Making Christmas Special

I was eight or nine years old the first time my mother went Christmas shopping for someone else’s kids.

I remember my mother saying that her best friend, Mrs. A, had called. Mrs. A knew a family whose house had caught on fire. The father was out of work, and the kids had nothing for Christmas. Would my mother be willing to buy a gift for each of the four kids, something small, so that they would at least have something to open on Christmas morning?

Sure, said my mom.

So, about a week before the holiday, we piled into the car and drove to the “good” mall. This was the mall a couple towns over – more special than the one up the street from our house. The “normal” mall had a Mammoth Mart, which later became a Caldor, and then something else after that. Mammoth Mart (yes, its logo was an elephant) was slightly more upscale than Woolworth’s, but not quite on the level of a Zayre’s. Mammoth Mart was where we bought our heavy-soled leather shoes, scratchy wool turtlenecks, and fake fur winter coats for school each September.

But the “good” mall had a Bradlees. (None of these stores exist anymore.) Bradlees was the “Tar-jay” of its day, with clothes, housewares, books, toys, and shoes. Bradlees was where you could sometimes get brand named stuff, when that idea was still in its infancy, last season’s fashions at bargain basement prices. Bradlees was where we did our Christmas shopping (well, Mom and Dad did; we kids bought gifts at the discount store up the street, where five dollars went a long way), just because Christmas was special.

So off to Bradlees we went, shopping for four children whom we knew by age and gender, but not name.

If I recall correctly, there was a baby, and three older kids, a boy and two girls between the ages of four and ten. My mom gave us the run of the store, and we chose toys we’d like to have and put them in the basket. Not being well-off, we understood the value of a dollar; we picked out reasonably priced dolls and clothes to go on them, board games, stuff like that. My mom carefully selected an outfit for each child. We understood that. We got new clothes three times a year: summer, the beginning of the school year, and Christmas, and tried not to grow. The rest of the time, my mother made our clothes (pants, skirts, dresses – we looked good). Mom and Dad saved up for Christmas (remember Christmas clubs at the local bank?) and with 20/20 hindsight, I know that the money to fund three kids’ Christmas expectations probably came out of overtime hours and skipped lunches. If we gazed wistfully at the half-filled carriage, it was only because we figured we might get a little less that year. Dividing that pie by seven instead of three might make for some pretty thin slices. But we were game, because the alternative, that kids would wake up with nothing under the tree – or not even a tree – was too awful to contemplate.

I do not know, to this day, what my parents sacrificed to pay for this extra shopping trip. I do know that we had no disappointment on Christmas morning – if we did receive less than we otherwise would have, none of us noticed.

After the shopping trip, we settled down in the living room and wrapped every one of those gifts. I think we marked them with tags that indicated who they were for: “baby,” “five year old girl,” etc. Each package got a bow. We left the “from” space empty, so that the parents could write whatever they wanted. Maybe the presents would be from Santa that year. It was up to them. When we were done, my mom called Mrs. A and told her she could come pick up the gifts.

As long as I live, I will never forget the look of utter shock on Mrs. A’s face when she walked in the front door and saw the pile of festive gifts in the foyer. There were probably three gifts for each kid: toys and clothing. Mrs. A said to my mom, “I thought there’d just be a big green garbage bag.”

My mom said, “That’s not Christmas.”

Mrs. A had to make a couple of trips to collect all the gifts. Later, she called up to say how thrilled the mother and father of those children were, and how grateful. She started to tell my mom who they were, and my mother interrupted her. “No, no, no,” she said. “I don’t want to know their names, and I don’t want you to tell them who I am.” Her reason? “I don’t want to be walking down the street someday and meet them and have everybody feel all embarrassed about this. Just let it be anonymous.” As far as I know, Mrs. A honored that request.

There are many family traditions that I’ve let fall by the wayside. Giving anonymous gifts to needy children is the one I will always keep. I remember looking at my mother that day and seeing the face of God. It was probably the first time I really wanted to be her – not be like her, but be her – when I grew up. I often think about that family, destitute and defeated in the midst of a beautiful holiday season. I imagine that one of those children, maybe the oldest, knew the situation they were in and had resigned himself or herself that there wouldn’t be a real Christmas that year. And then I imagine the joy and wonder on that kid’s face as he or she opened a gift picked out by a stranger and was reminded that there still was magic in the world.