EPIPHANY: A CHRISTMAS AWAKENING

Christmas Eve had finally, finally arrived in our deep South Northwest Florida town. Except for a few
gifts yet to be wrapped, our family was ready.

My sister and I had been warned that because of the Great Depression, a term whose meaning we knew well in 1932, Santa might not be able to bring everything we wished for. I'd also known for a long time that Santa was really my parents. This discovery never bothered me, except that I knew these were "hard times" for our family and therefore I hoped for a miracle which would provide the beautiful doll I'd seen in a downtown store.

The week before Christmas, Mamma and I with my sister Chris, who was younger than I, had put the electric candles in the front windows and trimmed the pine tree Bill had brought from the woods. My mother had exclaimed as she did every year when Bill, the handyman, delivered the tree, "I believe this is the most beautiful tree we've ever had. Thank you, Bill.”

"Yes, ma‘am, it is mighty pretty," said Bill, his usually tired eyes brightening a bit as he straightened to look at the tree. “I'm glad you're pleased. I ‘spect it'll look even nicer once you put on the decorations these girls have made."

"You'll be here Christmas morning to see it, won't you, Bill?” I asked.

"Yes, Miss. I'll be here."

The tree, which touched the ceiling of the living room, filled the house with its fresh fragrance.

Other delicious aromas--chocolate, fruit cake, apples and oranges-wandered through the house. The chocolate lingered from the candy Mamma had made as gifts for friends with some left over for us. Fruit cakes had been prepared by my mother and our beloved Cattie, the cook, far enough ahead for the perfect melding of all the dried fruit flavors. Cattie had taken hers home wrapped in tea towels. Ours sat in the sideboard waiting for Christmas Day. The apples that came from out West were a special treat we'd bought at Curry Douglass' store. The crate of oranges was a gift from Mamuma's sister, who lived in South Florida.

On this particular Christmas Eve, when I was nine years old, our family was planning to participate in a candlelight carol service at the Presbyterian Church. We'd attended the Christmas pageant at the Methodist Church the preceding Sunday. Because my mother was a Methodist and the church organist, and my father was a Presbyterian, we attended Christmas programs at both churches. My sister and I loved it all: the carols, the special music, the Christmas story, and the extra love and warmth we felt between the people.

On Christmas Eve it was traditional in my mother's family to have a light supper featuring seafood. I don't know how the fish custom originated, but the supper prepared by Mamma was delicious. Living so close to the Gulf also made seafood plentiful and inexpensive, at least in those days.

At supper Daddy suggested that after the church service we go by the new Junior Department Store. The store was a bright addition to our town, especially in those dark depression days. It had been opened by the Apostles, a couple from up North. They'd originally come from an Eastern European country and spoke with an accent, making them unique in our town. Mr. and Mrs. Apostle were kind to us children and allowed us to browse for as long as we wished. Chris and I were thrilled with the anticipation of yet another chance to be a part of the magic of lights and decorations of the store. But mostly I wanted one more look at the doll I so hoped Santa would bring me.

Throughout the carol service at the Presbyterian Church I thought about the beautiful baby doll. I think in my mind the baby Jesus and the baby doll began to converge.

When we arrived at the store I ran to the store window to see if the doll were still there. It was. There was still a chance Santa might get it for me that night!

Because it was unusually cold with temperatures expected to go below freezing, we quickly went inside the store and I began to look possessively at doll from the rear of the showcase.

Standing in the Christmas lights outside looking in was a little black about my age. She wore only a sweater over her dress. No coat, no hat or gloves. Her sad eyes were fixed longingly on the doll. And then, she looked straight at me. With an instant, empathetic realization, I could actually feel how much she wanted the doll. As she turned away, head downcast, I knew too she was thinking it could not be hers. The suddenness of this revelation of knowing how another person feels was devastating.

Gone was the happy excitement of the evening. When we reached home, no longer was I singing. No longer did I ask for one more piece of candy or to stay up late and sit by the fire. The lump in my throat and the hurt inside caused me to say I'd just go to bed. This change in my behavior brought a quick response.

"She's not feverish," Mamma said as she felt my forehead.

“Maybe she's just worn out from all the excitement and activity," my father suggested.

“Does your throat hurt?" my sister asked. I shook my head. It did hurt, but not the way she meant. "Well, you should both get to bed anyway," Mamma gently urged. “Santa'll be coming soon, and you should be asleep when he arrives." 

Once under the privacy of the covers, I began to cry. I could not sort it out. The sadness was overwhelming. I kept seeing the little girl's face, the ging look in her eyes. Finally, I slept, but fitfully.

Next morning upon awakening, I momentarily forgot about the little girl until we raced into the living room to see what Santa had brought. And there it was--the doll I no longer wanted. My reaction was immediate. "Please, Daddy,” 1 pleaded, “find the little girl and give her the doll." “What do you mean? What little girl?" asked my surprised father. “The little Negro girl I saw outside the store last night. She's about my age. She wanted that doll too.”

“But, who was she? We don't even know her name," Daddy said.

“Come on, honey, look at your other gifts," my mother coaxed.

All attempts to distract or console me failed. "I'm not going to Aunt Bern's to dinner," I threatened, “until we find the little girl.”

My sister stopped playing with her toys; my mother looked at me with a worried expression; my father stood up and stared out the window. Now, everyone realized the seriousness of my outburst, for Christmas dinner at my aunt's home was a family occasion to which we all looked forward.

Mamma moved towards my father and said, "Malcolm, we've taught the girls that Christmas is a special time for showing love. The doll is Marjorie's to do with as she chooses."

“Maybe Cattie can find out who she was," Chris suggested.

“But Cattie won't be coming in today," I replied. Even so, I brightened a little at this possibility and it gave me another thought. "Bill might know her and he's coming by this morning for his gifts and treats."

“Dear girl," Daddy patiently tried to reason. "Bill could not possibly know every Negro child your age and besides he lives on one end of town and that child who was downtown so late probably lives near town in the Hollows.”

Dashed were the momentary hopes for achieving what I so desperately wanted.

My sister, intuitively trying to rescue the family from the pall I'd created, said, “Marjy, I'll bet Cattie can find her tomorrow. You can leave your doll in the box and I'll let you play with my doll. AND," she added happily, “Daddy's going to set off some of the fireworks soon as we get to Aunt Bern's. Won't that be fun?"

It must have been with relief that my parents observed some restoration of good mood. I did try hard to enter into the festivities, especially after we got to Aunt Bern's and one of the adults scolded me with, “Marjorie, you are ruining the day for everyone with your moping about." I did try, but 

my heart was not in it. I now believed that Jesus wanted me to find that little girl. I knew He did. The next morning when I heard Cattie in the kitchen getting breakfast, I went straight in to tell her about the little girl and the doll and to ask if she knew her.

Cattie listened as she continued her work and then replied, "There ain't no way I can figure out who that child was from what you've told me. Could be anybody. Did you see anybody else with her?"

“No, ma'am. Just the little girl."

Cattie stopped her work, looked at me and directed, "Now, look here, Marjrie. You can't go giving away your present even if we knew who she was. Gettin’ that doll for you meant a lot to your Mamma and Daddy."

"But Mamma said if I really wanted to give away my doll, it was all right. Besides, I don't think that little girl had any Christmas."

“Yes, she did. If she went to church or the school program she got a bag of candy and some nuts, likely even an orange. And I'm sure somebody in her family must've made her a clothespin doll."

That didn't sound to me like what the girl really wanted.

I kept standing there unsatisfied while Cattie began to mumble to herself as she stirred the oatmeal. Turning to me she asked, "Did you hear anybody call her name?"

"No, ma'am," I answered shaking my head.

"Then how in the world you ‘spect anybody to find her?" That seemed to settle it for Cattie.

I turned and went into the living room where the doll was still lying in its box propped in a chair beside the now cold fireplace.

No one knew the black child. No one knew her name. This white child knows her well, and has never been the same.