For our family, there wasn’t much to celebrate during the holiday season of 1963. We had recently moved to Ohio from Georgia. My mother, a single parent of seven children, struggled to pay the rent in the drafty, old turn of the century house we were renting. Compounding our misery was the fact that the house had neither a furnace nor a hot water heater. The cold weather set in early that year, with the promise of a brutal winter.
In 1963, the South, was a hot bed of hate. The Civil Rights Movement was in full swing , and there were those who felt compelled to preserve the past and fought viciously for segregation. My mother simply wanted a better life for us and to keep us out of harm’s way. So, she saved every dime she earned working as a cook and housekeeper and then one day came home from work, packed a few suitcases, and loaded the entire family on a Greyhound bus, bound for Ohio.
When we set foot in Ohio, we had nothing. My mother got a job at a diner, working twelve hours a day, washing dishes and busing tables. Initially we stayed with a friend and then in a month or two, when my mother had saved enough, we moved down the street, into our own home. It wasn’t much, but it was ours. We put up with inconveniences as best we could. Since we had no furnace, we used the kitchen stove and a gas space heater to warm ourselves. For hot water, we heated a pot of water on the stove every night. We would all take a bath in the same water, until it went cold. It was difficult, but we were a family. We were together.
My older brothers corrected me early on as to the myth of Santa Claus. I had hoped so much that on Christmas, this mythical person would come to our house and somehow lay some blessings on our family and turn our misfortunes around. So, one day when I was stressing that we had no fireplace and Santa Claus couldn’t possibly get into our house, they pulled me to the side and gave me an early lesson on poverty. It was the brutal truth. We were poor.
It was a difficult lesson for me to learn and even more difficult to accept. Because daily, when I showed up to my afternoon kindergarten class, all the children assured me that Santa would be showering them with a windfall of treasures. I held out hope, but deep down I accepted the reality.
I could see the stress on my mother’s face. She always tried to do the best for her children and I knew that it was eating her inside that she couldn’t afford Christmas for us. Once our older siblings corrected our myths, and we knew where gifts really came from, we accepted our situation and did the best we could to support our good mother. We weren’t perfect children, and of course we occasionally whined and complained, but our fits of pity were short lived and we tried to focus on what was important. So, the Christmas of 1963 stormed toward us and we dealt with it as best we could.
On Christmas Eve, the diner closed early and my mother got to spend most of the day with us. She was an absolute magician in the kitchen and from our meager provisions, she had found a few ways to cook what we felt was veritable Christmas feast. While she worked her magic in the kitchen, my brothers, sisters, and I, huddled around our small black and white television, and watched Christmas specials.
Toward evening, I heard a commotion in front of our house. It wasn’t surprising, because we lived next door to a tavern and there was always something going on. But nevertheless, I decided to investigate. I climbed into a chair that sat in front of our living room window and peered out to the curb. Parked in front of our house was a pickup truck. Two men had gotten out and were talking. They walked up to our porch.
I ran and got my mother from the kitchen. When she opened the door to greet them, they spent a few minutes talking with her. They finished and went back outside. My mother joined us in the living room and sat in a chair and began to cry. We suspected more misery had been heaped onto her weakening shoulders and went over to comfort her. But then, the front door opened and the men returned carrying boxes full of toys and food. When they had finished, our living room looked indeed as though Santa himself had honored us with a visit.
I never found out who those men were or where they came from. On Christmas Eve 1963, our misery was lessened just enough to allow us to enjoy the day. Though we realized that we were still poor, those strangers who came to our door bearing gifts, left us with so much more. Yes, the food would be eaten and the toys, while important on that day, would soon be forgotten. But the real gift- that of giving – would last a lifetime.
