As I sat by her bedside, my Mother lay quietly. She was breathing the last of her allotted breaths here on Earth. My mind wandered back to my childhood, trying to make sense of it all. I thought back to Christmas Eves gone by.
Christmas always brings my Mother to the front and center of my mind. She had a way of making every day of our lives interesting, special and fun; that’s what all great teachers do. She instilled the joy living each day into the hearts of my brother and myself, as well as her beloved students at Phillips Elementary School. But around Christmas; she was at her best. My mind wandered into the past. I remembered the first Christmas we shared in Virginia. My Father had left. He was gone and he wasn’t coming back.
My Mother had never even driven a car in her life. She took some driving lessons from some guy with one of those cars with two steering wheels. She got a license and bought an old car with a clutch from our next-door neighbor, Mr. MacPherson. He worked at Nick Allen Motors in Newport News, Va. He was a kind man. He was always there for us to help get Mom (or me) a good used car cheap, as the need periodically arose. He found her an old Austin America with a clutch. I can remember leaving the Buckroe Shopping Center in that car with my Mother at the wheel. The parking lot had a particularly steep exit onto Old Buckroe Road. I had to get out of the car and direct traffic around us for fear that, before Mom could get to the accelerator after she had released the brake, she would drift backwards and hit the car behind us. She was so helpless and out of her element. But at the same time she was courageous and strong. Even though she didn’t know exactly how she was going to do it, she was determined to raise my brother Brett and me, wanting for nothing. She focused on us and not herself. Rearing two boys of 7 and 9 is no bargain when you’re on your own for the first time in your life.
Christmas of 1961 was drawing near. After managing our finances on her own for the better part of a year, Mom realized that we were behind. She wasn’t much at sticking to a budget. She would forget to post debits in her check book. She indulged herself in too many new clothes and would go to the grocery store without a list. There was more to it all than she had imagined. Making ends meet on her small child-support check and her Philips Elementary School salary, well, it was a struggle.
One day, she called Brett and me downstairs. She was visibly upset and sad. This can be disconcerting to young kids. We wondered if we were to blame for whatever was the matter. She went on to tell us that Christmas wasn’t going to be quite what we were used to. She told us it was her fault and that she had let the money situation get away from her. It must have taken a lot of nerve to tell us the truth. It would have been easy to blame my Father or the economy or some unstoppable, external twist of fate. But no; she took responsibility. She said she had not been up to the task of managing our money. She promised us she would do better.
I thought I saw her wipe away a tear as she went back to whatever it was she was doing. I went outside. My little brother Brett, God rest his soul, came to me crying. He was about 7. I think he must have still believed in such things as Santa Claus. He asked me if Santa was coming that year and I told him he was. (Even though I wasn’t so sure myself!) We moped around for a couple of hours and then got on with life and the fun of the season. That’s what kids do, regardless of financial circumstance. I resigned myself to the fact that my 16” Hobie laminated, solid wood skateboard would not be under the tree and moved on.
Christmas morning finally arrived. I can remember lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for a long while. I think it was an avoidance reaction. I didn’t want to see the disappointed look on my Brother’s face as he looked down upon the sparse pickings under the tree. Oh God, and poor Mom. It was going to be so sad watching her look into the eyes of her disappointed kids. She adored us and breathed every breath she took for our sake.
Then I heard a sound. Could it be? Yes, I believe it was! A squeal of delight was coming from downstairs and echoing through the house. It was Brett! And then I think I thought I heard…. YES; it was Mom. And she was laughing! I made my way down the stairs and to my astonishment, there were what seemed to be a hundred presents lying beneath the tree. Each one seemed to be impatiently waiting for the moment that their wrappings would be furiously torn off. Every one of them had been carefully and colorfully wrapped in paper with bows. There were the usual gifts from relatives but there was much, much more. As we began to take turns unwrapping all the presents, we saw the fruits of my Mom’s imagination and creativity. We discovered cookies that she had baked and home-made fudge. There were apples, nuts, oranges and pears. Gingerbread snowmen whose smiles and eyes had been carefully iced onto their faces, were hiding on plates, beneath red tissue with matching bows. We unwrapped pine cones adorned with colored construction paper, and fashioned into Santa Claus and his reindeer. There were art supplies, baseball cards. We found movie posters that she had gotten for free from the local theater which featured our movie heroes. They were rolled up in cardboard cylinders and carefully wrapped in blue paper with golden ribbons and bows. There was caramel corn, candied apples, self-drawn cartoon pictures, baseballs, Mad Magazines, comic books and dozens of other things that she paid little or nothing for. It was a veritable treasure trove. It was soaked, saturated, inundated and slap full of her love.
When it was all done, she told me to go upstairs and look under my bed. I ran up there as fast as my young legs would carry me. I burst into the room and skidded up under the bed and lo and behold, she had even figured out some way to get that 16-inch, laminated, solid wood, Hobie skateboard. Sometime in the night she had snuck into my room and left it there while I slept. She was amazing! She had made the Christmas of 1961, the greatest Christmas that ever had been and to this day, ever will be or could be for the three of us.
Well, many years have passed. I am the sole surviving member of the nuclear family; Burkhart. I have a daughter of my own who has two children of her own; or should I say; “My own Grandchildren”. And yes Mom; you have “Great Grandchildren”; two little boys, just like you had in Brett and me! When March of 2015 rolled around, we welcomed little Madden Jax Hiller into the world! And in November of this year (2016), we added little Beckham Fin Hiller to our family tree. I will be able to teach them how to fish for hours on end without even a remote possibility of catching anything… ever.
There is an unseen force that exists in the hearts of living people which is comprised of all the goodness that has ever been. There are moments in our lives when we become aware of it. Christmas is surely a time that we should remember it and embrace it.
And so it was, that I came to know the true meaning of Christmas which, when all is said and done, is the greatest gift of all. Merry Christmas Mom. You are still right here in my heart.

Jeff Burkhart’s “Rhyme and Reason”
Copyright, December, 2015
All Rights Reserved

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