D AV I D PAT R I C K C O L U M B I A t h e l e n ox h i l l n e i g h b o r h o o d h o u s e c e l e b r at e d l a m b e r ts o n t r u e x ’ s o p e n i n g at t i f fa n y & c o .
Christopher Spitzmiller
Luke Bowles and Jeff Sharp
meant Santa Claus to this kid, which meant relief, a break from the storm, plus an evergreen tree with lights and ornaments, and an angel on the top. It also meant keeping a wish list of presents (always toys). I understood enough about our meager family finances, since the subject was loudly and dramatically discussed between my mother and father, so I always limited my list to the basics. It changed through the years—a sled when I was six, a dollhouse at 22 QUEST
Jackie and Chris Keber
Richard Lambertson and John Truex
eight, an electric train at nine, pair of ice skates at eleven, and, lastly, with childhood ebbing, a typewriter when I was twelve—a Smith-Corona portable—so that I could start writing down those dramas I had stopped conjuring up with my toys. Looking back, I can see that “Merry Christmas” always meant hope—for all of us—and an abundance of something, if not always gifts, and, may God grant it, peace. In retrospect, I was blessed to have a mother who, despite her
own hardships, saw to it that her son always got something to enhance his imagination. Dreams come true. Naturally, as a very young child, I believed in Santa Claus. I can still clearly remember hearing the thud of his heavy leather boot against the snowy front doorstep on Christmas Eve when I was four or five. It was so loud, I still tell myself, that it must have waked me from my sleep. He was, of course, Santa leaving, having placed our gifts under the tree. It never occurred to
Frederica Lauder and Leigh Lauder
Charles and McDowell Winn
me until this writing, many decades later, that the “thud” of a footstep was probably my father coming home and hitting his boots on the doorstep to loosen the snow from them. However, the notion of Santa’s departure remains the preferred explanation. Christmas morning I was always the first one up and down the stairs. I’d plug in the lights of the tree, then stand back squinting, to get the effect, looking at all the gaily wrapped packages in a festive mass under its branches. For
b i lly fa r r e ll a g e n c y
Ian Snow and Whitney Douglas