SANTA’S LAST VISIT

A girl on the cusp of adolescence receives a rare gift—wisdom.

EVEN THOUGH I WAS 11, AND

long past the age of believing that

Santa Claus would come flying in on a sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer, I still expected a surprise from him on Christmas morning. In 1944, the country was at war in Europe and Asia. There were certainly more important things for me and my family to think about—but I was focused on my Christmas surprise.

Each year, I uncovered great things hidden in the back corners and top shelves of the dark hall closet. My annual investigations revealed that these were the same things that would magically appear under the tree as gifts on Christmas morning. So, in truth, I was seldom surprised on Christmas—I’d already seen all the presents in the closet. Still, I can say that at least I awaited them eagerly.

But despite a thorough search that year, I’d found nothing in the closet, so I began to worry that there would be no gifts at all for me. I could hardly believe it! I couldn’t imagine giving up such a special event.

My friend Mary Anne was visiting on Christmas Eve and had a long talk with my mother. She and my mother often had long adult conversations in which I did not participate, being preoccupied with my own childish interests. Mary Anne was older, wiser and more mature than I was. She confirmed my suspicions after chatting with my mother; there would be no Christmas surprise for me, she said. My parents felt I’d outgrown a visit from Santa.

At bedtime, when my mother came in to wish me good night, I told her how upset I was that I would have nothing under the tree from Santa. (Of course, she knew all about my closet searches—parents always know more than their children think.)

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know that would still mean so much to you.”

My father worked at the local refinery for many years, changing shifts each week. That Christmas Day he’d left for a morning shift long before I got up.

So there I was, huddled in front of the gas stove, downing Christmas candy, fruit and nuts, sulking and having a serious pity party for myself.

Just then, my brother Rod came in. “A man in a red suit left this on the porch for you.”

He handed me a package wrapped in beautiful paper with a large red bow. My Santa surprise had somehow arrived after all! Inside was a marvelous thing,

So there I was, huddled in front of the gas stove, downing Christmas candy, fruit and nuts, sulking and having a serious pity party for myself.

a magical treasure I’d never dreamed of having for my very own: a silver music box. I broke down in tears, suddenly ashamed of my selfishness.

Later, I found out what had happened. After my father arrived at work, he called the owner of Corner Drug, Mr. Bilberry, and arranged for him to deliver my present—even though the store was closed for the holiday. That Mr. Bilberry agreed is an example of small-town caring. Mr. Bilberry and all of the townspeople were our friends, willing to go out of their way to help and give pleasure to others.

Growing up, we children took this community for granted, never realizing what an amazing gift it was. Our parents taught us that the true spirit of Christmas is love, and it came to me in vivid color on that special Christmas morning.

Today, the music box sits on my dresser, where I see it each day and remember its special place in my heart. Its sweet song ends on a funny off-key note—the result of Daddy and me opening it once to see how it played. One piece of the mechanism was damaged during the operation.

Somehow that off-key note makes the music box feel even dearer to me.

There was never another Christmas when I expected a visit from Santa Claus. There was no need; I had learned well the message of the season—love, given freely and unconditionally to me by my parents.

OUR PARENTS, BUD AND MEREDITH

Hargrove, the five of us kids, and our aunts, uncles and cousins gathered every year at our grandparents’ farm near Wills Point for Christmas Day. How we looked forward to being together!

Growing up in the 1930s and early 1940s, we knew there wasn’t a lot of money for presents, but we always enjoyed the celebrations.

Our grandmother, Bess Hargrove, set the table with her best dishes and loaded it with delicious food, including cornbread dressing, cranberry sauce, a roasted turkey she’d bought live and dressed herself, and candies, cookies and pies for dessert.

Our mother and aunts brought sides like sweet potato casserole and ambrosia salad. But it was always Aunt Rubye’s job to make the eggnog.

She made her specialty from scratch using a recipe from a Four Roses bourbon advertisement that ran in a 1946 issue of Redbook magazine. It was very colorful, featuring a large silver punch bowl surrounded by a ring of red roses. Among the kids, it was a rite of passage to adulthood when we were offered eggnog at holiday time.

After Aunt Rubye died, our mother made the eggnog each year using that same recipe. When she could no longer host the family Christmas,

I took over, inheriting with it the eggnog recipe, which I framed and hung in my dining room.

A few years ago, I passed on the responsibility of hosting the family holiday to my five children. As part of the change, I wrapped five things that I always brought out at Christmas—items they were familiar with—and told them they could each choose a package. My daughter was delighted to have selected the recipe. And so our tradition continues.

TONY AND I HAD BEEN

married less than a month in 1982 when we bundled up and drove the 15 miles to my parents’ place in rural Minnesota for my family’s annual Christmas Eve gathering.

A gentle snow was falling, and the flakes were big and beautiful. Being lifelong Minnesotans, we weren’t worried about a bit of snow and ice. No big deal.

As always, Mom had plenty of snacks, hot foods, soda pop, cocoa and assorted mixed nuts. I’m gaining 5 pounds just thinking about all those goodies and Mom’s fantastic cooking!

Piles of wrapped presents were under the big Christmas tree. We were all toasty warm and cozy, with the wood stove throwing out extra heat.

The hours passed. We opened the gifts, scattering wrapping paper, colored ribbons and boxes everywhere. There were lots of oohs and aahs and cries of “just what I wanted—thank you!” We enjoyed the tasty food as we visited with each other, catching up on all the family news. Our little nieces and nephews, of course, had the most fun, playing with their (noisy!) new toys and gorging on treats.

Meanwhile, the whole time it was snowing steadily and heavily. We didn’t realize how much the road conditions had deteriorated until we once again donned our coats and boots and walked outside. The wind had picked up and hard drifts formed over open areas. Even so, we decided to take our chances. We got in the car and eased our way down the driveway toward home.

Tony kept us at a crawl, with occasional bursts of speed as he busted through the snow mounds. There was no sign of a center line anywhere. Were we even still on the road?

It was dark, and the snow was blowing almost sideways in the strong, relentless wind. I held my breath as we inched along, expecting at any second we’d slide into the ditch or slam into another vehicle.

There was one particularly nasty spot about a quarter of a mile from our house—a sharp leftward curve, mounded with so much blowing snow that it had become a blind turn.

How my clever husband navigated the car through all that is beyond my comprehension, but we somehow made it home safe and sound, thank goodness.

I’m so glad it was Tony driving that night and not me. And I’m very grateful for that wonderful Christmas spent with family— with just enough drama at the end to make it memorable!

I held my breath as we inched along, expecting at any second

we’d slide into the ditch or slam into another vehicle.