So what did you get for Christmas? It’s a common question for December 26th, as we compare notes on what the Big Guy in the Red Suit crammed down our chimneys. The ritual of my growing up years was to leave the presents under the tree for the post-Christmas visits, as we’d show off our stack of loot to those who dropped by in between Christmas and New Year’s Day. My dad’s pile always included socks and underwear, which all had to be made in America, as he stayed true to his AFL-CIO union roots.
I’m guessing we all have memories of a Christmas present that was especially cherished. In 1959I received a doll I christened Linda, who still sits in a corner of my basement, kept for nostalgic reasons rather than any extrinsic value. Linda has never been quite the same since my brother and his friend Randy buried her in the sandbox.
Perhaps the most memorable of gifts, given to me on the cusp of adolescence, was the Singer sewing machine I received one snowy Christmas morning. I’d enjoyed my home economics class where I learned to sew, and visited my Aunt Annamae, the family seamstress, to use her machine. That Singer would get a good workout over the years, as I created a pale yellow dotted Swiss prom gown, a bridesmaid dress for my cousin’s wedding, my own wedding gown, and even a Salvation Army maternity uniform. That Singer was a gift that kept on giving.
I’ve since learned that family finances were much tighter than I realized as a child, but there were always presents under the tree on Klinger Avenue. The threat of Roy C. Bennett and Sid Topper’s lyrics never came true: “I’m gettin’ nuttin’ for Christmas, Mommy and Daddy are mad, I’m gettin’ nuttin’ for Christmas, ‘cause I ain’t been nuttin’ but bad.”
Such was not the case for Keisha, who attended our church in the Hough neighborhood in Cleveland. Christmas was on a Sunday, and the children had crossed the street from the housing project to attend our simple service that morning. Our four-year-old was gripping his new wrestling figures fiercely as the older kids excitedly told of their Christmas treasures. When I asked eleven-year-old Keisha what she’d gotten for Christmas, her answer stunned me: “Nothing.” She hadn’t been “nuttin’ but bad,” for she was one of the most responsible pre-teens I knew. No, her troubled mother had managed to get toys for the younger siblings, but there was no gift for Keisha on Christmas morning.
By that point, I’d seen poverty from too many angles to be a stranger to its tragic consequences, but a child without a present on Christmas? How could this be? Shifting into elf gear, I pulled gift items from the hidden stash every Salvation Army officer keeps handy. This wasn’t going to happen on my watch.
Ah, the memories of people and place, of gifts given and gifts received. It’s been a year when we’ve felt entitled to grumble, and we’ve been drawn too often into the depths of grief, but 2020 has also brought the gift of memory, recalling times when life was simpler, unencumbered by fear of contagion.
Bess Streeter Aldrich was a Nebraska writer whose words bring comfort and courage. “Christmas Eve was a night of song that wrapped itself about you like a shawl. But it warmed more than your body . . . filled it, too, with melody that would last forever. Even though you grew up and found you could never quite bring back the magic feeling of this night, the melody would stay in your heart always – a song for all the years.”
On this, the day after Christmas, I’m clinging tightly to the shawl of memory, and to the gift of song. What is to come? Howard Thurman gives direction: “When the song of the angels is stilled, when the star in the sky is gone . . . the work of Christmas begins . . . to bring peace among the people, to make music in the heart.” Today, peace joins memory and music: as perfect watchwords to carry into the new year.
