Readers Who Write

Dec. 24, 1964, was pretty much like any other day around our household. While my other 7-year-old friends were preparing for the big day to come, our house looked the same. No tree, no decorations, no music filled the air.

I had come to an age of questions and the awareness that this was a special holiday for some, and it was puzzling to me. The question of “what did you wish for for Christmas?” left me with a squishy, puzzled face and an equally puzzled look on the faces of my friends when I asked, “What is Christmas?”

Now remember, these are 7-year-olds, so the answer I received back was a hybrid of the Birth of Jesus, mixed with reindeer in flight and a fella named Santa Claus in red fur who came down your chimney, ate some offerings on a plate and escaped into the night with his flying caribou. In exchange for cookies and milk (or depending on the status of Santa’s mission — a glass of scotch and Beer Nuts), he would leave all sorts of toys and underwear on this random day at the beginning of winter. At least that is how my 7-year-old brain processed it.

This would also be the year that I would finally ask my parents why the man in red didn’t bring me toys (he could pass on the underwear). My parents were immigrants of Eastern European descent, and the American Christmas was foreign to them, so a very simple and somewhat abrupt answer of “we don’t celebrate Christmas” was all I received in return. The abruptness of the answer discouraged my seven-year-old curiosity from pursuing any further details. So I wandered off to watch “The Three Stooges” and Daffy Duck, whom I always turned to for meaningful answers on life’s mysteries. But this time, nothing made sense. I felt so left out that I decided to investigate for myself.

After going to bed around 10 p.m. that night, I laid restless. When everyone in our household had gone to bed, I turned back the covers and walked to my bedroom window. The cold, dark, suburban Chicago night was a perfect backdrop for what I thought would be me catching Santa in the act.

Down the street on a rooftop I could see a sleigh…and yes… there he was (seemingly frozen in time with his arm in a waving gesture)! Jolly old St. Nick and his reindeer. He was even all lit up with lights!

Having also heard the rumor that “naughty or nice” was a conditional judgment on whether bicycles or toy bazookas were left in your living room, I quickly closed the curtains and ran back to bed. I laid there sleepless, wondering if — despite what my parents had said — Santa would land on our roof next and in the morning I would have a new GI Joe (which I secretly wished for). Tears began to fill my eyes and I clasped my hands in prayer to Santa as I eventually dozed off.

When I awoke, there were already kids outside playing with their new toys.

When I ran into our living room there was nothing. Santa had once again skipped our house and I assumed that once again I was on the naughty list and that I should have never tried to spy on him. My older sister, who was sixteen at the time, must have seen my disappointment and obviously she was taking notes.

With only some 600 words to tell this story, I can only tell you that this story ends well and it would all begin the following year with a “secret special gift” from my older sister — a 45 rpm record of “The Little Drummer Boy.” She told me that Santa had brought the record for me and I beamed with joy.

I still have that record today, and every time I hear that song it serves as a constant reminder that there are children (as well as others) every year that go without the magic of the season and struggle through the holidays wondering if they are naughty or nice. And even though I now know that Christmas has little to do with toys or Santa, I do know that a small gift, such as that “Little Drummer Boy” record, can make a world of difference in the eyes of a child and others in need, and how that small act of kindness will help them carry the spirit of the holiday season and change their view of the world for the rest of their life.

A merry Christmas and peace for all.

So you say you want to write?

Go for it.

Send us 500 or so words of scintillating copy. Make it funny. Make it poignant. Make it count. Make it any way you want.

Just don’t cuss. Don’t be boring. And have a point.

If we like it, we’ll run it.

Email submissions to community@rv-times.com. Put “Readers Who Write” in the subject line, and tell us the city where you live.