Yesteryear
In the very early 1800's, a young boy about 14 years
old named John lived in an orphanage in Old England
along with several other children. Orphanages were
dreaded. Orphan meant unwanted and unloved. The
orphanage was administered by a master and his wife who
were results of meager backgrounds themselves and were
short on love but high on discipline. No childlike
play, no expression of compassion, no understanding.
Every day of the year was spent working. They worked in
gardens, cleaned, sewed, and cooked sometimes for
wealthy children. They were up at dawn and worked until
dark and usually received only one meal a day. However,
they were very grateful because they were taught to be
hard workers. John had absolutely nothing to call his
own. None of the children did.
Christmas was the one day of the year when the children
did not work and received a gift. A gift for each child
- something to call their own.
This special gift was an orange. John had been in the
orphanage long enough to look forward with delight and
anticipation of this special day of Christmas and to
the orange he would receive. In Old England, and to
John and his orphan companions, an orange was a rare
and special gift. It had an unusual aroma of something
they smelled only at Christmas. The children prized it
so much that they kept it for several days, weeks, and
even months - protecting it, smelling it, touching it
and loving it. Usually they tried to savor and
preserve it for so long that it often rotted before
they ever peeled it to enjoy the sweet juice.
Many thought were expressed this year as Christmas time
approached. The children would say, "I will keep mine
the longest." They always talked about how big their
last orange was and how long they had kept it.
John usually slept with his next to his pillow. He
would put it right by his nose and smell of its
goodness, holding it tenderly and carefully as not to
bruise it. He would dream of children all over the
world smelling the sweet aroma of oranges. It gave him
security and a sense of well being, hope and dreams of
a future filled with good food and a life different
from this meager existence.
This year John was overjoyed by the Christmas season.
He was becoming a man. He knew he was becoming stronger
and soon he would be old enough to leave.
He was excited by this anticipation and excited about Christmas.
He would save his orange until his birthday in July.
If he preserved it very carefully, kept it cool and
did not drop it, he might be able to eat it on his birthday.
Christmas day finally came. The children were so
excited as they entered the big dining hall. John could
smell the unusual aroma of meat. In his excitement and
because of his oversized feet, he tripped, causing a
disturbance. Immediately the master roared, "John, leave
the hall and there will be no orange for you this
year." John's heart broke violently wide open. He began
to cry. He turned and went swiftly back to the cold
room and his corner so the small children
would not see his anguish.
Then he heard the door open and each of the children
entered. Little Elizabeth with her hair falling over
her shoulders, a smile on her face, and tears in her
eyes held out a piece of rag to John. "Here John," she
said, "this is for you." John was touched by her youth
and innocence as he reached for the bulge in her hand.
As he lifted back the edges of the rag he saw a big
juicy orange all peeled and quartered. . . and then he
realized what they had done. Each had sacrificed their
own orange by sharing a quarter and had created a big,
beautiful orange for John.
John never forgot the sharing, love and personal
sacrifice his friends had shown him that Christmas day.
John's beginning was a meager existence, however, his
growth to manhood was rewarded by wealth and success.
In memory of that day every year he would send oranges
all over the world to children everywhere. His desire
was that no child would ever spend Christmas
without a special Christmas fruit!
By Lawrence Brotherton
Modern technology of electronic marvels
has unraveled our lives so as to make them sterile, detached,
and unaffected by events and circumstances.
Even a child's letters to Santa is often
processed through telephone calls to the North Pole
and an antiseptic Santa.
Not so on the cotton mill village
where I lived in the 1940s.
Everything began happening the first week after Thanksgiving.
It all started when dads began painting porch lights red or
green and leaving it burning for at least an hour after dark.
From there, the scene moved from the front porch
to the local church.
Every child in every Sunday School Class drew the name of
a friend from a box to buy them a present that did not
cost more than fifty cents. Then, preparations began
for the annual Christmas Eve play.
All this got children in the mood for Christmas, but we knew
Christmas really started when the Sears-Roebuck
Christmas catalog came in the mail.
In the evening after school, children sat before an
open coal-burning fireplace with the catalog
cradled in their laps saying,
"I want this, no, I want that. Mamma, Daddy, can I have . . .?
The defining moment came when all decisions about Christmas
wants were made, a list was written on Blue Horse notebook
paper, and the list thrown into the fireplace. You see our
parents told us the smoke took the list straight to Santa
Claus' house at the North Pole.
About two days later, every child in the neighborhood
gathered at church on Christmas Eve to either be in the
Christmas play or watch their friends.
After the play and the Pastor passed out all the presents
the children bought, he knew there would be some children
who did not get a present. To help soften the blow, every
child got a brown paper bag filled with fruit, candy canes,
and nuts. From there, it was home and bed to await Santa
who would bring the presents we sent him on the list
in the smoke. That was Christmas in the
cotton mill village in the 1940s.
Somehow, as primitive as that was, it had a greater sense
of the human touch than calling Santa on the phone or being
processed through a long line to sit on Santa's lap.
But you had to be there to appreciate it.
By Othello Bach
In 1948, we lived in a little shack heated
by a pot bellied stove.
I had three older brothers, two younger sisters
and a baby brother.
My sisters, Virginia and Jeannette, were five and three, respectively, and I was seven. The three of us had pestered Momma for weeks, begging for dolls, so when we went to bed Christmas Eve, we huddled close under the covers,
excited over the possibility.
At first light on Christmas morning,
we bounded out of bed and into Momma's room.
"Merry Christmas!" She said softly, not wanting to disturb our baby brother, Gordon, who slept beside her.
"Merry Christmas!"
We climbed onto the bed, anxious to get off the
cold floor. Momma sat up.
"I know you want dolls," she said, "and I don't have
the kind you want, but I do have some I made for you."
We waited breathlessly as she eased off the bed
and went to the closet. Taking a box from the top shelf, she smiled tentatively and took something from it.
"Maybe you'll like them."
At first, I couldn't tell what it was, except it wore a
red and white checkered dress and matching bonnet.
It had an orange face, button eyes and an ink-drawn smile.
Virginia and Jeannette watched silently as I lifted its dress and discovered that my home-made baby was a sweet potato. For sure, it was a homely child but I could see how hard Momma had worked to make it acceptable.
I didn't really love it but I suddenly loved Momma so much
I hugged it and smiled.
"What is it?" Jeannette pulled at my arm to see.
Virginia wrinkled her nose in disapproval. "You like it?"
I looked at Momma, who was watching me intently.
"I love it!" I lied to Virginia.
Instantly, Virginia and Jeannette wanted one, too.
Momma smiled and handed each of them a sweet potato doll.
"How'd you stick its eyes in its head?" Virginia asked.
She pulled at one eye and lifted it off,
revealing the straight pin that held it in place.
"Oh." She pushed the eye back down. "I'm sorry."
Momma started to cry.
"Don't you like 'em?" Jeannette asked Momma.
Wiping tears away, Momma sighed.
"I just wish they were real dolls."
We played with our sweet potato dolls all day
and fell asleep hugging them close that night.
For several weeks they were extensions to our arms.
I can honestly say that I loved that sweet potato doll
for almost two months.
Then it sprouted.
"Momma!" I screamed when I woke up one morning
and discovered the awful wart-like growths on it's face. "Momma! Somethin's the matter with my doll!!"
Virginia sprang up beside me in the bed. "What?"
I pointed to my uglier-than-usual doll.
"It's got things on it. Worms is coming out of its face!"
Virginia squinted at my doll.
"It's not as ugly as mine was yesterday," she said.
"Mine had white things, too, but it also had a
rotten spot. And it stinked, too."
Momma hurried into the room, buttoning her sweater. "Shhh! You'll wake your brother."
"Look, Momma!" I pointed to the doll.
"It's got things on it."
Momma took the doll and chuckled. "It sprouted."
She brushed her thumb over a sprout and flicked it to the floor.
Virginia recoiled. "It is ugly, ain't it?"
Momma laughed. "I guess you'd better bury it beside Virginia's and Jeannette's."
I didn't even know theirs had died.
Mid-morning, my sisters and I bundled up
and went out to bury my ugly baby.
Icy wind reddened our cheeks and stiffened our fingers
as we squatted on the ground and scrapped at the earth
with tin cans and a bent spoon. Only a foot or so away the other freshly dug graves were marked with twig crosses,
tied with dirty string.
"There," I wiped my nose on my coat sleeve.
"That's deep enough."
"No, it's not!" Virginia argued. "It's belly'll stick up."
Ignoring her, I placed my ugly child in the hole
and covered it with dirt.
"See!" Virginia scolded, "It's belly's sticking up."
I pushed on its belly.
"You gonna sing or pray?" Jeannette asked.
I shook my head. "No. It's too cold."
"We did," Virginia said.
"We had real nice funerals for ours.
We made crosses and everything."
Only mildly ashamed, I stood and brushed dirt off my knees. "I don't care, it's just a dumb ol' sweet tater. And I'm cold." I turned and ran toward the house.
Virginia ran after me.
"I'm gonna tell Momma you didn't sing or pray!
Or make a cross or nothing!"
Knowing how Momma liked singing, praying and such,
I stopped and turned back.
Virginia and Jeannette halted inches from me.
"If you tell, you'll go to hell," I warned. "The Bible says little sisters can't tell on big sisters!"
"No, it don't!" Virginia argued. "I never heard that."
"It does, too!" I scowled at her.
"It says so in the book of Jerusalem."
Jeannette scrunched up her face and began to cry.
Virginia frowned and in her most threatening voice asked Jeannette, "Are you crying because you told on us before?"
Jeannette's eyes widened. She shook her head.
"No, I never did."
"Good!" I said, "Now, let's go in where it's warm."
Obediently, they followed.
If my transgressions against my sweet
potato baby's corpse were ever reported,
Momma didn't mention it.
When Momma died a few months later, my sisters and I were sent to an orphanage, where, two years later,
I received a doll for Christmas.
It had silky blonde curls, a pink mouth,
and the prettiest dress and shoes I had ever seen.
I did my best to love it but I couldn't.
I knew it was the kind of doll Momma would have bought
if she'd had the money --
but I was glad she didn't. Had she not made
the sweet potato dolls, I might never have known
how much she loved us --
and knowing that has sweetened every day of my life --
Especially Christmas.
