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The Frenches walked everywhere from their home in the
hollow. They had walked the two miles up the west hollow to Uncle
George’s and Aunt Daisy’s for Thanksgiving dinner. Dave walked
miles on his trap line every other day. It was an easy walk through the
timber to Frank Warner’s for eggs, even in the wintertime. It was 1939, a time when shortages and the
doing-without of the Great Depression were very much a part of recent
memory. At the same time there was an uneasiness as nations came closer and
closer to a major war.
It was in the depth of December. Dave and Marie had
told the kids that tonight was the night for the Christmas program at
Hickory Church, just over the hill a mile or so. The kids were eager and
soon were dressed in their Sunday best. They put on their overshoes. Dave
carried the lantern; Marie carried the youngest child. The older boys were
big enough to walk on their own. It was cold enough to see your breath.
They began their walk over the hill. The people of Hickory precinct had a strong faith,
and they gathered here in this hillside church a few evenings before
Christmas to sing praises and celebrate the season and the birth of the
baby Jesus. The Frenches walked into the churchyard. Dave blew
out the lantern and set it by the church door. The light shining through
the stained-glass windows helped make it a magic evening. The bell rang and
rang in the winter air, and soon there was singing louder than anyone had
ever heard. The well-to-do, the poor, and the in-between all stood shoulder
to shoulder, praying, giving thanks, and singing that December night. The
great Christmas tree, some 10 feet high, was trimmed and lit with electric
lights. Many of the homes in the community were without electricity, so it
was a sight to behold for those bright-eyed children. There was the usual program with Mr. Schaad, the
superintendent, speaking in his strong, gravelly voice. “Recitation
by Paul Kirchner.” “Recitation by Betty Lou Kissinger.”
“A musical number by Leona Jane Tibbs.” And “A Recitation
by Jackie David French.” And so the evening went on, till the magic
moment when sleigh bells could be heard outside. Soon good old St. Nick
would come bursting through the door shouting, “Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas!” He had gifts for all of the children. Santa, with a
few helpers, began calling out children’s names and handing out
gifts. Some were wrapped in fancy papers and tied with ribbons and bows of
all colors. He soon emptied his bag, and the big pile of presents under the
tree began to dwindle till finally all the name tags had been read. With a “Ho! Ho! Ho!” old St. Nick wished
everyone assembled a Merry Christmas, waved goodbye, and started his
journey back to the North Pole. But one boy of 6 years had gone unnoticed. He had no
gifts. Of all the names called, none was his. He couldn’t believe it.
Tears as big as raindrops welled in his eyes. He had studied hard in
school; he had given his recitation in the best manner he knew how. He
thought that he had been a good boy. But no gifts. The only thing he had
was a lump in his throat so big he couldn’t even eat from the package
of candy that everyone received. He and his family — Mom, Dad, and assorted
brothers — left the church and started their walk home. Dad carried
the lantern and the youngest child. Everyone had hold of someone
else’s hand as the family sloshed along over the half-frozen, muddy
road. It was then that Mother began to ask, “Well, what did you
get?” to one child and then another. One child, through quivering
lips, replied, “Nothing.” “What?” she said,
“Nothing? Well, what on earth? Here, your brother got two things; he
can’t read and you can, so take his book. Is that OK?”
The book was Thornton W. Burgess’ Old Mother West Wind. The boy
had finally received a gift, but it just wasn’t the same. A few days later, the family celebrated their own
Christmas with gift-giving and a wild-game dinner and a generally good and
happy time. But the boy kept thinking: “Somewhere in that valley is a
gift that wasn’t given. Somewhere a gift was wrapped and ready but
somehow has been misplaced. Maybe it was lost before it got to the church,
but where could it be?”
Now World War II is over, and the Great Depression of
the 1930s is only mentioned in history. Thornton W. Burgess’ Old
Mother West Wind, received that December night, rests on a shelf
not far from Hickory Church. The families of Hickory precinct have grown
and scattered, but somewhere near there is still an ungiven gift.
Roy L. French has written a Christmas story for Illinois Times for many
years. He is a writer, photographer, and man of many hats. He lives in
Virginia, Ill.
This article appears in Dec 13-19, 2007.
