Today's Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Simple Wooden Boxes

I suppose everyone has one particular childhood Christmas

that stands out more than any other. For me, it was the year

that the Burlington factory in sboro closed down. I was

only a small child. I could not name for you the precise year;

it is an insignificant blur in my mind, but the events of that

Christmas will live forever in my heart.

My father, who had been employed at Burlington, never let on

to us that we were having financial difficulties. After all,

children live in a naive world in which money and jobs are

nothing more than jabberwocky, and for us the excitement of

Christmas could never be squelched. We knew only that our daddy,

who usually worked long, difficult hours, was now home more than

we had ever remembered; each day seemed to be a holiday.

Mama, a homemaker, now sought work in the local textile

mills, but jobs were scarce. Time after time, she was told no

openings were available before Christmas, and it was on the way

home from one such distressing interview that she wrecked our

only car. Daddy's meager unemployment check would now be our

family's only source of income. For my parents, the Christmas

season brought mounds of worries, crowds of sighs and tears and

cascades of prayers.

I can only imagine what transpired between my parents in

those moments when the answer came. Perhaps it took a while for

the ideas to fully form. Perhaps it was a merging of ideas from

both my parents. I don't know for sure how the idea took life,

but somehow it did. They would scrape together enough money to

buy each of us a Barbie doll. For the rest of our presents, they

would rely on their talents, using scraps of materials they

already had.

While dark, calloused hands sawed, hammered and painted,

nimble fingers fed dress after dress after dress into the sewing

machine. Barbie-sized bridal gowns, evening gowns...miniature

clothes for every imaginable occasion pushed forward from the

rattling old machine. Where we were while all of this was taking

place, I have no idea. But somehow my parents found time to pour

themselves into our gifts, and the excitement of Christmas was

once again born for the entire family.

That Christmas Eve, the sun was just setting over the

distant horizon when I heard the roar of an unexpected motor in

the driveway. Looking outside, I could hardly believe my eyes.

Uncle Buck and Aunt Charlene, Mama's sister and her husband, had

driven all the way from Georgia to surprise us. Packed tightly

in their car, as though no air were needed, sat my three cousins,

my " Aunt " Dean, who refused to be called " Aunt, " and both my

grandparents. I also couldn't help but notice innumerable gifts

for all of us, all neatly packaged and tied with beautiful bows.

They had known that it would be a difficult Christmas and they

had come to help.

The next morning we awoke to more gifts than I ever could

have imagined. And, though I don't have one specific memory of

what any of the toys were, I know that there were mountains of

toys. Toys! Toys! Toys!

And it was there, amidst all that jubilation, that Daddy

decided not to give us his gifts. With all of the toys we had

gotten, there was no reason to give us the dollhouses that he had

made. They were rustic and simple red boxes, after all.

Certainly not as good as the store-bought gifts that Mama's

family had brought. The music of laughter filled the morning,

and we never suspected that, hidden somewhere, we each had

another gift.

When Mama asked Daddy about the gifts, he confided his

feelings, but she insisted he give us our gifts. And so, late

that afternoon, after all of the guests had gone, Daddy

reluctantly brought his gifts of love to the living room.

Wooden boxes. Wooden boxes, painted red, with hinged lids,

so that each could be opened and used as a house. On either side

was a compartment just big enough to store a Barbie doll, and all

the way across, a rack on which to hang our Barbie clothes. On

the outside was a handle, so that when it was closed, held by a

magnet that looked remarkably like an equal sign, the house could

be carried suitcase style. And, though I don't really remember

any of the other gifts I got that day, those boxes are indelibly

etched into my mind. I remember the texture of the wood, the

exact shade of red paint, the way the pull of the magnet felt

when I closed the lid, the time-darkened handles and the

hinges...I remember how the clothes hung delicately on the

hangers inside, and how I had to be careful not to pull Barbie's

hair when I closed the lid. I remember everything that is

possibly rememberable, because we kept and cherished those boxes

long after our Barbie doll days were over.

I have lived and loved 29 Christmases, each new and fresh

with an air of excitement all its own. Each filled with love and

hope. Each bringing gifts, cherished and longed for. But few of

those gifts compare with those simple, wooden boxes. So it is no

wonder that I get teary-eyed when I think of my father, standing

there on that cold Christmas morning, wondering if his gift was

good enough.

Love, Daddy, is always good enough.

By Martha Pendergrass Templeton

Reprinted by permission of Martha Pendergrass Templeton © 1994,

from A 4th Course of Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack Canfield,

Mark Victor Hansen, Hanoch McCarty and Meladee McCarty.