A Christmas story I wrote based on a true experience of my husband Charles’ father as a young boy.
“Papa, can you hear me? It’s Christmas morning. Is it Christmas in Heaven too? I wish you could see our tree, Papa. It’s small and crooked, but I like it. It was the last one Mr. O’Mara had. He gave it to us! Emily and Clara and Jessie and Peter and I made paper decorations. Elizabeth drew a star. Mama put it on top, but it’s kind of funny-looking.”
“Charlie, is that you?”
Charlie jumped at the sound of his mother’s voice. He turned and saw Mama standing in the doorway to the hall. Bits of curly brown hair poked out from under her night cap.
“What are you doing up so early?” she asked. “You’ll freeze to death standing in that thin nightshirt.” His mother’s soft arms encircled him like a warm blanket. He snuggled against her.
“Are you talking to Papa again?” she asked.
Charlie nodded.
“You miss him a lot, don’t you?”
Her question made his throat tighten. Charlie couldn’t answer. He could barely swallow.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I miss him, too.”
Mama patted his head. “Back to bed,” she said. “I know it’s Christmas morn. But no need to get up yet.”
“But Mama, what about presents? Elizabeth wants a doll and Peter and Jessie…”
“Hush, Charlie.” He saw her eyes fill with tears. “None this year. You know that.” She crossed her arms. “Wrap yourself in the quilt,” she said. “It’s the only way to keep warm. I’m going to look in on your sisters.”
Charlie shivered as he ran down the hall. He stopped by the kitchen door at the back of the house and looked out. He knew there was no more coal in the shed and no wood on the porch.
And there was no money in the tin box under Mama’s bed. He had looked.
Charlie was the oldest one in the family. He had turned twelve in October. He wanted to do something to help! But what could he do? He walked back to the girls’ room and stood at the doorway. He saw Elizabeth and Clara and Emily tucked under the star quilt Mama had made. Mama was pulling an old sweater over Elizabeth’s head.
“Mama,” whispered Charlie, “I want to help.”
“You are helping. You’re strong and brave, just like Papa asked you to be. The good Lord and good friends will help us out. You’ll see. Now back to bed, young man.”
Jessie and Peter were huddled together asleep in their bed.
Charlie jumped back in his bed and rolled himself in his worn quilt.
Charlie didn’t feel strong or brave. He felt scared. Why did Papa have to die? Why weren’t there any presents under the tree? Why wasn’t there any coal for a fire in the pot-bellied stove?
Suddenly Charlie heard a clump-clump noise out back. What was that? He sat up in bed. He heard it again. He jumped up and ran to the kitchen window. A man in a big hat stood in a wagon hitched to two horses. He was shoveling coal into their coal shed as fast as he could.
We don’t have any money. I’ve got to stop him! Charlie swung open the back door, stepped into his high-top boots and ran into the yard. The wind bit into his bare legs and blew clean through his nightshirt.
He ran back and pulled Papa’s old coat off the hook by the door. Mama had given it to him for his birthday. It was too big but that didn’t matter. It smelled like Papa.
Charlie put on the coat and ran out again, waving his arms at the man in the wagon. “Stop, Mister. Stop!” he shouted. But the man kept right on shoveling.
“Please, Mister,” Charlie begged. “You’ve got the wrong house. We didn’t order any coal.”
The man looked up. “This is the Tucker house, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but….” Charlie stopped. He hung his head. “Mister, we don’t have any money…”
“I know,” said the man, as he scooped up more coal.
“Our papa died,” Charlie shouted into the wind.
“I know,” said the man.
Charlie reached up and pulled the man’s pant leg. “Sir, please stop! We can’t pay you.”
The man bent down and leaned on his shovel. “Son,” he said gently, “you don’t have to pay. This is a gift–a Christmas gift. The gentleman who sent it made me promise not to tell his name.”
Charlie looked at the mountain of coal in the wagon. There was enough to keep the family warm all winter. “Coal for Christmas,” he exclaimed. “A present for all of us!”
“Sure thing,” said the big man. “It’s mighty cold out here, Son. I can use a hand. Pick up that shovel. If we work together we can go twice as fast.”
Charlie swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of Papa’s coat. He dug into the mound of coal and shoveled the black nuggets into the shed. Mama’s words tumbled over in his mind. “The good Lord and good friends will help us out. You’ll see.”
When they finished, the man shook Charlie’s hand. “You’re a brave boy, Son,” he said, “and you’re strong too. I might have some work for you in the Spring. I’ll come ’round then and we’ll talk about it. Merry Christmas.”
Then he slapped the reigns and turned the horses around. “Giddyap,” he called, and off they trotted, pulling the empty wagon behind them.
Charlie looked through the shed window. It was filled with black coal. He had helped his family. Now they would have hot tea and toast with jam. And they would sit by the fire and warm their hands and feet.
Charlie ran toward the house. When he looked up there stood Mama in the window, smiling. She was holding Elizabeth. Clara and Emily and Jessie and Peter crowded around her. Mama’s eyes sparkled like sun on fresh snow.
Charlie smiled back. Then he threw up his hands. “Papa, it’s all right. Just like Mama said, “The good Lord and good friends will help us out. They did.”
