Medford mail tribune., December 21, 1958, Image 43

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