Guest Commentary: Sally’s Christmas — a story from long ago and far away

Christmas can be a magical time, but those who have nothing, seem to have less than nothing then.

I was in the second grade in Miss Collins’ class, far away in time. There were 15 or so of us. Most came from farms around there and a few lived in “town.”

Sally Franklin lived in the country and her parents were hired hands. She wore ragged clothes and old shoes and looked worn out, even at eight years of age. She was quiet, and we teased her. No, made fun of her. The boys taunted each other with things like “ Sally’s gonna have your baby.” When any of us would touch her, we’d say “EWW!” and rub it off on somebody. They were mean, cruel things. The only positive for Sally was that Miss Collins was kind to her.

Christmas was coming and we were to have a party. Everyone was to bring a gift, wrap it and put it into a box. When it was your turn you got to draw one out as long as it wasn’t yours. Nobody wanted to exchange with Sally because she had “cooties,” or worse, and everybody would make fun of us forever. Or longer.

When party day came, everyone brought something. Richard Rush brought a tractor, Virginia Sollars a doll, Barbara Holt some crayons and a Roy Rogers pad of paper, and Dean Hodge a top that made noise and gave off sparks. Naomi Webber brought a bottle and blower to make bubbles and Harlan Ziebart a train engine. Somebody else brought some packs of baseball cards. They are probably worth a fortune now. My gift was one of those thick glass balls, flat on the bottom, that snowed when turned upside down.

Then we looked at Sally. She stood in her old faded dress with her socks falling down over her shoes. With her lower lip trembling and hands shaking, she held out a candy cane. It wasn’t wrapped or anything. Just had a little red piece of string tied on it with a bow. It was so sad. Tears welled up in her eyes, then she sat down at her desk, buried her face in the sleeves of her old sweater and sobbed.

Everyone got very quiet, and Sally kept sobbing. Miss Collins patted her back. Jimmy Wisdom went over to Miss Collins. She was very tall, so she had to lean down and he whispered something in her ear. She nodded, and Jimmy ran out the door with no hat, gloves, or coat. Miss Collins tried to cheer people up and passed out cookies and hot cider. A few of us took some, but nothing tasted very good.

It was time for the gift exchange, and one at a time, we reached into the big red and green box by the tree. I got the crayons and Roy Rogers tablet. Finally, it was Sally’s turn but she was too shy. She just looked down and shook her head. Miss Collins asked her to go, and so did the rest of us, but all she could do was cry. She tried to stop, but couldn’t.

The door opened and in came Jimmy. In his arms was a black ball of fur with a ribbon and bell wrapped around it. Lady, his dog, had whelped four puppies a two weeks earlier, and he had gone home to get one.

We watched quietly as he walked up to Sally and held the puppy out to her. Miss Collins stood by her and stroked her hair and asked her to look up. The puppy licked the tears on Sally’s face and she reached out to it. Its tail wagged and Sally held it against her and she smiled. It was the first time we had seen her smile. It was a pretty smile.

Miss Collins tried to talk, but she had a lump in her throat and could not. None of us could. The best we could manage were whispers of encouragement. And apology. I hope she heard them as well as our stinging, scarring words. Then, one by one we went over to Sally and laid our gifts on her desk.

We looked outside and snow began to fall right then, in big, fluttering flakes. Like white angels. Well, Sally smiled again at her new puppy and squeezed it with all her might. For the first time in her life, probably, she had something that loved her, unconditionally.

More tears flowed in the classroom, but they were tears of joy, then gradually turned to smiles. When Miss Collins was able, she began to sing “White Christmas.” She had no kind of voice, but nobody cared, and we joined in. Even Sally.

When the bell sounded to begin our vacation, we ran to the bus. Sally sat up front right behind Willie Franklin, the driver, with her full sack of presents and her puppy. Someone asked her to come back and sit with them, and we gathered around to look again at what she had, and to see if she was still smiling. She was.

She got off at her run-down shack of a house, and turned to wave as she walked up the lane.

We never saw her again.

Paul McCreary, the author of this story, says: My wife Becky and I are half-time, second year Green Valley residents, the other half in beautiful Ouray, Colo. where we own and operate the Main Street Bed and Breakfast. I retired from education in Michigan in 1995, teach courses for GVR, do photography and art, play some golf and a lot of Texas Hold ‘Em and enjoy the wondrous Southwest climate here.