Merry Christmas!

An Orphan Boy for Christmas

Recently, I was visited by The Ghost of Christmas Past just as surely as was Ebenezer Scrooge in the well-known Charles Dickens novel, A Christmas Carol. 

While preparing for the most important holiday of the year, I began thinking of former celebrations – all the way back to my childhood. As a little girl, Christmas couldn’t have been more wonderful. An only child, I was doted on by my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. I received more Christmas presents than any child deserves.  

But I was thankful. 

My mother taught me at a young age to appreciate what others did for me; I always showed delight with the gifts I received so that the givers knew they were appreciated. And so I wouldn't get into trouble with my mother! But one Christmas, when I was eleven years old, there was a surprise I hadn’t counted on, and wasn’t sure I wanted. 

My parents decided to bring home a little boy from an orphanage to spend Christmas with us. They didn’t ask for my input, which I resented, and I was uncertain how I felt about it. All of my relatives will want to make it a wonderful Christmas for this little orphan boy. What if he gets more presents than I do? Will I be able to be thankful and appreciative, or will I be envious of his loot? I’ve never had to share before. 

I didn’t say anything, but I was secretly concerned that this unusual venture might turn out badly for everyone. Especially me. 

Tommy was eight years old. He had pale skin, blonde hair, and was so skinny he looked like a stick with ears. At first glance, I felt a little sorry for him. The few clothes he brought were in a large paper bag. My mother put them in drawers in the room where he’d be sleeping. 

We hit it off pretty well. I taught him how to play one of my board games and we played until dinner was ready. He seemed alright. This might work out after all, I thought. 

Two days before Christmas, my mother took Tommy and me shopping to get a gift for my dad. We watched as she chose a nice wallet and had it gift wrapped and topped off with a big red bow. Then she took us to a soda shoppe for ice cream. It was a fun afternoon. On the way home, my mother cautioned us both, “Now, you must not say anything to your dad about what we bought him. It’s a surprise!” 

“Okay,” we said simultaneously. 

The next day was Christmas Eve – the day all my relatives came by to say Merry Christmas and deliver presents. My mother had all kinds of cookies, candy and other goodies made up for the occasion. Much fun was in store. 

As relatives started arriving, Tommy became more and more excited. Everyone smiled and spoke to him and, as presents were placed under the tree, he noticed that some of them had his name on them. He could hardly contain his excitement! 

After everyone was gone, Mother gave us some eggnog and cookies and told us it was bedtime. “Santa won’t come until you’re asleep,” she said. 

I went right to sleep, weary from so much activity and excitement.

Someone said my name. When I opened my eyes, Tommy was standing beside my bed smiling. “It’s Christmas!” He said. 

“Tommy, it’s not even light outside. What time is it?” 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Let’s go see if Santa came.” 

I can honestly say this was the first Christmas ever that my presents weren’t as important to me as watching someone else enjoy his. Tommy ran from one thing to another, not stopping long at one place before moving on to something else. He had cars, trucks, board games, GI Joe army men with a tank and an airplane, and other toys, but what he needed most was clothes. And he got them. There was a nice winter jacket, pants, shirts, socks, shoes, pajamas and underwear. He made quite a haul! He even got a little suitcase to put his clothes in when he goes somewhere. 

When my parents finally sat down to open their gifts, Tommy and I settled down nearby to watch, clapping our hands excitedly each time a gift was opened. When my dad picked up the familiar looking gift with the big red bow and began to tear the paper, Tommy couldn’t stand it any longer. With a glowing smile on his face, he blurted, “Somebody’s gonna get a billfold!” 

My mother waved her hands in the air and shot a nasty look his way, but the damage was done. My father, who loved a good faux pas, laughed heartily.  

Christmas Day was wonderful! My mother cooked a big turkey dinner with all the trimmings and Tommy and I played games and enjoyed our gifts all day long. My friend, Carol came by to see what I got for Christmas and told me about her gifts. 

That night, when Mother was tucking Tommy and me into bed, he surprised her by saying, “Goodnight, Mom.” 

The next morning, I asked my mother if we could keep Tommy – adopt him as a member of our family – my little brother? After a little hesitation, she said, “I’m sorry, honey. It just wouldn’t work out. It was a nice Christmas for Tommy and we enjoyed it, too, but we have to take him back now.  I knew better than to argue with my mother, so I nodded and wiped away the tears that were brimming in my eyes. 

Mother packed Tommy’s new clothes into his new suitcase and boxed up his new Christmas toys. And after a leisurely breakfast, we drove him back to the orphanage. The whole fifteen mile trip was silent – Tommy, looking out the window on one side of the car and I, on the other. 

Inside the orphanage, we took turns hugging Tommy and telling him goodbye, then he ran off to show some of the other boys what he had gotten for Christmas. He didn’t even look back as we were leaving.  

I cried all the way home. 

We never saw Tommy again. Nor did we ever hear from him.  

Sometimes I think about him and wonder where he is and what kind of life he had. I like to think that he was adopted by parents who needed a little boy to love. Someone who gave him a good home, an education and everything he needed for a good life. 

I think my parents thought they were teaching me a valuable lesson - showing  me how fortunate I was to be loved by so many and have so much given to me.

Letting me see the way some not-so-fortunate children live. 

I suppose it was a worthwhile lesson, but, after many years, it still makes me sad to remember Tommy and the way he looked on that long-ago Christmas morning when he stood beside my bed while it was still dark outside, and said, “It’s Christmas!”

 

~~~

 

A Happy Celebration

There’s no doubt about it – some days are better than others.

More fun.

For Mr. H. and me, yesterday was one of those days.

It wasn’t anything earth-shattering that made it more fun - just a simple change in our usual routine. Sometimes that’s all it takes. But this change was special!

We went to an open house for a “young” lady who was celebrating her 95^th birthday. I say young because she’s the youngest nonagenarian I’ve ever known. Well, actually, I haven’t known that many but this one definitely seems more like 75 than 95. Mr. H. agrees.

After welcoming us with a big smile and a warm hug, she happily told us a little about her daily life. Although she gets around in a power chair of some sort, she lives alone and manages very well. Still, some of her children come by to check on her every day.

The house was inviting. Everything was brightly decorated befitting the season with red and white poinsettias; and a lovely, tasty cake decorated in red was served on red plates.

We didn’t stay too long because there was a steady stream of well-wishers who wanted to spend time with her. She is loved by many and it’s easy to see why.

But we were grateful we didn’t leave before the birthday girl took out her harmonica and entertained us all with a lovely song. She plays very well, I might add.

It was a wonderfully happy occasion and she seemed to enjoy it thoroughly.

She must have been an amazing mother to have such devoted children who are now returning the love and attention she gave them many years ago when she worked hard to give them a good upbringing.

She is the perfect example of reaping what you sow.

When we said our good-byes, Mr. H. said, “We’ll be back in five years to celebrate your 100^th.”

She first nodded in agreement, then laughed and said, “I’d better not say that. I might not be here.”

But we all know it’s very likely she will be.

~~~

(I shall not die, but live and declare the works of the Lord. Psalm 118:17) 

 

Life Is Hard

 Almost everyone says something memorable at some time in their lives.

My paternal grandmother was Irish. She was also a little brusque; I was afraid of her. One never knew what she’d say. Most of the time, I steered clear of her.

But I recently heard a story about something she once said that made me think she must have had a softer side, too, even though I never saw it.

My grandfather died at 63, leaving her alone. She lived to be 92 and never remarried. Once, when she was talking with another family member about women who are left alone after their husbands die, she said, “Life is hard when you no longer have an old man's shoulder to lay your head on.”

Interesting how you think you knew someone from your past so well -- and then find out you didn’t know them at all.

~~~

Ah, Sweet Mysteries of Life

 

 Odd, how differently people interpret the events that make up their lives.

One of our daughters sometimes complains that she didn’t have a happy childhood. Her siblings don’t feel the same. During one of her complaining sessions, her sister said to her, “Sounds like you grew up in a different household than I did. I don’t remember things that way at all! I remember many happy times. Actually, we had a lot of fun growing up.”

With that fresh on my mind, I was talking to a friend last night when she broached the same subject. She said one of her sons complains all the time about his miserable childhood, while his brother and sister both recall fun-filled, happy childhood memories.

One wonders how two children can grow up in the same surroundings and come away with different recollections.

My friend, Carol, adds the best example by sharing a remark her mother used to make: “When I was a child,” she said, “I was so embarrassed when I had to get off the school bus in front of my house knowing all my friends would see the chickens walking around in my yard and on the front porch.”

But her sister’s interpretation was quite different. She said, “I loved seeing those chickens on the front porch and in the yard, ‘cause I knew that meant we were gonna have plenty of eggs!”

It’s all a matter of perception, isn’t it? We can either complain about the presence of chickens in our lives or be grateful for the eggs they provide.

And so it goes...

~~~

Odds and Ends

I watched the Great Gatsby last night, for the second time in a week. The 1974 version. It’s one of my favorite movies, although I’m always sad for days after watching it. The old music is great! I love What’ll I Do? and When We Were Only Seventeen. I have the book, and have read it, but watching a young Robert Redford in the starring role is much more exciting than sitting with a book in my lap for days. Sam Waterston is superb in the role of Nick Carraway, too!

~~~

When I visited my daughter a couple of weeks ago in NC, she loaned me her newest Nicholas Sparks book, The Longest Ride. No doubt, it’ll be a New York Times bestseller, as most of his books are. I read that eleven are on that list, and eight have been major motion pictures. With more than 85 million copies of his books sold, I’d say Nick is definitely doing something right!

But after reading the new one for only a short while, I'm afraid I spoiled it for myself last night.

Read the ending!

I always do that. Can’t help myself. I really don’t have the time to read all that background and description that seems to go on forever, to get to the bottom line, especially when I know already that this particular author’s books all end the same way: the hero or heroine dies! Always!

~~~

Got a flu shot two days ago and my arm is still sore, red and swollen, but I’m the envy of my grandchildren. Why?

 ‘Cause I’m sporting a Snoopy Band-aid. Mr. H. has one, too. As our youngest daughter used to say, “We’re two-together!”

And life goes on...

~~~

  

 

Best Friends

Her decline was incremental and hard to detect, but, although it took us a while to see it, we now know that she has been sick for a long time. She hid it well. None of the family knew she wasn’t taking her blood pressure pills or the pills the doctor had prescribed for arrhythmia. To her, taking pills every day somehow meant that one was weak and unwell. She wanted to be seen as strong, healthy and aging slowly.

Once, while visiting me, I put the tablets out that I take with my breakfast. Only two were prescription meds. The others were vitamins. But to Aunt Betty, that was a lot of pills, and she told me so.

“I guess I’m healthier than you,” she said. “I don’t take any pills and just look at all those you take!” She’s three months older than I am.

I tried to explain about the vitamins, but she wasn’t buying it. I was still ingesting several pills and, to her, that was a sure sign that I was ailing.

And not as strong as she.

Not too long after her visit, I received a call from another relative telling me that Betty was in the hospital. She was having a pacemaker installed. Also, her doctor had not concealed her anger when she learned that Betty hadn’t been taking her pills and she was released from the hospital with strict orders to take her meds as prescribed.

But in a phone conversation with her a few weeks later, I asked, “Are you taking your blood pressure pills?”

“Sometimes,” was her answer.

“Betty, you know what the doctor said,” I told her. “You must take your meds the way you’re supposed to; you could have a heart attack or stroke.”

“Aw, I’m alright,” she said.

Months passed. Her health declined even further. She couldn’t eat. She lost weight. She had no interest in anything and stayed in bed most of the time. I couldn’t reach her. When I phoned, nobody answered and she never returned my calls.

Other family members began to check on her and found her a mere shadow of her former self. She was thin, unkempt and so weak she couldn’t walk without help.

She wouldn’t hear of moving in with relatives who’d take good care of her. She begged them to let her stay in her own home. And they did.

As I write this, she’s back in the hospital. She had a procedure today called Ablation. I don’t understand it fully but am told it’s to keep the heart rate normal.

Relatives tell me to pray for a miracle, but be prepared for the worst.

Outside my window, clouds scud across a star-filled sky and hover over the dark ridges. For a moment, I return to our childhood, Betty’s and mine, and see two little girls squealing with delight about everything from choosing peppermint sticks from large glass jars at the Company Store and slurping ice cream from cardboard cups with wooden spoons on a steamy July evening – to frolicking around the yard in their underwear when a sudden thunderstorm arises. I watch as they explore the mountains surrounding the coal mining town where one of them lives, pick berries and splash around in a rippling creek on a hot summer day. Together since infancy. Best friends.

A tear runs down my cheek reminding me of the pain in my heart.

~~~

www.amazon.com/author/peggytoneyhorton