Popsicle kisses and big bear hugs, little red wagons and jars full of bugs, grass stains, football games, lots of toys, oh the joys. – Charlotte Mason, British educator (1842-1923)
Enjoy the little things in life because one day you’ll look back and realize they were the big things. – Kurt Vonnegut Jr., American novelist (1922-2007)
Momma used to tell me about her growing up, about how they lived and played and celebrated Christmas in a big family. There were nine children plus one that wasn’t really theirs. Powell came home with one of the brothers one day and never left. She said back then that happened a lot. They didn’t know it was a depression because they lived on a farm and her dad had the town hardware store and folks would sometimes pay with chickens or whatever they had on hand. Christmas meant one present and a lighted Christmas tree. While the children slept through Christmas Eve, Mom and Dad put up the tree and decorated it with real candles. The next morning all the children stared in awe at the beautiful sight of a candlelit tree. It was enough.
This December I’ve included a few of Celestine Sibley’s writings. Celestine wrote a column in the Atlanta Journal and Constitution for 60 years. I find that amazing. She was born in 1914 and Momma was born in 1921. Their early years were quite similar. Here’s what Celestine wrote about Christmas:
The Depression was still on the land when my three-year-old cousin came to live with us. His father was ill with tuberculosis and his mother didn’t know what to do with the child. My mother knew. She got in the car and drove straight away to the ramshackle homemade trailer in which they lived. Terry’s mother cried to see him go. She had his few clothes packed in a cardboard box, and she was embarrassed that it was close to Christmas and she had no Santa Claus to send along with him. We had plenty, and he was more than welcome. She had the right to say we had plenty. Plenty to eat and a roof over our heads, wood for the fire and cover for the beds. A lot of people didn’t have it so good. But money was scarce and Christmas was coming. Boys yearned for toys; my mother found even a small red wagon might come as high as five dollars.
She talked to old Hanse, the wheelwright at the mill. Could he make it? Hanse did make the wagon- a plain little wooden vehicle, boxlike and unornamented. But it was sturdy and sanded to a satiny sheen, and its wooden wheels rolled smoothly and silently. Hanse wouldn’t take pay. He said it was the first time he had anything to do with toys or Santa Claus since fifty years ago in Sweden.
Terry pulled it over the yard for years, hauling dirt and puppies and stove wood until he outgrew it and went back to live with his parents.
Terry grew up, retired from the Navy, and moved to Florida. One day Celestine met up with Terry. He pulled out his wallet to show Celestine a picture. It was the little homemade wagon; his wife had filled with holly for their Christmas table.
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Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 42 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.
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