A Christmas Memory
by Phyllis Campbell
Staunton, Virginia

No matter how you celebrate them, the holidays are a special time of year. Not only is this a time for visiting family and friends, attending parties, shopping and gift-giving; it is a time of remembering.

Holiday memories are made up of many things: the bright thread of joy saved from past years; the dark thread of loss and sadness; and the soft pastel of bittersweet things which usually have meaning for you, and you alone. I can't speak for others, of course, but for me, this tapestry viewed once a year in the privacy of my heart has more meaning than most of the activities of the season.

Again I smell the sharp scent of cedar as we trim the tree, brought fresh from the woods that day. I hear the crackle of the fire in the wood-burning range in mama's kitchen and hear the thump of the oven door as she removes a fruit cake rich with dried fruit and spices. I hear daddy and my brother, Lively, coming up the rock walk from the barn. I walk again in memory with those who dwell only in that place where they remain forever unchanged, caught in time to be here with me as long as the eye of my mind remains clear. As I write they come to me, those who walk with me only in memory, and those who are here to share those precious times as we relive them, sharing another Christmas.

There are mama and daddy; my brother, Lively; Gray Boy, my precious old Tomcat; Sly, that faithful hound, who had no time for a little girl, but was always there. They remain, forever young, never changed.

There is my sister, Nez, who taught me braille before I went away to school, and with whom I still share so many little secrets and experiences. There is my sister, Fay, who taught my little hands to do so many things, and who only yesterday shared a recipe over the phone. They all come to sit with me as I slip into the memory of my most unforgettable Christmas.

"I'm going to school!" I told Sly on that December day in 1943. "You know this is my birthday. I'm 6 years old, and I'm going to school." I had really wanted to tell Gray Boy, but like most Tomcats, he was nowhere to be found when you wanted him. I could make do with Sly; although I wasn't sure he really cared very much.

The December sun felt warm against my face, and I wondered if I'd get by with it if I took off my scarf. I hated scarves, hated them almost as much as I hated the angora mittens that kept me from seeing with my fingers. Not only did the hateful thing keep me from hearing, but it seemed to get caught in my hair. It didn't get caught quite so much since mama had cut my hair. She hadn't wanted me to know, but she cried with every snip. Short hair was so much easier for a little girl to manage, though, and mama and Fay were determined that I was going to be as independent as possible.

"I'm going to school," I repeated, just to be sure Sly had heard me the first time. "I'm not going to miss anybody, not even you, old dog," and I gave him a hug. There in the December sun with my arms around his neck, smelling the clean doggie smell, feeling his rough coat against my cheek, I meant it. It was only in the night when I awoke to hear the wind speaking of the cold lonely dark, that I felt a frozen little lump deep inside me. Soon I would be in a strange bed, surrounded by strange sounds and smells and strange people.

Of course I'd been there, to the Virginia School for the Deaf and the Blind when we would go to bring Nez home, or take her back after vacation, but that wasn't the same. I had been to the dormitory room where the little girls slept, with its rows of beds along each side, and metal lockers on each end, but that had been during the day when people were everywhere, talking, laughing and playing. What would it be like at night? Would that same wind speak of cold, dark things? And what if I had to get up? I knew the bathroom was across the wide hall. And lying safe at home, I wondered if strange quiet things would lurk there, in that hall, just waiting for a little girl to leave her warm bed, and dare to come out.

But now in the sunlit day, I was sure of myself, standing there, hugging Sly with the breeze blowing the hated scarf. "I'm going to learn more braille, and I'm going to learn how to play the piano, and I'll come back and play at church, and you can't come because dogs can't go to church." Today they sound like such small ambitions, yet they were the first steps toward what I have become. Those ambitions achieved with more effort than the child could imagine. But as I gave Sly one final hug and skipped toward the house where I knew Fay was baking my birthday cake, the world was mine.

I had already opened my birthday presents, three new dresses with panties to match, and four long flannel nightgowns, all made by mama and Fay at the old Singer sewing machine. "When we go to town to shop before Christmas we'll get you some new shoes," mama said as she adjusted my dress so the little panties would just peep out. I was going to school in style!

"Santa Claus is coming early this year," I told Nez as we snuggled together in bed. We had gone that day all the way to Staunton--a whole 70 miles which was an incredible distance to me--to get her for the Christmas holiday. "Why is Santa coming early?" she asked, cuddling me close. "Have you been that good?"

"I don't think I have," I said honestly, "but daddy says Santa will bring my presents early so I'll have more time to play with them before I go away to school. Do you think he will come early, Nez?"

"If daddy says so," she said. "I'll be glad to see Lively when he gets home tomorrow, won't you?"

"Well, I've missed him since he went to the Army last summer," I confessed, "but I don't think I'll tell him. Brothers are nice, but don't you think they can be trouble sometimes?"

"Maybe," she half agreed, "but I'm glad he's coming for Christmas." Then suddenly I heard it, a thump, and thud, coming from the living room. Like most farm families, we went to bed early, all of us, so I knew it must be, had to be, only one person down there. "It's him! It's him! Nez, it's Santa, it really is!"

"Shhh!" she whispered. You don't want him to know you're awake."

And there in the cold December night, the world was suddenly touched with magic. Santa Claus, that strange old man who surely must exist, but who just might not, was there, right under the same roof with Nez and me. I could hear him. I could almost smell the strange place he had come from. He was right there, making a special trip just because I was going to school!

There was one more especially loud thud, followed by a silence during which I hardly dared to breathe. Suppose he heard me? Nez had read me a story about Santa taking back presents from a naughty little girl who had dared to peep around the door.

Then from the yard came the sound of a bell, growing fainter and fainter as it moved along the lane. It grew fainter and fainter until the night was quiet again.

It was daddy, of course, although to this day I have no idea where he got the bell, which in my mind at least, sounded like a sleigh bell. It is one of my most cherished memories, the very embodiment of the spirit of that magical love that is the true essence of Christmas. I have long forgotten what Santa brought, but I will always remember the thrill of that night when unmarred by unbelief, which would come with association with older children, I knew beyond a doubt that Santa existed. This memory is precious to me because of the imagination of my family in giving a little blind girl a "picture" of Santa Claus--one special gift before I entered the world of reality on my way to adulthood.

For blind children, a department store Santa is only a voice in the confusion around them, and I would bet my Crosby Christmas album that there has never been a blind child fooled by a church Santa. His whiskers may disguise his face, but he can't cover his voice. This, though, was different. I had heard him, right there in my own house and had listened as his sleigh disappeared on his way to who knew where. And so each year, I remember and feel again the love of those dear ones who will be with me always, even though miles or death separate us.

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