The Christmas Party
THE CHRISTMAS PARTY
by Dorothy R. Masterson
It was two weeks before Christmas and I was addressing invitations for a party for my two children, Ann and Mark, and their friends. I should have been looking forward to it, but I wasn't. I had been giving similar Christmas parties for several years and almost every one had been disappointing. My young guests never seemed to feel the magic and the wonder that I remembered from my own childhood.
When I had been a very small girl, our next door neighbor was a retired minister who was a favorite with all the children on the block. Dr. Howard was never too busy to listen to us, to admire our pets and to counsel us in his unobtrusive way. But most endearing of all the things he did for us were his wonderful Christmas parties. Long ago I had made up my mind to duplicate them for my own children, but somehow I never was able to recapture the magic, even though I tried hard to follow the pattern Dr. Howard had used.
The next day I had several errands to do and my route took me through the area where I had spent my childhood. The dingy inner city was all but unrecognizable to me now, and Dr. Howard's stately old home was a travesty of its once-lovely self. But on impulse I pulled to the curb and gazed at the decaying house. Suddenly, I was eight years old again and approaching that imposing front door.
I remembered how I held tightly to my little brother's hand and how the old-fashioned bell still echoed through the house when Dr. Howard opened the door. He was wearing his clerical black with the wing-collared shirt and bow tie. His white hair curled about his head like a halo, and as always he gave us a radiant smile.
"Dorothy! Bobby! How good of you to come! Wait till you see what a very special surprise I have for you tonight!"
As I greeted the other children, I noted that the Perry boys were as solemn as ever. I supposed this was because their mother had been sick for a long time. The three Donettis were there, too, painfully shy as always because we all knew that their father had gone to prison for embezzlement. The Muller twins in their outgrown clothing were also there. Of course, the two Harris girls were special-I could hardly imagine the bliss of having Dr. Howard for a grandfather!
Movies taken by Dr. Howard in the Holy Land-that was the special treat. Always attracted by faraway places, I was spellbound by the scenes of Jesus' earthly life.
Then it was time for "Going to Jerusalem," the first of a whole series of parlor games. After arranging the chairs, our host took his place at the piano and reviewed the rules: "I am going to play a Christmas carol for you, a favorite of little French children. When the music stops, you must quickly sit down. The winner is the child who gets the last chair."
I loved every moment of Dr. Howard's parties, but the high point for me was always the first sight of the candle-lit dining room and its laden table. Ice cream molded into angels, Christmas trees, wreaths and stars, as well as cake, candy and nuts dazzled my eyes. Never had I seen so many good things to eat.
It all came back to me as I sat there in my car. Then abruptly I was jolted out of my reverie as the front door opened and a careworn woman emerged. How deprived she looks, I thought. and then, as I stared at the present-day tenant of Dr. Howard's former home, I had a flash of intuition as shocking as a dash of cold water. Had all the children at those parties been invited because they had been deprived in some way? Surely not my brother and myself?
But as I sat there thinking about the past, I was forced to admit that divorce had not been all that common in those days. I could still remember Dr. Howard talking with my separated parents and my own pain when my father had left. The more I thought about it, the more apparent it became that Dr. Howard's grandchildren had been the only guests who could be said to have come from a "normal" background. As I drove home, it all came into focus. Not only had Dr. Howard given his parties for deprived children, but also he had been perceptive enough to recognize differing forms of deprivation.
By the time I had pulled into my driveway I knew exactly what I wanted to do. Going directly to my desk, I picked up the addressed party invitations and threw them all into the wastebasket.
That evening at dinner I talked to my husband, Bob, and the children about my day and its surprising conclusion. At first Ann and Mark were disappointed that their usual friends were not to be invited, but when I had explained that some children needed the invitations more than others, they began to be intrigued.
"Why not ask old Mr. Hughes?" suggested Mark. "He's so cross he never speaks to anyone. A party might give him some Christmas spirit."
"He sure needs it," added Ann. "The kids say he's the meanest man in town."
"That's not very kind, Ann," I said, "and anyway, it's supposed to be a children's party."
"I don't see what difference it makes, Dorothy," my husband said. "Everyone likes a Christmas party."
"Well," I said, "if we're going to include adults, there's Mary Wynn." The middle-aged widow lived on our street, and her continuous and compulsive talking kept most of the neighbors at bay.
Bob suggested two teenagers he had counseled recently at the high school where he taught. Patty had been placed in a foster home and was a most unhappy child. Dan was a chronic disciplinary problem whose divorced mother had washed her hands of him.
Three Vietnamese children who had recently moved to our neighborhood were our last and unanimous choice.
When the night of the party arrived, I nervously awaited our oddly assorted guests, but as it turned out, I needn't have worried. The little Vietnamese charmed everyone with their shy good manners, the garrulous widow melted the stony reserve of "the meanest man in town," and Dan went out of his way to be nice to the nervous and awkward Patty.
I was pleasantly surprised when all the guests, children and adults alike, chose to join in the games and expressed their pleasure in the children's cartoon and the Palestinian travelogue as well. Later, as we gathered around the dining table, faces were glowing. After the carols were over and Mark and Ann produced the simple gifts that had been placed under the tree, the guests' appreciation was so out-of-proportion to the value of the gifts that my eyes burned with tears.
When it was all over, our older guests left to walk home together, wish us all a "Merry Christmas." Dan and Patty took the Vietnamese tots out to our car, and I was alone in the front hall with my husband, who was pulling on his boots.
"Oh, Bob," I said, "the magic was there this time. I could see it in their eyes-every one of them."
"Giving love to the unloved," he murmured. "Maybe that's more rewarding than just trying to recapture happiness of your own."
"You're right, Bob," I answered as I watched the departing figures waving gaily to each other in the gently falling snow. "It took me a long time to learn that. But Dr. Howard knew it all the time."
by Dorothy R. Masterson
It was two weeks before Christmas and I was addressing invitations for a party for my two children, Ann and Mark, and their friends. I should have been looking forward to it, but I wasn't. I had been giving similar Christmas parties for several years and almost every one had been disappointing. My young guests never seemed to feel the magic and the wonder that I remembered from my own childhood.
When I had been a very small girl, our next door neighbor was a retired minister who was a favorite with all the children on the block. Dr. Howard was never too busy to listen to us, to admire our pets and to counsel us in his unobtrusive way. But most endearing of all the things he did for us were his wonderful Christmas parties. Long ago I had made up my mind to duplicate them for my own children, but somehow I never was able to recapture the magic, even though I tried hard to follow the pattern Dr. Howard had used.
The next day I had several errands to do and my route took me through the area where I had spent my childhood. The dingy inner city was all but unrecognizable to me now, and Dr. Howard's stately old home was a travesty of its once-lovely self. But on impulse I pulled to the curb and gazed at the decaying house. Suddenly, I was eight years old again and approaching that imposing front door.
I remembered how I held tightly to my little brother's hand and how the old-fashioned bell still echoed through the house when Dr. Howard opened the door. He was wearing his clerical black with the wing-collared shirt and bow tie. His white hair curled about his head like a halo, and as always he gave us a radiant smile.
"Dorothy! Bobby! How good of you to come! Wait till you see what a very special surprise I have for you tonight!"
As I greeted the other children, I noted that the Perry boys were as solemn as ever. I supposed this was because their mother had been sick for a long time. The three Donettis were there, too, painfully shy as always because we all knew that their father had gone to prison for embezzlement. The Muller twins in their outgrown clothing were also there. Of course, the two Harris girls were special-I could hardly imagine the bliss of having Dr. Howard for a grandfather!
Movies taken by Dr. Howard in the Holy Land-that was the special treat. Always attracted by faraway places, I was spellbound by the scenes of Jesus' earthly life.
Then it was time for "Going to Jerusalem," the first of a whole series of parlor games. After arranging the chairs, our host took his place at the piano and reviewed the rules: "I am going to play a Christmas carol for you, a favorite of little French children. When the music stops, you must quickly sit down. The winner is the child who gets the last chair."
I loved every moment of Dr. Howard's parties, but the high point for me was always the first sight of the candle-lit dining room and its laden table. Ice cream molded into angels, Christmas trees, wreaths and stars, as well as cake, candy and nuts dazzled my eyes. Never had I seen so many good things to eat.
It all came back to me as I sat there in my car. Then abruptly I was jolted out of my reverie as the front door opened and a careworn woman emerged. How deprived she looks, I thought. and then, as I stared at the present-day tenant of Dr. Howard's former home, I had a flash of intuition as shocking as a dash of cold water. Had all the children at those parties been invited because they had been deprived in some way? Surely not my brother and myself?
But as I sat there thinking about the past, I was forced to admit that divorce had not been all that common in those days. I could still remember Dr. Howard talking with my separated parents and my own pain when my father had left. The more I thought about it, the more apparent it became that Dr. Howard's grandchildren had been the only guests who could be said to have come from a "normal" background. As I drove home, it all came into focus. Not only had Dr. Howard given his parties for deprived children, but also he had been perceptive enough to recognize differing forms of deprivation.
By the time I had pulled into my driveway I knew exactly what I wanted to do. Going directly to my desk, I picked up the addressed party invitations and threw them all into the wastebasket.
That evening at dinner I talked to my husband, Bob, and the children about my day and its surprising conclusion. At first Ann and Mark were disappointed that their usual friends were not to be invited, but when I had explained that some children needed the invitations more than others, they began to be intrigued.
"Why not ask old Mr. Hughes?" suggested Mark. "He's so cross he never speaks to anyone. A party might give him some Christmas spirit."
"He sure needs it," added Ann. "The kids say he's the meanest man in town."
"That's not very kind, Ann," I said, "and anyway, it's supposed to be a children's party."
"I don't see what difference it makes, Dorothy," my husband said. "Everyone likes a Christmas party."
"Well," I said, "if we're going to include adults, there's Mary Wynn." The middle-aged widow lived on our street, and her continuous and compulsive talking kept most of the neighbors at bay.
Bob suggested two teenagers he had counseled recently at the high school where he taught. Patty had been placed in a foster home and was a most unhappy child. Dan was a chronic disciplinary problem whose divorced mother had washed her hands of him.
Three Vietnamese children who had recently moved to our neighborhood were our last and unanimous choice.
When the night of the party arrived, I nervously awaited our oddly assorted guests, but as it turned out, I needn't have worried. The little Vietnamese charmed everyone with their shy good manners, the garrulous widow melted the stony reserve of "the meanest man in town," and Dan went out of his way to be nice to the nervous and awkward Patty.
I was pleasantly surprised when all the guests, children and adults alike, chose to join in the games and expressed their pleasure in the children's cartoon and the Palestinian travelogue as well. Later, as we gathered around the dining table, faces were glowing. After the carols were over and Mark and Ann produced the simple gifts that had been placed under the tree, the guests' appreciation was so out-of-proportion to the value of the gifts that my eyes burned with tears.
When it was all over, our older guests left to walk home together, wish us all a "Merry Christmas." Dan and Patty took the Vietnamese tots out to our car, and I was alone in the front hall with my husband, who was pulling on his boots.
"Oh, Bob," I said, "the magic was there this time. I could see it in their eyes-every one of them."
"Giving love to the unloved," he murmured. "Maybe that's more rewarding than just trying to recapture happiness of your own."
"You're right, Bob," I answered as I watched the departing figures waving gaily to each other in the gently falling snow. "It took me a long time to learn that. But Dr. Howard knew it all the time."
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