Dad Teaches Me the True Meaning of Christmas

It was the year that my Dad and mother were both working full-time. The bills had been getting paid and we had new clothes to wear. It was very good times for all of us.

It was 2 or 3 days before Christmas and the tree was hung and decorated with lights and tinsel. Under the tree, there seemed to be thousands of gifts. There were gifts large and small. This was going to be a great Christmas!

My Dad called my sisters and I together into the living room, near the tree. He explained that we were going to have a great Christmas, but that some other children would not be having a Christmas at all. He told each of us to choose one gift from under the tree that had our own name on it. This gift would go to a child so they could have a Christmas too. We were told not to squeeze or shake or in any way try to determine what the gift was.

When each of us had chosen a gift, we were loaded into the Pontiac and driven to the fire station. We took our gifts and gave them to a man in a fireman's jacket and helmet. We told the fireman that we wanted to give a present so that another child would be able to have a Christmas too.

We drove home in silence and deep thought.

On Christmas morning I was busy opening my gifts and my Dad said to me, “Somewhere, there is a little boy who is smiling because you gave them something to smile about.”

In that moment, my Dad taught me about caring about others.

Many years later, I was in a relationship with a woman with a young boy. I told him that my Dad had taught me about the true meaning of Christmas and that I wanted to share that with him. All through the summer, fall and into the winter Kyle would find a penny and put it into a jar. If he got some allowance money, he would take all of the change and put it into the jar. (I would often empty the change from my pockets and add a bit too when he wasn't looking) I told Kyle that every bit that he saved, that I would match and that he would get to go shopping for a needy child at Christmas.

Two weeks before Christmas, we dumped out the jar and counted it out carefully. There was just a bit over $20.00 in the jar. I told Kyle that he had $40 to spend and we went shopping. We went to the toy department and he got to work. He looked at large toys and would look to me for approval. I gave none. I explained that this was his gift and that he needed to pick it out himself. After a bit, he decided that rather than a single gift, if he got smaller gifts, he could make lots of children happy instead of just one. He ended up with about 6 toys, including a couple of girls toys. “Well, girls need toys too”, he said.

We paid the cashier and headed for the town hall were the toys were being collected. He carried in his huge bag of brand new toys and said, “These are for the children who won't have a Christmas”. I stood there, proud as any dad could be.

On Christmas day, I reminded Kyle that 6 children were opening presents, just like him, because he had cared.

I don't know where Kyle is in life now. I would hope that someday, he'll take a son or daughter to a fire station, arms loaded with toys, and he'll watch as his child says, “These are for the children who won't have a Christmas” and stand with pride like my dad and I did.

Childhood Memories (Re-post)

I was 18 months old and we were living in the old, ramshackle house on Johnson Creek Blvd. on the east side of Portland. The house had a creek that ran under it and I can still remember the frogs that would croak under the house in the summertime. It was our first real house since my mother had married my dad but it was barely big enough for this instant family of five. I remember that we didn't have doors on the inside of the house, so my dad had nailed blankets over the doorways to provide some privacy.

The house was set far back from the main road, but you could still hear the clang, clang of the trolley's bell as it went past, and you could see the sparks from the overhead wire.

I remember the tiny bathroom and the shelves lined with many, pretty bottles. I loved the blue bottle that my mother would open sometimes. She would put a few drops of liquid on her hands and rub it on herself. She smelled so good! It was something that smelled so good that you just couldn't leave it there, on the shelf.

One day, I was exploring (as I did a lot) and found that pretty blue bottle within my reach. I can remember that I got the lid open and the smell was incredible! I wanted to experience this fantastic odor more.

Now, a child's logic says "if it smells fantastic, then it must taste fantastic"...Right? Logical? I remember thinking, as I drank it, that it really, really didn't taste as good as it smelled. But, I kept drinking and managed to get the entire bottle of Evening in Paris into my stomach. Things got fuzzy after that, so I must relate via eyewitness testimony: I was tanked! It seems that Evening in Paris is predominately ethanol (somewhere upwards of 100 proof). The emergency room doctor assured my mother that I would be none the worse for wear after I had slept awhile.

Of course, for about a week after that, my diapers didn't smell badly anymore, but instead had a distinct odor of cologne. For some reason, my mother never wore that fragrance ever again, after that incident.

And, I never drank her cologne either.

PeeDee Gets A New Home for Christmas (Re-Post)

I have decided to relate a happy incident from my childhood...a sort of "feel-good" story.

We were living in Sellwood, a suburb of Portland. I was around 4 years old and my dad bought me a new pet. We had always had birds, cats (Iggy), dogs (Whitey), rabbits, turtles, fish...but my dad got me a tiny yellow gosling.

I named him "PeeDee" and he went everywhere with me. I would carry his soft little body with me everywhere I went. He would even go into the giant claw-foot tub with me. PeeDee must have liked living with us because he grew and grew and grew. He lost all of his soft, yellow down and started growing his snow white feathers. Even when he became fully grown, I would carry PeeDee everywhere I went.

PeeDee had a few people and animals that he did not like, and that was everyone but me. Poor Whitey could no longer go into the back yard without being pecked and beaten by PeeDee's wings. Iggy would go up the pear tree to escape. But PeeDee especially didn't like my dad and would peck, hiss and fly after my dad. All summer long, PeeDee got bigger and became more hateful.

Then, one night...sometime before Christmas, my dad told me that he had found a "new home" for PeeDee. We all climbed in the Pontiac and I held PeeDee on my lap. Now, it didn't take much to get me into that Pontiac...I loved night drives because the indian hood ornament lit up when the headlights were switched on. It was so neat!

So, off we went. We drove for awhile until we came to a huge building. there were trucks full of chickens and turkeys parked everywhere. People were walking about dressed in white uniforms with caps covering their hair. It seemed like a very busy place. My dad got out of the car and talked with a man. They would look over, occasionally, but were talking so quietly that I couldn't hear what they were saying.

Finally the man came over and told me that he would take PeeDee and that he would go to a good home for Christmas, along with all the other birds that I saw. I was so happy that PeeDee would get to spend Christmas at somebody's home.

We drove away and I was so happy that PeeDee would enjoy Christmas.

Now, didn't that story make you feel all warm and cozy inside?