As I’ve said, it’s difficult to keep the sequence of events clear in my mind after so many years; about where we were and when. Especially with as many times as we moved from place to place throughout the year. When I was still eight we moved into a small house perched near the Oak Creek directly beneath and to the south of Midgely Bridge, at the mouth of Wilson Canyon. It had to have been after we lived in Chino Valley and Prescott, because we were living under the bridge through Christmas that year, before I turned nine.
When Christmas neared while we lived under the bridge, Daddy cut down a juniper tree near the house to serve as our Christmas tree. We had no money to buy decorations. It seemed that each time we moved we left behind the majority of our possessions, which included any Christmas decorations we might have had. With nothing with which to decorate the tree, no light or ornaments, I proceeded to make a colored paper chain from red and green construction paper my teacher had given me. We popped corn and strung the kernels on thread and looped the popcorn garland from the tree. We intended to eat the popcorn right off of the thread when Christmas was over with. Mama laughed at our efforts when she saw the proudly decorated tree.
When Mama came home from wherever she was working on Christmas Eve, she informed us that she was going to take us kids to town to the Chamber of Commerce where a school bus was parked with Santa Clause, who would give us each a stocking filled with treats. She informed us that it would be the only thing representing Christmas we would have because she didn’t have the money to buy gifts.
It was getting dark by the time we were prepared to leave the house for town that Christmas Eve. Filled with excitement, I quickly ran to put on the purple velvet vest Mama’s friend Ethel had made for me so that I would look pretty for Santa. I was in such a hurry, I didn’t want to be left behind, that I neglected to stop long enough to shake out the vest as I normally would have. I plucked the vest from the box that held my clothes and when I pulled it on I immediately felt intensely hot sensations, as though bee stings on my shoulder and then my chest. With a shriek I flung the vest off and a small amber scorpion fell to the floor and scurried away.
Mama was furious with me that I hadn’t shaken out the vest before I threw it on. She smacked me across the face and dragged me by the hair along behind her toward the footbridge and the path along the creek that led to the car that was always parked at the top of the hill on the highway. When we got to the creek with me bawling my eyes out, the scorpion stings felt as sharp as Mama’s words. She scolded me, telling me as usual that she didn’t have the money to take me to a doctor. She professed that a baby scorpion was more deadly than the adult, which meant I would most likely die.
Mama plunged me face first into the icy cold water of the creek. She submerged me up to my chin with the added assurance again that I would probably die. The water was so cold that my body instantly became numb. At that point Mama yanked me from my watery misery by the hair and dragged me back to the house to change into dry clothes. Her remedy must have definitely worked. Although I felt sick from the stings later in the evening and into the next day, I obviously didn’t succumb to the scorpion’s venom as she had so adamantly predicted.
By the time we got back to the house with me shivering and shaking so hard from the cold that I could barely get my legs to cooperate, it was beginning to spit pellets of snow.
Mama drove us to town and as we came to the small, flagstone, one room building known as the local Chamber of Commerce that night, Sedona School’s old yellow school bus came into view. It was parked beside the entrance of the building in the red dirt parking lot that was now turning a sloppy, muddy white with snow. The soft pellets had turned to swift flurries of flat, silver dollar sized snowflakes. They were drifting down and falling in a swirling frenzy within the beams of the car’s headlights. Most of the children from Sedona’s small school stood impatiently in single file at the open door of the school bus. They were all waiting their turn to sit on Santa’s lap. Santa sat in the driver’s seat of the bus taking last minute requests for Christmas wishes. With a lot of pushing and shoving, the children filed in through the front of the bus and exited out the emergency door at the back onto a set of wooden steps that were placed there for the purpose.
I stood patiently in line with the snowflakes sticking to my hair and my worn, hand-me-down, thin, oversize coat that hung to my ankles. I shivered and stomped my feet to keep them warm. The cardboard that was covering the holes in the soles of my equally oversize shoes was allowing the melting snow to seep in and soak my feet. I wrapped my stocking clad hands against my sides inside the coat in an effort to warm them while I ignored the insults from the other children in line. They alluded to the degree of my intelligence with their remarks that socks were intended to be worn on your feet and not your hands.
I progressed up onto the metal steps when my turn came to enter the bus. I stood shyly in front of the white bearded, red and white clad man that looked vaguely like our sixth grade teacher from school. His voice even seemed a dead ringer for Mr. Wilson. I told him that I would like to have a Betsy Wetsy doll and a new pair of shoes for Christmas, and then glancing down at my holey-sock covered hands, I added the request for a pair of warm mittens as well (Mama might have remembered my request for a Betsy Wetsy doll, either that or I hounded her for one enough that and I received one for for Christmas when I turned ten).
Santa nodded, adjusted his whiskers and beard, and then motioned impatiently with his white gloved hand for me to exit the bus down the aisle of seats where several ladies sat handing out small packages. The packages they gave each child were all wrapped in the same Christmas pattern of paper; red packages labeled “girl” and green packages aptly marked “boy”. In addition the ladies were giving each child a red mesh stocking that was filled with walnuts, an orange, apple, and several pieces of hard ribbon candy. I received my treasured package and stocking with a humble, mumbled “thank you” while being shoved by the impatient child behind me.
With my Christmas gifts held like nuggets of gold in my hands, gripped close to my heart, I hastily dashed down the wooden steps and made my way back to the car. I sat in the back seat alone in the cold, crisp December evening, watching my breath as it threaded like a mist through the air. I remember that in my vivid youthful imagination the thread-like wisps of breath appeared as though vaporous puffs of dragon’s spittle. All the while I sat there Mama stood with baby Marshall propped on her hip in front of the bumper. It was only spitting tiny crystals of snow by then, while Mama waited for my two brothers to exit the rear of the bus. I believe Faye was in Phoenix at that point, probably staying with our Uncle Clifford. I sat patiently hugging the brightly wrapped box and the rough mesh of the stocking pressed close to my heart. Although I felt queasy, I had long since forgotten about the scorpion stings.
It was snowing hard again when we arrived at the dirt road later that led to the path home. Huge white flakes the size of potato chips were cascading down in the beams of the car’s headlights. When we parked the car in the pull-out beside Highway 89-A and we got out to make our way to the house, the ground was covered white with an accumulation of snow that had fallen in our absence. The snow crunched under our feet as we walked, finding its way in again past the soggy cardboard through the holes in my soles, further soaking my feet. I slipped several times as I made my way down the path, hugging my precious cargo close. We crossed the footbridge with the snow crunching and slippery beneath our feet from the accumulation on the rough wooden planks. I gripped the package beneath my left arm with the filled mesh stocking dangling from my wrist as I held on tight to the bridge’s hand-cable with my right hand. The bridge swung precariously with my every step. Larry thought it was hilarious when he stomped on the footbridge after he got to the end before me, causing the bridge to bounce and sway wildly as if an errant hammock in a hurricane. I nearly dropped my package in the creek when I slipped and grabbed for the hand-cable with my left hand as well, but I managed to keep the precious package held tightly in my armpit as I struggled to regain my balance on the slippery boards.
When we got to the house I took the walnuts, orange, and apple from my Christmas stocking and tied a snippet of yarn to the apple stem, then wrapped yarn around each walnut and the orange and suspended them from the limbs of our Christmas juniper. Larry followed suit. We then sat around the glow of the fireplace with the lights out, sipping hot cider and dipping ribbons of Christmas candy into the cup of hot liquid, savoring the sticky syrup from the mixture that tingled on my tongue. From my perch on the floor I could see the snow that was piling higher on the windowsill. The snow glowed and appeared as though an unnatural color of orange due to the reflection of firelight that danced around the room.
“Can I open my present now?” I asked Mama, hugging the red wrapped package close. I’d hung onto it as though it was a lifeline from the moment it was placed in my hands.
“Not now,” was Mama’s curt reply, “it’s the only presents you’ll have for Christmas, so savor it ‘till morning.”
“Please?” I whispered. Mama glanced toward Daddy, seeking his support for her decision.
“Let them open them now, Mama,” Daddy smiled softly, he always referred to her as Mama. “It makes no difference whether they open them tonight or in the morning, Christmas Eve is as good as Christmas morning.”
Mama nodded begrudgingly in silence, giving me permission to proceed with the unwrapping of the package. I had the gift opened in an instant to reveal a tiny miniature dime store comic book and a miniature cardboard puzzle. To most it might seem as though it was only a small token of a gift, but to me, an eight-year-old child that night, it meant that Christmas hadn’t passed us by after all. Even the token gift had managed to fill a void that would have felt forever hollow otherwise. It left a lasting impression that even the smallest of gifts could hold the most cherished of rewards, and possibly the essence of the true meaning of joy.
My oldest sister Patsy was married and lived in Phoenix at the time. She came to visit us several days after Christmas that year. She brought along with her several small dime store gifts for each of us kids. I’ll never forget those gifts. She brought me a set of jacks and a red and white striped jump rope. Patsy was always a loving individual, like my memory of Daddy. She had a heart of gold that was as big as the universe.
