Christmas was always a magical time for us children in spite of the shortage of money in our prairie family in 1931.
Our cotton stockings bulged with mysterious tissue-wrapped parcels, most of the gifts made by our parents and sisters, and a “bought” item or two from Eaton’s catalogue.
The gift exchange was an important part of our celebration. Determined to be a part of it, the previous year I had carefully cut small blotters from the clean, outside edges of a discarded blotter from my father’s desk. I wrapped and labelled them, one for each member of the family.
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Daddy must have witnessed this salvage because he presented me, at age five, with a crisp shinplaster or paper currency worth 25 cents.
I made my selections after hours of poring over the catalogue. Ten cents for an artificial gardenia for my mother was an extravagance that left me with only 15 cents, but the illustration was so elegant that I couldn’t resist.
With the help of an older sister with greater mathematical skills than me, I chose a five-cent crotchet hook for Jean, three erasers for five cents for Nita, Merle and Pat and two pencils for Daddy and Kelly with the remaining nickel.
A separate order sheet made out in my own name was included in my mother’s order, with a request that my purchase be put in a separate envelope and labelled with my name. What mail order clerk in this computer age would comply with such a request?
The money order was purchased and the order sent on its way. The seven-day waiting period was almost more than a small girl could bear but the parcel finally arrived.
I was not allowed to watch while it was opened in case I glimpsed some surprises. But after an agonizing wait outside my parents’ door, my own order was brought to me in its own envelope, labelled with my name. No Christmas since was ever so special.
