The harsh Kansas prairie winds swept mercilessly over the little town of Pittsburgh. High up in the sky, some spiteful giant was pitching icy handsful of sleet against the windows of the little gray clapboard house. Bertha woke to the sound and shivered under the covers, snuggling a little closer to Lula, her big sister. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and remembered that this was not just an ordinary day. This evening, as the winter sky was drained of its light, everyone would gather for the annual Christmas celebration at Hog Holler schoolhouse.
Bertha could hear her Mama stirring about in the kitchen, popping a pan of biscuits into the wood stove for their breakfast. Papa and her brothers would be out in the barn by now, doing the morning chores and milking Bessie, their beloved cow. Bertha was hungry. Dinner had been less than plentiful last night – beans again, and biscuits again. The family had savored the last of the blackberry jam that Mama canned last summer. Those hot summer days seemed so far away.
“Luly, are ye awake yet?” Bertha nudged her sister.
Lula mumbled something and rolled over. Her blue eyes popped open.
“Berthy, cain’t you just let me sleep a little longer?”
Bertha knew that Mama would call them to breakfast at any minute. Slipping into a Christmas daydream, she wondered what excitement the day would bring. She hugged her cornhusk doll, Hetty, close to her chest. Hetty couldn’t help it that she was only a cornhusk, and Bertha didn’t fault her for it. A girl had to have a doll of some sort. Bertha’s imagination made it work out just fine for both of them. Still, she longed for a real china doll. She had seen one in the window of the general store downtown. Clothed in a lacy white dress with tiny pink buttons, it was the prettiest doll she had ever seen. But she didn’t want to hurt Hetty’s feelings, or her parents’, for that matter. Her family could never afford such a gift. So she kept this longing tucked deep inside her heart.
Just then, Mama called them to breakfast. “Luly, Berthy, git yourselves out here! Time’s a wastin’!”
The girls jumped out of bed, dressed in a flash and scampered across the cold bedroom floor into the warm kitchen. Their older sister Alta came through the door with an empty basket on her arm.
“Them hens just done stopped layin’, Mama,” she said.
“Nothin’ fer it, Alty,” answered Mama.
Papa and her big brothers, Bert and George, rushed in from the barn, stamping their feet to shake off the chill. Morning chores were done. Papa, carrying a pail brimming with fresh warm milk, grinned at his girls.
“Cold enough fer ye?”
Everyone slipped into place around the table, but not a biscuit would be touched until grace was said. Papa gave thanks as they all bowed their heads. Then everyone dug into the platter of flaky golden biscuits, downing cups of the warm milk alongside. This was breakfast.
As the family ate, chatter flew back and forth about the events of the evening to come. The Christmas gathering was a beloved tradition and the highlight of the month of December. Most of the people in this little town were poor coal miners, getting by on very little. Any celebration, any break in the routine of survival, was cause for joy.
Bertha cast a sidelong glance at her father, who was suddenly seized by another of his coughing spells. She never got used to them; they frightened her every time. The coal mine was taking its toll on her beloved Papa. He worked so hard just to keep food on the table and pay the mortgage on their little home. Her Mama, a large spare woman who towered over Papa, made what she could by midwifery, but many of the women she helped were unable to pay in cash. She often came home with a chicken or a rabbit, after a night of bringing another baby into the world.
Soon the platter of biscuits was empty and Mama shooed them all out the door and on to school, lunch pails in hand.
“Git along with ye now, and don’t dawdle. It’s fearsome cold out there.”
They scurried along the frozen road, leaning into the wind, clutching their coats tightly around them. In just a few minutes they burst through the door of the schoolhouse and soaked up the warmth radiating from the huge coal stove in the corner of the room. Their teacher, Miss Hawkins, had stoked it well. Her welcoming smile combined with the heat of the room to thaw them out from the bone chilling walk.
The school day was mostly given to preparations for the Christmas festivities. There were songs to be practiced and poems to be memorized. Alta, the best reader in the school, would read the Christmas story from the gospel of Luke as the younger children acted it out. She had practiced it so many times at home that Bertha had learned it by heart. The room simmered with anticipation; the children’s excitement was spilling over. The boys were getting downright rowdy.
Wilbur gave Johnny a shove. “Johnny, ye look plumb daft in that sheep gitup!”
“Oh, hesh yer mouth!” Johnny pushed back, sending Wilbur sprawling to the floor.
Miss Hawkins quietly took charge. How did she stay so calm, Bertha wondered for the hundredth time. Bertha would gladly have hog tied both boys.
“Children, children, settle down! It’s time to decorate the tree.”
Here was an opportunity for some serious creativity. The children had worked on the decorations since the beginning of December, and now the time had come to adorn the huge fir tree. Popcorn and cranberry strings were draped over its thick branches. Red and green paper chains and foil stars were hung lovingly on each limb. Candle holders were clipped in place, each one holding a white candle, waiting to be lit when evening came. All was ready for the presents.
The school day ended at last and the children went home for a quick supper, most of them too excited to eat much. Darkness fell quietly as the sleet continued to pelt down, but no one noticed. Nothing could dampen the enthusiasm in the air as the entire town gathered to celebrate. Bertha put on her very best dress, the one she saved for Sundays, and hurried along with her family to the schoolhouse. Would there be anything on the tree for her? She rehearsed her little poem over and over, not wanting to forget even one word when her turn came to recite.
The program was a success as usual. No one ever tired of the same old carols, the same old poems, the same story that never grew old – the baby in the manger, the glory of the angels, the wondering shepherds.
Bertha’s knees knocked and her voice trembled, but every word came out loud and clear.
“What shall I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I’d give a lamb.
If I were a wise man, I would do my part.
But what can I give him? Give my heart!”
At long last it was time for the presents. Now the townspeople had made sure that the tree was full of presents, each one tied to a branch with red ribbon. Candlelight danced and gleamed magically from each lit candle. Bertha thought she had never seen anything so enchanting. She wondered who would get that shiny top, those fuzzy red woolen mittens. Then she saw it – tied to the top of the tree. That beautiful doll in its little white dress. Some lucky rich girl would get that.
The big boys, including her brothers, began to untie the gifts one at a time and hand them out. Every gift had a tag with the recipient’s name on it. Squeals of delight were heard all over the room as each child received a surprise. But Bertha just waited, empty handed. Finally the only present left was that china doll at the top of the tree. Could it be? No, Mama and Papa could never afford it.
That was when Bertha got the surprise of her life. She watched breathlessly as her brother George climbed a ladder to the very top, untied the doll, and read her name, “Bertha Keller”. Her mouth flew open in astonishment, and her eyes filled with tears of pure joy as George winked at her, placing the china doll in her arms. She clutched it to her heart, breathing in its newness.
Bertha, my beloved grandmother who told me this story, would grow into a fine woman with a family of her own, and would enjoy many more Christmases as the years passed. But never again would there be one quite like this Christmas, the Christmas when her dream came true.
