The Christmas Present

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

For my Christmas column, I'd like once again to use a story written by my sister Gay Comboy.

The Christmas Present

It was a cold December day in 1948 in Northwest Arkansas. The pot-bellied stove blared in the sitting room. Adding to that warmth was the kitchen wood stove where Mama was cooking. Sometimes she’d let me help in the kitchen, but Papa told me I was too little to help him do chores.

I looked out the window, not knowing what to do with myself. A slight chill crept through the glass pane, making my cheeks tingle. The trees were bare of their leaves and the fields where daisies once bloomed were brown with touches of frost. Everything looked as bad as I felt.

I didn’t like being cooped up, and I really didn’t like my sister Joy abandoning me and starting school. Mama said they’d let me start next fall; I would be five years old. If it hadn’t been so close to Christmas I don’t know how I could have stood it.

A pickup truck turned into our lane. My heart leaped. Seldom did anyone come calling. "Mama, Mama," I yelled. "Someone’s a’commin’!" Mama came through the kitchen door and peeped out the window over my head. "Well, that’s Mrs. Jewitt," she said.

I remember hearing about Mrs. Jewitt. She’d been standing in front of her fireplace when her robe caught fire. Her husband came running when he heard her scream and wrapped her in a rug. Mama had gone over -she was always there when people were in need.

I was at Mama’s heels when she opened the door.

"Well, Mrs. Jewitt, how good to see you up and about. Come right in."

As Mrs. Jewitt and Mama talked, I soon lost interest in their conversation, but I kept watching, wanting to know what Mrs. Jewitt had in that sack. Maybe it was Christmas cookies or taffy. My ears really perked up when I heard it was for me. They went on talking like I wasn’t there, or not old enough to know what was being said.

Mama thanked her, "I’ll put it away and she can have it Christmas day."

She opened the den door and went to the white stand-up closet and put the sack inside on top of her mending.

I took a quick look at our Christmas tree. I’d gotten to help string the popcorn.

Not a word was said to me about my present. Mama told the rest of the kids how Mrs. Jewitt was a Jew and didn’t believe in Christmas but brought me a present anyway. Every time I got a chance, I’d sneak into the den, openthe closet door and make sure the present was still here. I’d get excited, knowing it was mine.

On Christmas eve, Papa had to go out and do some chores. All of us kids sat on the floor around Mama’s chair, listening to her read the Christmas story from the Bible. We were interrupted by a noise that sounded like someone was trying to get into the den.

"What could that be?" Mama asked. We kids ran to the French door and looked through the tiny window panes.

"Oh, my, it’s Santa Claus."

Quiet as mice we watched Santa with his red suit, big belly, white beard and a large sack over his shoulder. He went right to our beautiful tree and started putting packages under it.

When one of the older kids whispered, "It’s Papa," I twirled my head to see if they were teasing. They started chuckling and I laughed with them. I didn’t want them to know I really thought it was Santa and wasn’t grown up. But my heart sank. I was angry with them saying it wasn’t Santa.

I couldn’t go to sleep thatnight and just knew morning would never come. The bed was cold, even with the mound of quilts and the wrapped hot bricks mama had placed at our feet.

"Merry Christmas," I awoke to hear my papa sing out. "Merry Christmas!"

We popped out of bed, excitement and cold engulfing us.

As we ran down the stairs, Papa met us with his play recorder, "Here comes Marie. Merry Christmas. Here comes Betty. Merry Christmas. Here comes Gay."

On he went as we made a mad dash into the den, and our presents.

Joy and I got a doll house with small furniture, wall papered just like our own house. Joy sat in front of it, slowly picking up each item while I went on to see what other wondrous things Santa, or Papa, had left me. I got a rag doll with two heads. Flip over the skirt and she was awake, flip the skirt the other way and she was asleep. Placing my two-headed doll in the cup of my arm, I began searching. Where was my present from Mrs. Jewitt?

I slowly inched to the stand-up closet, openedthe door and peeped inside. There it was! I rushed over to Mama and whispered, "My present."

She had forgotten. She opened the closet door and placed the present into my waiting arms. As my six brothers and sisters watched, I pulled out a store-bought rubber doll with a little round hole inside its red mouth. He had his own bottle. Never had any of us had, nor even seen, such an amazing doll.

I named him Roy. I forgot everything else and played only with him. He wet more diapers than mama could make. Roy was my favorite doll for many years.

Fifty years later, Roy sets in a shoe box in my closet. His painted face is paintless. His fingers and toes are almost gone. He looks well used, but he is a doll well loved. I often pull him out of my closet and think about throwing him away. Then I think of the fond memories he gives me and put him back for another day.

Marie Putman is a former Gravette resident and regular contributor to the Westside Eagle Observer.

Community News, Pages 11 on 12/22/2010