Circa 1915, New York, New York

By Virginia C. Normandin

A Posthumous Tribute To An Unpublished Writer, submitted by her daughter, M. Sue Pagay

There have been many memorable Christmases in my life – happy family gatherings around a turkey feast and delightful presents that gladdened my heart – but there is one Christmas that is written indelibly in my memory.

I was only 5 years old, the seventh child and the only daughter of Polish immigrant parents. We were poor, and there was no talk about Christmas, or presents, or Santa Claus. I learned about the glad tidings on the street – from friends, from the tantalizing ringing of bells, from the warm glow of trees blinking in the windows and from the gaily-wrapped packages that everyone seemed to be carrying.

All this left a magical feeling in my heart.

No longer could I hold back the curiosity. I cornered my mother in the kitchen, a cold and bleak room lighted only by the flicker of a gas lamp. I asked her: “Mama. When are we going to get a tree?”

She looked down at me and said, “No tree, no tree.” She saw the hurt in my eyes, and she patiently explained that we couldn’t afford a tree. My brother Bill, who strutted into the hall, poised himself in the doorway and listened to my fruitless whining and blubbering about trees and candles and packages that were in all my friends’ homes.

“Oh, so you don’t know about Santa Claus, and how he comes down the chimney at night to leave presents?” Bill asked in a surprised voice. Then he stepped over to the chimney and removed a silver plate that hung there. A dark, smelly hole was revealed. He told me the story of a wonderful, jolly man who slips down chimneys on Christmas Eve to give toys to all good girls and boys.

All evening, my eyes were fixed on that hole in the chimney – looking, hoping. Soon, Mama put the silver plate back and told me it was time for bed.

Late in the night, when all were asleep, I rose from my bed and tiptoed to the kitchen. I took down the silver plate from that hole in the chimney and huddled in a chair to wait for the magical Santa.

It was cold and dark, and I have no concept of how long I sat crouched in the rocker. Morning came, and my eyes that I didn’t realize had closed in sleep opened wide. I was stiff from the damp air, and as I slowly stood up, a doll – a tiny doll – fell to the floor. Her bonnet was of lace and her dress of swishy taffeta.

In all my 70 years, I’ve never doubted that the Spirit of Christmas left that doll for a good little girl on that most memorable Christmas Eve.

Virginia C. Normandin was a writer by love and not by profession. She wrote on almost any piece of paper she could find - poems, short stories, one-act plays. She just loved to write, but never became a published author until today, when her daughter found and submitted to Common Ties this story from Ms. Normandin’s files.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, December 18th, 2006 | Email This Post

This entry was posted on Monday, December 18th, 2006 at 12:06 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.