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The Magic Of Christmas

by Florence Cardinal

It was 1939, and much of the country was still trying to recover from the Great Depression. We had little money but my husband George and I were better off than most. We had a large garden for vegetables and fruit. Our cattle, pigs and chickens supplied us with meat, milk, and eggs.

I washed the dishes and listened to a conversation between my five-year-old daughter Amanda and my sister's daughter Kate. I heard Kate tell Amanda that Santa wouldn't be coming this year. "Everybody is too poor," she said.

"Well, of course Santa will come," Amanda answered. "I know people don't have much money, but Santa doesn't need money. He uses magic."

After a few seconds of silence, Kate said, "I hope you're right, but I wouldn't count on it."

"He's coming," Amanda repeated, "and I even know what he's going to bring me."

The girls went back to playing house. I sighed. That conversation broke my heart. I knew what Amanda was expecting. She spent hours mooning over the big Eaton's doll in the catalog. The doll was beautiful with her frilly white dress and go-to-sleep eyes. But for what that doll cost, I could buy groceries for a month.

Amanda ignored all the signs that it would be a mighty slim Christmas. With a child's innocence, she didn't notice I couldn't afford to bake a Christmas cake. She didn't acknowledge that there was no money for new decorations. Every day she just got out the catalog and became engrossed in dreams of the doll.

I finally hid the catalog in a high cupboard, hoping she would forget her infatuation with the doll. She spent hours hunting for that catalog, but at last she gave up the search. "I don't need the book," she told me. "All I have to do is close my eyes and I can see my doll."

George was very quiet over the next two weeks. A few days before Christmas, he seemed to cheer up. He spent one whole evening playing his violin for us.

He loved that violin. It had been passed down from father to son for generations, and had a lovely mellow tone. He played with his eyes closed, and his face got all soft and dreamy. He seemed to forget he had an audience.

The music, especially the Christmas carols - Silent Night, Little Town of Bethlehem, Hark the Herald Angels sing - cheered us up. It even took Amanda's mind off the doll for a few hours. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it wasn't going to be such a glum Christmas after all.

On Christmas Eve we trimmed the tree we cut in the pasture. All we had for decorations were a few popcorn garlands and a bit of tarnished tinsel. I carefully unwrapped the Christmas Angel from the yellowing tissue paper and George placed it on top of the tree. To me, that tree looked like a pitiful parody, but Amanda stood gazing at it in awe. "Oh Mommy," she whispered. "The tree is beautiful. Now I know Santa is coming."

She hurried off to bed without a fuss, but I could hear her fighting to stay awake, listening for the jingle of sleigh bells or the patter of tiny hooves on the roof.

I woke up early to a cold, silent house. Then I heard George lighting a fire in the old potbellied heater and Amanda stirring in her room.

I climbed wearily out of bed. For the first time in my memory, I didn't feel the tingly excitement of Christmas morning. All I could envision was the look of disappointment on my daughter's face when she realized there was no Eaton's doll beneath the tree.

Then I heard her delighted squeal. Surely she wasn't that thrilled over the red mittens I had knit for her. What was going on?

"Mommy!" she shouted. "I told you Santa was magic. Come and see."

I hurried into the living room and stared in amazement. New red and green balls and a thick rope of tinsel added a glow to the little tree. A store-bought Christmas cake rested in the middle of the table, and several parcels had been added to the meager pile I had placed beneath the tree the night before.

On the chesterfield, her face ablaze with joy, sat Amanda cradling her precious Eaton's doll. Tears ran down my cheeks. I didn't know how he had done it, but George had managed to give us a perfect Christmas.

There was a surprise for me, too, a string of creamy white simulated pearls. George had seen me admiring them in the store window earlier in the year. George opened his gifts last. I was ashamed of the cheap plaque that had been all I could afford, but his warm smile told me he was pleased.

"Thank you, Anne," he said. "I have just the place for this." He crossed the room and hung the plaque in an empty space there. Only then did I realize how he had found the money to give us our Christmas. Only days before, that space had been occupied by his precious antique violin.

I moved to his side and we read the words together:

"God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can
And the wisdom to know the difference."

I know this story is true because it was one of the tales I heard every year at Christmas time when I was growing up. I also know it's true because I was the little girl who wanted, and got, her precious Eaton's doll.

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Florence Cardinal has been a freelance writer for almost fifty years, She has had work published in numerous magazines, including Western People, Good Old Days, Fate, Capper and Country Woman and is Sleep Disorders Guide for the web site About.com. If you have trouble sleeping, be sure to visit my site: http://sleepdisorders.about.com.


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