by Mary Erickson
Author of My Life Undercover,
When I think about that winter when much of America was still knee-deep in the dregs of the depression, I remember first the cold. Even living in Phoenix, where the only heat in the place was a small gluttonous pot-bellied stove that gobbled firewood, it took awhile after Dad got the fire going to get the chill out. So on Christmas morning, when my feet hit the floor, that’s what I thought about the cold. Then, remembering what day, it was these thoughts were quickly shoved aside to make room for new ones. Years later, when I married and had a family of my own, I remember my children’s small faces on that most special day. Their eyes were wide with wonder as they approached the sparkly tree surrounded by mounds of colorful gifts. But when I look back at that little girl of long ago, that small child who was me, holding her thin, faded nightgown around her like a cloak, I see other eyes, eyes too old for one so small, filled with doubt and skepticism.
Two nights earlier, my three sisters and I had attended a party. I didn’t know until later that the party was put on by one of the local charities for families of the poor. It had been fun. We stuffed our small stomachs with candy, cookies, and punch. When else did we get to experience such delights? And when we danced in line, waiting our turn to see Santa, I know our eyes, then, were bright. We all brought home big, gaily wrapped boxes, and showed Mama no mercy until she let us open them.
I remember her smile, so warm and happy. And even in the midst of my own childish anguish, I can recall her crumbled face later, after the boxes were opened, one by one, to reveal toy cars, toy guns, and bags of marbles. I’m sorry, she cried, her eyes moist, as though she were personally responsible for the mix-up, the snafu that resulted in four little girls receiving the wrong presents.
Standing there on the rough, wooden floor, my eyes lit first on the tree, dressed lovingly in strings of popcorn and construction paper garlands. And then, like a big girl who forced herself to open her mouth wide for bad-tasting medicine, I lowered my eyes. Underneath the tree were an archery set, two beautiful dolls, and a panda bear. Mama was standing next to the tree, beaming from her remade face. Merry Christmas, honey, she said. One of the dolls is for you, the one in the blue dress.
Nancy of the painted-on hair and cloth body was my companion for many years, the only doll I ever owned. It wasn’t until I reached adulthood that I learned the story of how she came to be under the tree on that wondrous Christmas morning.
After the depression, Dad worked at any job he could find in California, where we’d lived. One of his jobs was picking oranges for a dollar a day. Eventually, broke and out of work, he took his family to Arizona, where we lived in a small cabin, sometimes used by workers on my grandfathers farm. Mamas sister still lived in California. Aunt Elsa was single and had a good job as a secretary, and Mama had written to ask for money to buy her little girls Christmas gifts.
Each day she made the trek down to the road to look in the mailbox, hoping to see an envelope with her sisters return address. And each day she walked back empty-handed, her shoulders a little more drooped than the day before. On Christmas Eve, after checking the box, she walked back to our little cabin with a spring in her step and a letter with a ten dollar bill in it clutched in her hand.
Mary Erickson
Published in U S Legacies Magazine December 2004
- Log in to post comments