Bill trudged through the fresh, recently fallen snow. As he walked slowly along a path that he knew by heart, he thought of things his father had told him about when he was a young boy several decades ago. Bill's father lived with his grandparents on a small Prairie farm in Saskatchewan. The time was the mid-30s, smack dab in the middle of the Great Depression. World-wide times were desperate and none more so than in the Bread Basket of Canada but to his father on the farm, times were great. He had his loving grandparents and the farm and for all the young boy knew the world and his life were in fine shape. How times have changed, Bill thought, as he mechanically, routinely trudged his way home.
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The time was Christmas and Bill had just spent his last dollar on an inexpensive present for his young son, Harry. He knew that the boy would be disappointed when he opened the lone present on Christmas morning but Bill was broke and more than a little down on his luck.
Bill's wife of seven years had given up hope of every having a home-life that she could call normal and a home to which she could invite friends. Her husband was a travelling salesman and spent far too much time away from her and their one child. Her only wish was that their six-year old son, Harry, would be mature enough to separate fact from fiction at Christmas time. All round them, boys and girls Harry's age were talking about the marvellous toys that Santa would bring them Christmas Eve and leave under gaily decorated Christmas trees. In Harry's home, there was no Christmas tree and precious few brightly wrapped presents. What few there were, were wrapped in old, discarded newspapers picked up from one or two of the many blue boxes that seem to dot the neighbourhood.
It seemed a bit like walking up the down escalator that Harry and his mother and his seldom-home father managed to hang on to their modest home when all around them neighbours had sold out and moved on, their homes torn down and new, upscale monster houses built in their place. Harry and his family clearly were out of their element. Eager real estate salesmen bent on convincing them to pull up stakes in return for a sizeable amount of cash had approached them. Just think, Harry and his mother and father were told, with all that money they could buy a new place in a different part of town when they would feel more at ease. The salesmen's pitch was inviting but Harry's parents knew that it would take much more money than they were being offered to buy a new house elsewhere; so, they stayed and put up with the monster houses that sprung up around them almost weekly. Dwarfed, but undaunted, Bill and his family stayed the course and more and more became claustrophobic as the neighbours with their big houses, fancy cars and annual vacations closed in.
Bill thought of this and a dozen other things as he trod slowly along that well-known path. He compared his son's situation to his father's years ago when he was happy at home with his grandparents. While Harry was about the same age as his grandfather was when he lived on the farm, the boys' circumstances were vastly different. For one, the joy of knowing loving grandparents and not wanting for anything was normal, for the other, the lack of a loving home and always feeling 'on the outside looking in' was tearing at a young heart and tormenting an equally young mind. For one, there was sadness all round, for the other there was only pleasant memories.
Harry's Christmas Day began as most other days began, bleak and without promise. His father had managed his schedule to be home with his son and wife; however, even though Harry's parents were together, love was not present in any degree. Harry sensed that his mother and father would soon part; this thought saddened him greatly. Harry knew that Christmas was the celebration of Christ's birth but beyond that he knew little of the significance of the day. Neither his father nor his mother attended church, not even when they had married; a civil ceremony at city hall had been okay for them. Later, Harry would learn how much they missed by not attending church even irregularly. Now, however, he knew how much he wanted to be like some of his schoolmates who often talked about their wonderful time at church with their parents. Harry knew so little about Jesus Christ and His birth that Christmas Day for him was pretty well just another day, dreary and dull as all others.
After his parents had awakened, dressed and had their 'must have' first cup of coffee, Harry and they gathered in their living room where the few presents were on the floor; there was not a Christmas tree to be seen. Harry reached for a small newspaper-wrapped parcel and read his name. With a resolve that belied his eagerness, Harry opened the parcel. The wrapping was meagre and within a moment, Harry held a pocket-knife in his hands. He saw that it was not new but it seemed to be in good working order. Harry knew that it had come from his father and that his father had spent about all that he could afford to purchase the knife. He also knew that his grandfather had given his father a knife when he, too, was about Harry's age. Although the knife was not new, Harry knew immediately that he would cherish it always.
Since neither parent seemed overly interested in opening the two remaining presents, Harry picked up one and handed it to his mother. It was from Harry and he felt a bit ashamed that it could not be more but when his mother opened the package and held up a beautiful hand mirror, Harry knew that she was pleased. He felt an urge to hug and kiss his mother but knew that she would not appreciate his action; so, he hung back even though there was a deep-seated love for his mother burning inside his young chest.
With one present unopened, Harry picked it up and saw that it was for him. He looked from one parent to the other then tore open the package. As the wrapping fell to the floor, he held a small compass in his hands. As with the knife, it too was used but appeared to be in fine shape. Harry knew that this was his mother's gift to him; he realised then that neither his mother nor father had given gifts to each other. He also felt a bit embarrassed knowing that the little money they had had gone for their gifts to him. His love for his parents grew but Harry knew that it would not show outwardly; outward emotion - either joy or sadness - was not something anyone in the family displayed. Harry kept his feelings to himself.
Harry's day ended a bit cheerier than it had begun but still Harry was sad. Perhaps, he thought, some day I will be like my classmates and receive fancy, gaily wrapped gifts at Christmas time and take annual vacations. Someday, perhaps, I too will go to church and learn of Jesus Christ and know His wonderful message. Someday, perhaps, my mother and father will learn to love each other as I love them. Someday, perhaps, we can be a real family and not be embarrassed to show our emotions. Someday, perhaps.
With those thoughts, six-year-old Harry fell asleep.
Bob Orrick is a retired private tutor of English grammar, literature, poetry and Canadian history to off-shore youngsters. His pupils hail from such places as Taiwan, China, Japan, Hong Kong, Korea and Venezuela. He was previously in international marketing, was a ministerial assistant to a provincial cabinet minister, spent a few years as a reporter then editor of a community newspaper and enjoyed a career in the Royal Canadian Navy.
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