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A Christmas Gift For All Of You: The Sharing Of Three Special StoriesNov 27 '04 Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line Sharing three stories--one fiction (but very realistic) and two autobiographical ones. These have appeared in various places before being posted here.
Christmas In The City Of The Magic Windows by Ainsley Jo Phillips It's that time of year again--the Christmas season! The windows of the large department store here in this big city hold various animated scenes--just as they have for years. When I was young I would come here with my parents, brothers, sisters, and a friend brought by each of us. How much fun it was to all crowd into our station wagon for the 75-mile drive here during this magical time of year! Counting Mama and Daddy, there were 12 of us going from window to window, oohing and aaaahing at the magic that had made ordinary storefront windows become so extraordinary for a season. We would divide up after that with Daddy and all of the boys going to take in whatever latest action film was playing at the nearest movie theater while Mama would take us girls to watch the Nutcracker Ballet. I saw that every year as I was growing up and never grew tired of it. Perhaps, I'll go to see it again someday, though it wouldn't be the same with Mama and Daddy both gone and my siblings and friends scattered all over the country. After we got together again, we would head for the open-air ice-rink that was, at this magical time of year, watched over by a tall, brightly-decorated Christmas tree. Some of us were skaters. Other of us were more suited for spectator roles. I was one of the skaters. How wonderful it felt to glide along the ice with the breeze blowing my hair as I caught snowflakes on my tongue! Music from the freshly-seen Nutcracker Suite floated from the rink's sound-system, and I felt like a princess! The ice-rink is still where it was all those years ago--still where it was when my first serious boyfriend and I came to the city to enjoy it hand-in-hand! I watch couples skating together and see parents with their children and their children's friends enjoying the rink tonight, and it brings back so many memories. I watch all of this from the shadows, and feel a tear trickle down my cheek--a tear that almost freezes on this crisp, cold night. Soon, it's time to think of going home again. We all go past the department store to look at the windows once more. The crowd has thinned some, but there are still quite a few others there taking a final look. Then, we go to where our station wagon is parked, crowd in, and head for home, making one stop at McDonald's for some hot-chocolate loaded with marshmallows. After that, we ride along, looking at the beautiful lights adorning people's houses and yards. The radio station we're listening to is playing a lot of Christmas music, and we sometimes sing along when a favorite song comes on. But, soon, we began to get drowsy, and the next thing we know, Mama and Daddy are shaking us awake, telling us that we're home. We go through all of the motions of dressing for bed while barely being aware of what we're doing, then dream the best of childhood's dreams while tucked into our soft, warm, cozy beds. While we're sleeping, morning comes, and the smell of a very special breakfast stirs us awake: hotcakes with butter and syrup, sausage links, western omelets, bacon, homemade biscuits with butter and strawberry jam, hash browns, fresh fruit, orange juice, and marshmallow-laden hot chocolate. Our friends are staying for breakfast, after which we'll play some more until their various parents come to pick them up. We'll be spending many more wonderful times together, playing in the snow, eating popcorn beside the fireplace, and playing with toys and board games. School is out until two days after New Year's Day, and we have no homework! And, in just a few days, it will be Christmas! All of our relatives are coming to the house for Christmas dinner and to stay well into the evening! So many years between now and then! So many things have happened. I was the only one who moved to the city. Now, it's Christmas Eve once more. At one time, I didn't have a clue what was meant by the statement, "We're all just a paycheck away from homelessness." I haven't told anybody about my current state of affairs yet and will put off doing so for as long as possible, because they have their own lives to worry about. Somehow, I got myself into this. Somehow, I'll get myself out. . .I hope. I make another walk past the ice-rink, the theatre, and the magic storefront windows. All of the shelters are full tonight. I'm hungry, so I look in a dumpster to see if I can find anything edible and come up with a half-eaten bag of pork rinds. I find an unoccupied grate. This is where I'll sleep tonight. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night! The Bum In The Airport by Ainsley Jo Phillips It was the day after Independence Day in 1965, and my folks, uncle, aunt, and I were all at San Francisco International Airport. This was the first year that my folks (who both worked at Delco-Remy, which was a division of General Motors) had a block of four whole weeks off in the summer. For as long as I could remember, we had gone on three-week vacations. We had spent the first week in San Francisco, staying with Uncle Finley and Aunt Marce. This had been followed by two weeks in Hawaii. Then, a final week back with my aunt and uncle. We had always traveled by car before, so this was also the first (and only) year where we got to all of our destinations by plane. Now, we were heading back to Indiana by way of Chicago (as the airport in Indianapolis didn't support jet travel at that time), and Uncle Finley and Aunt Marce were there to see us off. We had a good hour's wait before boarding time. Some kids around my age and I got into a conversation about the kinds of things kids talk about (the latest pop idols, our families, etc.). We were far too engrossed in our conversation to pay much attention to the tattered, old man shuffling along near-by. Then, Daddy came up to me and asked me if I had my autograph book handy. Of course, I did!!! What young person WOULDN'T have an autograph book ready during this time when The British Invasion was in full-swing!?! Aunt Marce had thought that Herman's Hermits would be in town sometime during our stay--which I was so thrilled to hear about when she told me this the day after we'd arrived that I was bouncing off the walls. She'd later found out that they wouldn't be arriving until fall. Oh well! Autograph books were still good for collecting the words and signatures of both old and new friends and loved ones. In fact, I had my autograph book very handy at the time that Daddy approached me, because I was about to have my new friends to sign it. He led me over to this fragile-looking man who had let his five o'clock shadow progress towards the afternoon of the following day. The man seemed very shy and unassuming. This must be someone Daddy felt sorry for and wanted me to make him feel important, so I asked him if he would like to sign my autograph book. "Do you have a pen?" he asked me in a quiet voice. I told him that he could use the pen that a very special man had given to me when my folks and I were in Hawaii. This pen was so beautiful-looking that I knew it would make this down-and-out man feel very important to be using it. He wrote something in a hurry. When I looked at it, it looked like a scribble--leading me to think that this person was no rocket scientist (or anywhere close to being one). Even so, I thanked him and told him how happy I was that he had signed my autograph book--to which he nodded shyly and continued walking down the corridor. Suddenly, I felt very blessed! And sad. Here I was having fun with some new friends while surrounded by family members. In a few hours, I would be at home telling my grandparents, Uncle Jim, and my cousins about what a wonderful time I'd had on our family vacation. And here was this poor, shy, old man--who, obviously, didn't have a very high IQ--spending his days shuffling through a large airport and lonely-in-a-crowd. I was glad that I'd made such a fuss over him when he scribbled in my autograph book and hoped that the experience brightened his day at least a little. "Do you know who just signed your autograph book?" Daddy asked me. "Some old bum, I guess, " I replied. Was there anything else I should have found out about him? If so, he was gone before I could ask him. As it turned out, the guy was indeed old (at least, old to someone about to go into the seventh grade in less than two months) and shy, but he was far from being a poor and lonely bum with a low IQ. The stubble on his chin was a beard in the process of being grown, and he was there at the airport to pick up his wife who was flying back home after performing in Indiana. As for his clothes, he simply liked dressing for comfort when he wasn't working. He had three young children (two boys and a girl) whom he'd let go on ahead of him to meet their mother, because it made them feel grown-up (the boys were probably around six and eight, and the little girl was about four). Soon, the kids and their mother came towards me down the corridor. She was a total Mommy-type who was holding hands with all of her kids at once: her eldest holding one hand, and her two youngest sharing the other. By now, I knew their identities, so I asked the woman if she would like to sign my autograph book. She gave me a big, warm smile and apologized, "I'm sorry, honey, but I can't right now. I have a handful. In fact, I have TWO handsful." She looked over at her two youngest, and her voice took on a baby-talk tone when she cooed to them, "Two handsful! Yeaaaaah!" Soon, the entire family was reunited, and they made their way out to their car. The wife got in the back seat with the two little ones, and the oldest child got in the front passenger seat. The husband drove. A dozen years later, this woman would be back in Indiana to entertain at the Beef & Boards Dinner Theatre. At the time I went there, she hadn't arrived, but I wrote her a little note reminding of where and when we first met and caught her up a little on what I was doing. I included my address, too, and received a wonderful letter from her a few days later. That fall, her husband passed away--he was probably 25 years her senior, give or take. The family had always loved Christmas and celebrated it in a big way, so I received a Christmas card from them that also included a tribute to the husband and father. This hadn't been the first time that I'd reached out to someone who seemed tattered and alone and it wouldn't be my last. There are people out there slipping through the cracks, and we need to be aware of them and make a difference in their lives. It doesn't have to always be a cash donation--though those things are also definitely needed! Just a friendly smile in their direction that lets them know that you're happy to share the planet with them might be just what it takes to turn a life around! It isn't too likely that the fragile bit of humanity you're reaching out to will turn out to be some celebrity--Bing Crosby, in my case!--but he/she will be a very important person 100% of the time! The Choir On The Hill by Ainsley Jo Phillips When I volunteered at the Fountain Square Girls' Club in the spring of 1976 as part of a class requirement, I would occasionally bring my "adopted" kid brother, Mark, along with me. My girls were all simply crazy about him--especially, when he brought out his "gee-tahr" and led them in singalongs. The next time I would come in without him, they would ask me when I was going to bring Mark back with me. At the end of one week, we were going to have a Mother/Daughter pitch-in dinner, and everyone was excited about it. We formed different groups, and the group I led was in charge of drawing a mural on a huge piece of paper for the purpose of hanging it on one of the walls. This mural would represent Girls' Club. I created an assortment of life-sized little girls to go on the mural, which would be an outdoor scene while my girls made flowers, trees, birds, etc to go in the picture. All at once, one of them looked at one of the girls I'd drawn and got a scowl on her face! "I'm not gonna work on a picture with Black girls in it!" My girl pictures included an assortment of girls of many shapes, sizes, hair & eye coloring, and races. It was then that I noticed that the group in charge of the mural was 100% Caucasean, even though that branch of the club also had a few Black girls--and I knew that clubs all over had a whole rainbow assortment of little girls. This girl seemed to be somewhat of a leader, because she had managed to convince the other girls that this was a bad mural to take part in. So I asked her what she had against Black girls, and found out--as I had suspected I would--that an older relative (e.g. parent, grandparent, older sibling, etc.) had told her that Black people were bad. I asked them if they liked Mark--knowing what the answer would be: an immediate chorus of asking when he was going to be coming back to the club again. "Do you realize that, if we all lived in Belfast, Ireland, we'd be trying to blow Mark up and he'd be trying to blow us up instead of our being friends?" They looked amazed and couldn't imagine something like that happening. I explained that, since we were Protestants and he was a Catholic, we would be at war with each other if we lived in that part of Ireland. . ."but, here in the United States, we all get along." I concluded by saying that Black people weren't bad people any more than Catholics were, and that the only reason some people believed this is because someone started stories like that which weren't true.'' It wasn't long before we were all back to being busy on the mural again, and nothing else was said against Black people. That fall, I went to Ball State University to begin taking courses towards getting my Master's in English--and, eventually, I hoped, a PhD, as well. However, I had gotten off on very bad footing with the first instructor I'd taken a class from. One evening, I'd gotten enough of her snippy, condescending attitude towards me and had gotten up and walked out shortly after class had begun. It was a choice of either getting out of there and getting some fresh air or else showing her and the rest of the class what I'd had to eat that day. I walked over to the library and saw a group of good-looking male students there who were a little older than I was and decided to get their advice, explaining that I didn't want to get the instructor in trouble, as she seemed like a very good teacher, but that the two of us just had a personality clash for some reason. However, I didn't want to end up with a failing grade on my record, either. The guys were very comforting and told me that what I was experiencing was commonplace and that nobody was going to get fired. They advised me to call my student advisor and tell him the problem. So I did--and he told me the same thing. He asked me if I would like to drop the class--and I told him that I thought that I would go ahead and stick it out, as long as I wouldn't end up getting a failing grade. The next day, I would confront the instructor and tell her that I'd really like to stay in her class but didn't want to hang around just to end up getting an F for the course. I ended up getting a C. Anyway, that night, I went back to the guys after talking to the advisor and told them that everything was going to be okay. I exchanged addresses and phone numbers with one of them who had invited me to drop by and see him sometime. After I had completed the last session of the class, my dad picked me up, and we went to the apartment of that one student. He wasn't in but his roomie was, and we hit if off right away. Soon, this guy became a regular visitor to our house, and we enjoyed sitting around drinking tea and discussing our different cultures, as he was here from another country where he had been a middle-school social-studies teacher. He loved looking at our Christmas lights, was excited about getting to watch Gone With The Wind for the first time, and absolutely adored those old Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin movies. One evening, we were in the family room with Mark (who was staying with my folks and me) watching TV when a beautiful commercial came on. "I love this commercial!" Mark said, softly. And Mohamed (my new friend from Saudi Arabia) and I agreed. One Catholic, one Protestant, and one Moslem sat watching as the choir of young people stood on a hillside singing, "I'D LIKE TO TEACH THE WORLD TO SING!" while passing candlelight on and on and on and on until the entire hill glowed and twinkled like a giant Christmas tree!  |
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