Image provided by: University of Oregon Libraries; Eugene, OR
About Medford mail tribune. (Medford, Or.) 1909-1989 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 21, 1958)
A mixed- up M eny Christmas How can Christmas be joyous and heartbreaking at the same time? You'll see in this childhood experience from a master storyteller. by Lincoln Stiffens Reprinted from "The Autobiography of Lincoln Steffens," copyright 1931 by Marcourt, Brace and Co., Inc. I remember very little of my primary school. I 1 learned to read, write, spell, and count, and reading was all right. I had a practical use for books, which I searched for ideas and parts to play with, characters to be, lives to live. The primary school was probably a good one, but I cannot remember learning anything except to read aloud "perfectly" from a teacher whom I adored and who was fond of me. She used to embrace me before the whole class, and she favored me openly to the scandal of the other pupils, who called me "teacher's pet." Their scorn did not trouble me; I saw that they envied me. I paid for her favor, however. When she mar ried I had queer, unhappy feelings of resentment; I didn't want to meet her husband, and when I had to I wouldn't speak to him. He laughed and she kissed me happily for her, to me offensively. Through with her, I fell in love immediately with Miss Kay, another grown young woman who wore glasses and had a fine, clear skin. I did not know her, I only saw her in the street, but once I followed her, found out where she lived, and used to pass her house, hoping to see her, and yet choking with embarrassment if I did. This fasci nation lasted for years; it was still a sort of super romance to me when later I was "going with" another nearer my own age. What interested me in our new neighborhood was the stable which was built back of the house. My father let me direct the making of a stall, a little smaller than the other stalls, for my pony, and I prayed and hoped, and my sister Lou believed, that that meant that I would get the pony, perhaps for Christmas. I pointed out to her that there were three other stalls and no horses at all. This I said in order that she should answer it. She could not. My father, sounded, said that someday we might have horses and a cow; meanwhile a stable added to the value of a house. "Someday" is a pain to a boy who lives in and knows only "now." My good little sisters, to comfort me, remarked that Christmas was coming, but Christmas was always coming and grownups were always talking about it, asking you what you wanted and then giving you what they wanted you to have. Though every body knew what I wanted, I told them all again. My mother knew that I told God, too, every night I wanted a pony, and to make sure that they understood I declared that I wanted nothing else. "Nothing but a pony?" my father asked. "Nothing," I said. "Not even a pair of high boots?" That was hard. I did want boots, but I stuck to the pony. "No, not even boots." "Nor candy? There ought to be something to fill your stocking with, and Santa Claus can't put a pony down the chimney." But no. "All I want is a pony," 1 said. "A pony or nothing." Now I had been looking myself for the pony I wanted, going to sale stables, inquiring of horsemen, and I had seen several that would do. My father let me try them. I tried so many ponies that I was learning fast to sit on a horse. I chose several, but my father always found some fault with them. I was in despair. When Christmas was at hand I had given up all hope of a pony, and on Christmas Eve I hung up my stocking along with my sisters', of whom I had three. I haven't mentioned them or their coming be cause, you understand, they were girls, and girls, young girls, counted for nothing in my manly life. They did not mind me either; they were so happy that Christmas Eve that I unconsciously caught some of their merriment. I speculated on what I'd get; I hung up the biggest stocking I had, and we all went reluctantly to bed to wait till morning. Not to sleep; not right away. We were told that we must not only sleep promptly, we must not wake up till 7:30 the next morningor, if we did, we must not go to the fireplace for our Christmas. IAIe did sleep that night, but we woke up at 6 a.m. We lay in our beds and debated through the open doors whether to obey till say, 6:30. Then we bolted. I don't know who started it, but there was a rush. We all disobeyed; we raced to disobey and get first to the fireplace in the front room downstairs. And there they were, the gifts, all sorts of wonderful things, mixed-up piles of presents; only, as I disentangled the mess, I saw that my stocking was empty; it hung limp; and under and around it nothing. My sisters had knelt down, each by her pile of gifts; they were squealing with delight, till they looked up and saw me standing there in my paja mas with nothing. They left their piles to come to me and look with me at my empty place. Nothing. They felt my stocking; nothing. I don't remember whether I cried at that mo ment, but my sisters did. They ran with me back to my bed, and there we all cried till I became indignant. That helped some. I got up, dressed, and, driving my sisters away, I went alone out into the yard, down to the stable, and there, all by myself, I wept My mother came out to me by and by; she found me in my pony stall, sobbing on the floor, and she tried to comfort me. But I heard my 10 Family Weekly. December 21, 1958