Familial Research and Development

THE CHRISTMAS I REMEMBER BEST by Rheuama West It should have been the worst, the bleakest of Christmases. It turned out to be the loveliest of all my life. I was nine years old, one of seven children, and we lived in a little farming town in Utah. It had been a tragic year for all of us. But we still had our father, and that made all the difference. Every year in our town a Christmas Eve Social was held at the church. How well I remember Dad buttoning our coats, placing us all on our long, homemade sleigh and pulling us to the church about a mile away. It was snowing. How cold and good it felt on our faces. We held tight to one another, and above the crunch of snow beneath Dad's feet we could hear him softly whistling "Silent Night." Mama had died that previous summer. She had been confined to bed for three years, so Dad had assumed all mother and father responsibilities. I remember him standing me on a stool by our big round kitchen table and teaching me to mix ...

THE CHRISTMAS THAT CHANGED A TOWN'S NAME by Martin Buxbaum River Fork was a small town, a friendly town, except for the Fletchers and the McCloskeys. They hadn't spoken to each other for two generations. No one seemed to know why they hated each other, not even the Fletchers and the McCloskeys. But the Fletchers did not speak to the McCloskeys and the McCloskeys did not speak to the Fletchers. One night shortly before one Christmas something happened to change that and anyone who was there will tell you what made the citizens of River Fork also change their town's name. It all began one November morning when plump, motherly Mrs. Parris happily made an announcement to her fifth grade class: "This coming Christmas, children, our class has been selected to give a Christmas Play! We will begin choosing those who will play various parts and everyone will have some part in the play." Upon hearing this, the children clapped and squealed. And so the players were sel...

LONG WALK by Ruth Stafford Peale Nowadays, since our three children are long-married and raising families of their own, Norman and I divide Christmases among them. One year we'll go to Maggie and Paul in Pittsburgh, then another to John and Lydia in Virginia, and the next we'll stay close to home in Pawling, New York with Liz and John. We keep up the same traditions in each home-the trimming of the tree, everybody in the house together, no one cooking or reading or doing anything but helping with the ornaments that we take out and exclaim over as if we were suddenly meeting old friends. The tree done, we settle down and Norman reads the Christmas story from Luke, and we sit on the edge of our seats listening as though we'd never heard the story before. Isn't it odd how we all become children again, wanting to hear the same story over and over again? Isn't it odd, and isn't it wonderful! Sometimes-often-getting to Pittsburgh or Virginia is exhausting work in ...

A SONG FOR ELIZABETH by Robin Kurtz December snow swept across the parking lot of Crescent Manor Convalescent Home. As the youngest nurse on the staff, I sat with the charge nurse at the North Wing station, staring out the double glass doors and waiting for the first wave of evening visitors. At the sound of bedroom slippers flapping against bare heels, I turned to see Elizabeth, one of our patients, striding down the corridor. "Oh , please," groaned the charge nurse, "not tonight! Not when we're shorthanded already!" Rounding the corner, Elizabeth jerked the sash of the tired chenille robe tighter around her skinny waist. We hadn't combed her hair for a while, and it made a scraggly halo around her wrinkled face. "Doop doop," she said, nodding quickly and hurrying on. "Doop doop," she said to the man in the dayroom slumped in front of the TV, a belt holding him in the wheelchair. The charge nurse turned to me. "Can you get he...

GOLD, CIRCUMSTANCE AND MUD- GIFTS OF THE WISE CHILDREN by Rex Knowles It was the week before Christmas. I was baby-sitting with our four older children while my wife took the baby for his checkup. (Baby-sitting to me means reading the paper while the kids mess up the house.) Only that day I wasn't reading. I was fuming. On every page of the paper, as I flicked angrily through them, gifts glittered and reindeer pranced, and I was told that there were only six more days in which to rush out and buy what I couldn't afford and nobody needed. What, I asked myself indignantly, did the glitter and the rush have to do with the birth of Christ? There was a knock on the door of the study where I had barricaded myself. Then Nancy's voice, "Daddy, we have a play to put on. Do you want to see it?" I didn't. But I had fatherly responsibilities so I followed her into the living room. Right away I knew it was a Christmas play for at the foot of the piano stool was a ...

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 sever...

"WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES?" by Norman Vincent Peale The people who report to us about the Quiet People they observe may be telling us about their own relatives-or it could be about utter strangers. In the "stranger" category is John Williams, who described an afternoon on the bus he drives in Milwaukee. A week or so before Christmas, John was making his usual run westbound on Wisconsin Avenue. At the Marquette High School stop he picked up a bunch of boys who headed noisily for the back of the bus, horsing around, wisecracking. Kids, thought John Williams, shaking his head. A few stops later, John pulled up in front of the Milwaukee County Medical Complex grounds, where a woman was waiting. She looked about thirty-five years old and her dingy gray coat was tattered from collar to hem. When she came up the steps of the bus, John saw she was wearing only socks on her feet. "Where are your shoes?" John blurted. "Is this bus going downtown?" "E...

ONCE IN A SMALL VILLAGE by Elliot H. Kone In December 1944, the 611th Ordnance Battalion, in which I was a young sergeant, arrived at Rouen, France, shortly before the Battle of the Bulge. Our orders were delayed so we-two hundred men and equipment-were sent to camp in the woods. Until our orders came through, our only food was meager emergency rations. So one day my tent mate, a PFC named Jim Richmond, and I took cigarettes, hard candies and soap and walked through the snowy woods, hoping to trade them for eggs and cheese at some farmhouse along the way. After several miles we came upon an empty village, completely deserted. Even the street and road signs were gone, probably removed by retreating German soldiers. The one-room store was locked. No one answered our knocks at the doors of the few houses. To rest and get out of the chill wind, we entered the only other building, a church. Right away I spotted a small organ. When I entered the army, I could play the organ by ear, so...

TROUBLE AT THE INN by Dina Donohue For years now whenever Christmas pageants are talked about in a certain little town in the Midwest, someone is sure to mention the name of Wallace Purling. Wally's performance in one annual production of the Nativity play has slipped into the realm of legend. But the old-timers who were in the audience that night never tire of recalling exactly what happened. Wally was nine that year and in the second grade, though he should have been in the fourth. Most people in town knew that he had difficulty in keeping up. He was big and clumsy, slow in movement and mind. Still, Wally was well liked by the other children in his class, all of whom were smaller than he, though the boys had trouble hiding their irritation when Wally would ask to play ball with them or any game, for that matter, in which winning was important. Most often they'd find a way to keep him out, but Wally would hang around anyway-not sulking, just hoping. He was always a helpf...

PATTERN OF LOVE by Jack Smith as told to Raymond Knowles I didn't question Timmy, age nine, or his seven-year-old brother, Billy, about the brown wrapping paper they passed back and forth between them as we visited each store. Every year at Christmastime, our Service Club takes the children from poor families in our town on a personally conducted shopping tour. I was assigned Timmy and Billy, whose father was out of work. After giving them the allotted four dollars each, we began our trip. At different stores I made suggestions, but always their answer was a solemn shake of the head, no. Finally I asked, "Where would you suggest we look?" "Could we go to a shoe store, sir? Answered Timmy. "We'd like a pair of shoes for our Daddy so he can go to work." In the shoe store the clerk asked what the boys wanted. Out came the brown paper. "We want a pair of work shoes to fit this foot," they said. Billy explained that it was a pattern of the...

A STRAW-FILLED CHRISTMAS TRADITION by Lynne Laukhuf It all began a few years ago. It was several weeks before Christmas and our family was busy preparing for the holiday. Excitement was everywhere. Our two children, Adam, aged three, and Shannon, aged eight delighted in baking and frosting the Christmas cookies; I was running around doing errands and Christmas shopping; and my husband, Larry, was out searching for the perfect tree. The traditional wreath had gone up on the front door, and inside the house, candles, holly and a garland completed the festive look. But one afternoon, following a long day of baking and gift-wrapping, I walked into the living room, sank my weary body into the sofa and propped my tired feet on the coffee table. The excitement of the holiday had turned to exhaustion and the joy of the season was facing. Where in all of these preparations, I wondered is the message that Christ has come into the world? Our family, it seemed to me, was so busy preparing f...

MEET ME IN THE CITY by Van Varner When Christmas comes to the city, same as everywhere, some of us do some peculiar things. One year I sent a Christmas card to a shopkeeper. But first let me explain... You see, New York City is really a large collection of small villages. We reside in tiny territories with boundaries shaped by the shops, churches, schools, cafes and movie houses that we frequent. it doesn't take long to recognize the face behind the counter at the dry cleaner's and the open-’til-midnight deli. Soon the news vendor by the subway is saying "HI," and after a while, the florist throws in an extra stem or two. We're not overly friendly with one another, but I think in our little city-spheres, familiarity breeds contentment. When I lived in another part of the city, however, there was one shopkeeper who was not only unfriendly, he was downright mean. He sold lumber (I was always building bookshelves and things in those days) and he'd cut it t...

BITTERSWEET CHRISTMAS by Madeline Weatherford Christmas was the most special holiday of all for my father. The preparations, gift-buying and decorating were no trouble to him-he enjoyed it all. Mother told me that he introduced me to my first Christmas tree when I was nine days old. It was a small tree, but every ornament candle and strand of silver tinsel was meticulously hung in place, as only he could do it. When he had finally finished, he took me from my bassinet and held me up to see his handiwork. Daddy lived long enough to decorate just four more Christmas trees-each one a little larger than the year before. The year he died-after a short bout with pneumonia-Mother sat down with me for a talk about Christmas. "Madeline," she said gently, "Santa will be leaving gifts for you, but we won't be having a tree and decorations. It's just too much to do this year." The morning of Christmas Eve arrived with no special arrangements for the next day, other...

THE MAN WHO MISSED CHRISTMAS by J. Edgar Park It was Christmas Eve, and, as usual, George Mason was the last to leave the office. He walked over to a massive safe, spun the dials, swung the heavy door open. Making sure the door would not close behind him, he stepped inside. A square of white cardboard was taped just above the topmost row of strong boxes. On the card a few words were written. George Mason stared at those words, remembering. . . Exactly one year ago he had entered this selfsame vault. And then, behind his back, slowly, noiselessly, the ponderous door swung shut. He was trapped-entombed in the sudden and terrifying dark. He hurled himself at the unyielding door, his hoarse cry sounding like an explosion. Through his mind flashed all the stories he had heard of men found suffocated in time-vaults. No time clock controlled this mechanism; the safe would remain locked until it was opened from the outside. Tomorrow morning. Then the realization hit him. No one would...

I grew up believing that Christmas was a time when strange and wonderful things happened, when wise and royal visitors came riding, when at midnight the barnyard animals talked to one another, and in the light of a fabulous star God came down to us as a little Child. Christmas to me has always been a time of enchantment, and never more so than the year that my son Marty was eight. That was the year that my children and I moved into a cozy trailer home in a forested area just outside of Redmond, Washington. As the holiday approached, our spirits were light, not to be dampened even by the winter rains that swept down Puget Sound to douse our home and make our floors muddy. Throughout that December Marty had been the most spirited, and busiest, of us all. He was my youngest, a cheerful boy, blond-haired and playful, with a quaint habit of looking up at you and cocking his head like a puppy when you talked to him. Actually the reason for this was that Marty was deaf in his left ear, b...