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Christmas morning the year I was six dawned gray, damp and cold, but nothing could dampen the excitement that had been building in our house for days. This year Christmas was especially welcome for we were in the grip of the Great Depression, or as we knew it, "Hard Times." My sisters, Lou, Sara, Amy and I all desperately hoped that "'Hard Times" would let up for the holiday. To add to our excitement, an unprecedented event occurred the week before Christmas. The postman brought a small, sturdy white box to our Liberal, Kansas, home addressed to "The Millard Girls" from Great Uncle Edward in Florida. Mama set it on top of the icebox for safekeeping until Christmas morning. As the youngest, I felt lost in the flurry of our four-girl family and longed to be loved. Worse, from a bit of unintentional eavedropping, I'd learned that I'd been an afterthought. This special gift made me feel like warm honey inside. Now Lou, Sara, Amy and I, seething with excitement, clustered round our hand-decorated tree to open our gifts. Dirt-poor, expecting little, we were ecstatic when we each received a pair of shiny black patent leather shoes from Papa, and a NEW dress, not a hand-me-down, sewn by Mama. We girls exchanged gifts we'd made for each other and for Mama and Papa, and what our hands lacked in skill was made up by love. Now the moment we had waited for was here. Lou tore open Great Uncle Edward's box. Quivering with anticipation, Sara, Amy and I crowded close. As Lou flipped back the top, we gasped. Nestled in green shredded paper, lay the biggest, most perfect oranges we had ever seen. No small gift, for oranges were a luxury. In fact, we had not seen an orange in our house since hard times had fallen upon us. Amy, poking through the greenery, wailed, "There are only three oranges!" Over a sudden lump in my throat, I said, "I guess Great Uncle Edward forgot about me..." My voice trailed off. Sara shrugged. "Guess so." Tears prickled behind my eyelids. After a long, silent moment, Amy, who couldn't bear to see anyone unhappy, said, "You can have my orange, Sissy." Reluctantly, I shook my head. "No. I can't take yours." Sara, ten, sighed. "You'd think Uncle Edward could remember FOUR girls." Lou, fourteen and knowledgeable, said, "'Weil, he IS a railroad pensioner. Pensioner means he's ancient and can't remember things. Still, it's not fair for Sissy to lose out just because she's the last of us girls." Lou fetched a broom from the kitchen, pulled out four straws, broke one off short, then bunched them in her fist. "Draw. Short straw loses." Amy lost. Her eyes grew bright and shiny. Biting her lip, she plopped the fruit into my eager hands. I dug my nails into the perfect, dimpled orange skin. I was horribly aware of Amy's eyes, filled with longing, watching. Suppressing a sigh, I pulled the sections apart. "One for you, and one for me, one for you, and one for me ..." Lou and Sara paused, looking slightly abashed. Impulsively, Sara offered up the wedges on her outstretched palm. "Here, Amy take some of mine." Not to be outdone, Lou said quickly, "Mine, too." Clearly, my sisters were not overjoyed at giving up a portion of their rare gift. But afterward, having set things to rights, they appeared lighter of heart. After Christmas we all wrote 'thank you' notes to Great Uncle Edward. Penciling mine in big black print, I thought: Surely, reading FOUR notes, he'll remember there are FOUR girls in our family. Hard Times wore on. The next Christmas another box arrived from Uncle Edward. But when we opened it, my hopeful heart flipped over. Again, there were only three oranges. Again he had forgotten me. Resolutely, we split the oranges into four equal portions. Then, having once again set things to rights, we wrote four 'thank you' notes to Uncle Edward. The following summer Lou married Joe Andrews and moved to Chicago. I was happy for Lou, but with a small pang of guilt, also happy for myself. They could not afford to come home for Christmas, so I would have a whole orange of my own. On Christmas morning, inside Uncle Edward's box lay the biggest and most perfect oranges ever. Sara, Amy and I stared in disbelief. Deep in the green-shredded paper gleamed two golden oranges. Feeling as though I were shrinking inside, I wailed, "'Why, oh why, can't Uncle Edward ever remember me?" "Never mind," Sara soothed. Again we drew straws and shared. That summer, when our family fortunes improved, Mama and Papa drove us in the sweltering heat to visit Uncle Edward in Florida. One afternoon he and I were swinging on the porch trying to stir up some air. Though it went against my, raising, I mustered my courage and asked, "How's come you never send enough Christmas oranges for all of us girls?" His dark eyes twinkled. His mustache twitched. "You ever gone without?" "Well, no. My sisters and I, we've always shared." Uncle Edward chuckled. "Figured you would. After all, isn't that what Christmas is all about?" The light of revelation dawned. At last I understood. With enough oranges for all, we'd have missed the joy of sharing, missed the true spirit of Christmas. My heart swelled as I beamed up at him. Great Uncle Edward had never forgotten me after all. We girls have never forgotten Great Uncle Edward, nor his gift of golden oranges, nor the lesson they brought. To this day, each of us girls is always there for the others-a gift more precious than gold. And never has there been a Christmas more memorable or more filled with love, than those special "Hard Times" years. "Gift of Gold" was previously published in the December 15, 1996 issue of Grit. |
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© 1996 by Dee Stuart
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