The real present received on that cold winter’s night so long ago was an insight into the meaning of giving and receiving
I was in Grade 3 at the time — too young to know the reasons, but old enough to sense the despair that had settled over our small farming community.
Crops had been poor, prices low and people had become the passive victims of an economic squeeze.
The annual school Christmas concert was to be the only highlight of an otherwise bleak winter.
To add to the excitement, the new teacher suggested that we draw names for the exchange of gifts. She was probably unaware of the burden such a responsibility placed upon our young shoulders.
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I browsed through the Eaton catalogue for weeks before coming to a decision, made more difficult because the value of the gift was not to exceed 50 cents, a considerable sacrifice in those days.
The names we had chosen were to remain secret, but it didn’t take long for news to spread on the school grapevine.
Long before the night of the concert I knew who had drawn my name. He was a boy from a large family who had just recently moved into our community. Their farm with its derelict buildings was in an area we referred to locally as “the marsh.” In wet years it flooded. In dry years the sandy soil supported some scrub poplars and at best a few head of scrawny cattle.
“Don’t count too much on a present,” my mothered cautioned.
Caught up in the excitement of the season, I was in no mood for such pessimism.
The night of the concert was clear, with the mercury hovering at -25. A blizzard the day before had packed the rural roads with snowdrifts. As we converged that night upon the village schoolhouse, teams of horses stood draped in blankets, their nostrils white with hoarfrost. Those of us who arrived by tractor and trailer covered the motors quickly, hopeful that they would start again later for the long ride home.
The school basement was packed with people. I could smell damp woolen mittens drying on the radiators, and humidity hung heavily in the air. There in the corner stood the Christmas tree in all its glory, scraps of wrapping paper transforming the smallest tokens into bits of magic.
The buzz of excitement quieted as the bed sheet curtains jerked open and a wide-eyed beginner faltered through a welcome recitation. Skits and drills and more recitations followed, with teachers doing the prompting from behind stage.
It was made of loose planks placed across sawhorses, and as the various classes filed up and down to perform our songs, the sound of shuffling feet was accompanied by squeaking boards and someone thumping out The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers on the piano. A hearty round of applause followed every presentation, until at last a doll cradle placed in the centre of the stage indicated the beginning of the nativity pageant.
A hush settled over the audience as a youthful scribe began to stumble through Luke 2: “And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from… from… Caesar… Caesar Aug… ustus that all the world should be taxed….”
A cranky innkeeper turned away a tired Mary and Joseph, who resorted to a makeshift stable inhabited by cardboard livestock. A white-clad angel wearing a tinsel halo made a dazzling appearance.
From behind stage someone imitated a baby’s cry. Rough shepherds wearing burlap gunny sacks lumbered on-stage and knelt at the manger. A tinfoil star rose above the curtains, guiding in the three wise men, regally attired in threadbare bathrobes, their terry towel turbans pinned with garish brooches.
Young voices began to sing “Silent night, holy night….”
As the curtains gently closed on the manger scene, the chair of the school board took the stage to make closing remarks. Then cupping his hands to his ears, he asked, “have you all been good boys and girls this year?” A resounding “yes” all but drowned out the sound of sleigh bells in the hall, and a well-padded Santa made his way toward the Christmas tree.
The time for which I had waited all evening had come — the distribution of gifts.
I sat in suspense, my heart pounding with anticipation. On every side of me classmates were opening gaily wrapped parcels, any number of things that would have delighted a small girl — perfume, soap, trinkets, costume jewelry. Surely my turn would come soon.
The boy who had drawn my name had received a pretend gun. He was aiming it at his friends, planning a game of cops and robbers.
I edged over closer to the tree. There were only three presents under it now. Then two.
Then none.
I clutched my bag of candies and examined the tree more closely. Maybe my gift was still tucked up there among the branches where nobody could see it.
I tried to be brave as my mother bundled me up for the ride home. As we stepped outside into the cold winter night, the tears froze on my cheeks.
I hated that boy who drew my name; hated everything there was about Christmas and celebrating and singing Joy to the World.
The tractor motor fired reluctantly, hesitated, and then jumped to life, startling the horses around us. I was glad it drowned out the sound of their bells. Stupid things anyway.
For a long time, I sat in silence until at last, the bitterness inside me exploded.
“Why did that boy have to draw my name anyway? I mean, why did he take a name at all?”
As we rode home on that starry December night, my mother began to elaborate on some of the harsh realities of life. I lay on my back in the straw-filled trailer and listened, while the exhaust from the tractor unfurled like a white plume across the star-filled sky. “Sometimes it’s very hard to admit you’re poor, even poorer than the rest.”
I sensed my mother was talking from experience.
“Maybe that boy wanted to give somebody a present just as much as you hoped to get one.”
By the time we reached the warmth of home, the anger and disappointment and bitterness within me had faded away, replaced by a growing sense of compassion for the boy who had drawn my name.
The real present I received that night was insight with understanding. It is not so important what we get out of life.
The real tragedy is in having nothing to give.
