It gradually turned chilly between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Although Frosty the Snowman rarely visited our part of Texas, his pal, Jack Frost, surely did. He wafted his way through our drafty house, chased by welcome bursts of heat from the floor furnace—a metal floor grate that funneled heat from the living room to the rest of the house. When chilly days arrived, my brothers and I hustled toward it wrapped in its warm embrace.
Those weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas were filled with memorable sights and sounds: smelling the aroma of Mother’s baking emanating from her kitchen; drinking hot cocoa; eating Mother’s gooey cinnamon rolls; bundling up in my coat before slipping my hands into my white fur hand muff and walking to the downtown square; and inhaling the sweet pine smell of our Christmas tree.
No matter how many years we celebrated, the holiday season was always as fresh as the scent radiating from the tree that stood in the corner of our living room. The royally dressed fir beamed like a high school senior just crowned Homecoming Queen. Her dress, a basic forest green, shone with multi-colored jewels and ribbons of tinsel. In her hair, she wore a whispering angel tiara. At her feet were six ladies-in-waiting, poinsettias dressed in bright red velvet. Here and there in a protected pocket of her branches hung precious ornaments, vintage glass ornaments from my grandparent’s attic. In the quiet of holiday evenings, I often stood before her, enchanted by her royal presence, intoxicated by the swirl of her perfume.
On Christmas Eve we delved into our Christmas stockings, plump as Santa himself, with candy canes peeking over the edges. Fudge, cookies, the traditional Christmas orange, tiny trinkets, and surprises spilled out until at the very toe was a special treat—a sparkling half dollar.
Christmas morning we gathered in front of the Christmas tree, letting the wrapping paper fly.
“Here’s one for you,” Mother said, handing me a package. I looked at it, baffled. Having spent so much time examining the presents underneath the tree, I recognized this one. But it hadn’t been mine. It was Mother’s. Someone had put a new label on it, with my name written in Mother’s handwriting.
“Open it!” Mother exclaimed, a joyful look crossing her face—a look I didn’t understand.
I ripped off the paper, revealing a set of hot hair rollers. I was flabbergasted, for in my 12-year-old world, receiving far outweighed giving. Mother’s selfless act was simply incomprehensible to me. Tears filled my eyes as I recognized how much Mother must love me to give up her Christmas so I could have another present.
Although I remember many of my childhood Christmases, I fondly remember that particular Christmas because it had a tremendous impact on me. I understood for the first time that Mother wasn’t "giving up" her Christmas. Rather, she found greater joy in giving and, in so doing, taught me that giving is truly better than receiving.
