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I remember that, at
Christmas, when I was fourteen my mother sat me down to tell
me that she would not have enough money to buy presents for
both myself, my younger bothers and my little sister.
My mother told me I would have a “Russian
Christmas” just as soon as her check came in after New
Years.
My mother was all Irish and
my father was German and Polish, so I never knew where this
term, “Russian Christmas” came from. What I did know was
that being the oldest child in a single parent home meant
pitching in to help out. Everyone had sacrifices to make. That
is just how life was, it was no big deal.
Early that Christmas
morning I went over to a friend’s house so things would be
easier on my mother. My
best friend was a year older than I. He was also the only
child living in a two parent household, (translation: lots of
cool loot to check out). At
one point my friend asked “What did you get?” I did not
want to embarrass my family for being poor so I said “Stuff,
you know”. I
immediately felt like some ungrateful little brat. But, what
could I say? Somehow the truth did not seem appropriate at the
time.
Unbeknownst to me, my
mother had gone to a neighbor’s home and called my best
friend’s father to tell him I was coming over and she told
him about our situation. At
one point that morning my friend’s father took me aside to
tell me that he heard from my mother that I had taken the
money I made from loading groceries into people’s cars at
the Acme and from shoveling snow from the neighbor’s
sidewalks and given it to my mother to help with Christmas
presents for my brothers and sister. He told me he understood
there was not enough to go around and heard that I had
volunteered to wait until after the first of the New Year to
celebrate my Christmas.
My best friend’s father
then gave me the best Christmas present I ever received, he
told me my actions showed I was maturing, that I was becoming
a man.
As I recall my “Russian
Christmas” never came. There were bills to be paid and our
tree traditionally came down the first of January each year.
As
the smell of pine faded from the house so did my faith that I
would see a “Russian Christmas”.
What never did fade was the feeling I got being mature
enough to have participated in the true spirit of Christmas.
It truly is one of my best Christmas memories.
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