Ask a child, “What is your all-time favorite gift?” and he or she may give you a variety of responses: a Wii game program, an iPod, a cell phone or a laptop computer.
None of these acquisitions comes cheap. Sadly, our society and our children sometimes place values on possessions in direct relation to cost. Keeping up with Johnny or Joanie next door, giving a child what a parent never had, or buying a child’s affections may explain the need to shower young people with the very best that money can buy. My two favorite gifts, however, cost little or nothing; yet whenever I call them to memory, my heart warms and expands with pleasure.
When I was growing up, we had little money. My dad eked a living from the land; my mom made a home. We ate well off the farm and wore our home-sewn clothing stoically, but there were little extras.
When I was twelve, the price of corn and grain hit rock bottom. The summer netted bumper crops, sating the local feed markets and driving profits to farmers downward. Wheat bins and corn cribs bulged with more produce than cattle and hogs could consume. Since we depended on the sale of excess crops to pay the farm mortgage, land taxes and heavy utility bills, and to buy shoes, boots, and winter coats, the coming winter seemed bleak indeed. My siblings and I knew nothing of the threat to our livelihood. We only knew that Christmas might not come to our house that year.
As December 25 drew closer, I overheard my parents talking in hushed and worried tones. “What will we do? The kids need presents. I need staples for Christmas baking. What about lutefisk and lefsa for Christmas Eve supper? Christmas won’t be Christmas without any of these things.” My mother began to cry.
Dad comforted her, saying, “I’ll ask Bob Johnson down at the feed mill if he’ll buy some corn even though there’s no market for it right now.” Tears streamed down my face as I snuggled deeper into my downy quilt. I didn’t mind for me. I was old enough to do without, but my little sister and brother would be devastated.
Several days later, Dad blew through the door, propelled by an icy draught of winter wind. A sad little smile played around his mouth. Mom looked hopeful. “How much?” she asked.
“50 cents a bushel. I told him my kids need a Christmas. He finally agreed to buy 50 bushels.” He shoved a small wad of crumpled bills into Mom’s hand.
We awoke Christmas Eve morning to the cinnamon aroma of cookies baking. Norwegian lutefisk (cod soaked in lye) cooled in the refrigerator. Mom, elbow deep in flour, rolled out lefsa, a flatbread made from mashed potatoes and flour, the required companion to the fish – a meal that marked our family dinner on Christmas Eve as far back as I could remember. A small pile of gaily wrapped presents rested expectantly beneath a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. We danced around and giggled, tugging on her apron strings. How would we get through the day?
At last, evening fell and we watched the lights go out in the barn as Dad finished up the milking and evening chores. We endured our traditional Christmas Eve supper and thanked God that this one night of the year, the dishes could be washed and dried later. Dad played Santa, reading the tags and distributing our gifts – another yearly tradition. Dad’s heart was bigger than his imagination, so his gift to Mom was predictable – a chenille bathrobe. She feigned surprise and hugged him. Dad raved about the Old Spice cologne, his yearly gift from his unimaginative kids, bought with our pooled allowances.
Then it was my turn. Ripping the candy-striped wrapping from a rather large box, I pulled out a two-foot tall rag doll with a softly stuffed cloth body, painted-on green eyes with long lashes and a lush red mouth. Her yarn hair was orangish-red (like mine), braided into two pigtails and tied with fabric that matched her long, circular skirt. I recognized the cloth as coming from one of Mom’s discarded Sunday dresses. Naturally curious, I peeked under her skirt – and screamed! Another doll stared back at me! With blonde curly hair (like my sister’s), huge blue eyes, and a pink mouth, she was dressed in a coordinating blouse. When I held her up, the red-haired doll was completely obscured by the shared, reversible skirt sewed to the middle of the two connected dolls. Watching my delight as I turned the dolls over and over, my mom glowed with satisfaction and pride.
Baby brother Terry moved plastic animals in and out of the wooden barn, painstakingly cut, sanded, and nailed together by Dad’s big, rough hands, then painted a fire-engine red. Sister Cookie played with paper dolls and a cuddly, lopsided chenille-covered teddy bear – yes, made from Mom’s last year’s Christmas robe.
My second gift made me weep. Nestled inside an envelope of tissue paper lay a beautiful, white, lace-trimmed blouse. I gasped, afraid to touch it. Was this mine? Tears streaming down my face, I asked, “How could we afford this?” Mom ducked her head. “I made it from one of my petticoats. Do you like it?” I hugged her fiercely and ran to my bedroom to try it on, my two-in-one doll tucked beneath my arm. I wore the blouse everywhere until, I think, it finally fell apart. I still have the dual doll.
Slightly more affluent Christmases came to our home in later years. Store-bought toys and clothes excited us, I suppose, but I remember none of them. I fondly recall a home-made two-dolls-in-one keepsake and a delicate, ruffly blouse with puffy sleeves.
Hard times? No, not hard times – lovely times, memorable times, precious family times.
