Christmas I remember best: Christmas of rag dolls altered view

My cheeks tingled with excitement in the brisk December air, the world was my oyster. Christmas was the pearl nestled deep inside my soaring spirit.

It was 1949, and my first job and regular paycheck meant this was one year I wouldn't have to be satisfied giving homemade gifts. My coat swings rhythmically with my happy steps. I looked at the handsome young man beside me. I was wearing his ring. It encircled my finger just as his love encircled me in a warm, ever-present glow. Bob carried the gifts we had carefully purchased, each one lovingly selected for a special family member. Together we would create a memorable Christmas.

Near the street corner stood a bell-ringing Santa. A donation dropped into his bucket increased my belief that I had the true spirit of this holiday season.

We arrived at my home and carefully placed the beautiful foil-wrapped gifts under the tree. My young sisters and brothers gave appreciative "ooh's" and "aah's." The little ones were bundled off to bed.

After the merriment had settled into a hushed silence, we went into the kitchen. There at the table, with skeins of yarn, scrap materials, scissors and thread, sat Mom and Dad, busily making something. Mom looked up and asked if we would like to help. In her hands she had what looked like a doll, a rag doll. It was. It was a rag doll! A homemade-looking thing, with a face that was too pale. The doll Dad held was no better. A faceless, limp, horrible little thing!

"Come on, pull up a chair," Dad said. "Maybe you can help me get the face right on this one. Which hair looks best? Yellow? Brown? How about some black braids?"

How could they? How could they embarrass me like this in front of my fiance? Homemade rag dolls for Christmas? Surely they could do better than that. Weren't things beginning to look up for us? Dad had returned to work after a six-month illness. There hadn't been even a suggestion of another homemade Christmas.

I wanted to cry as I glanced around the room. There stood the galvanized water bucket with the long-handled dipper beside it. Faded curtains on the cupboard shelves hid the home-canned foods. The old kerosene lamps were in their usual place atop the unpainted orange crates.

I was jolted from my thoughts by a deep voice cheerfully answering.