The winter my father died was one of the most severe Utah County had ever known. The snow covered the fences, and on the north side of our ranch house the drifts reached to the windowsills.
My father and I had been inseparable. Wherever he went, you can rest assured I was close behind.
`You're my little helper," he would call over his shoulder and of course that was all the encouragement a 6-year-old needed.
I remember my father's gnarled hands sharpening tools on the old grinding wheel while I "puffed away" working the foot pedals. I recall when he rode herd I would be right beside him on my pony.
The highlight of our week was always the trip into town to get supplies. Father would hitch up the team, then swing me up beside him on the high buckboard seat. On the way down the canyon he would wink and say:
"Wanna drive old Dick and Duke?" I would smile briefly as he handed me the reins and then I'd sing at the top of my lungs while Father played "Old Black Joe" and "Skip to My Lou" on the harmonica.
When we arrived n town I'd scamper down and say:
"Papa, can I have a nickel?"
He would give me a nickel or a dime, then say:
"Son, I want you to remember that there are a few things in life that money can't buy, and those things are usually the most worthwhile." But my thoughts were only on the good things that a nickel or dime could buy, so at the time I could not see the wisdom of his statement.
Two months after Father's death it was Christmas Eve, and Mother announced that Santa would not visit our ranch that year because of deep snow. The others understood since they were older, but I burst into tears and ran to the kitchen window. Pressing my tear-stained face against the frosty glass, I looked at the deep, white vastness of our fields and turning back into the room I shouted:
"I know Santa Claus will find me! I don't care what any of you say, snow has never stopped him."
"Son, you must understand," my mother tearfully said.
"I won't understand," I sobbed. "Santa knows me and he knows I've been good." I jumped into bed, covering my head to halt the argument.
How could it be explained to a 6-year-old boy that there was no money for Christmas? How could he understand that his father's illness, funeral expenses and other reverses had taken all the family savings?
My mother, six brothers and one sister returned to the parlor where they saw my forlorn-looking stocking hanging by the pot-bellied stove.
"Money or no money, he is going to have a Christmas," my eldest brother said.
Everyone gathered around the kitchen table deciding what each would do. Two brothers popped and threaded corn, then made red paper chains with flour paste. My sister rummaged our old trimmings out of the attic, while my eldest brother lit the lantern and went into our north woods for a tree.
My fourth brother said he would contribute some of his famous honey candy. Everyone moaned because his candy was horrible . . . it never hardened and was consistently putrid. Nevertheless, my brother whistled merrily as he brewed his miserable concoction.
Another brother worked for over two hours whittling a willow whistle, while my last brother stuffed his most prized possession, a slingshot, into the top of my stocking.
My sister worked until after daylight making a black sock doll. She embroidered a happy face and fashioned some yellow hair out of yarn. Then she sewed a little shirt and trousers, making the doll look very "store-bought."
A very exhausted family had just tumbled into bed when Christmas morning dawned bright and beautiful.
The tree was radiant in the early morning sunlight, but no more radiant than the expression on my face as I shouted:
"Look everybody, get up quick and look at these swell presents! I told you Santa would find me . . . I prayed that he would."
Throughout my lifetime each Christmas has been a holiday of plenty, with the exception of the sixth, yet it is not the bountiful holidays that I treasure. My choice memory is the year a thoughtful family worked throughout the night, and gave what little they had, that I might have a Christmas.
Recently, going through an old trunk, I ran across a faded photograph of my family. (All are deceased now except one brother and me.) Next to the photograph was the black sock doll with the yellow hair. Tears filled my eyes. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I thought:
"You were right, Papa, there are things money can't buy."
*****
ADDITIONAL INFORMATION
Ivan T. Anderson, Kaysville
Eighty-year-old Ivan T. Anderson is looking back with fondness to the "Christmas He Remembers Best" when he was six years old.
Anderson was born in Springville, Utah, and retired from Hill Air Force Base for many years. Thereafter, he worked as a building contractor and built his home in Kaysville especially for his wife. He and his wife, Jettie, are the parents of two children, Dr. Rodger Ivan Anderson and Sharron Jettie Smith.
During WWII Anderson spent nearly three years in England, France and Germany in service of his country.