Christmas at Four

Christmas was my favorite time of year. I suppose most children feel the same way. The opening of gifts and decorating the tree seemed to be the only thing we ever did as a family. I wanted my family to be like The Waltons or any other television show that was popular at the time. In reality, my mother was manic depressive and schizophrenic. She was very abusive to my older sister and I but somehow when we went to my Grandparents for Christmas day, all was forgotten for the afternoon.

Before the Christmas break from school, my teacher Mrs. Shackleford, had approached my Grandmother with a concern that I was being abused at home. When I look back on that time now, I had no idea what was going on. When you're a child the only people you know are your family and teachers. This was a turning point for me. I knew my mother wasn't well but a discussion of mental health was seen as shameful by my Grandparents. We never spoke of it although I would frequently show up at their home with bruises. My Grandmother had been a teacher herself and when Mrs. Shackleford approached her she did so as a warning. In any other situation, the authorities would have been notified. Gram went to my Mother and told her if she did not stop hitting my sister and I, we would be taken away. I never remember being hit after that Christmas.

Even though my Grandparents didn't ask me if I was okay, I think they did the best they could by making the Christmas of 1977 the most memorable of my young childhood. I remember tearing the paper from a big white box. Under the tissue was a red and white striped dress with little red tulips as pockets. My Auntie tied my hair into two pony tales with red bows. It had clearly been arranged. I received a huge stocking with toys but there was still one big box underneath the tree. I gazed at the package hoping it was mine. After everyone had opened their respective gifts, the big box was presented to me. I carefully opened the present and lying underneath the white tissue was a blond haired doll. She had two ponytails tied with red bows and a red and white striped dress with little tulip pockets. It matched me exactly. I remember eating pumpkin pie and drinking hot apple cider. I remember singing Christmas carols with my Grandfather. But what I remember most, is the happiness I felt that day. That doll was their way of saying sorry. She sits on a shelf in my bedroom to this day and reminds me of one happy day with my family.

Learn more about this author, Julie Hartnett.
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