I stood by the window looking out over a field on our large farm in the northwest corner of Arkansas that cold December day in 1948, not knowing what to do with myself. It was warm inside with the pot belly stove glowing cheerily behind me in the sitting room. Adding to that warmth was the Kitchen's wood stove where Mama was cooking. Sometimes she'd let me help in the kitchen but I knew I really was under foot, and I was too little to do chores with Papa. I had a problem staying away from his room when he closed the door to take a nap. I had quickly learned to be quiet when I opened the door once too often and gotten my bottom spanked.
A slight chill crept through the glass pane, making my cheeks tingle. The trees were bare of their leaves and the fields where daisies once bloomed were cold and brown.
Everything looked as bad as I felt. I didn't like being cooped up inside or wearing these heavy shoes and I really didn't like my sister Joy abandoning me and starting school. Mama said they'd let me start next fall; I would be five years old. Seven of us kids were still living at home. My oldest four brothers and sisters were out there somewhere far away.
If it hadn't been so close to Christmas I don't know how I could have survived.
A pickup turned into our lane. My heart leaped. Seldom did anyone come calling. "Mama, Mama," I yelled, "Someone's a'comin'!" Mama came though the kitchen door and peeped out the window over my head.
"Well. that's Mrs.. Jewitt," she said.
I remember hearing about Mrs.. Jewitt. She'd been standing in front of her fireplace when her robe caught fire. Her husband came running when he heard her scream and wrapped her in a rug to smother the flames. Mama had gone over when she heard of the accident. She was always there when people were in need-and the Jewitts had been in bad need.
I was at Mama's heels when she opened the door. "Well, Mrs.. Jewitt, how good to see you up and about. Come right in." Mrs.. Jewitt wouldn't take a seat, so she and Mama just stood there and chatted. I soon lost interest in their conversation, but I kept watching and waiting-and wanting to know what Mrs.. Jewitt had in that sack she had with her. My mind tried to guess. Maybe Christmas cookies or taffy. My ears really perked up when I heard it was for me. They went on talking like I wasn't there or not old enough to know what was being said.
Mama thanked her, "I'll put it away and she can have it Christmas day." She opened up the den door and went to the white stand-up closet and put the sack inside on top of her mending. I always liked watching her mend. She'd put an old light bulb inside my brothers' socks and using a threaded needle, go one way then the other way over the hole until it just disappeared. She firmly closed the closet door and I knew I'd have to wait.
In the room I took a quick look at our Christmas tree standing there in all its glory. I'd helped string the popcorn but I liked eating it best. I loved to watch the bubble go up the bulbs when the tree was lite. We were lucky Papa was so smart, he tore down old cars to make his own saw mill and electricity. Not a word was said to me about my present. Mama told the rest of the kids how Mrs.. Jewitt was a Jew and didn't believe in Christmas but brought me a present anyway. Oh, how sad, I thought. Every time I got a chance I'd sneak into the den, open the closet door, and make sure the present was still there, that I wasn't dreaming. I'd get excited, knowing it was mine.
On Christmas Eve Papa said he had to go out and check one of the cows. All of us kids sat on the floor around Mama's chair, listening to her read stories from the Bible. This was our special time before bed. We were interrupted by a noise that sounded like someone was trying to get into the house. "What could that be?' Mama asked. We kids ran to the door and looked through the tiny window pane. "Oh, my, it's Santa Claus," exclaimed Mama.
None of us said a word. I was in awe, looking at Santa with his red suit, big belly, long white beard and a large sack over his shoulder. He went right to our beautiful tee and started putting packages under it, when one of the older kids whispered, "It's Papa." I twirled my head to see if they were teasing and knew they weren't. They started chuckling and I laughed with them. I didn't want them to know I really thought it was Santa and wasn't grown up. But my hear sank. I was angry with them for saying is wasn't Santa.
Time seemed to stand still that night. The bed was cold, even with the mound of quilts and the wrapped hot bricks Mama had placed at our feet. I couldn't go to sleep and just knew morning would never come.
"Merry, Christmas!" I work to hear Papa sing out, "Merry, Christmas!" We popped out of bed, excitement and cold engulfing us. Papa met us, playing recorder as we ran down the stairs, "Here comes Marie. Merry Christmas! Here comes Betty. Merry Christmas! Here comes Gay." On he went as we made a mad dash toward the tree to our presents.
Joy and I got a doll house with small furniture, wall papered just like our own house. Joy as in front of it, slowly picking up each item while I went on to see what other wonderful things Santa, or Papa, had left me. I got a homemade rag doll with two heads. Flip over the skirt and she was awake, flip the skirt the other way and she was asleep. Holding the two-headed doll in my arms, I began searching, where was my present from Mrs.. Jewitt?
Checking to see that no one was watching. I slowly inched to the stand-up closet, opened the door and peeped inside. There it was! I knew better than to take it without asking, so I went to Mama and whispered, "My Present."
She turned in surprise. She had forgotten. As she opened the closet door and place the present into my waiting arms, everyone stopped to watch.
I pulled out a store bought rubber doll with a little round hole inside its red mouth. He had his own baby bottle. My sister told me, "You can give it real water."Never had any of us had, nor even seen , such an amazing doll. I named him Roy. I forgot everything else and played only with him, and he wet more diaper than Mama could make. Roy became my inseparable companion and was my favorite doll for years.
Now, 50 year later, Roy lies in a shoe box in my closet. His painted rubber face has lost its pink glow and had hardened and cracked, and his fingers and toes are almost worn away. He looks well used, but he is a doll well loved.
Sometimes in a frenzy of cleaning and re-organizing, I pull him out of my closet and consider throwing him away. But when I see him, all the found memories of that Christmas day in 1948 are rekindled, and I put him back for another day.
This story was in the Ozarks Mountaineer in December 1999