presents

I loved Christmas as a kid. I know now that Mom and Dad didn't have much money to buy presents for four children but they managed to make the season special for us. I remember getting a baby doll every year until I was about 11 and that's when I asked for a Barbie. Mama didn't want to get me a lady doll but she did. She loved the babies and thought I was too young to want a grown-up doll. She didn't buy me Barbie, though. She got me a Tammy doll. Tammy wasn't as busty and as fancy as Barbie and she was probably less expensive, and she was a lady doll, but she sure wasn't a Barbie. I was the only one of my circle who had Tammy.

While we still believed in Santa, Mom worked hard to keep up the charade of the fat, jolly man in the red suit. To get presents for us, without much opportunity to shop, (Dad had the car at work), she'd give us the Sears Christmas catalog. She called it the wishbook. We'd wish and wish and wish as we scoured every page. Karla and I'd lay down on the living room floor on our bellies with the book in front of us. She'd have the left side pages, I'd have the right. (The right side person got control of page turning.)

We'd skip to the girl's toy section and start our toy selection ritual. At first glimpse of toys on the page, we'd find the best one and slap our palm over it, "I get this!" The slower one of us, usually the younger one (Karla) would have second choice in the palm slapping selection process. Sometimes though, she'd be just a little quicker than me and pick the better of the toys on that page. Of course, I'd brush it off as though I didn't want that "old thing" anyway. Always a competition...

After we'd worn the catalog out with our marathon page turning, Mom would get on the phone and pretend she was talking to the North Pole. I remember one time in particular when I caught her on the phone in the kitchen.

"Yes, Santa? I would like to tell you what my children want for Christmas this year."

"Yes. 919 E Shevlin, Hazel Park, Michigan. My first item? Yes, C156-876 page 22."

And so on, and so on. Hey, she had me fooled. I was impressed that we didn't really have to go sit on the old guy's knee and tell him what we wanted. Going to visit Santa when I was a kid wasn't like it is now. Now, he's treated like the king of the season. He's inside the store and everything is beautifully decorated. Our Santa was treated like an afterthought at the dept stores. Even in the depths of winter, with snow blowing and freezing temperatures, poor old St Nick was outside the front door of the store in a little tent-like structure. There were bare lightbulbs strung to give it some sort of semblence of warmth and cozyness and Santa was inside the lean-to sitting on a chair waiting for children to tell him their deepest toy desires. The cold wind and snow flurries whipped around us as we climbed up on Santa's lap. It was no picnic to put in your order. It was more like a necessary evil, that is, until the Sears wishbook. Now Mom could just phone it in. What progress we'd made!

As Christmas day drew nearer, Mom would make us narrow down the few things that we really wanted. Then she'd choose from the smaller list. As we got older, she made us pick one thing that we really wanted. I remember Kathy with her sno-cone machine. Man, icy treats ANY time. For me, it was the year I was twelve and I asked for and got a transistor radio. Now everyone else I knew got a long, narrow, hand held radio in a black case...maybe a 3"x5" or so that fit nicely in the palm of the hand. That's what I wanted. I wanted one like everyone else. But, nope. My dad prided himself on buying a better radio, (or a different doll), you get the picture...so I got a wide, handheld radio with a BROWN case. Yes, when I first saw it I was disappointed for a split second, but Dad was so proud of his selection, I wouldn't dare be ungrateful. And, besides, at least I had a RADIO! Whoo-hoo! Beatles, Temptations, Supremes, Herman's Hermits, on WKNR--Keener radio--my music anytime I wanted--until 11:00pm when they cut the signal and it was over for the day. Turns out it was a good little radio and I used it for a very long time. I thought it was my best Christmas present ever.

My worst Christmas as a kid was when I was 13. It was Christmas Eve at home. The house was decorated, there were specials on television and I think Aunt Wanda and Uncle Bill were coming over, and I was sick with an ear infection. I was miserable. I had fever and my ear hurt really badly. Mom fixed me a bed in the middle of the action in the living room on the couch with a heating pad for my ear. I felt very sorry for myself and started to cry. Mom asked me what was wrong, other than my ear hurting, and I said, "I don't want to ruin Christmas for everyone else."

I was trying to work up some sympathy for myself. After all, I WAS SICK, on Christmas Eve! Good Grief. Have a little compassion, people. My dear mother, with all her country girl practicality, said, "You're not going to ruin Christmas for anyone else. We're not the ones sick. You are!" And she walked away.

Boy, I couldn't even drum up sympathy from my mother. It caught me off guard when she said it. I'd really expected some pity for my circumstances, but the thing is, her reply put the whole experience in proportion for me. It wasn't the end of the world because I was sick on a holiday. It was an ear infection, for goodness sake, not a catastrophe. My ear didn't stop hurting until the next day when the abcess broke after a night on the heating pad, but it got OK pretty soon and Christmas got off without a major hitch.

Maybe one of the best presents my mother ever gave me was the gift of no outward sympathy and of not being allowed to be too full of myself and my circumstances. When it's all said and done, it really isn't all about me. Fancy that.

Thank you, Mom.

Merry Christmas, all.
Suz

that cute paper boy

I can see it all now--It was four o'clock in the afternoon and Alice, Rose and I were sitting on my front porch hashing and rehashing what had happened at school earlier in the day. That's when we saw him. Mike Johnson. He was the cutest fifteen-year-old paper boy ever. At least that's what I thought when I was 13. He delivered The Detroit Tribune to our neighborhood every afternoon and Rose, Alice and I made sure he noticed us most of those afternoons. OK, maybe I was the instigator, but he really was cute and I just knew if I could get him to notice me, he'd recognize what a great catch I was and then he'd like me, too.

Mike Johnson was a tall, lanky dark haired all-American boy wearing cut off jean shorts, madras shirt and funky fishing hat pulled down over his eyes walking down our street. He carried a canvas bag on his shoulder filled with newspapers that he'd roll up just before throwing them at his subscriber's porches. When he got to our porch he didn't throw it and take a chance on hitting us. He politely walked up the sidewalk, smiled and handed it to me. He was cute, polite and friendly. It was official. I was in serious "like." I was smitten.

It was after that first encounter that the plotting and planning began. All our parents got the Tribune so we made sure we were sitting on one of our porches everyday about four so we could do the "get up and take the newspaper from the cute boy" maneuver. Alice and Rose were kinda shy, and I wasn't, so I got to take it from him no matter on whose porch we were sitting. After a couple of days, we figured out that if we went to Alice's house first and got the paper from him, while he was at the end of her street, we could make our way to my house and take it from him there, then we could beat him down the street and also accept it from him at Rose's house. Three interactions in one afternoon. Brilliant!

But, after a while, it just wasn't enough. Mike was diligent about his work so even when we asked him a question to try to prolong his visit with us, he'd answer politely and keep walking. We had to have more time with him. Got it! We'd start paying him--OK-I'd start paying him-- at the end of the week when he had to collect the money for the papers he'd delivered. And that's what we did. Same order of business. Pay him at Alice's house, pay him at my house, and pay him at Rose's house. On a really sneaky week, we go to Rita's house and even pay him there. He must have thought we were very silly little girls. Either that or he thought we were insane. Either way, all our plotting and planning never got us, er..me, anywhere with Mike Johnson. Nope. Nunca. Nada. Nothing. He was just the same nice, polite, friendly paper boy each and every time he saw us. Rats!

The next school year we went to Hazel Park High School. Mike was a junior, we were freshmen, and he'd given up his paper route for football and sports. We still got to see him, but he never acknowledged if he recognized us or not. It would have been kind of embarrassing so I'm glad he didn't.

Once, in everyday conversation, I told my friend, the beautiful Connie Hughes about him, you know, telling her that he'd been our paperboy for a while and how cute I thought he was, etc. It wasn't two weeks later, she made sure she let me know she had gone on a date with him. Now, I can't say for sure that she did it just because she could, but it still seems a little fishy to me. Reminds me of that Dolly Parton song, "Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeen. Please don't take him just because you can."

I was diligent in pursuit but the boy liking thing never worked too well for Jr High Suzanne, or, even High School Suzanne. Let's say it never worked for me when I tried to make it work. I had more success with boys when I ignored them and let them find me. Go figure.