Hidden Gifts and a Police Report: The Year Christmas Magic Prevailed
Earlier this month, the local newspaper requested submissions for its annual non-fiction Christmas writing contest. A real-life Christmas story. That got me pondering on my life’s Christmas experiences. I have many great memories, of trees, cookies, presents, extended family, gingerbread houses, pajamas, glowing fires, breakfasts, reading the nativity story. Happy times, funny times, relaxing times, and many magical times — particularly from my childhood or when my children were young.
But one memory in particular stood out and piqued my curiosity, of a long-ago Christmas faded somewhat by time and existing as family lore from my childhood — due to its unique magic. So I decided to make a few calls to inquire about the rarely discussed distant holiday. Then I wrote about it.
Here’s my unconventional tale of a single mother, a low-income apartment complex, and a visit from the police on Christmas Eve. And some salvaged magic.
The year was 1974. My mother, divorced and making a fresh start, had recently moved her three young children across the country after landing a government job in Washington D.C. With help from her parents, she had secured housing her modest income could afford in nearby Fairlington, Virginia. The community was home to vast apartments built in the 1940s to house military and government workers, located on the border of Arlington just two miles from the Pentagon. Mom didn’t love the neighborhood, but the apartment complex allowed three children and was within walking distance to an elementary school. (The neighborhood was in disrepair in the 1970s — by the 1990s the area underwent a rebirth and properties improved.)
Times were tight, and Mom was just scraping to get by. By December, she’d managed to put a few gifts under a humble Christmas tree, mostly presents sent from family in Arizona. No one remembers what the gifts were, because they were never opened on Christmas morning.
Mom had to work on December 24, but only half a day, so she brought us three kids to the office with her. My older sister was eight at the time, I was five, my baby brother three. A co-worker gave us a ride home so we didn’t have to take the bus. When Mom opened the front door she discovered the apartment had been burglarized. All the presents under the tree were gone.
Her memory of that Christmas Eve is hazy, but Mom clearly recalls sitting down on the sofa, and weeping. She also remembers my sister standing up on the sofa, putting her arm around her neck, and saying: “Don’t worry Mama. Santa knows we’ve been robbed. He’ll make it up to us.” Then more tears.
“Don’t worry Mama. Santa knows we’ve been robbed. He’ll make it up to us.” Then more tears.
In the years that followed, my five-year-old memory of that holiday didn’t retain any tears or police. I don’t recall sadness. What I do remember? Presents, and typical Christmas cheer. I maintained a somewhat romanticized version of a special holiday, one in which church friends or neighbors had stepped in and heroically salvaged our Christmas. Only, that version I remembered never happened. My recent phone call to Mom clarified that she didn’t know her neighbors, and was too proud to ask any friends or co-workers for help.
No, there hadn’t been any neighborly magic. Though the actual story did include presents from Santa. It turns out the Christmas miracle my juvenile mind had embellished came from three unwrapped toys tucked away in the trunk of Mom’s car — out of harm’s way — gifts for us from her sister in Kentucky, that had yet to be brought into the apartment.
And so our humble Christmas, distant from family, was accomplished. Complete with love, hugs, and three presents from Aunt Kim. (Time has dimmed memories of exactly what the gifts were: my sister thought they were radios, I was sure I’d received a large G.I. Joe action figure, Mom remembered identical Fisher-Price toys.)
After my phone calls comparing memories for this article, my lasting impression from the Christmas of ’74 is that neither my sister nor I recall receiving just one gift. We don’t remember a shortfall, or a pall hanging over that Christmas. Only fond memories remain. The same event that an adult considers ruined and to be forgotten — memories of tears, a police report, and woefully few presents — is remembered by us as yet another happy childhood Christmas, surrounded by family, toys from Santa, and love. And just enough requisite magic.
The postscript to this story, the part that didn’t make it into the shortened version, is about an additional gift, and another theft — later considered a blessing in disguise.
Mom had received a gift that Christmas. Her parents had sent fifty dollars that she used to buy us a small black-and-white television — a luxury in our financial situation. Within weeks, our apartment was burgled a second time, and the thieves stole the new TV. (Mom was working a new early-morning ‘flextime’ schedule that allowed her to be home earlier in the afternoon. Her theory of the burglaries was that my sister and I, who woke up on our own after Mom left to drop my brother off with the babysitter, would forget to lock the basement-level door in the back when we left to walk ourselves to school.)
At that point, Mom decided a move was necessary. Knowing her small salary wasn’t enough to secure better housing, she appealed to her superiors for a transfer to the West. Her boss had compassion for her situation and offered a position in Denver or San Francisco. Our subsequent move to the Bay Area led to Mom meeting her second husband, my eventual adoption to the man I call Dad, and a new blended family that immediately changed our lives for the better.
In retrospect, Mom views those trials in Virginia as a blessing. “Truly amazing” are the words she used. Her transfer west happened quickly, while co-workers in her office had been waiting years for similar requests to be approved. “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” she wrote of the experience.
Amen, Mom. He certainly does. Merry Christmas.
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