Father held his goose tightly under his arm because something in him was saying, "Give her the goose." And he was arguing back, "But I asked you for a blessing for my family this morning. This goose is your answer. It would bring such happiness to my Elsa and the girls." And he pressed the goose more tightly to him.

"Give her the goose" rang clearly still, and he gave the woman the goose.

Now his spirits sank to the very depths. How could he go home? How could he tell Elsa that he had had a goose for them — they deserved it so — and he'd given it away? How could he bear to see her tears? He did not want to go home. In utter despair he walked the next three blocks to his home oblivious to the cold, oblivious to everything except his sadness.

Mother met him at the door with a broad smile and a pan holding a dressed chicken. A friend from Logan had dropped by only a few minutes earlier with the chicken.

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away." At the time he was taking away a goose from Daddy and giving it to this widow whom he'd known in Germany, he was giving us a chicken plus some nuts from a friend.

As though that wasn't miracle enough, my sister, coming home from school that day, was stopped by a man who asked her what she wanted for Christmas. Her answer was: "A pair of anklets and some paper dolls." She wanted the Dionne Quintuplet paper dolls. "Is that all?" the man said to her. "Yes," she said, "because my daddy is out of work." The man handed her a $5 bill.

On Christmas Eve, at 4 p.m. we went to town with our parents. At Kresses' five-and-dime store, they bought my sister and me each a pair of socks and a paper doll cutout book.

I remember that Christmas of 1935 as one of the most joyous I've ever known.