Another year is winding to an end. As we approach the holiday season we should remember how much we as a nation have to be thankful for. Certainly, the events of September 11 should cause us all to reflect on our past and resolve to appreciate our loved ones, the bountiful resources of this great land, and the freedoms we all enjoy as citizens of the United States.
Thinking about the season of giving and receiving gifts, I can’t resist recalling those dreams and wishes I had as a young boy growing up in rural Alabama. When I juxtapose those memories against the gifts my daughter and her contemporaries say they want today, and what the children of our friends are asking for, I can only shake my head in amazement.
When I was a lad on the farm, for more years than I care to count the thing I wanted most was a bicycle. Nothing fancy. No bells, no whistles, no fancy spinners in the spokes. Just a bike with two wheels, two pedals, a good chain, a sturdy frame, and handlebars that would
allow me to steer along the country roads near my home.
Finally my cousin, Jackie Gamble, outgrew her bike. That long awaited Christmas had arrived when I would receive Jackie's bike as my own -- a hand-me-down which for years I had yearned for. It had been a long standing agreement between our mothers that I would eventually inherit the bike. You can imagine how much I wished for Jackie to grow and grow so her city bike could become a country bike, mine at last.
My first bike! It was a used one, and a girl's bike at that, but did I mind? Heck no! It barely registered that I was the only boy in Henry County riding a girls bike. It was a green bike with good tires. That's all that mattered.
But I wasn't always a grateful receiver of gifts. Let me tell you what this snot-nosed kid absolutely hated to receive at Christmas time. And what I always received, anyway.
Every year just before Christmas a long shiny Cadillac would pull into our front yard. Without even looking closely, I knew it was Mrs. Julia Fincher. She drove the only Cadillac in the county, so far as I was aware. Mrs. Fincher was the local banker's wife. They lived in the big brick house on Kirkland Street in Abbeville. I guess you might say they were the richest family in town. At least, Mrs. Fincher dressed like they were.
But I can't say their two sons were sharp dressers. At least I wasn't impressed with the way their son, Charlie, dressed. And I ought to know.
Every year when that Cadillac pulled up, Momma made me go out to greet Mrs. Fincher and open the door to that dream vehicle. Then I had to invite her into our home.
This was the way the visit was handled. Mrs. Fincher and Momma would exchange greetings and make small talk. Eventually Mrs. Fincher would hand over a bundle to Momma and Momma would thank her profusely. During all of this, I was expected to stand in the corner with a smile pasted on my face, knowing that as soon as she left Momma would turn to tell me how nice it was for Mrs. Fincher to think of me at Christmas.
And she always added, "Mrs. Fincher’s gift will go so nicely with what I've made you for Christmas.”
The one good thing about Mrs. Fincher’s gift was that I didn’t have to wait until Christmas morning to open it. Momma always made me try it on that day. God! I hated doing that.
What I have to say now will sound cruel and selfish. "A body should never talk mean about the dead," we were taught in the Baptist church of my youth. So I will admit that I liked and admired much about Payne Stewart, the professional golfer killed several years ago in a most unusual airplane accident. But let it be known that I always thought he looked stupid in those knickerbockers he wore on the golf course.
Every bit as stupid as I looked in the knickerbockers Mrs. Fincher brought to our house every Christmas. Knickers that her son, Charlie, had outgrown while he was away in boarding school. Knickers that I was expected to wear in public.
To complete my ensemble there was always the gift that Momma had made for me. Today, young people demand designer clothes with fancy labels and even someone's name on the clothing, visible for all to see. So, let it be known that in the l940’s I was well ahead of the times. I was already wearing "designer label" shirts.
Well, sort of.
"Martha White" wasn’t exactly a clothing designer. It was the brand of flour my mother bought in twenty-five pound white cloth bags. Once they were empty, Momma used the bags for the cloth from which to make the shirts for me to wear with Mrs. Fincher's hand-me-down knickerbockers.
I'm always amused when I see children and young adults these days striving to make sure their 'designer labels' show. In my era, Momma had the foresight to sew my shirts so the Martha White label was on the inside and not in full view for others to see.
If you've never seen a "Martha White brand" shirt in your local department store, the photo at the top of this page will give you some idea. Momma was a good seamstress. Martha White would have been proud of her.
Just as I always will be -- proud and grateful for a Momma who made Christmas on the farm a season of generosity toward others and thankfulness for all we had received, no matter who it came from, how long they'd used it, or however little it may seem today.
For one young boy growing up in rural Alabama, the love behind those sentiments of the season was the greatest gift of all. |
