Emerging Courageous Online Magazine

Emerging Courageous Online Magazine - Stories

The Christmas Basket by Barbara Elliott Carpenter

As a Christmas project, the Sunday school class, where I was a member several years ago, voted to distribute baskets of groceries and fresh fruit to needy families in the community. I'm sure that the intentions were good, but something about it made me uncomfortable.

We gathered canned goods, bought fruit from a local produce store, and met at the teacher's house to fill the baskets. Unable to shake the vague uneasiness I felt, it was difficult for me to contribute to the light-hearted conversation.

One of the men lifted a loaded basket from the table to the floor. Complete with red cellophane covering and red ribbon, it was ready for distribution. He straightened, brushed his hands together in a gesture of satisfaction, and grinned.

"That should bring some little family a Merry Christmas," he said. I stared at the basket. My friend's words seemed to echo in my ears. I shook my head slightly, as if to clear it of the kaleidoscope of scenes and voices that rushed into my mind, memories of a Christmas season long past…and long forgotten.

The memory hovered, but I refused to allow it to surface until the day was over. Only after my two children were asleep, and I was safely hidden beneath warm blankets beside my sleeping husband did I face it; and it was hard to face….

It was our first Christmas in Arcola. We had moved into the little prairie town the previous February, when I was halfway through first grade. It had not been easy making new friends, changing teachers in mid-year, and learning to deal with the long, cold walks to school in zero temperatures; but now I was seven years old, established in the second grade with lots of friends,
and Christmas was coming.

The years I was four and five, my father was in Italy, serving the last eighteen months of World War II. There had been little or no observance of holidays for us during that time. The past Christmas, I had been part of a rhythm band in the first grade; and the holiday program was a highlight of the year. Still, it had been much less of a production than what I saw happening in the second grade.

We made paper chains of red and green construction paper, and draped them in bright festoons around the classroom.
Snowflakes, cut from folded white paper, adorned the windows in helter-skelter patterns. A pine tree as tall as the teacher stood in one corner of the room, and each student made a paper ornament for it. That was the first real Christmas tree I had ever seen.

The final week of school before Christmas vacation dwindled down to the last day, and the long-awaited Christmas party became a reality. We ate cookies and drank red Kool-ade supplied by the room mothers. There was the usual token gift exchange, followed by the teacher's gift to every boy and girl. It was a small black New Testament, red-letter edition. I thought that the party was wonderful.

After early dismissal, my friend, Sheila Hicks, and I walked home together, as we usually did each day. It was very cold, and snow covered the sidewalks, crunching beneath our booted feet. We were too busy talking to heed such a minor discomfort as twenty-degree weather. We discussed the possibility that Santa Claus might not be real, dismissed the notion as merely a rumor, and eagerly exchanged our Christmas wishes. We spoke around pieces of hard candy and through gaps from missing teeth, but we had no trouble communicating.

When we reached Sheila's house, she invited me to come in. I hesitated, knowing that my mother would be expecting me home early. Although we lived less than a block apart, I had never been inside Sheila's house. Deciding to stay only a few minutes, I accepted her invitation; and we entered the big, two-storied white house.

"Mother, Barbie is with me," Sheila called.

"That's nice, Sweetie. Take off your boots," Mrs. Hicks called from somewhere inside. We did, but that was as far as I got for several minutes. While Sheila removed her coat and tossed it onto a chair, I stood staring at the contents of the long living room. It was longer than my kitchen and living room combined.

A soft, off-white carpet covered the floor and extended up the staircase that curved upwards at the far end of the room. Numerous upholstered chairs and two matching sofas were placed along white walls. Moss green velvet draperies hung beside white sheer curtains at the tall windows.

Pictures in gold frames filled the walls, and merry red poinsettias in gold pots provided bright splashes of color on wood tables. Near the trio of front windows stood a shining black grand piano, its gleaming ebony and white keys looking like teeth in a wide, friendly smile.

"Barbie, come look," Sheila's loud whisper drew my attention away from the beckoning ivories. I turned, to find her kneeling beside the most beautiful Christmas tree I could have imagined. It stood beside the staircase, reaching nearly to the second floor landing. Full and bushy, the dark green pine branches were laden with a multitude of fragile glass ornaments and strings of lights.

Speechless, I could only stare as Sheila moved quietly among the pile of gaily-wrapped packages beneath the tree. I had no idea that Christmas trees were actually brought into houses. I thought that they were only for schoolrooms and store displays. But this...this was stuff of which dreams were made.

"Mother says I am absolutely forbidden to shake the packages," Sheila whispered, "but I think one is a doll." She held up a long red box and tipped it forward. Our eyes met happily as a tiny "ma-ma" wailed from inside. I was as excited as Sheila, and we both covered our mouths to suppress the guilty giggles.

A little while later I opened the door of my own home, a small four-roomed house a short distance from Sheila's. Warm, spice-scented air enveloped me, chasing away the remnants of the cold walk home. My baby sister, sixteen- month-old Bonnie, lay sleeping in the crib, which was kept in the warm living room during the winter months. I tiptoed into the kitchen and found Mama and five-year- old Billy placing warm oatmeal cookies on a plate.

From then until suppertime, I chattered non-stop about the Christmas party, the treasures abounding in Sheila's house, and the tree and packages that were so spectacular. Mama only smiled as I described everything to her, but her expression sobered when I started itemizing the things I wanted for Christmas.

"Santa Claus won't have much money for Christmas this year," she said. "Daddy hasn't been working for several weeks, and we can't let Santa have very much." I put my hands on my hips and just looked at her for a moment, digesting this new thought that they had to pay Santa.

"Then when can we put up our Christmas tree?" I demanded. "We need a tall one with lots of presents under it like
Sheila's. We need—"

"Honey, wait a minute." Mama sat down at the table beside me. She bit her lower lip, hesitating before she continued.
"We don't have room for a Christmas tree."

"But, Mom, we HAVE to get a tree to put all the presents under! Sheila's tree is…"

"No, we don't need a tree for presents. Santa can leave them on the couch," Mamma replied. I ran to the living room, determined to show her that we really did have room for a tree. One wall was taken up with a studio couch. A chair and the crib effectively covered another. An old brown rocking chair and the huge coal stove filled the remaining space. I looked at the drab linoleum that covered the floor, at the familiar, ugly, worn furniture. My shoulders drooped in sudden defeat.
I thought of the lovely big room that held Sheila's Christmas tree and the dozens of packages beneath the pine branches. It wasn't fair. It just was not fair!

"Why is our house so little?" I asked. "Sheila's house is big, and she has lots of toys and pretty things and..."
By this time, Mama was thoroughly tired of hearing about Sheila. "Honey, Sheila's daddy is a banker. He makes lots more
money than your daddy, and Sheila is an only child. She doesn't have to share anything." Mama made "only child" sound like a disease. I looked at the few furnishings, at my brother, who sat on the couch, turning pages in a Christmas catalogue. I looked at my baby sister, now playing happily in the crib. At the moment, being an only child seemed to hold a lot of advantages.

Guilt swept over me at the unloving thoughts that had flitted through my mind. Mama was right. Sheila didn't have a dark-haired, blue-eyed baby in her house. She didn't have a little brother to tell stories to and to think that everything she told him was wonderful.

Suddenly everything was all right in my world again. I knew that I was loved, warm, and supper smelled delicious as Mama finished preparing the meal. Santa Claus was going to come whether we had a tree or not, and I was content.

The next morning sunshine sparkled on another inch of new snow. With just two more days until Christmas, it was a sure thing that Santa would have plenty of snow for his sleigh. I could hardly wait for Christmas Eve.

Daddy lounged in the rocking chair reading a newspaper, his long legs stretched toward the stove that took up so much space. Billy and I sat at the small wooden play table, working intently on one more letter to Santa. There was a knock at the front door. Mama appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel, as Daddy answered the summons.

"Good morning." The big, smiling man who stood on the front step was Mr. Hicks, Sheila's father. He brushed the snow from his feet, shifted the bushel basket he carried, and stepped inside. He placed the basket on the floor at Daddy's feet and then offered his hand. "I understand that the foundry is shut down for awhile," Mr. Hicks continued.

"Yes." Daddy's voice sounded funny, kind of muffled.

"Well, I hope that the strike is settled soon." He pointed to the basket. "I just wanted to help you and your little family have a Merry Christmas." Mr. Hicks waved to Mama, smiled at me and opened the door. "I hope you enjoy the Christmas basket," he added; and then he was gone.

"Thanks, Mr. Hicks," Daddy called. He closed the door. He stood there, not saying anything, holding the paper and staring at the basket. Then he tossed the newspaper onto the chair, brushed by Mama, and grabbed his coat from the wall-peg beside the kitchen door.

"Bill..." Mama said, but he had already disappeared out the back door.

I turned my attention to the basket, a beautiful, new woven basket covered with gold cellophane and tied with a big red ribbon. Beneath the shiny covering were large red and yellow apples, oranges, grapefruit, a shaggy round coconut, unshelled nuts, and items I could not distinguish.

Mama lifted it and carried it into the kitchen. In a short time she had unpacked and put away the fruits and groceries. She cut one of the large red apples and divided it between Billy and me. Daddy did not come home until long after dark. He refused to eat a bite of anything that came out of that Christmas basket….

I lay in the dark, remembering that long-ago Christmas. One indignant thought kept pounding in my head. They thought that we were poor! Mr. Hicks and no-telling-who- else thought we were poor! And then I realized that we had, indeed, been poor—at least materially, that Christmas season. I recalled the differences in my house and the homes of some of my more affluent friends, such as Sheila's. I searched for other incidents, but I could not recall a single time that my friends had made me feel inferior or lacking in any way.

I thought of Mr. Hicks, and all my memories of him were good ones. He had been very kind to me, even allowing me
to learn to ride Sheila's bicycle, in spite of the many scratches I must have caused to the shiny finish. He died when we were in the sixth grade, and I remembered being very sad for Sheila.

No, I was not indignant or angry with Mr. Hicks. My frustration was caused by the realization that we had been poor—and I had not known. I had not even suspected.

More years have passed, and every Christmas I remember that special basket. My children are grown and married; and I, who can remember thinking that thirty was old, am now a grandmother.

I have come to terms with the lean years of my childhood. More importantly, I have learned that what I initially considered charity was, in reality, sincere caring and kindness.

The sadness I feel is for my father, who was a proud, hard-working young man of twenty-eight that Christmas. He died at the age of forty-one, and I don't think that he ever recognized the genuine compassion shown to him and his young family during a hard winter. He took it as an insult to his ability to provide for his loved ones.

Now it is Christmas time again—a season celebrated, anticipated, dreaded, and endured—a time of worship, of giving and receiving. How wonderful it would be if every gift could be given and received in the spirit of love that this special holiday represents. Then, surely, happy memories would be created—memories that would be treasured long after the season is past, memories of a truly Merry Christmas.

Barbara Elliott Carpenter
[email protected]

This story won first place in a newspaper contest. In a different context, a portion of the story appears in a
chapter from the book Starlight, Starbright by Barbara Elliott Carpenter. While most of the book is fiction,
some incidents are true, such as this one. Barbara's works are published on several online publications. Born in
southeastern Missouri, the author resides in south-central Illinois with her husband, Glenn.

They have two children and four grandchildren, who all live in the same area. While actively promoting her first
novel, Barbara continues to work on the sequel, I Wish I May, I Wish I Might. You may contact her by
email:[email protected] and her Website is www.bec.newsmoose.com . The book is available through all
major bookstores and online booksellers. Autographed copies can be obtained from her.

*Write Barbara to let her know what you think about her story.

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