Christmas Through a Child's Eyes by Helen Szymanski

just one thing,” I whispered each evening as I knelt beside my bed. “If you are real Santa, bring Daddy home for Christmas.”
    A week before Christmas, however, we children were told that Daddy wouldn't be with us this year. The trip was too far and gasoline was another rationed item. But regardless of Momma's words, I continued to secretly wish for Santa to bring Daddy home.
    Neighbors stopped by to exchange Christmas wishes. An out-of-town aunt arrived with gifts for each of us: spinning wooden tops for my brothers, and, for me, a baby doll that was capable of drinking and wetting. The doll with painted hair brought some gladness to my disappointment, but I couldn't accept the fact that we were going to celebrate Christmas without Daddy. Who would get up early and start the fire? It just felt wrong to be happy.
    I stayed in my bedroom most of the time. I had no desire to join in festivities that seemed meaningless. After all, if Santa was not real, then my only hope of seeing Daddy on Christmas morning would never come true. My older brothers seemed resigned to the fact that Daddy wouldn't be with us on Christmas. They teased that I was a baby to believe in Santa.
    Before going to sleep on Christmas Eve, I offered God and Santa one last desperate prayer, put my head under the covers, and cried myself to sleep.
    The house was still cold when I awoke the next morning. Listening closely, I heard someone building a fire in the big potbelly stove. As I laid there, hoping upon hope that it was Daddy making the fire, hushed voices drifted through the thin walls of my bedroom and I heard a male voice.
    I threw off the layer of heavy warm quilts and hurried across the cold linoleum floor to the adjoining living room.
    â€œI knew it!” I shouted as I spotted Daddy beside the stove. With tears of joy streaming down my face, I raced across the room and threw my arms around him. “Oh, Daddy,” I shouted to my surprised father. “Santa is real!”

Seeing Is Believing
    BY PATSY THOMAS

    C hristmas of 1951 will forever stand apart from the many other holidays I have had in my lifetime. At six years old, a subtle change occurred — a division of the two worlds I lived in. Up until that point, I had not questioned the magic of the Christmas season; however, this year was different. At the age of six, I was growing up, yet I had a treasure trove of remarkable fantasies in my young mind, and I wasn't ready to let go.
    My father worked for the Frisco Railroad, which meant shift work. When Daddy was preparing to go to work at four o'clock that Christmas Eve afternoon, it began to snow — a rare occurrence in Enid, Oklahoma. I sat on the old-fashioned sofa, pressed my nose to the frosty glass panes of our living room window, and watched the white flakes float down from the sky. Daddy eased onto the couch to sit beside me.
    I looked up at him, staring at the black patch that covered his left eye. The week before, he had been injured on the job and gotten a sliver of steel in his eye. My younger sister and brothers were afraid of the black patch, but I liked his pirate look. It reminded me of one of the characters from Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island, a book Mama had recently read to me.
    â€œDaddy, are you sure Santa will come?” I asked. “We don't have a chimney for him to bring the toys down.”
    Daddy ruffled my blonde curls and looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “Don't worry, honey.” He stood up from the sofa and lifted me into his arms. “When I get home at midnight, I'll be waiting for him at the front door to let him in.”
    Perfect! I should have known Daddy would think of everything! I gave Daddy a bear hug and he put me down, tweaking my nose. I watched him put on his coat and reach for his lunch pail. When Daddy leaned down to kiss Mama goodbye, my younger brothers and sister hid behind her dress, preparing for a morning ritual they loved. As soon as