All of us have Christmases we remember — and most of us have a Christmas we'd like to forget.

I would like to forget the Christmas of 1934. The Great Depression was very much with us, though my family was luckier than most because my father was in the coal business. This meant that he could trade coal for many of the things we needed. However, more often than not when my brother and I wanted something, or wanted to go somewhere, the answer was, "I'm sorry, we simply can't afford it — maybe next year."

That year I was in third grade at Wasatch School. I remember clearly the day that our teacher introduced a new student to the class. She was the most beautiful little girl I had ever seen. She had jet black ringlets and lavender blue eyes. She was wearing a plaid jumper with a starched white cotton blouse. She had on shiny patent Mary Janes. Most wonderful of all, her name was Shirley, just like my favorite star, Shirley Temple. Miss Reese introduced her: "Boys and girls, this is Shirley Van Studdiford. She has just moved to Fort Douglas from Fort Sill, Oklahoma. Please make her feel welcome."

It was easy to make her feel welcome. Shirley was not only beautiful, but also nice, smart and good at our favorite recess games. We all felt that there was nothing our new friend could not do. She even beat me in the third-grade spelling bee. Normally, I would have been crushed, but losing to Shirley almost seemed an honor.

A few weeks after Shirley's arrival, the holiday season was upon us. One day while we were making red and green construction paper rings for the school Christmas tree, Miss Reese announced that our class had been invited to a Christmas puppet show at South High School. She said we would need six mothers to drive. As the show was on a Saturday, each child would need to be picked up at his home. My hand shot into the air. My mother was always willing to drive, and I knew our home was one of the closest to Fort Douglas, so maybe we could have Shirley in our car.

As I had hoped, Shirley was to be one of our passengers. We were all dressed in our Sunday best for the show, and brimming with enthusiasm. We pulled into Fort Douglas, and my mother looked at Shirley's address: #1 Officer's Circle.

"You didn't mention that Shirley's father was the commanding general!" she said.

"I didn't know," I explained. It didn't matter to any of us; she would have been our wonderful Shirley no matter what her daddy did.