RUSSIAN CHRISTMAS
| I remember that, at Christmas, when I was fourteen my mother sat me down to tell me that she would not have enough money to buy presents for both myself, my younger bothers and my little sister. My mother told me I would have a “Russian Christmas” just as soon as her check came in after New Years. My mother was all Irish and my father was German and Polish, so I never knew where this term, “Russian Christmas” came from. What I did know was that being the oldest child in a single parent home meant pitching in to help out. Everyone had sacrifices to make. That is just how life was, it was no big deal.
Early that Christmas morning I went over to a friend’s house so things would be easier on my mother. My best friend was a year older than I. He was also the only child living in a two parent household, (translation: lots of cool loot to check out). At one point my friend asked “What did you get?” I did not want to embarrass my family for being poor so I said “Stuff, you know”. I immediately felt like some ungrateful little brat. But, what could I say? Somehow the truth did not seem appropriate at the time. Unbeknownst to me, my mother had gone to a neighbor’s home and called my best friend’s father to tell him I was coming over and she told him about our situation. At one point that morning my friend’s father took me aside to tell me that he heard from my mother that I had taken the money I made from loading groceries into people’s cars at the Acme and from shoveling snow from the neighbor’s sidewalks and given it to my mother to help with Christmas presents for my brothers and sister. He told me he understood there was not enough to go around and heard that I had volunteered to wait until after the first of the New Year to celebrate my Christmas. My best friend’s father then gave me the best Christmas present I ever received, he told me my actions showed I was maturing, that I was becoming a man. As I recall my “Russian Christmas” never came. There were bills to be paid and our tree traditionally came down the first of January each year. As the smell of pine faded from the house so did my faith that I would see a “Russian Christmas”. What never did fade was the feeling I got being mature enough to have participated in the true spirit of Christmas. It truly is one of my best Christmas memories.
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