Once a Christmas Wish, Now a Memory

 

It's Christmas Eve morning. Today, I have a story for you about a Christmas present I wanted more than any I had ever hoped to receive before. Would my twelve-year-old hopes be realized or would I be desperately disappointed? 

Once a Christmas Wish, Now a Memory

A few weeks before Christmas of 1951, I told my mother about a special gift I wanted. She laughed and said, “You’re too old for baby dolls.” My bottom lip quivered and I blinked away tears.

I didn’t think twelve was too old to play with dolls. My cousin, Carol, had the most wonderful baby doll, one the size of a real baby. I coveted that doll more than anything I’d seen in my entire life. The one time of the year we got new toys was Christmas, making this the perfect time to ask for one. 

I took a deep breath. “Carol has one, so why shouldn’t I?” 

This time my mother didn’t laugh at me. She stopped rolling the pie crust dough. “Girls who are twelve and in sixth grade don’t play with dolls. Carol’s only eleven and in the fifth grade.” 

She started rolling the dough again.

Why did a year make such a difference? I only had one doll, a Shirley Temple look-alike 

given to me six years earlier. At twelve, I had perfected sulking, and I proceeded to do so. I watched while my two younger brothers turned the pages in the Sears catalog and wrote the first letter of their name by the toys they wanted. It probably wasn’t worth putting my initials there. I only wanted one thing, and it looked like I wasn’t going to get it.

Even so, I harbored a twinge of hope all through the weeks that led up to the big day. We had little storage space in our small apartment, so my mother immediately wrapped the gifts she purchased and stacked them on the dressers in her bedroom. She delighted in sending us in there on made-up errands so we could watch the piles grow.  I didn’t see a box that might hold a life-size baby doll. Maybe tomorrow…

Signs of Christmas were all around us. We listened to an episode of The Cinnamon Bear on the radio after school. The same story about two children and a stuffed bear searching for a special star ran every year in December, and despite knowing the ending, I listened every day while I snacked on the latest Christmas cookies that Mom baked daily, washing them down with cold milk. But I thought about my baby doll. 

Mom baked many kinds of cookies, storing them in gaily patterned tins. I helped frost the sugar cookies and sampled the others that came out of the oven as soon as they cooled. Tiny rolled-up rugelach, powdered-sugar-coated crescents, and of course, chocolate chip.  Cinnamon rolls, coffee cakes, and frosted layer cakes made our holiday special. We had fudge every Christmas—so soft and gooey, it had to be eaten with a spoon. While the spicy smells of the holiday filled the air, I thought about the doll.

A few days before the big day, Dad put up the tree and strung the colored lights. We three kids hung the ornaments. Being the oldest, I was in charge of the upper branches. Howard worked on the next tier, and Paul, who was only four, put ornaments on the bottom branches. We finished with silver tinsel that shimmered in the tree lights. Holiday music played on our big console radio in the living room. I looked at the tree and thought that, if I got my doll Christmas morning, everything would be perfect. 

A special angel adorned every tree of my growing-up years. Mom pressed the angel’s pink satin dress, smoothed out her gold wings, and fluffed up her hair so she was ready to stand on top of our tree, watching over us. Dad waited until we decorated the entire tree before he put the angel on the highest point. That year, I wondered if angels could grant special Christmas wishes. Just in case, I silently told her mine. She didn’t laugh or scold, just smiled sweetly while I inhaled the special aroma of the fir tree.

On Christmas Eve, my brothers and I brought one of our everyday socks to the living room and Mom pinned them onto the back of an overstuffed chair since we had no fireplace with a mantel. We knew Santa would fill them with an orange, walnuts still in the shells, and a few pieces of candy. Before we went to bed, Howard, Paul and I brought out all the colorful packages from the bedroom and watched Dad arrange them under the tree. 

It seemed almost magical with the lights, ornaments, and the packages filled with secrets underneath, all watched over by the sweet pink angel on the top. All too soon, we were shooed off to bed with the annual reminder that the sooner we went to sleep, the sooner Christmas would arrive. 

In the morning, my brothers found the gifts Santa brought them next to the tree, for Santa never wrapped his gifts. The boys knew immediately who they were from. Each of them received one of the items he’d marked in the Sears catalog weeks earlier. No Santa gift for me. Twelve-year-old girls didn’t play with dolls and they didn’t get gifts from Santa either. I swallowed my disappointment and settled down on the sofa waiting for Dad to pass out the wrapped packages, one by one.

We opened many packages that held practical items like new socks or pajamas and others that had small toys and comic books, some jewelry for me. I noticed a good-sized box in the corner that I hadn’t seen the night before. When we’d opened all the others, Dad handed me that big box. I looked at him and Mom, then at the angel on the tree. Could it possibly be?

 “Open it,” Dad said. 

I ripped off the paper, removed the lid, and gazed down on the face of the precious doll I’d hoped for. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, I lifted the doll carefully out of the box and cradled her against me. It was exactly like the one Carol had.

I looked at my mother, still in her bathrobe and slippers on this holiday morning. I had trouble getting the words out, then finally said, “But you said I was too old for dolls.”  

“Sometimes mothers are wrong. Daddy and I decided that if it was something you wanted so very much, you should have it. You’ve never had a lot of dolls like some girls.”

 I laid my treasure on the sofa and rushed to my mother’s side. I hugged her and thanked her and then put my arms around my dad and squeezed hard, whispering my thanks in his ear.

I picked up my special Christmas gift and smiled from ear to ear. What fun Carol and I would have later in the day when her family joined ours for dinner. Everyone moved to the kitchen to eat breakfast but I stopped to say a silent thank you to the pink angel on the tree top. 

Twelve wasn’t too old for dolls, after all.

(c)

NOTE:  Next post will be Monday, December 26, 2020 

Half A Daddy For Christmas--A Memory

My family never had a coach and four like this, but it is such a pretty winter scene that I decided to use it today. We talked about writing your holiday stories yesterday. I'm going to share one that I've subbed to Chicken Soup for the Soul more than once, but it was not accepted for a Christmas book. Maybe one of you can tell me what is missing here. Or perhaps nothing is missing, and they just had too many good stories to select from. Either way, this is a sample to help you create your own Christmas memory story.

Half A Daddy For Christmas

Christmas Eve finally arrived. I’d finished baking, the gifts were under the tree, and we’d carried out our family tradition of driving around to look at homes ablaze with holiday lights on the way home from church. Our two children were out of the car as soon as Ken pulled into the garage. We followed close behind, reaching the kitchen just as the phone rang.
   
 Ken answered, and after a short conversation he said, “Thank you for letting me know.” He turned to me. “That was the nursing home. One of my customers passed away tonight, and I’ve got to let the family know.”
   
 Ken headed a trust department in a bank. He needed to inform the family of the death of a customer as soon as possible. But it was Christmas Eve! The lady who died had only one relative that he knew of—a sister who lived far away from our state of Kansas. He needed to talk with her and find out if there were other living relatives.

The kids were in the family room shaking packages under the tree, but I didn’t bother to tell them to keep their hands off the gifts as I usually did. I waited, anxious to hear what he was going to do.
   
“I haven’t got the heart to call with news like this on Christmas Eve. I’ll wait til tomorrow. I’ve got the sister’s number in the file at the bank.”
   
Kirk and Karen abandoned the gaily wrapped presents when I offered them Christmas cookies for a bedtime snack. Their dad didn’t join in. In fact, he turned on the TV and said very little to anyone, unlike him on a festive evening like this one.
   
Ken spent a restless night and beat everyone out of bed. When the kids and I got downstairs, he had a fire blazing and Christmas music playing softly. Our children checked out what Santa had brought them and what he’d left in their stockings while I put the coffee on. Next, we opened gifts but it felt like there was only half a daddy in the room. His mind dwelled on an elderly lady in Seattle.
   
After I served a big breakfast, Ken left for the bank to make the phone call to Seattle. I hoped the light of Christmas Day made it easier for the woman to hear the news than the darkness of Christmas Eve.
   
The kids played with new toys while I made some preparations for our mid-day holiday dinner. We’d call our families back in Illinois later in the day. An hour went by and well into the second hour, I started to worry. The bank was locked, but Ken had his own key. He was there all alone, and what if the police saw a shadowy figure inside? What if they shot first and asked questions later? Just as panic grabbed a tight hold on me, he walked in the door. Even though I noted the concern on his face, relief washed over me.

 “I called the sister,’ he said, “but I couldn’t get her to understand. I think she has dementia. I have to call again.”
   
 Kirk wanted his dad to play a new game with him, but his request was met with, “Not now.” An unusual response from a caring dad.
   
I listened to Ken talking to the woman in Seattle while I peeled potatoes. His kindness and his patience seemed to never end as he tried to make sure the lady actually understood his message. After many repetitions, he finally gave up and ended the call. He paced the kitchen and passed right by a dish of fudge on the counter, something he’d never do under normal circumstances.
   
“All I can do is see if the Seattle police can get a social worker to go out and talk with this woman.”  He needed information about any other family before funeral arrangements could be made, and he also felt a moral obligation.
   
He called the Seattle police department and spoke with an officer there who told him there were no social workers. “It’s Christmas Day!” The man’s voice was so loud I heard him across the room and that’s when my husband ran out of kindness and patience.
   
In a raised voice, he informed the officer that both of them were working even though it was Christmas Day and it’s a sure thing that there’s a social worker on call. Both our children listened with wide eyes. This was not the daddy they knew. The call ended with the policeman’s assurance that the task would be taken care of before day’s end.

Christmas Day went on with a special roast duck dinner eaten from the good china, phone calls to and from family and quieter than usual children. They were well aware they had only half a daddy this Christmas.  His mind seemed to center on what was happening in Seattle in the apartment of an elderly woman who’d lost her sister.
   
The next day at work, he received a call from the social worker who’d made the visit. She assured him that the sister had finally understood the sad news she’d brought.
   
That Christmas, my husband’s kind, patient way with a stranger felt like another gift, one that did not come wrapped in shiny paper with a big bow, but one that I loved and treasured then, and still do. Our children may have only had half a daddy that Christmas, but over the years he’s made up for it. Besides that, our children learned how much he cared about doing the right thing.

(c)

Half A Daddy For Christmas

This is a true story I wrote for a Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas book but it didn't make it into the book. Instead, it languished for a long time in my files until I decided to share it with you today.

 Half A Daddy For Christmas

By Nancy Julien Kopp

   

 Christmas Eve finally arrived. I’d finished baking, the gifts were under the tree, and we’d carried out our family tradition of driving around to look at homes ablaze with holiday lights on the way home from church. Our two children were out of the car as soon as Ken pulled into the garage. We followed close behind, reaching the kitchen just as the phone rang.

   

 Ken answered, and after a short conversation he said, “Thank you for letting me know.” He turned to me. “That was the nursing home. One of my customers passed away tonight, and I’ve got to let the family know.”

   

 Ken headed a trust department in a bank. He needed to inform family of the death of a customer as soon as possible. But it was Christmas Eve! The lady who died had only one relative that he knew of—a sister who lived far away from our state of Kansas. He needed to talk with her and find out if there were other living relatives.

The kids were in the family room shaking packages under the tree, but I didn’t bother to tell them to keep their hands off the gifts as I usually did. I waited, anxious to hear what he was going to do.

    

“I haven’t got the heart to call with news like this on Christmas Eve. I’ll wait til tomorrow. I’ve got the sister’s number in the file at the bank.”

   

Kirk and Karen abandoned the gaily wrapped presents when I offered them Christmas cookies for a bedtime snack. Their dad didn’t join in. In fact, he turned on the TV and said very little to anyone, unlike him on a festive evening like this one.

    

Ken spent a restless night and beat everyone out of bed. When the kids and I got downstairs, he had a fire blazing and Christmas music playing softly. Our children checked out what Santa had brought them and what he’d left in their stockings while I put the coffee on. Next, we opened gifts but it felt like there was only half a daddy in the room. His mind dwelled on an elderly lady in Seattle.

    

After I served a big breakfast, Ken left for the bank to make the phone call to Seattle. I hoped the light of Christmas Day made it easier for the woman to hear the news than the darkness of Christmas Eve.

    

The kids played with new toys while I made some preparations for our mid-day holiday dinner. We’d call our families back in Illinois later in the day. An hour went by and well into the second hour, I started to worry. The bank was locked, but Ken had his own key. He was there all alone, and what if the police saw a shadowy figure inside? What if they shot first and asked questions later? Just as panic grabbed a tight hold on me, he walked in the door. Even though I noted the concern on his face, relief washed over me.

 “I called the sister,’ he said, “but I couldn’t get her to understand. I think she has dementia. I have to call again.”

   

 Kirk wanted his dad to play a new game with him, but his request was met with, “Not now.” An unusual response from a caring dad.

    

I listened to Ken talking to the woman in Seattle while I peeled potatoes. His kindness and his patience seemed to never end as he tried to make sure the lady actually understood his message. After many repetitions, he finally gave up and ended the call. He paced the kitchen and passed right by a dish of fudge on the counter, something he’d never do under normal circumstances.

    

“All I can do is see if the Seattle police can get a social worker to go out and talk with this woman.”  He needed information about any other family before funeral arrangements could be made, and he also felt a moral obligation.

    

He called the Seattle police department and spoke with an officer there who told him there were no social workers. “It’s Christmas Day!” The man’s voice was so loud I heard him across the room and that’s when my husband ran out of kindness and patience.

    

In a raised voice, he informed the officer that both of them were working even though it was Christmas Day and it’s a sure thing that there’s a social worker on call. Both our children listened with wide eyes. This was not the daddy they knew. The call ended with the policeman’s assurance that the task would be taken care of before day’s end.

Christmas Day went on with a special roast duck dinner eaten from the good china, phone calls to and from family and quieter than usual children. They were well aware they had only half a daddy this Christmas.  His mind seemed to center on what was happening in Seattle in the apartment of an elderly woman who’d lost her sister.

    

The next day at work, he received a call from the social worker who’d made the visit. She assured him that the sister had finally understood the sad news she’d brought.

    

That Christmas, my husband’s kind, patient way with a stranger felt like another gift, one that did not come wrapped in shiny paper with a big bow, but one that I loved and treasured then, and still do. Our children may have only had half a daddy that Christmas, but over the years he’s made up for it. 

Why My Children Had Only Half A Daddy One Christmas

Ken in Lahr, Germany

Today, I'm posting a Christmas story that has not been published. Yet! It's a memory story of a Christmas when our children were young. It was a year they only had half a daddy for Christmas. Read the story and find out why. 

Half A Daddy For Christmas

By Nancy Julien Kopp

   

 Christmas Eve finally arrived. I’d finished baking, the gifts were under the tree, and we’d carried out our family tradition of driving around to look at homes ablaze with holiday lights on the way home from church. Our two children were out of the car as soon as Ken pulled into the garage. We followed close behind, reaching the kitchen just as the phone rang.

   

 Ken answered, and after a short conversation he said, “Thank you for letting me know.” He turned to me. “That was the nursing home. One of my customers passed away tonight, and I’ve got to let the family know.”

   

 Ken headed a trust department in a bank. He needed to inform family of the death of a customer as soon as possible. But it was Christmas Eve! The lady who died had only one relative that he knew of—a sister who lived far away from our state of Kansas. He needed to talk with her and find out if there were other living relatives.

The kids were in the family room shaking packages under the tree, but I didn’t bother to tell them to keep their hands off the gifts as I usually did. I waited, anxious to hear what he was going to do.

    

“I haven’t got the heart to call with news like this on Christmas Eve. I’ll wait til tomorrow. I’ve got the sister’s number in the file at the bank.”

   

Kirk and Karen abandoned the gaily wrapped presents when I offered them Christmas cookies for a bedtime snack. Their dad didn’t join in. In fact, he turned on the TV and said very little to anyone.

    

Ken spent a restless night and beat everyone out of bed. When the kids and I got downstairs, he had a fire blazing and Christmas music playing softly. Our children checked out what Santa had brought them and what he’d left in their stockings while I put the coffee on. Next, we opened gifts but it felt like there was only half a daddy in the room. His mind dwelled on an old lady in Seattle.

    

After I served a big breakfast, Ken left for the bank to make the phone call to Seattle. I hoped the light of Christmas Day made it easier than the darkness of Christmas Eve.

    

The kids played with new toys while I made some preparations for our mid-day holiday dinner. We’d call our families back in Illinois later in the day. An hour went by and well into the second hour, I started to worry. The bank was locked, but Ken had his own key. He was there all alone, and what if the police saw a shadowy figure inside? What if they shot first and asked questions later? Just as panic grabbed a tight hold on me, he walked in the door. Even though I noted the concern on his face, relief washed over me.

 “I called the sister,’ he said, “but I couldn’t get her to understand. I think she has dementia. I have to call again.”

   

 Kirk wanted his dad to play a new game with him, but his request was met with, “Not now.” An unusual response from a caring dad.

    

I listened to Ken talking to the woman in Seattle while I peeled potatoes. His kindness and his patience seemed to never end as he tried to make sure the lady actually understood his message. After many repetitions, he finally gave up and ended the call. He paced the kitchen and passed right by a dish of fudge on the counter, something he’d never do under normal circumstances.

    

“All I can do is see if the Seattle police can get a social worker to go out and talk with this woman.”  He needed information about any other family before funeral arrangements could be made, and I think he also felt a moral obligation.

    

He called the Seattle police department and spoke with an officer there who told him there were no social workers. “It’s Christmas Day!” His voice was so loud I heard him across the room and that’s when my husband ran out of kindness and patience.

    

In a raised voice, he informed the officer that both of them were working even though it was Christmas Day and it’s a sure thing that there’s a social worker on call. Both our children listened with wide eyes. This was not the daddy they knew. The call ended with the policeman’s assurance that the task would be taken care of before day’s end.

Christmas Day went on with a special roast duck dinner eaten on the good china, phone calls to and from family and quieter than usual children. They were well aware they had only half a daddy this Christmas.  His mind seemed to center on what was happening in Seattle in the apartment of an old woman who’d lost her sister.

    

The next day at work, he received a call from the social worker who’d made the visit. She assured him that the sister had finally understood the sad news she’d brought.

    

That Christmas, my husband’s kind, patient way with a stranger felt like another gift, one that did not come wrapped in shiny paper with a big bow, but one that I loved and treasured then, and still do. Our children may have only had half a daddy that Christmas, but over the years he’s made up for it.

A Christmas Story About A Teacher

My heart goes out to all those affected by the tragedy in Newtown, CT last Friday. It's made me think about the courage and love that teachers have for their students. So many of the teachers there put the children first and foremost, before shielding themselves. So, today, I'm going to post a Christmas story about a beloved teacher I had in the fifth grade, when times were simpler and less frightening. The story has been published three or four times.

 The Best Christmas Present Ever

By Nancy Julien Kopp

 In 1949 the twenty-one children in my fifth grade class learned one of life’s greatest lessons. Ten year olds usually care more about the importance of receiving gifts than the considering the joy in giving them. But that year, we found out that giving truly is better than receiving, and it was all because of a special teacher.

 Lyle Biddinger served on a navy destroyer during World War II, went to college on the GI Bill and landed in a Chicago suburban grade school teaching fifth grade. We were his first class, and he was the first male teacher in our Kindergarten through eighth grade school. Young, handsome, and an outstanding teacher—he was all any ten year old could ask for.

During family dinners, I talked endlessly about what Mr. Bid had told us that day, what he’d shown us, the games he’d taught us. He may as well have been sitting at our table every night, for his presence was evident Monday through Friday. I hurried through breakfast so I could get to school early, and I offered to stay after class and do whatever little jobs needed to be done. I wasn’t the only one who acted this way about Mr. Biddinger. Oh no--all of us adored him.

We were so proud to be in his class. We preened our feathers like peacocks around the kids in the other fifth grade. He was all ours, and like kids of that age, we let everyone know it. Our teacher made learning fun, and in the 1940’s this was a new approach. At one point, some of the parents went to the principal and complained that Mr. Biddinger spent too much time playing games during classtime. School should not be fun; it was to be hard work. Somehow Mr. Biddinger and the principal placated the disgruntled parents, and life went on as before in the fifth grade.

December arrived, and the Room Mother contacted the other parents. Each family was asked to give a modest amount of money to be used for a Christmas gift for the teacher. It was not an unusual request in our school. Next she called Mr. Biddinger’s wife to find out what might be the perfect gift for him.

It was to be a secret, of course, but we all knew about it, and whispers and notes flew back and forth. Our class Christmas party would be held the last day before the holiday break. We would have a grab bag gift exchange, punch and cookies and candy. We’d play some games, get out of schoolwork and give Mr. Bid his gift. The days trickled by slower than ever before, and our excitement grew steadily. We looked forward to our school Christmas much more than the one we’d each have at home.

 Finally, the big day dawned. Our Room Mother arrived bearing the punch and brightly decorated Christmas cookies and hard candies. But where was the big box Mr. Bid’s present was in? We didn’t see it. We wriggled in our desks and fretted. Whispers sailed around the room until Mr. Bid scolded us. “Settle down,” he said, “or the party’s over as of now.” Quiet reigned. The treats and grab bag gifts were passed out. We munched on our sugar cookies and slurped the red punch. The classroom door opened, and a strange woman walked in. Mr. Biddinger’s looked surprised at first; then a big smile crossed his face. We were soon introduced to his wife. The Room Mother disappeared into the hall but was back in seconds holding a good-sized box wrapped in Christmas paper and tied with a wide red ribbon. The chatter in the room ceased immediately, and all eyes were riveted on that box.

The Room Mother cleared her throat, walked to our teacher and said, “Mr. Biddinger, this gift is from your students. They wanted to show their love and appreciation by giving you something special.” As she handed him the box, the room tingled with an air of excitement.

 Mr. Bid seemed excited, and that alone thrilled us. He untied the bow and handed the ribbon to his wife. Next came the wrapping, and we all leaned forward. He opened the box and lifted a hunting jacket from the folds of tissue paper. This had been his fondest wish for Christmas, Mrs. Biddinger had told the Room Mother. He loved to hunt on the week-ends whenever possible, but the special hunting gear was beyond a teacher’s salary at that time.

For the first time, the man who taught us so much became mute, totally speechless. He turned the jacket over and over, looked at the special pockets on the inside and outside. He tried again to say something but couldn’t. But the sparkle in his eyes and the smile on his face said all we needed to know. He finally found his voice and told us over and over how much he loved his new jacket. “It’s probably the finest gift I’ve ever received,” he said. He didn’t say why, but we knew. We had no doubt that the reason was that it came from his first class, the twenty-one ten year olds who adored him.

I don’t remember the gifts I received at home that Christmas, but I’ll never forget the gift we gave Mr. Biddinger. It was the best Christmas present ever.

Another Christmas Memory Story

The Christmas story I am posting today is one that was published in The Big Book of Christmas Joy last year. It's about the year that I and many of my classmates learned the joy in giving that surpasses that of receiving gifts. Sometimes, this lesson is not learned until far into adulthood. I was blessed to have acquired this knowledge at so young an age.


The Best Christmas Present Ever
By Nancy Julien Kopp

In 1949 the twenty-one children in my fifth grade class learned one of life’s greatest lessons. Ten year olds usually care more about the importance of receiving gifts than the considering the joy in giving them. But that year, we found out that giving truly is better than receiving, and it was all because of a special teacher.

Lyle Biddinger served on a navy destroyer during World War II, went to college on the GI Bill and landed in a Chicago suburban grade school teaching fifth grade. We were his first class, and he was the first male teacher in our Kindergarten through eighth grade school. Young, handsome, and an outstanding teacher—he was all any ten year old could ask for.

During family dinners, I talked endlessly about what Mr. Bid had told us that day, what he’d shown us, the games he’d taught us. He may as well have been sitting at our table every night, for his presence was evident Monday through Friday. I hurried through breakfast so I could get to school early, and I offered to stay after classl and do whatever little jobs needed to be done. I wasn’t the only one who acted this way about Mr. Biddinger. Oh no--all of us adored him.

We were so proud to be in his class. We preened our feathers like peacocks around the kids in the other fifth grade. He was all ours, and like kids of that age, we let everyone know it. Our teacher made learning fun, and in the 1940’s this was a new approach. At one point, some of the parents went to the principal and complained that Mr. Biddinger spent too much time playing games during classtime. School should not be fun; it was to be hard work. Somehow Mr. Biddinger and the principal placated the disgruntled parents, and life went on as before in the fifth grade.

December arrived, and the Room Mother contacted the other parents. Each family was asked to give a modest amount of money to be used for a Christmas gift for the teacher. It was not an unusual request in our school. Next she called Mr. Biddinger’s wife to find out what might be the perfect gift for him.

It was to be a secret, of course, but we all knew about it, and whispers and notes flew back and forth. Our class Christmas party would be held the last day before the holiday break. We would have a grab bag gift exchange, punch and cookies and candy. We’d play some games, get out of schoolwork and give Mr. Bid his gift. The days trickled by slower than ever before, and our excitement grew steadily. We looked forward to our school Christmas much more than the one we’d each have at home.

Finally, the big day dawned. Our Room Mother arrived bearing the punch and brightly decorated Christmas cookies and hard candies. But where was the big box Mr. Bid’s present was in? We didn’t see it. We wriggled in our desks and fretted. Whispers sailed around the room until Mr. Bid scolded us. “Settle down,” he said, “or the party’s over as of now.” Quiet reigned. The treats and grab bag gifts were passed out. We munched on our sugar cookies and slurped the red punch. The classroom door opened, and a strange woman walked in. Mr. Biddinger’s looked surprised at first; then a big smile crossed his face. We were soon introduced to his wife. The Room Mother disappeared into the hall but was back in seconds holding a good-sized box wrapped in Christmas paper and tied with a wide red ribbon. The chatter in the room ceased immediately, and all eyes were riveted on that box.

The Room Mother cleared her throat, walked to our teacher and said, “Mr. Biddinger, this gift is from your students. They wanted to show their love and appreciation by giving you something special.” As she handed him the box, the room tingled with an air of excitement.

Mr. Bid seemed excited, and that alone thrilled us. He untied the bow and handed the ribbon to his wife. Next came the wrapping, and we all leaned forward. He opened the box and lifted a hunting jacket from the folds of tissue paper. This had been his fondest wish for Christmas, Mrs. Biddinger had told the Room Mother. He loved to hunt on the week-ends whenever possible, but the special hunting gear was beyond a teacher’s salary at that time.

For the first time, the man who taught us so much became mute, totally speechless. He turned the jacket over and over, looked at the special pockets on the inside and outside. He tried again to say something but couldn’t. But the sparkle in his eyes and the smile on his face said all we needed to know. He finally found his voice and told us over and over how much he loved his new jacket. “It’s probably the finest gift I’ve ever received,” he said. He didn’t say why, but we knew. We had no doubt that the reason was that it came from his first class, the twenty-one ten year olds who adored him.

I don’t remember the gifts I received at home that Christmas, but I’ll never forget the gift we gave Mr. Biddinger. It was the best Christmas present ever.