"Don't expect too much of Christmas Day. You can't crowd into it any arrears of unselfishness and kindliness that may have accrued during the past twelve months." ~ Oren Arnold
Kaddo Katz' Christmas Stories V
My Most Cherished Christmas Gift
It began with a small strip of cloth, approximately two by eight inches, on which someone had stitched lines of bright thread in hither and thither design. The stitches were all equal in size and tension - the product of a well-operating sewing machine.
It was 1953, a time of magic, for love turns everything to magic and we were in love. It was also my first time to share Christmas with the family of the man who was to become my husband the following Valentine's Day.
When I opened the small box (I expected it to contain a bracelet or necklace), I stared at it in amazement and a bit of disappointment, wondering about that tiny bit of cloth.
"There's more!" he told me, the now familiar gleam in his chocolate brown eyes. "In the basement!"
"The basement?" More amazement.
So we all trooped down to the old basement beneath the warm brick house and there, standing shiny bright on clean newspapers, was a sewing machine.
It was not a new sewing machine. New sewing machines were things dreams were made of, and much too expensive for new brides. It was a sewing machine, nevertheless, stripped of its old scratches and varnish and treadle. It gleamed in oaken splendor as a result of loving labor in sanding and polishing. The old machine was even revitalized with a new electric motor, straight from the pages of a mail order catalog.
We came from families where it was taken for granted that you canned and preserved most of the food which went on the family's table, just as you cut and sewed almost every item of clothing which went on the family's individual backs. His gift to me was a way of sustaining a tradition, and our first piece of furniture.
With it I sewed the curtains and cushions which first graced our humble four rooms. I stitched away many a long night as he slept in the next room, exhausted from his long day in the fields. There were dresses for me to wear to the office and new sports shirts for him. And soon, I was planning tiny things, piecing them together on that sturdy old machine, adding teddy bears and flowers with hand embroidery. Twice the small gowns and sacques and blankets were tucked away in a bottom drawer with the pastel shades of pink and blue dampened by tears of broken dreams. All that changed one bright February morn, and the sun shone so brightly at our home we hardly needed to turn on the lights. Our daughter was born and two years later, a son helped brighten our home. To our surprise (somewhat), five years later another beautiful daughter was born.
That old sewing machine kept me busy. We spent many intimate hours together; stitching ruffled dresses in progressive sizes, struggling with the corded seams of pint-sized cowboy shirts, fitting pattern pieces very carefully onto remnants, and turning all the leftover scraps into minute doll dresses and shirts for teddy bears.
Later, there were Halloween costumes: a comic book hero, a witch, a leopard, a toreador, and even a perky black and white skunk with a (thanks to Daddy) wired tail which made it every bit as handsome as any of Disney's creations!
Like my mother before me, I became a 4-H leader, and little girls from fancier homes than ours learned to sew on that kindly old machine. It insisted on straight seams, though, and did cause a few tears. Later, those same little girls entrusted me with making their prom dresses and wedding gowns, knowing the seams would be straight as only that old machine could do.
Paper patterns grew tattered and torn as we used them over and over with variations and adjustments. The spool box became cluttered with tangles of every conceivable color. Buttons found their separate ways into a tin fruitcake box which rattled delightfully when shaken. Its contents were used not only to march proudly down the front or back of a sewing project, but also as farm produce carried in small metal trucks and as delectable morsels served up on tin tea sets. Rows of buttons on the rug were carefully counted, one, two, three...and colors were learned, blue, yellow, green, red.
Pants knees were patched and patched again. Hems were let down and trim stitched over the white lines to cover the fade marks. Collars on work shirts were turned (oh, how we hated that chore). And pockets, which had been made untrustworthy by more important things than coins (such as nuts, bolts, and colored pebbles), were reinforced.
Yes, we spent many hours together, that sewing machine and I. As the needle plunged up and down, I planned menus and surprises and wrote invisible poems in my mind. I worried over finances and stewed over the United Nations veto powers and my choices in the next election. Some hours were delightful and fun-filled, and some were just plain work.
But that old machine never let me down. All it asked was an occasional squirt of oil and once in a while, a new light bulb or belt. Seldom does a woman find as true a friend. That old machine was there when we became one. It helped turn a house into a home and it dressed our babes far beyond what our meager financial means would have permitted if we had purchased "ready-mades."
Years later, I received another sewing machine - the very best, top of the line model. Its cabinet had never been kicked or scratched, and it purred every stitch in quiet splendor.
By now, however, we could afford to buy draperies and slipcovers, and teenagers don't always appreciate Mother's choice of pattern and fabric. The promised magic wasn't to be found in those fancy zigzag stitches; not for those who had known and lived by the purity of the straightforward. That beautiful, fancy new machine, though no longer new, still has low mileage.
My old sewing machine wasn't fancy, but it was special. It wasn't just a Christmas gift of which dreams were made. It did much, much more. It
made dreams come true!
~
Dorthy M. Ross ~
Dinglemayer & Son
It was a cold, gray November day in Salzburg. Along the narrow street the shop lights glowed in the twilight. Half way down the row of shops there was a bakery. It announced in tarnished letters, "Dinglemayer & Son Bakery." In the front window, only a few loaves of bread and some rolls were on display. Inside the shop, the walls were faded and cracked. The paint was peeling and a layer of dust covered the counter and shelves.
Johann Dinglemayer, the baker, was a nice old man, kindly, gentle, a little bit absentminded. There was a sprinkling of flour on the top of his little bald head and the tip of his nose. His shoulders were stooped from years of leaning over his trays of buns and pies. He was waiting for the chime of the church bells to announce the end of the day. He sighed when he remembered his good wife and how she had helped him with the baking. Together, they had made the finest bread, rolls, cookies, pies, and cakes. No one could decorate cakes more beautifully than Mrs. Dinglemayer. But she had died almost five years ago. He thought of his young son, Johann. He had hoped his son would help him in the bakery shop. But Johann had gone off to sea, and three years ago his ship had gone down in a storm.
As the lonely years passed, he baked less and less cakes, cookies, and pastries. Just a few of the old customers still bought his rolls and bread. Even at that, there were rolls and bread left over at the end of each day.
The little silver bell over the door tinkled gently, and the old baker looked up over his spectacles to see a young man in a patched coat approaching the counter. The baker smiled and asked, "Help you, sir?"
The young stranger nodded politely and replied, "T-two r-rolls, p-please." How he shivered from the wind and the cold.
Old Dinglemayer said, "What a cold day!"
"Y-yes," answered the young man. "I-I h-have c-come a g-great d-distance - V-vienna."
Johnann's thoughts went back to that fairy tale city, where years before he had been an apprentice baker at the famous Demel's. He thought of the towering cakes, the dainty cookies, the whipped cream - it always seemed that there were mountains of whipped cream, and how wonderful it all tasted. How the sight and taste delighted one and all!
"So you are from Vienna," Johann said. "Then you must spend the evening with me."
"I accept with pleasure," said the stranger, smiling. "My name is Franz."
He led the way back past the kitchen with its ovens, tables piled high with trays, and bins of flour. Beyond the kitchen was the small room where the old baker lived. It contained two soft chairs before a fireplace, a table and chairs, a small black stove and in the corner, a comfortable bed. And it was so warm. Franz sank gratefully into one of the chairs by the fire. Old Dinglemayer added a log and the fire burned cheerily.
Soon they sat down to steaming bowls of homemade barley soup, warm rolls, and plenty of butter. "Not much," the baker apologized, "but you are welcome to share my supper."
"It's a feast!" cried Franz.
So the newfound friends ate their simple meal and talked of the wonderful city of Vienna. Mr. Dinglemayer smiled and his cheeks glowed with excitement when Franz spoke of the great coffee houses, restaurants, and remarkable pastry which was still served there.
After a time, Franz gently drew out of Mr. Dinglemayer the story of all his misfortunes. The baker ended by saying that Christmas was coming, and that was the saddest time of all. He recalled how the people came crowding into his shop to buy all his Christmas treats. "Those were wonderful days," sighed the old baker.
Franz nodded his curly head and blinked his blue eyes in agreement. Clearing his throat and speaking softly, Franz said, "Mr. Dinglemayer, if you will have me, I would be glad to serve as your helper. We could start your Christmas baking for the holiday right away. What do you say?"
At first, Mr. Dinglemayer was speechless. Then he shouted, "W-why, it would be a dream come true!" And he tipped over his soup bowl in his excitement.
They began that very night to plan and select the special Christmas recipes they would start baking for the holiday season. The old clock chimed twelve before they realized they must rest and be up early to begin.
Slowly the old bakery came to life. The crystal chandelier glowed. The gilt mirrors and the shop window sparkled like diamonds. The letters in the window glittered like gold.
A week later, people stopped in astonishment to look at the sweets and pastry on display. There were fudge cakes shaped like Christmas trees, covered with whipped cream snow and cherries. There were candy sleighs filled with butter cookies shaped like bells, wreaths, angels, and reindeer. There were colorful gingerbread houses. There were sponge snowmen in suits of white cream frosting and coconut. And the wonderful scents of cinnamon, chocolate, almonds, and butter filled the shop and drifted outdoors each time an eager customer made his way into the crowded bakery.
Finally, Christmas came. Sad to say, it was time for Franz to go. But first, they had a Christmas gift for each other - just words, but what precious words:
"Merry Christmas, my son."
"Merry Christmas, my father."
So you see, the sign was right after all!
~
Lesley M. Curran ~
Angels of Christmas
Outside the church on the snow-lined sidewalk which had been shoveled hours before, the celestial sisters hurried long: organdy angels crushed beneath wool plaid coats, cheesecloth wings folded under their arms. Their earthly mothers with earthly brothers in tow carried brown grocery bags containing the shepherds' bathrobes and cane staffs. In trios and quartets on the curb, fathers talked quietly, nervously waiting for the service to begin.
Tonight was the night of the annual Christmas program, a scene that was repeated at some time or another in each church in the community.
The program had been practiced for weeks. At choir rehearsals after school, the voices had sung again the verses that did not need to be recommitted to memory. During Sunday morning church school, the shepherds and angels had entered and exited the choir loft stage, rehearsing the ageless words they had been assigned, while the baby doll Jesus and Mary and Joseph (that sanctified couple who never had a line) formed the classic tableau.
Although I often sang in the children's choir or occasionally the piano, I remember that one year I was one of the angels, tinsel halo bobby pinned to my hair. The stepladder hilltop, draped with a white bed sheet, seemed a precarious perch for us Bethlehem angels and probably accounts for the unheavenly scowl on our faces in the Christmas snapshot.
Certainly Christmastime is the loveliest time to enter a church: the month of candlelight, red poinsettias,
and the overpowering scent of pine. At the front of the sanctuary, we always had a real Christmas tree, the tallest one, surely, in my December world, bedecked with a miscellany of family ornaments and lights.
The congregation sat for this Sunday evening program in the same places they occupied for the Sunday morning service. Families in their family pews visited a little more boisterously than they did on Sunday mornings since the occasion was one of seasonal joy that is both sacred and secular.
There was an hour of special music (always a vocal solo of "I Wonder as I Wander" by the minister's son); eager recitations of St. Luke from red-dressed children whose parents nervously laughed and then spontaneously applauded; a few words meditation from the uncommonly relaxed pastor; and then the song leader stood beside the piano and led the audience in the carols for which no hymnals were needed. We always closed with "Silent Night."
At that point, Santa Claus burst through the door of the pastor's study and into the sanctuary. It was not in the least anticlimactic, despite the regularity of his annual visit.
The small children could not be restrained and rushed out to meet him. The adults smiled and at last forgot their own children. The older youngsters whispered knowingly of Santa's identity, naming an absent deacon.
Santa laughed and joked and with the assistance of the ushers, handed out to the children from each family a small brown sack heavy with peppermints, candy ribbons, chocolates, candied orange slices, and Brazil nuts.
Breaking up the evening was difficult to do. Once on, the gossamer wings seemed delightfully comfortable after all; it was hard letting go of what we had. Reluctantly, the congregation moved into the night from the church whose heavy leaded window had lighted from within, rather than from without.
The winter air did not seem so cold.
~
Cindy Hoffman ~
The Popcorn Trees
There is no Christmas tree more beautiful than one decorated by nature. After several years of little or no snowfall during the holidays, this year seemed to have us right in the middle of the snow belt. Wild winter winds bustled in between the Blue Ridge Mountains and dumped heavy snows all along our valley. The snow pirouetted into circular drifts across the meadowlands but little of the powder remained on our swaying pines, spruces, and hemlocks. Occasionally, dark charcoal clouds would roll in, depositing a wet snow upon the countryside and woodlands, dramatically changing our frozen, drab, bare villages into a dreamland. During the morning hours, the world would be a scenic panorama of diamonds glittering upon puffs of fantasy. It was breathtakingly lovely, but didn't last once the sun came out again.
While the snow neglected our outdoor trees, we concentrated on the one we had inside. On Christmas Day, the grandchildren had everyone up before dawn to gather round our Christmas tree in the living room of the farmhouse. We all agreed that it was the most perfect Christmas tree we had ever, had. It was indeed a spectacular sight, perfectly shaped and handsomely decorated, and the scent of fresh pine wafted through the house. We didn't think a more beautiful tree could exist.
As daylight slowly emerged in the valley, however, we noticed that there had been a heavy snowfall during the night. The pines, hemlocks, and spruces were now decorated with adorable little plops of soft, glistening, feathery snow.
"They look as though they've been decorated with popcorn," the children decided, and we all agreed. The popcorn snow must have frozen to the limbs, for the trees were decorated with the popcorn snow throughout the holidays. This has been the only time in all of my country Christmases that I've shared in the joy of having our trees decorated with popcorn snow by the best decorator of all, Mother Nature.
~
Helen Colwell Oakley ~
What Is Christmas?
Faith and hope and love, which cannot be bought or sold or bartered, but only given away, are the wellsprings - firm and deep - of Christmas celebrations. These are the gifts without price, the ornaments incapable of imitation, discovered only within oneself, and are, therefore, unique. They are not always easy to come by, but they are in unlimited supply - ever in the province of all.
This Christmas, mend a quarrel. Seek out a forgotten friend. Dismiss suspicion, and replace it with trust. Write a love letter. Share some treasure. Give a soft answer. Encourage youth. Manifest your loyalty in word and deed. Keep a promise. Listen. Apologize if you are wrong. Try to understand. Flout envy. Examine your demands on others. Think first of someone else. Appreciate. Be kind. Be gentle. Laugh a little. Laugh a little more. Deserve confidence. Take up arms against malice. Express your gratitude. Go to church. Welcome a stranger. Gladden the heart of a child. Take pleasure in the beauty and wonder of this earth. These are inklings of a vast category ... a mere scratching of the surface.
They are simple things. You have heard them all before, but their influence has never been measured.
~
Author Unknown ~
