The Year of the Perfect Christmas Tree

by Gloria Houston (Published by Dial Books for Young Readers/New York)

                “Come, my pretty young'un,” Papa had said one day early in the spring, “it is time to choose the Christmas tree for the village church.”

                “But, Papa, Christmas will not come for a long while,” Ruthie said. The sarvice trees are just now in bloom.”

                “We must choose a special tree and mark it for the coming year.  It is the custom in our village,” said Papa, “for one family to give to all the folk in the village and up every hill and holler a Christmas tree for Pine Grove Church. This year it is our turn.

                “Some years a timbering man will give a fat round laurel from the northy coves, the kind the outlanders call rhododendron. Other years the holler folk may bring a cedar to spread its fragrance throughout the village church.”

                “What kind of tree shall we have, Papa?”  said Ruthie.

                “We shall have a balsam Christmas tree, my pretty young'un,” said Papa. The balsam grows up the rocky crags where only a venturesome man may go. The balsam is a perfect tree. It grows up high, near to heaven.”

                So Papa and Ruthie rode on Old Piedy’s back across the high cliffs and along the crags looking for the perfect balsam Christmas tree. They rode and rode, from early morning until the sun was high in the sky.

                Finally they saw it–growing on the edge of a high cliff on Grandfather Mountain. Alone, with no other trees around it. Its green color was dark and rich. It was the perfect shape and size, its tip-tip-top pointing up to heaven.

                “This will be our perfect Christmas tree,” said Papa. “And as is the custom, the selfsame year you shall be the heavenly angel in the village Christmas play.  It is fitting that you should mark the Christmas tree.” Papa took the red ribbon from Ruthie's coal-black curls. He lifted her high in his strong arms.

                “Tie this to the tip-tip-top,” he said.

                Then he kissed the dimple in each of Ruthie's cheeks.

                The summer came, and Papa was called away to be a soldier.  He went to fight in a war far across the sea.

                That year the timber was not cut. So Mama had no money to buy coffee, sugar, or cloth for new dresses.  Mama and Ruthie drank peppermint tea sweetened with honey.  Mama lowered the hems of Ruthie's dresses and embroidered pretty flowers over the tears and mends. Together they tended the little garden, growing vegetables to eat.

                And every night Mama tucked Ruthie into her little bed and listened as she said the same prayer.

                “Please send my papa home for Christmas,” Ruthie whispered. “And please have old St. Nicholas bring me a doll with a beautiful dress, the color of cream, all trimmed with ribbons and lace.”

                One day that fall, when the dried corn shocks rustled in the breeze, a package came from Papa. In it were soft silk stockings for Mama and blue satin ribbons for Ruthie. There was a letter too.

                “I'll be home for Christmas,” the letter said. “The war is finally over. The Armistice was signed today!”

                The days passed.  Each day Ruthie ran home from school as fast as the deer that fed by the stream.

                “Is Papa home?” she called as she ran up the steps. But every day Mama said, “Not today. Maybe tomorrow.   He will come on the Tweetsie train.”

                The days passed.  Ruthie listened for the squeaky whistle of the little train the mountain folk called Tweetsie, as it chugged through the valley and up the mountainside.  One day Mama and Ruthie harnessed Old Piedy to the sled and went to the station at Pineola.  But when the other men from the village stepped down from the train, Papa was not with them.

                Soon there was only one more day until Christmas Eve. Over at the school Miss Jenny and her pupils were practicing the Christmas play. The children sang the Appalachian lullaby “Jesus, Jesus, Rest Your Head. You have got a manger bed.”

                Miss Jenny chose the boy and girl who would be Mary and Joseph. Then she called Ruthie's name.

                'This year you shall be the heavenly angel,”  Miss Jenny said.  'This is the year your papa will give the church its Christmas tree.”

                Miss Jenny helped Ruthie climb up to stand on the teacher's chair so it would look as if she were up in the sky. Miss Jenny showed her how to hold her arms just so.

                “If you wear a dress with great big sleeves,” said Miss Jenny, “it will look like you have wings.”

                “Mama, Mama,” said Ruthie, as she ran up the front steps that day.  “I must have a new dress with great big sleeves.  I am going to be the heavenly angel when Papa gives the Christmas tree.”

                “Oh, my pretty young'un,” said Mama. “ I have no cloth to make a dress with great big sleeves. And I have no money until your papa comes home.  Mama kissed the dimple in each of Ruthie's cheeks and hugged her daughter tightly.

                That night the preacher from Pine Grove Church knocked at the door.

                'Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, Miz Green,” he said.  “And Tom is not yet home from the war.  Chad McKinney has been saving a prime cedar on his bottom land for Christmas next.  He'd as leave cut the tree this year.”

                “This is the year our family gives the tree,” said Mama. “Tom chose it before he went away to war.”

                “I had hoped you would heed my wish,”said the preacher. “The church must have a Christmas tree when the morrow comes.”

                “Tom is as good as his word.  Our family will give the tree this year,” said Mama.

                Late that night Mama wakened Ruthie. They dressed in their warm coats, hats, and mittens.  Mama hitched Old Piedy to the big sled Papa used to haul fire logs down from the ridges. The moon shone silver as Mama and Ruthie made their way up the hill.  Ruthie carried the lantern. As they came to the dark woods the winter moon made strange shadows on the snow.

                “Mama, I'm afraid,” said Ruthie.

                “No need to be afraid,” said Mama. “We're off to get the perfect balsam Christmas tree.”

                Mama began to sing “I wonder as I wander out under the sky.” Ruthie joined in the song. Soon she forgot to be afraid.

                Mama and Ruthie led Old Piedy and the sled up the hills and across the ridges, but they could not find the perfect balsam.

                “Papa says the balsam grows high on the rocky crags up near heaven where only a venturesome man will go,” said Ruthie.

                “The rocky craig,” said Mama.  “We have a long climb ahead.”

                Slowly they led Old Piedy along the ridge to the highest crag on Grandfather Mountain. They could see the village sleeping in the valley far below.  Finally at the edge of the highest cliff they saw the balsam standing alone.

                “There it is, Mama,” Ruthie cried. “See, there's my ribbon bow tied to the tip-tip-top.” Ruthie ran up the rocky crag as Mama and Old Piedy followed.

                The blade of Papa's ax shone in the moonlight as Mama lifted it high.  Thwack!  Crack! the sounds echoed through the rocks and hills.

                Then Mama picked up the saw and said, 'Take hold of the end, my pretty young'un.  Pull as hard as ever you can.”

                Mama pulled. Ruthie pulled.  Pull.  Pull. Back and forth until the perfect balsam Christmas tree fell softly into the snow.  Ruthie and Mama lifted the tree onto the sled and tied it there. Then they made their way down the ridge.

                “I saw three ships come sailing in, on Christmas Day in the morning,” they sang.

                Through the soft snow they led Old Piedy to the church. Together they lifted the perfect balsam Christmas tree from the sled and stood it in the corner near the belfry wall, just as the sun was rising over Doe Hill, they hurried home.

                Tucking Ruthie into her little bed, Mama whispered, 'The folk shall have their Christmas tree, and you shall be the heavenly angel this year.”

                Ruthie fell fast asleep, but Mama sat long by the firelight sewing as fast as her nimble fingers could move.

                First she cut the ribbons and lace from a wedding dress the color of cream. From it she fashioned a smaller dress with flowing sleeves.

                Then she took a soft silk stocking, stuffed it with lamb's wool, and stroked it until it was smooth and round. She embroidered it with two blue eyes, little black curls, and made a dimple in each cheek.  From the scraps of Ruthie's dress she made a tiny dress just like it, all trimmed with ribbons and lace. She dressed the stocking doll in the tiny dress.

                The sun was high in the winter sky when a knock came at the door. “Good Christmas Eve, Preacher Ollis,” Mama said.  “Do come in and spell yourself.”

                “Did you hear the news about the Christmas tree?” the preacher said. “ A wondrous balsam, from up the high crags, was found on the belfry porch this morning.”

                “Do tell!  Do tell! What a wonder,” said Mama.

                “And that's not all.  It's being told hereabouts that folks who live up the holler heard the angels singing high up on the ridge late into the night. And they were singing Christmas songs,” said Preacher Ollis.

                Ruthie hid her face in Mama's patchwork quilt so the preacher would not hear her laugh.

Daylight was fading when Mama helped Ruthie into the prettiest dress Ruthie had ever seen.  It was made of softest silk, the color of cream, all trimmed with ribbons and lace. It had long, flowing sleeves.

                “If you hold your arms just so,” said Mama, “ it will look like you have wings.”

                At the church the ladies of the valley had decorated the perfect balsam Christmas tree.  Reflections of the tiny red candles in their shiny holders fastened to the tips of the branches shone in the windows. Tied to the lower branches of the tree were presents wrapped in pretty paper. On the tip-tip-top was a tiny angel.

                The sexton rang the bell. From up and down the River Road, and from all the hills and hollers, the folk were coming to celebrate the Christmas tree. A choir of children sat by the organ. The three kings waited outside the belfry door.  Behind the bed-sheet curtains, Mama helped the little Mary put her doll to bed in the manger straw. Ruthie climbed up and stood on the preacher's big chair.

                The ladies pushed the bed-sheet curtains back. Ruthie could see herself in the dark church windows. She was careful to hold her arms just so. In her beautiful dress it looked as it she had wings.

                “Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy,” said Ruthie the heavenly angel.

                When the program was over, Ruthie went to sit with Mama on the front pew.  Mama held her close.

                Then the three kings came walking down the aisle, carrying lard pails filled with the Christmas treat pokes. Each bag contained a soft peppermint stick, some chocolate drops, an orange, and some hazelnuts.

                Behind the kings walked old St. Nicholas. He carried his toe sack goody bag with him.

                Old St. Nick visited the A-Men corner first. He gave each of the deacons a lump of coal or a willow switch. The folk in the church laughed.

                Then to all the children who had misbehaved, old st. Nick gave a willow switch or a lump of coal as well. Ruthie had been good that year, so she got a treat poke instead.

                At last it was time to call the names on the presents tied to the tree. Every child in the church received a present.  Everyone, that is, except Ruthie. A tear slipped down into the dimple in her cheek. Then one of the kings reached to the tip-tip-top of the perfect balsam Christmas tree, he lifted the tiny angel down.

                “Why Ruthie,” said old St. Nick, “this tiny angel looks just like you.”

                And it did. The tiny angel was wearing a dress just like Ruthie's.  It was made of softest silk, the color of cream.  It was trimmed with ribbons and lace. The sleeves were long and flowing, and it looked as if she had wings. The angel's curls were as black as coal, and she had a dimple in each cheek.

Ruthie hugged the tiny angel and kissed its silky cheek, which felt just like the silk stockings Papa had sent to Mama.

                The preacher said the benediction, and St. Nicholas wished to one and all a happy Christmas.

                Slowly the people began leaving the church. Mama and Ruthie walked out the belfry door. St. Nicholas was standing there. A man in an army uniform stood beside him.

                “And here is another present for you, Ruthie,” said St. Nicholas.

                But Ruthie was so busy looking at the tiny angel that she did not notice until strong arms picked her up.

                “Let me look at you, my pretty young'un,” said Papa's voice.

                And he hugged Ruthie, Mama, and the tiny angel all at the same time.

                The village folk gathered around the church steps.

                Someone from the village began to sing “Silent night.  Holy night. All is calm. All is bright.”

                The folk in the village joined in. But Papa, Mama, Ruthie, and the tiny angel hardly heard. They just hugged each other some more.

                And since that time, every year for more than sixty years, a tiny angel has stood on top of a perfect balsam Christmas tree. She wears a dress of softest silk, the color of cream, all trimmed with ribbons and lace. The sleeves are long and flowing, and it looks as if she has wings. The angel has coal-black curls and a dimple in each cheek.

                That's how it happened. The Christmas of the heavenly angel and the perfect balsam Christmas tree. Grandma Ruthie told me so.

                                                                  

Lessons Learned

Good afternoon! Unless you want to call it evening. Feel free.

You know how rumors are, right? They tend to grow and grow and grow until you sometimes cannot recognize them. Well, I’m going to pass on some information that my son gave me and it may just be a rumor but we’ll talk about that in a bit.

First, we talk about a lot of different things at our house. You know we have some birthdays in December. There’s Grandma, Aunt Julie, Grandma Roper, Cedric, Amena, Gammy, and some not-so-distant ancestors. There’s at least one anniversary—Becky and Jay. And then there is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ whom most of us recognize as the savior of the world. In our family, we celebrate Christmas. Anyway, lots going on.

This year much of the talk has been about Merry Christmas vs. Happy Holidays. Amena reports that one of the middle school English teachers wanted to show Frosty the Snowman during class. Pretty non-religious, right? Hah! Think again, people! It mentions Christmas and refers to the first snow of the year being magical, especially when it falls on Christmas Eve and can be called Christmas Snow. Oh my freaking gosh! Because of this reference, the movie cannot be shown in a middle school in Barre, Massachusetts. Why? you ask. Well, I don’t know but I can tell you what I was told.

Cedric came home today and while we were wrapping packages, Christmas gifts, for family near and far (the far might not make it in time I’m sorry to say) and drinking hot chocolate he said, “Mom, you know how we can’t talk about Christmas at school?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I found out why today.”

“Really? Do tell!”

Cedric is taking 30 of these to school tomorrow. He opted not to put tags on the that say "North Pole" because it would have taken longer and would have been, in his words, "A waste of paper." Still, the candy cane is still a pretty obvious symbol of Christmas.

It appears, according to what he heard, that one student came to the school with his or her parents and a lawyer or two. These parents don’t want their child to hear any references to or about Christmas. Hmmmmm. Really? I asked Cedric if he heard this from his teacher and he admitted that he did not but the student he heard it from seems to be reliable. Honestly, I don’t care about that. I’ll probably be sending an email or two tomorrow to see if I can find out if this report is true or not because I don’t tend to like rumors and gossip.

In spite of that, this is exactly what has gotten us to the point we are at. ONE person decides that they don’t like something, that something is offensive, or whatever and that ONE person doesn’t want to see or hear that thing that is offensive and because of that ONE person, the hundreds have to suddenly not say or do whatever it is that the ONE found offensive. I am so tempted to say a swear. I’m going to say something. BULL POOP, people! ONE person doesn’t make the rules, the majority does. If something is that offensive, stay the heck away.

It’s been a busy day today and it isn’t over. This morning the younger boys and I went to Bethany Price’s to make some sugar and salt scrubs. We were gone longer than I’d anticipated but that was okay. We’ve been busy at home getting things ready for Christmas—wrapping packages, making cupcakes, just fun stuff in general. Tonight there is a Cub Scout Pack Meeting that we need to leave for in half an hour. I’m glad that two of the things I had on the calendar for today didn’t happen. One needs to tomorrow. Tomorrow is going to be another fun day.

Right now I need to make some frosting with Cedric so I’ll be back sometime.

Now it is good evening. Pack meeting: done. Cupcakes: done. Children: mostly in bed. Time for a change of pace. I’m still majorly annoyed with this whole Christmas thing at school because I still don’t feel that one person has the right to take away my right to talk about Christmas AT SCHOOL. Even if it is more than one person. Until it is a majority, and even then, there are certain rights that all mankind have and no MAN (as in human) has the right to infringe on those. I believe that agency is one of those rights which means I have the right to say whatever the heck I want to.

The winning team in action.

In the meantime, I was looking at a post on Facebook in which a friend mentioned me. She posted a plank challenge and if you think it’s about wood, think again. If you know it isn’t about wood but think it’s easy, think again. I replied something to the effect of that it is cool when your 10-year-old wants to do the planks with you. And it is. But after I posted it, I got to thinking.

The winning teams: 1st, 2nd, 3rd.

My parents weren’t exactly physically active. My grandparents weren’t physically active for the sake of being physically fit, but they were because it was their lifestyle and they enjoyed doing things like cross-country skiing and walking and hiking. Papa used to ride his bicycle to work. Because I watched my grandparents be active, I was more than I would have just by watching the example of my parents. (Please don’t think I’m being critical here—just making observations.)

Seth wanted to do planks with me. I need to encourage my children to by physically active by being physically active myself. If I never go out and go walking or jogging or hiking, I can’t very well expect my children to want to just because I say they should. I don’t know why it has taken me so long to figure this out; pretty sad, it is. So, when Cedric expresses interest in doing PiYo next time, you bet I’m going to say, “Come on over!” The only problem is that he’ll be able to do everything that I can’t because he’s starting out in pretty darn good shape. And it would sure be nice to have a living room like Bethany Price with a big screen to go in it so that any children who wanted to could do it at the same time in the same room. 

The moral of today: stand up for your rights and be a good example to your children.

Have a splendid night!

The Other Wise Man

from the story by Henry Van Dyke

                The other wise man's name was Artaban. He was one of the Magi and he lived in Persia. He was a man of great wealth, great learning and great faith. With his learned companions he had searched the scriptures as to the time that the Savior should be born. They knew that a new star would appear and it was agreed between them that Artaban would watch from Persia and the others would observe the sky from Babylon.

                On the night he believed the sign was to be given, Artaban went out on his roof to watch the night sky. “If the star appears, they will wait for me ten days, then we will all set out together for Jerusalem. I have made ready for the journey by selling all my possessions and have bought three jewels--a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl. I intend to present them as my tribute to the king.”

                As he watched, an azure spark was born out of the darkness rounding itself with splendor into a crimson sphere. Artaban bowed his head. “It is the sign,” he said. “The King is coming, and I will go to meet him.”

                The swiftest of Artaban's horses had been waiting saddled and bridled in her stall, pawing the ground impatiently. She shared the eagerness of her master's purpose.

                As Artaban placed himself upon her back, he said, “God bless us both from failing and our souls from death.”

                They began their journey. Each day his faithful horse measured off the allotted proportion of the distance, and at nightfall on the tenth day, they approached the outskirts of Babylon. In a little island of desert palm trees, Artaban's horse scented difficulty and slackened her pace. Then she stood still, quivering in every muscle.

                Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lying in the roadway. His skin bore the mark of a deadly fever. The chill of death was in his lean hand. As Artaban turned to go, a sigh came from the sick man's lips.

                Artaban felt sorry that he could not stay to minister to this dying stranger, but this was the hour toward his entire life had been directed. He could not forfeit the reward of his years of study and faith to do a single deed of human mercy. But then, how could he leave his fellow man alone to die?

                “God of truth and mercy,” prayed Artaban, “direct me in the path of wisdom which only thou knowest.” Then he knew that he could not go on. The Magi were physicians as well as astronomers. He took off his robe and began his work of healing. Several hours later the patient regained consciousness. Artaban gave him all that was left of his bread and wine. He left a portion of healing herbs and instructions for his care.

                Though Artaban rode with the greatest haste the rest of the way, it was after dawn that he arrived at the designated meeting place. His friends were nowhere to be seen. Finally his eyes caught a piece of parchment arranged to attract his attention. It said, “We have waited till past midnight, and can delay no longer. We go to find the King. Follow us across the desert.”

                Artaban sat down in despair and covered his face with his hands. “How can I cross the desert with no food and with a spent horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my sapphire and buy camels and provisions for the journey. I may never overtake my friends. Only the merciful God knows whether or not I shall lose my purpose because I tarried to show mercy.”

                Several days later when Artaban arrived at Bethlehem, the streets were deserted. It was rumored that Herod was sending soldiers, presumably to enforce some new tax, and the men of the city had taken their flocks into the hills beyond his reach.

                The door of one dwelling was open, and Artaban could hear a mother singing a lullaby to her child. He entered and introduced himself. The woman told him that it was now the third day since the three wise men had appeared in Bethlehem. They had found the young child, and had laid their gifts at His feet. Then they had gone as mysteriously as they had come. Joseph had taken his wife and babe that same night and had secretly fled. It was whispered that they were going far away into Egypt.

                As Artaban listened, the baby reached up its dimpled hand and touched his cheek and smiled. His heart warmed at the touch. Then, suddenly, outside there arose a wild confusion of sounds. Women were shrieking. Then a desperate cry was heard, “The soldiers of Herod are killing the children.”

                Artaban went to the doorway. A band of soldiers came hurrying down the street. The captain approached the door to thrust Artaban aside, but Artaban did not stir. His face was as calm as though he were still watching the stars. Finally his outstretched hand revealed the giant ruby. He said, “I am waiting to give this jewel to the prudent captain who will go on his way and leave this house alone.”

                The captain, amazed at the splendor of the gem, took it and said to his men, “March on, there are no children here.”

                Then Artaban prayed, “Oh, God, forgive me my sin, I have spent for men that which was meant for God. Shall I ever be worthy to see the face of the King?”

                But the voice of the woman, weeping of joy in the shadows behind him said softly, “Thou hast saved the life of my little one. May the Lord bless thee and keep thee and give thee peace.”

                Artaban, still following the King went on into Egypt seeking everywhere for traces of the little family that had fled before him. For many years we follow Artaban in his search. We see him at the pyramids. We see him in Alexandria taking counsel with a Hebrew rabbi who told him to seek the king not among the rich but among the poor.

                He passed through countries where famine lay heavy upon the land, and the poor were crying for bread. He made his dwelling in plague-stricken cities. He visited the oppressed and the afflicted in prisons. He searched the crowded slave-markets. Through he found no one to worship, he found many to serve. As the years passed he fed the hungry, clothed the naked, healed the sick and comforted the captive.

                Thirty-three years had now passed away since Artaban began his search. His hair was white as snow. He knew his life's end was near, but he was still desperate with hope that he would find the King. He had come for the last time to Jerusalem.

                It was the season of the Passover and the city was thronged with strangers. Artaban inquired where they were going. One answered, “We are going to the execution on Golgotha outside the city walls. Two robbers are to be crucified, and with them another called Jesus of Nazareth, a man who has done many wonderful works among the people. He claims to be the Son of God and the priests and elders have said that he must die. Pilate sent him to the cross.”

                How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired heart of Artaban. They had led him for a lifetime over land and sea. And now they came to him like a message of despair. The King had been denied and cast out. Perhaps he was already dying. Could he be the same one for whom the star had appeared thirty-three long years ago?

                Artaban's heart beat loudly within him. He thought, “It may be that I shall yet find the King and be able to ransom him from death by giving my treasure to his enemies.”

                But as Artaban started toward Calvary, he saw a troop of soldiers coming down the street, dragging a sobbing young woman. As Artaban paused, she broke away from her tormentors and threw herself at his feet, her arms clasped around his knees.

                “Have pity on me,” she cried, “and save me. My father was also of the Magi, but he is dead. I am to be sold as a slave to pay his debts.”

                Artaban trembled as he again felt the conflict arising in his soul. It was the same that he had experienced in the palm grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem. Twice the gift which he had consecrated to the King had been drawn from his hand to the service of humanity. Would he now fail again? One thing was clear, he must rescue this helpless child from evil.

                He took the pearl and laid it in the hand of the girl and said “Daughter, this is the ransom. It is the last of my treasures which I had hoped to keep for the King.”

                While he spoke, the darkness of the sky thickened and the shuddering tremors of an earthquake ran through the ground. The houses rocked. The soldiers fled in terror. Artaban sank beside a protecting wall. What had he to fear? What had he to hope for? He had given away the last of his tribute to the King. The quest was over and he had failed. What else mattered?

                The earthquake quivered beneath him. A heavy tile, shaken from a roof, fell and struck him. He lay breathless and pale. Then there came a still small voice through the twilight. It was like distant music. The rescued girl leaned over him and heard him say, “Not so, my Lord, for when saw I thee hungered and fed thee? Or thirsty and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger and took thee in? Or naked and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison and came unto thee? Thirty-three years have I looked for thee; but I have never seen thy face, nor ministered unto thee, my King.”

                The sweet voice came again, “Verily I say unto thee, that inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me.”

                A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the face of Artaban as one long, last breath exhaled gently from his lips. His journey was ended. His treasure accepted. The Other Wise Man had found the King.

The Greatest Gift

Sandra Batemen

                It was but a few short days until Christmas in 1966. Two young elders of the Mormon Church walked the streets of Laredo, Texas, knocking on doors in search of someone who would listen to their gospel message. No one, it seemed, in the entire city had time to hear the teachings of the Savior, so intent were they that the celebration of His birth should suit their own social purposes.

               

                Filled with discouragement the two young men turned their backs to the approaching twilight and began the long walk home. Retracing their steps of the afternoon, they come upon a low, windswept riverbank. Jutting from its brow stood the barest means of a shelter, constructed of weathered wooden slats and large pieces of cardboard. Strangely, they felt moved to go to the door and knock. A small, olive-skinned child with tangled black hair and large dark eyes answered. Her mother appeared behind her, a short, thin woman with shy, smiling, dark-eyed children. The mother proudly introduced each of them - eight in all - and each in turn quickly bobbed his or her head.

                The young men were deeply moved at the extreme poverty they saw. Not one in the family had shoes, and their clothes were ill-fitting and in a condition beyond mending. The walls of the little home showed daylight between the wooden slats, and eight little rolls of bedding were pressed tightly into the cracks to help keep out the draft until they were needed for sleeping. A small round fire pit, dug in one corner, marked the kitchen. An odd assortment of chipped dishes and pots were stacked beside an old ice chest, and a curtained-off section with a cracked porcelain tub served as the bathing area. Except for these the room was barren.

                The mother told how her husband had gone north to find employment. He had written that he had found a job of manual labor and that it took most of his small wage to pay his room and board. But, she told the young men, he had managed to save fifty cents to send them for Christmas, with which she had purchased two boxes of fruit gelatin. It was one of the children's favorites and would make a special treat on Christmas day.

                Later, long after the young men had left the family, they still asked each other incredulously, “Fifty cents?...Fifty cents for eight children for Christmas?” Surely there must be something they could do to brighten Christmas for such children.

                The next morning, as soon as the local shops opened, the young men hurried to the dime store and purchased as many crayons, cars, trucks and little inexpensive toys as they could afford. Each was carefully wrapped in brightly colored paper and all were put in a large grocery bag. That evening the two young men took their gifts to the shanty on the river-bank. When they knocked, the mother swung the door open wide and invited them in. They stepped inside and in halting Spanish explained to the children that they had seen Santa and he had been in such a hurry he'd asked if they would deliver his gifts to the children for him.                 

                With cries of delight the children scrambled for the bag, spilling its contents upon the floor and quickly dividing the treasured packages. Silently the mother's eyes filled with tears of gratitude. She stepped forward to clasp tightly one of each of the young men's hands in hers. For long moments she was unable to speak. Then, with tears still welling in her eyes, she smiled and said, “No one ever has been so kind. You have given us a special gift, the kind of love that lights Christmas in the heart. May we also give you a special gift?” From the corner of the room she drew out the two small boxes of fruit gelatin and handed them to the young men. Then all eyes were moist. All knew the true meaning of giving, and none would ever forget that at Christmas the greatest gift of all was given.

Rant

Good morning! I am going to have a little temper tantrum so if you don’t want to read it, you can skip down a paragraph or two. Or five.

What the heck is wrong with this state/country/world? I know, some of you will say, “signs of the times,” and while I agree, I also say, “I don’t give a huge whoop-te-doo!” I don’t care. I am annoyed. Why? I’ll tell you why. Seth and Cedric love soccer. They both would like to play Quabbin soccer this spring. Well, that’s not a problem for Seth. It is a problem for Cedric. Why? Because although he is able to play with his classmates for Hubbardston Soccer, for Quabbin Soccer he is required to register according to birth date. Why is this a problem? Well, because the U14 teams play all of their games on Sunday. Also, registration has been low for the coming season and so they are probably going to have to combine the U14, U16 and U18 teams. So my soon to be 13-year-old would have to play with some players who are five years older than he. Why can’t they just put the U14 with the U12? They just don’t do that.

This being the case, Cedric asked about SCOR soccer. I looked into this and found out that it’s almost $800 to register for the year. Granted, this covers everything but the uniform (and I’m kind of wondering what else there is. . . .?) including playing all year long. Hmmmmmm. Okay. Aside from the registration fee, guess when all the games are? Yep, on Sunday.

So, what is wrong with this picture? It is my understanding that it wasn’t all that many years ago that businesses were not allowed to be open on Sunday in Massachusetts. Too bad we can’t go back to that. I mean, I can understand why it won’t happen. I know there is more to it than the fact that people would actually have to THINK, get this, AHEAD in order to have something to eat on Sunday but if people could do it 50 years ago, I’m pretty sure they could again. It isn’t necessary to go to the store every bloody day. Yes, I know this is something of a shock to many of the people who live here. But, get this, there are people in the world, even country, maybe even state, that do NOT have to go shopping every single day. Shocking, I know.

The other big problem is that we have allowed ourselves to become how we are. We have allowed the few to rule the many. A few people are offended by our school children reciting the pledge or saying prayer so it is now the norm not to. A few people don’t like to hear “Merry Christmas” so now we can’t say it. I have no idea who complained about having Christmas parties at school but it appears that Quabbin is avoiding everything Christmas. I am seriously tempted to say, as my boys would say, “swears.”

Personally, I guess it doesn’t matter what the rest of the world does or says, we need to behave in accordance to what we know and believe. To me, this includes no soccer on Sunday (yes, you can ask me why I am not in favor of soccer on Sunday but am sort of okay with scout activities on Sunday), no shopping on Sunday, saying “Merry Christmas” (and being happy if someone says to me Happy Kwanza or Happy Hanukkah or something else), reciting the pledge every morning as part of beginning our school day as well as reading a scripture, and anything else I can think of.

Sigh.

In other news, Paul and I went to Worcester yesterday afternoon. It was not exciting. In fact, I think we could have safely not gone. However, it was interesting that it was the same courtroom and judge as when I was down for jury duty last. Anyway, everything should be all hunky dory as far as Laura being the trustee for the trust funds for Amena, Cedric, Seth and Joseph. I don’t know how fast it will all happen, but within the next few weeks it should all be done and each of them will have a trust fund that they can have full access to when they turn 25. Why 25 is beyond me but that’s the way it was written. Why Laura as the trustee? Well, that’s a no brainer. I wasn’t an option as the case was actually against me and it seems that Paul wasn’t an option either and although I’m not entirely sure why I can envision a few scenarios where it would not be a good thing (not with Paul but with the general situation). Under other circumstances and in other cases, it would have been Dan but that really wouldn’t have been a good idea and I would have argued against it (just as he would have against it being me although his reasoning is kind of skewed in my opinion).

Cedric had a Court of Honor yesterday evening. Paul, Cedric and I went and it was the poorest attended Court of Honor I’ve been to in Hubbardston. There was a Yankee gift exchange and it was pretty funny. Cedric ended up with a good-sized bag of candy out of it which he took to school today for his class un-Christmas party. One boy wound up with a $10 Amazon gift card and he was not pleased.

Seth and Joseph got done with all their school work other than reading before lunch including an extra lesson for today which was wonderful. Zak came to get them around noon because they did not need to go to court. They did get to go to Friendly’s for lunch and Joanna was their server. Seth said they gave her a $100 tip.

And although there is other news I could attempt to catch you up on, I’m not going to. It is already 7:52 and I don’t want to be here all day. In fact, I don’t want to be here long enough to post this but I will.

Have a fantastic day!

The Great Walled Country

by Raymond MacDonald Alden

                Away at the North End of the World, farther than men have ever gone with their ships or their sleds, is a land filled with children. It's filled with children because nobody who lives there ever grows up. The king and queen, the princes and couriers, may be as old as you please, but they are children for all that. They play a great deal of the time with dolls and tin soldiers, and every night, at seven o'clock, have a bowl of bread and milk and go to bed.

                There are all sorts of curious things about the way they live in the Great Walled Country, but this story is only of their Christmas season. One can imagine what a fine thing their Christmas must be, so near the North Pole, with ice and snow everywhere; but this is not all. Grandfather Christmas lives just on the north side of the country, so that his house leans against the great wall and would tip over if it were not for its support. Grandfather Christmas is his name in the Great Walled Country; no doubt we would call him Santa Claus here. At any rate, he is the same person, and best of all the children in the world, he loves the children behind the great wall of ice.

                One very pleasant thing about having Grandfather Christmas for a neighbor is that in the Great Walled Country they never have to buy their Christmas presents. Every year on the day before Christmas, before he makes up his bundles for the rest of the world, Grandfather Christmas goes into a great forest of Christmas trees that grows just back of the homes and fills the trees with candy and books and toys and all sorts of good things. So when night comes, all the children wrap up snugly, and they go into the forest to gather gifts for their friends. Each one goes by himself, so that none of his friends can see what he has gathered, and no one ever thinks of such a thing as taking a present for himself. The forest is so big that there is room for all the people and no one sees the secrets and presents, and there are always enough nice things to go around.

                But there was once a time, so many years ago that they would have forgotten about it if the story were not written in their Big Book and read to them every year, when the children in the Great Walled Country had a very strange Christmas. There come a visitor to the land. He was an old man and was the first stranger, for very many years, who had succeeded in getting over the wall.

                When this old man inquired about their Christmas celebration, and was told how they carried it out every year, he said to the king, “That is very well, but I should think that children who have Grandfather Christmas for a neighbor could find a better and easier way. You tell me you all go out on Christmas Eve to gather presents to give to one another the next morning. Why take so much trouble, and act in such a round-about way? Why not go out together, and everyone gets his own present? That would save the trouble of dividing them again, and everyone could pick out just what he wanted for himself!”

                They decided it was a very practical idea and so the proclamation was made, and the plan seemed as wise to the children of the country as it had to the king and his counselors. Everyone at some time had been a little disappointed with his Christmas gifts, and now there would be no danger of that.

                On Christmas Eve they always had a meeting at the palace, and sang carols until the time for going to the forest. When the clock struck ten, everyone said, “I wish you a Merry Christmas!” to the person nearest him and then they separated to go on their way to the forest. On this particular night it seemed to the king that the music was not quite so merry as usual, and that when the children spoke to one another their eyes did not shine as gladly as he had noticed them in other years; but there could be no reason for this, since everyone was expecting a better time than usual. So he thought no more of it.

                There was only one other person at the palace that night who was not pleased with the new proclamation about the Christmas gifts. This was a little boy named Inge, who lived not far from the palace with his sister. Now this sister was a cripple, and had to sit all day looking out of the window from her chair; and Inge took care of her and tried to make her life happy from morning to night. He had always gone to the forest on Christmas Eve and returned with his arms and pockets full of pretty things for his sister, which would keep her amused all the coming year. And although she was not able to go after presents for her brother, he did not mind at all, especially as he had other friends who never forgot to divide their good things with him.

                But now, said Inge to himself, what would his sister do? For the king had ordered that no one should gather presents except for himself, or any more than he could carry away at once. All of Inge's friends were busy planning what they would pick for themselves, but the poor crippled child could not go a step toward the forest. After thinking about it for a long time, Inge decided that it would not be wrong, if, instead of taking gifts for himself, he took them altogether for his sister. This he would be very glad to do; for what did a boy who could run about and play in the snow care for presents, compared with a little girl who could only sit still and watch others having a good time? Inge did not ask the advice of anyone, for he was a little afraid others would tell him not to do it, but he silently made up his mind not to obey the proclamation.

                And now the chimes had struck ten, and the children were making their way toward the forest in starlight that was so bright that it lit their way toward the forest, in the starlight that was so bright it almost showed their shadows on the sparkling snow. As soon as they came to the edge of the forest, they separated, each one going by himself in the old way, though now there was really no reason why they should have secrets from one another.

                Ten minutes later, if you had been in the forest, you might have seen the children standing in dismay with tears on their faces, and exclaiming that they had never seen such a Christmas Eve before. For as they looked eagerly about them to the low-bending branches of the evergreen trees, they saw nothing hanging from them that they had seen other Christmas Eves. No presents. No one could guess whether Grandfather Christmas had forgotten them, or whether some dreadful accident had kept him away.

                As the children were trooping out of the forest after hours of weary searching, some of them came upon little Inge, who carried over his shoulder a bag that seemed to be full to overflowing. When he saw them looking at him he cried; “Are they not beautiful things? I think Grandfather Christmas was never so good to us before.”

                “Why, what do you mean?” cried the children.  “There are no presents in the forest!”

                “No presents!” Inge said. “I have a bag full of them.” But he did not offer to show them, because he did not want the children to see that they were really all for this sister, instead of him.

                Then the children begged him to tell them in what part of the forest he had found his presents, and he turned back and pointed them to the place where he had been.

                “I left many more behind than I brought away,” he said. “There they are! I can see some of the things shining on the trees even from here.”

                But when the children followed his footsteps in the snow to the place where he had been, they still saw nothing on the trees, and thought that Inge must be walking in his sleep, and dreaming that he had found presents. Perhaps he had filled his bag with the cones from the evergreen trees.

                On Christmas Day there was sadness all through the Great Walled Country. But those who came to the house of Inge and his sister saw plenty of books and dolls and beautiful toys piled up about the little crippled girl's chair, and when they asked where those things came from and were told, “Why, from the Christmas tree forest.” And they shook their heads, not knowing what it meant.

                The king held a council and appointed a committee to go on a very hard journey to visit Grandfather Christmas and see if they could find out what was the matter.

                They had to go down Father Christmas's chimney and when they reached the bottom of it they found themselves in the very room where Grandfather Christmas lay sound asleep. It was very difficult to wake him, but when they finally did, the prince, who was in charge of the committee said, “Oh, Sir! We have come from the king of The Great Walled Country, who has sent us to ask why you forgot us this Christmas, and left no presents in the forest?”

                “No presents?”, said Grandfather Christmas. “I never forgot anything. The presents were there. You did not see them, that's all.”

                The children told him they had searched long and hard and found nothing. “Indeed!” said Grandfather Christmas.

                “And did little Inge, the boy with the crippled sister find none?” The committee had heard and didn't know what to say.

                “The presents were there, but they were not intended for children who were looking only for themselves. I am not surprised that you could not see them. Remember, that not everything that wise travelers tell you is wise.”

                The Proclamation was made next year that everyone was to seek gifts for others!!!!

The Gift of the Magi

From the story by O. Henry

                One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

            There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding, take a look at the home—a furnished flat at $8 per week. In the vestibule below was a letter box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also a card bearing the name of Mr. James Dillingham Young.

            Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with a powder puff. She stood by the window and looked out dully. Tomorrow would be Christmas, and only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something just a bit nearer to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

            There was a pier glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier glass in an $8 flat. A very thin person by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, may obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

            Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall into its full length.

            Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Young's in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's. The other was Della's hair.

            So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown water. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

            On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. She fluttered out the door, and down the steps to the street.

            She stopped before a sign that read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran.

            “Will you buy my hair?”

            “I buy hair, take yer hat off and let's have a sight of it.”

            Down rippled the brown cascade, “Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.

            “Give it to me quick!”

            The next two hours Della ransacked the stores for Jim's present. She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. It was a platinum fob chain, simple and chaste in design. It was even worthy of The Watch. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company.

            When Della reached home, she got out her curling irons and went to work. Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant school-boy. She looked at her reflection carefully and critically in the mirror.

            “If Jim doesn't kill me, before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island Chorus girl.”

            Jim was never late. She heard his step on the stair. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things and now she whispered: “Please, God, make him think I am still pretty.”

            The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. His eyes were fixed on Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval. He simply stared at her.

            “Jim, darling, don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again-my hair grows awfully fast. Jim, let's be happy. You don't know what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you.”

            “You've cut off your hair?”

            “Cut it off and sold it. Don't you like me just as well anyhow? I'm me without my hair, aren't I?”       

            “You say your hair is gone?”

            “You needn't look for it. It's sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy, be good to me. Maybe the hairs of my head are numbered, but nobody could ever count my love for you.”

            Out of his trance Jim seemed to quickly wake.   He enfolded his Della in his arms.

            Jim then drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

            “Don't make any mistake, Dell.” he said, “about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or shave or shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”

            White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper and then a scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails.

            For there lay the combs–the set of combs side and back, that Della had worshiped so long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims-just the shade to wear in the beautiful, vanished hair. She hugged them to her, and at length was able to look up with dim eye, and smile; “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”

            And then Della jumped up like a little cat! “Oh! Oh!”

            Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her ardent spirit.

            “Isn't it a dandy, Jim, I hunted all over town to find it. Give me your watch, I want to see how it looks on it.”

            Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

            “Della, let's put our Christmas presents away and keep them awhile. They're too nice to use just at present, I sold the watch to get money to buy your combs.”

            Eight dollars a week or a million a year–what is the difference?

            The Magi, as you know, were wise men–who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the Magi!