I was “on the beach” during one raw December in New York City. It wasn’t pleasant. My start-up company had run out of money earlier that fall and I was looking at my prospects with a fair dollop of pessimism. Christmas was rapidly approaching ... at about the same speed that my family’s checking account was diminishing. We had told our children of our predicament, but we couched it with enough optimism that the kids did not seem concerned. Moreover, there still were credit cards, department store charge accounts, and a few more unemployment checks; so my wife, Jeanette and I were still able to indulge ourselves almost everything we needed to make Georgie’s and Becca’s Christmas morning all that they had come to expect.
Christmas eve came and its bourbon had erased any residual angst I was still suffering. Our apartment in Stuyvesant Town was festooned with mistletoe, holly, and a multitude of other Yuletide decorations. The Christmas tree was a beautiful blue spruce -- lit, garlanded, and icicled into a fairyland icon. Gaily wrapped presents were spread out around the tree like supplicants around an emir. They extended so far out that there was little room left for our gaggle of guests to put their snowy feet. They were enjoying eggnog, old fashions, Christmas cookies, and milk punch to the strains of Johnny Mathas’ “I’ll be Home for Christmas.” The conversation drifted from the U.S. departure from Viet Nam to the minute details of our respective morrow’s menu. Our children were asleep in their bunk beds after I had read them their traditional “A Visit from St. Nicholas” story.
In the midst of all this celebrating, the “ding dong” of our apartment door intruded itself. I thought it was just another neighbor, so I opened the door with an expectant smile. Standing there was a well-dressed black lady with two large shopping bags ... apparently full of Yule-wrapped packages. She said, “Is this the Potts’ apartment?” Taken aback, I replied that it was. Then it was her visage’s turn to register surprise. But she was undaunted. She thrust these two shopping bags upon me and then handed me a letter that was addressed: “Santa Clause, North Pole.” I stood there grasping these two holiday sacks ... with my jaw sagging onto my ski sweater. I was too chagrined to invite her into our apartment ... lest she notice the sea of largess half-covering the living room floor. But I did stammer out a syntactically-fractured “thank you.” Then, after an embarrassed pause, this chocolate angel turned on her heels and fled onto the elevator.
When she was gone and I had retreated into our apartment, I emptied out these shopping bags. They contained red and green wrapped presents addressed alternately to Rebecca and George; and a few unwrapped toys ... I think a fire truck and a doll. Then I opened the crayoned letter. It contained a plea from Georgie to Santa Claus for some presents since “his Daddy was out of work and there would be no money for Christmas for my sister Rebecca and me.” It was indeed one of life’s precious, bitter-sweet moments.
© Copyright George W. Potts
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