping paper, pulled open the corrugated cardboard, and saw a sled. A sled! Of our very own.

Our grammar school was only a block away, and it sat on what, for the Midwest prairies of America, was a steep hill that led down to a wide-open field. Kids from all over town went sledding there. We'd gone in years past using big pieces of cardboard, which worked till they grew soggy or ripped apart. Sometimes school friends would offer to share their sleds with us. But we couldn't quite bring ourselves to accept. We made excuses and flew home.

Now, before us, was a sled. I'd never wished for anything so grand. It was light-colored wood, varnished, with some swirly red lines painted along the edges. The rungs were a smooth, shining black.

That evening, snowflakes fell outside. The sight of them twinkling in the gleam of a streetlight bordering our yard was in itself a wonder, and knowing that this meant the next day would be good for sledding made it impossible to sit still. The next morning, we bundled into layer upon layer of flannel, corduroy, wool and rubber. And off we went. We tried riding down all three together, but it wasn't long before I, the last to board, bounced off the rear end. So we took turns going down solo on our tummies or two together sitting up. What a thrill it was! We went up and down again and again, laughing along with all the other kids, fitting right in, for once. We eventually came home, soaked through and through. But warm and glowing on the inside.

We were young. There was no internet, no social media. It would be years before I held a transistor radio in my hand. We saw only glimpses of how other families lived. Not wanting anything was our normal. I didn't feel deprived. And that Christmas was the happiest of my childhood.