Christmas at Poverty Flats
Poverty Flats. That’s what our dad jokingly called our farm in the Midwest during my childhood. It was an accurate description.
Farm chores kept Pop and Mother busy all day and into the night. There was always something to do, and we children were expected to pitch in and help.
Our family was somewhere between bone-scraping poor and comfortable, leaning somewhat toward the bone.
I remember wearing canvas sneakers and older sisters’ hand-me-down dresses to school. New clothes didn’t often come our way. Yet, thanks to farm produce and animals, we always had enough to eat.
Christmas was great for memories. Our gifts usually centered around what we needed rather than what we wanted. We were happy to receive new underwear, socks, and pajamas, and maybe house slippers if our parents felt extra generous. We felt like millionaires if we got a new school outfit at the same time.
Most people’s Christmas trees in those days weren’t the elaborate works of art we see on social media. It was common to hang cheap ornaments on the tree and drape thin aluminum foil strips, optimistically called “icicles” all over it. The year our tree kept falling over, Pop got tired of propping it up. Our frustrated dad wrapped bailing twine around the trunk and nailed it to the windowsill! Necessity is the mother of invention, especially for those unaccustomed to luxury.
Still, there was one Christmas I decided to outsmart my parents.
As a grade school child, it fell my lot to be sent to bed earlier than the older ones so I could fall asleep while “Santa” visited. I was pretty sure I knew who Santa’s helpers were; I could hear them downstairs whispering.
Normally, we children would be awake before dawn on Christmas morning, tiptoeing downstairs to get the first glimpse of presents under our tree - a fleeting illusion of plenty. That year I wanted to be the first to see that breath-taking sight.
With this in mind, several days earlier I took the first step toward acquiring stealth to pull it off: I memorized which stair steps creaked when I stepped on them. (Stay with me; this is relevant.)
Next, I needed a small flashlight. The answer came when Pop gave us each $5 to spend on gifts for each other (a hefty sacrifice for a family trying to keep poverty from breathing down our necks). I squeezed out enough to buy myself a tiny Dick Tracy flashlight at Murphy’s Five and Ten Cent Store.
Probably the hardest part was pretending to be asleep when the sibling who slept with me later came to bed after “helping” Santa.
When you’re unaccustomed to luxury as we were, it doesn’t take much to feel the thrill of adventure.
Anticipating this time of stealth, I desperately hoped I would wake up before dawn, just in case I really did fall asleep.
My wish came true. Once I heard slow, measured breathing coming from the other occupants of the upstairs bedrooms, it was time to play super sleuth.
Easing out of my place next to the wall, I assumed a spiderlike position so I wouldn’t awaken the sibling occupying the outside position on the bed. The Olympic committee would have been proud of my gymnastics.
This acrobatic feat accomplished, I crept slowly and cautiously down the ancient wooden staircase. Our parents didn’t believe in night lights, so of course this occurred in pitch blackness.
At the bottom of the stairs and across the living room was the object of my curiosity. There, a mere twelve feet away, sat our Christmas tree with gift-wrapped presents beneath it.
Oh, but the job wasn’t done yet. My parents’ bedroom was near the living room. That meant I had to conceal the light beam under a partially outstretched hand. I was sure the FBI would want to enlist my services.
True to family tradition, we children awoke before daylight that Christmas morning. In fact, when my oldest sister came downstairs first, she found me sitting on the steps, waiting for her and the rest of our siblings to wake up.
We tiptoed into our parents’ room, whispering excitedly to each other. We nudged our parents out of a warm sleep with hushed voices, “Mother! Pop! Get up! We wanna open our presents!”
It took several moments of cajoling from us and groans from exhausted parents, to accomplish the mission. To our relief, our parents pried open their eyes and complied with our wishes.
Though I don’t recall the gifts I received that year, the satisfaction of fooling my family was one of my favorite presents ever.
How about you? Any stories of special Christmases? Feel free to use the comment box below and share with us.
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