From the Improvement Era, December 1963 –

Because We Love

By Berta Huish Christensen

“I don’t want to make snowballs,” Nancy called from the kitchen door. “It’s so nice in the house.”

“OK, stay in the house. You’re just jealous, that’s all,” Chris was teasing again.

What did jealous mean? Nancy closed the door. It really was nice to stay indoors, when it was so close to Christmas. All the rooms looked like Christmas, with little reindeer or ornaments or dishes of holly sitting on tables and other places. In the living room it smelled woodsy on account of the beautiful pine tree, and there were cooking smells coming from the kitchen where Mama was making fancy cakes with raisins and nuts.

It was nice sitting in the family room at her little blue table that wasn’t her very own any more, thinking about things and coloring stars.

Mama came into the room to see what Benny was doing. “Isn’t this a happy day?” she said, and she gave Benny one small cookie even before lunch.

Nancy thought it was a happy day, too— happy like the days before the airplane fell down and before Mama started talking about dividing things. She could think way back, almost a month maybe, and remember when something went wrong with the airplane. It wasn’t easy to remember all that happened, because it was a mixed-up day.

But there were some things you couldn’t forget— like the telephone ringing so much and Aunt Ellen coming over and talking so fast— telling Mama and Daddy what a sad thing had happened; that because of the plane and because of the accident, three little children were left motherless.

Nancy could remember Daddy saying in a strong way, “And fatherless, too. Poor little kids.”

The doorbell was ringing. It was Uncle Martin.

You could tell even without seeing— when Mama opened the door— by the laughing in Aunt Martha’s voice.

“Fancy seeing you folks at this time of year,” Mama said. “You’ve never come to Mountain View before June— never before.”

Then Uncle Martin said, “I had some business to do in Lewisville, and it’s only a stone’s throw on over here, so. . . .”

“Business, your eye,” Aunt Martha said, very quickly. “We wanted to see those children.”

“Well, come right in,” Mama said, and she brought them both into the family room while she was saying, “They’re very nice children, all three of them.”

“That’s just what we couldn’t believe— three children! And all at once! It isn’t as if you didn’t already have two of your own.” Aunt Martha was sitting in the big fuzzy chair now, but Uncle Martin just stood with his front to the fire.

“It’ll take a lot of money,” he said, without turning around.

“Indeed it will. And it isn’t as if money grew on trees, and you folks had a whole orchard. But then I guess you know what you’re doing.” Aunt Martha took off her reddish-color gloves.

“I guess we’ll manage some way,” Mama said. “We wanted all three. It would have been a shame to separate the family.”

Nancy could remember when Mama said that once before. It was the day when the airplane fell down – only at night. Daddy was in the dining room reading the paper when Mama said, “What would you think, dear, about us adopting those children? Yes, all of them. It would be a shame to separate the family.”

Nancy could remember even more about that night— how Mama said, “The little one would sort of take the place of our Robert.” Then she wiped her eyes, and Daddy put his paper down and put his arms around Mama and said, “Yes, yes, I know.” Then he kissed her. She could remember that Mama stopped sniffling then and started to set the table.

Maybe she could remember even more, but now Aunt Martha was looking around the room, and she saw Nancy over by the window.

“Well, if here isn’t Nancy— coloring bells or stars or some such. How do you like having such a big family, Nancy?”

Nancy was just going to answer, “Sometimes it’s lots of fun— only. . . .”

But the hall door opened, and all of the kids, and Daddy, too, came through in a bunch. Daddy was carrying Benny. Then Mama began introducing everybody— starting with Benny who still had his thumb in his mouth— then Michael, who was four years old and had lots of freckles. It was Linda’s turn last.

Linda was pretty to look at— with almost black hair that curled all over, and big eyes. Nancy could remember the night when the children came to their house. Linda looked pretty that night, too— only she smiled, like she was sort of scared, and looked down at her dress. It was red, and one pocket was almost torn off.

Uncle Martin was very jolly, and he shook hands with all of the children and said things about Christmas.

Then Mama said, “Go wash your hands now, all of you, and we’ll have lunch. Of course you’ll stay for lunch, Martha, it’s practically ready.”

Aunt Martha looked like she wanted to stay, but she didn’t say anything, but Uncle Martin said, “I suppose we might as well, what are relatives for if not to enjoy?”

And Daddy said, “That’s right.”

The kids didn’t go to the bathroom right soon, so Mama said, “You boys go first— Christopher, don’t push— there’s not room for all of you in there at once.”

When the boys had gone to wash, Aunt Martha said, “Miss Linda, how do you like living here at the Meesons?”

Linda smiled and said, “I like it fine. I’ve never seen a pretty house like this before, never. I like my new dress, too.”

Aunt Martha patted the dress. “It’s very pretty,” she said, “and it looks brand new.”

It was brand new, not one of the divided dresses. Nancy could remember that first night when they went upstairs and Mama said, “Nancy, what about finding one of your nighties, the very prettiest one you have. We want Linda to just love everything here.” Then Mama took out the pink nightie with lace and pink satin bows at the neck— the nightie that had come all the way from Chicago.

Nancy wanted to say, “Not that one, Mama, that’s my special one,” but Mama was opening the closet and saying, “Tomorrow we’ll go through your clothes, Nancy, and divide them, and your toys. Of course we’ll get new things for Linda, too.”

That was when the dividing began.

Everybody had more than one serving of food at lunch, except Benny. He just wanted to keep sucking his thumb, but Mama kissed him and coaxed him to drink his milk, and after that, he left his thumb out and ate almost everything Daddy put on his plate.

When the dishes were all put away, and Daddy had gone back to work and Benny was asleep, Chris wanted to make snowballs again. “But not Nancy, I guess,” he said. “She’ll probably want to stay inside, and cut a million more bells.”

“Christopher Meeson!” Mama said, looking straight at him, “no teasing!”

But Chris was right. Nancy did want to cut out more bells and stay inside.

Nobody said anything for awhile, then Uncle Martin put his paper down and said, “Those kids look as if they could stand some good farm food.” But Aunt Martha didn’t think it was food they needed. She said maybe they needed to have their tonsils out.

“They’re already out,” Nancy said. “They got taken out just last week, after Dr. Brown looked in their ears and down their throats.”

She told Aunt Martha about the day when all three of them came home from the hospital and Mama put them in bed for an extra day; how everybody was so nice and brought presents— not as many as at Christmas time, but a few presents; how Mama read stories and fixed Linda’s hair up pretty with ribbons.

“I wish I could have my tonsils out,” Nancy told Aunt Martha. But Aunt Martha just laughed and said, “Honey, you don’t need yours out.”

When Mama came back into the room, Uncle Martin said, “That little girl, Linda, she’s a pretty one— curly hair, and did you see her eyes, Martha?”

Nancy wished she had black hair that was curly, instead of straight hair that was no color at all.

“And she’s a very nice child, too,” Mama said.

When Uncle Martin got up out of Daddy’s green leather chair, he said they’d better be going now. He thanked Mama for lunch and kissed her on the cheek. Then he said, “This adopting business is quite something. Blessings on this home.”

That adopting word kept staying in Nancy’s mind, even after Uncle Martin and Aunt Martha had gone.
Now she remembered.

That was the word Linda said when she came home from the hospital, and she asked Mama, “Am I adopted? That’s what all the kids say.”

Then Mama leaned way down over the bed and smiled. “Do you know what adopted means, Linda?”

When Linda didn’t know, Mama said, “Well, it means that your new mama wanted you very much, even more than lots of little girls’ mamas want them. It means she loves you very much.”

Now Nancy remembered the happy look on Linda’s face. Then Mama started talking about other things. “Linda,” she said, “you look just lovely with that ribbon on. Your hair is very pretty.”

Nancy wished she could be adopted, too. She wished Mama would fix her hair like that – but maybe she couldn’t, because it was so straight.

Now it was almost Christmas, and the children at Whittier School were painting pictures of trees and holly berries to paste on the schoolhouse windows and making camels and bells and paper chains. And there was snow on the ground, lots of it; beautiful white shiny snow that glistened like the beads Mama’s sweater. It sounded crunchy when you walked on it. But even more beautiful were the Christmas trees that sparkled all up and down the street at night.

“Now more beautiful than the store windows,” Michael said, when dinner was all finished.

And then Daddy asked, “How about it, kids, have you done your Christmas shopping yet?”

“I have,” Chris said, “used up all my allowance, and Linda, too. She had a great time, but Nancy wouldn’t go. She’s funny. She’s jealous.”

“Christopher Meeson,” Mama said, “of course Nancy isn’t jealous.”

“Oh, yes, she is, she’s jealous. Just mopes around. Can’t make up her mind.”

Nobody said anything. Then Mama leaned close to Daddy and whispered words that nobody could quite hear, like “… hard a-just-ment …”

Nancy didn’t like Chris saying those mean things. She wanted to say something back to him, but mostly she wanted to cry. But you don’t cry, not when you’re seven and a half, even if it hurts. And where it hurt, Nancy couldn’t quite say— some place inside. She didn’t want to cry— but sometimes the tears won’t stay where they belong. And this time they wouldn’t. They just kept coming down on her face.

Then Mama said, “Nancy, come here, my dear. I have an idea. Suppose we go shopping tomorrow, just you and Mother.”

“Not anybody else, not even Linda?”

“Not anybody else. Just you and me. We haven’t done things like this together for a long time. We’ll drop Linda off for her music lesson, and we’ll go shopping together.”

That was the nicest thing Nancy had heard for a long, long time. Maybe Mama did love her just like she used to. Maybe she didn’t love Linda most because her hair was curly and didn’t need to be unsnarled and braided every day.

She wanted to say something nice to Mama, but she didn’t because Linda was laughing, and Chris said, “Let’s all pop corn.”

It was fun shopping with Mama. There were so many toys to see, so many bright colors, so many things Nancy had never seen before, even at Christmas time. Then Mama went to a different part of the store so Nancy could do all the choosing by herself.

The counter where the dolls were standing up or lying in open boxes Nancy thought was the nicest place of all, better than the place where there were drums or trains or toys that jump up and down. There were big dolls with eyelashes and pony tails, with fluffy dresses and petticoats, and white slippers. There were soft rubber baby dolls that you put in water, and they wouldn’t rub off or get spoiled— and there were little dolls. The big ones were beautiful, but the little dolls were so cute. Nancy took one out of the box. Its eyes could open and shut, and it had black hair, curly hair, like Linda’s. It would be nice to buy the doll for Linda. It would be nice to keep it for herself. There wasn’t enough money, she was quite sure, to buy two of them. She didn’t want to ask Mama what to do – maybe Mama would think like Chris; that she couldn’t make up her mind.

She opened her small red purse. There was her saved allowance— $2.15. But there was a big family now to buy presents for. She counted on her fingers, so as not to miss anyone. “Six,” she said.

Some of the toys, like a ball for Benny, would be only ten cents. Crayons for Mike wouldn’t cost so much, but a big handkerchief like Daddy used, and a very big powder puff for Mama would cost more. Why did a little doll, even if it was so cute, have to cost eighty-nine cents?

“That’s about a dollar, with the tax,” the saleslady said.

“I know,” Nancy said, “but it’s so cute.”

And then the green box was all tied up in red ribbon, and when Mama came back to the doll counter all the money was gone but fifteen cents. Nancy hoped that would be enough money to buy a toothbrush for Chris.

Sometimes Daddy went away from home for things like conventions, but not ever at Christmas time. And when he was at home, he could tell the best stories. Everybody listened, and even Benny stayed awake a little while.

“Let’s sing songs,” Chris said that very same night when the Christmas tree was all trimmed with shiny red balls and lights and the star cutouts. All the songs were about Christmas, about the manger and angels, or about snow. Even Benny clapped his hands when they sang, “Jingle Bells.”

When nobody could think of any more songs, Nancy said, “Now let’s have a story, a Christmas story.”

Daddy knew that meant for him to tell it. “A Christmas story, well, let’s see,” he said, and he coughed a little and took a book down from the shelf. Everybody was in the living room, and there was a crackly fire in the fireplace. And then Daddy began telling the story and pointing his finger to the pictures on the pages. He said the names very plainly so Michael could understand —like Bethlehem and Judea— and told about the very special star that came in the sky the night baby Jesus was born. He read words from the book about the wise men who came from a far country and brought wonderful gifts to the baby. And then Daddy said, “Do you children know why the wise men brought gifts?”

“Sure,” Chris said. He knew the story off by heart. But Daddy went right on anyway. “They brought the nicest presents they could think of because they wanted to show that they loved Jesus. After all, Jesus was really a gift to the world— the very best gift the world could possibly have. Heavenly Father gave his Son to the world because he loves the world— and Jesus gave his life for all of us because he loves us.”

That was pretty hard to understand, but Daddy said, “Anyway, at Christmas time we divide what we have with others because we love them. We share our things, and we give our love, but we always have plenty left. This is the way— the only way to Christmas.”

When the story was finished, Nancy slipped quietly into their bedroom— hers and Linda’s. The green box with the red ribbon was still under the bed where she had put it. Carefully she opened the lid. There it was— the little doll with shut eyes and curly hair. Eighty-nine cents worth of doll! She would keep it for herself— it was so cute. And yet, hadn’t she made up her mind in the living room when Daddy finished the story that she would give it to Linda? She would—but it still would be nice to keep it. Maybe Linda didn’t like little dolls so very much. Maybe she wouldn’t think it was so cute. Maybe Linda wouldn’t care about its having little black slippers on. No. She would keep it for herself.

But why did Daddy have to say in so soft a voice, all those words about sharing things? It would be easier to keep the doll if he had just ended the story with the wise men and didn’t say, “We share what we have because we love.”

If you shut your eyes you could put the lid on the box without seeing again how very pretty the doll’s curly hair was— so that is just what she would do! And if you put the lid on fast and tied the ribbon tight you wouldn’t look at the doll again. Then very neatly, in her very best printing, she would say: “To Linda—with love from Nancy.”

Nobody noticed, they were so noisy everywhere, when Nancy slipped the box under the tree.

Christmas morning was the merriest time of all— everybody in bathrobes and slippers; everybody saying, “Merry Christmas!” The fire in the fireplace so warm, and the tree all twinkly with lights and popcorn and the cutout stars.

“It’s an old-fashioned tree,” Mama said, “and it’s beautiful!”

Then, after the presents were opened and everyone said, “Oh” and “Thank you,” Daddy helped Michael with his electric train for a long time, and he puffed on Benny’s horn. Then he stood up and said, “This is what I call a Merry Christmas, a shelter over our heads, plenty of food, and a house full of children.”

And Mama said, going around and giving everybody a kiss, “And plenty of love for everyone.”

But Linda seemed happiest of all. She had never had a Christmas like this before. Then she found the green box which was almost lost in the wrapping papers.

Even before she took off the ribbon she read all the words printed on the lid. And then she opened the box, and her eyes got bigger and shinier than ever. “Oh,” she said, and she lifted the doll right out of the box, and tipped it back and forth so its eyes would open and shut. Then she looked at the ruffly petticoat and said again, “Oh!” You could tell without trying that she did think it was cute, and she liked it an awful lot.

And when she had put it back into the box, she jumped right over Mike’s train and almost bumped Benny over. She put her arms around Nancy and squeezed her hard. “Nancy,” she said, “I’m so glad I’m your sister— for always, and I like your present best of all.”

Nancy wanted to say, “It cost a lot— eighty-nine cents.” But she didn’t. She just said, “I love you, too, Linda.”

She didn’t need to say any more words. She felt so warm, so happy deep inside.