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In recent years my family has been cutting back on Christmas gifts. There are a number of reasons why; expense, exhaustion, and a race to the finish line where we're breathlessly thankful that it's finally over.
This year we've not purchased a single gift. Instead we're giving the gift of ourselves to our family and friends. And for the first time in decades we're enjoying the holiday season for what it is: Christ's birthday. Carols sound sweeter, recipes taste yummier, we're less tired and more excited about advent activities at church. After a long dry spell we've remembered what's important.
A few years ago I wrote a true story about the very best Christmas of my childhood entitled "I Remember Pattaburp." It's about simplicity, a little girl's dreams and giving of ourselves to those we love. Much like the events surrounding the birth of our Lord, whose birthday is the reason for the season.
Remembering Pattaburp
In October of 1966, my friend Mary received a “Pattaburp” doll for her birthday.
The moment that sweet face emerged from the gift wrap I was in love.
Pattaburp was soft and cuddly, with short brownish red hair, a fluffy pink dress, rosebud lips and big blue eyes surrounded by a fringe of thick lashes. Best of all when her back was tapped a few times, she’d burp.
It was a really healthy burp too.
Like most of her toys, Mary quickly tired of Pattaburp and tossed her aside like an old shoe. But do you think she’d let me play with her?
Not a chance.
But Christmas was coming.
As with most youngsters, I had no concept of money and didn’t realize that our family lived paycheck to paycheck. I also didn’t realize that Santa’s gifts came from those paychecks. When I found the doll of my dreams in a catalog, Mom gently informed me that Pattaburp was rather expensive; seven dollars. Santa might not be able to afford her.
At first I was crushed.
Then I remembered that Santa had workshop and his elves made our toys there. He didn’t have to go the store and spend seven dollars. They could make a Pattaburp for me at the North Pole. Hoping to seal the deal, I sent Santa a letter with my request, as well as a reminder that I’d been a very good girl.
Each night during bedtime prayers, I asked Jesus to keep Santa and the reindeer safe on their journey so they could bring me my doll.
I tried so hard to believe that my doll would come but as Christmas approached, my resolve began to crumble. What if Santa hadn't received my letter in time?
On Christmas morning I realized that I should have given Santa more credit. Pattaburp (forevermore known as Patty) was patiently waiting for her new mommy under the tree. I was so relieved that I burst into tears.
In the years that followed I received many other dolls from family and friends. I'd play with them for a little while but as soon as everyone went home, I went right back to Patty and the newer dolls went into the closet.
Eventually my constant companion began looking kind of rough around the edges, as beloved toys often do. But I didn’t mind a little dirt. Patty was a part of me. She was always there when I needed her. She listened to my troubles, her cheeks were peppered with my childish kisses, and I cradled her in my arms as I slept.
Inevitably all girls grow up and stop playing with dolls as they complete their journey to womanhood. I was no exception. Yet every morning before I got ready for work, I’d regress for a moment, hug my precious Patty and breathe in the fading scent of my childhood. Then I'd prop her against the fluffy pillows of my bed; a place of honor for a cherished friend.
Years later when Grandma passed away, Mom finally told me that it was Grandma who gave me the doll.
What was even sweeter is why she did it.
Mom said that one of Grandma’s playmates told her about their family’s Christmas Eve tradition. They’d dress in their finest clothes and wait for their father to bring home a beautiful fir tree. Then everyone would drape it with lovely ornaments, light the candles on each bough, sing carols and then dive into delicious food.
It sounded magical. But she didn't realize that her family had little money for anything other than the essentials. Christmas trees were expensive.
On December 24th, Grandma’s papa was met at the door by his eager five year old daughter dressed in her Sunday best. He soon realized that she expected a Christmas tree; one he didn’t know she wanted, and couldn’t have afforded if he had.
Faced with the unenviable task of watching her eyes fill with tears, he broke the news that there would be no tree in the parlor that year.
Just then her grandpa came in the back door with firewood as the bitterly disappointed child began wailing. As he listened to her heartbreaking request between gulps and hiccups, he knew what needed to be done.
“If that’s all it takes to make my little girl happy, I’ll get her a Christmas tree” he muttered as he stomped back outside.
It was a raw icy northern Indiana day where the temperature outside hovered around zero. Yet the determined old man propped a ladder against a tall pine behind the kitchen.
He gingerly climbed to the top, cut off a limb and brought it inside to a very excited youngster who had thought all hope was lost. The limb wasn’t big, but it was full. After she and her mama decorated with odds and ends of lace, beads and bows my grandmother was convinced that hers was the prettiest tree in the whole world.
All courtesy of a determined old angel dressed in overalls.
Years later when I ached for a doll that my family couldn’t afford to buy, Grandma remembered how important that first Christmas tree had been to her.
“For Pete’s sake, if that’s all it takes to give her a nice Christmas, Shelly’s going to have that doll” she declared, just as her own grandpa did so long ago.
So my cookie-baking angel purchased Pattaburp, even though she too had little money to spare.
Her selfless act of love brightened my world for years to come.
I think of Patty each Christmas Eve as I watch my nieces and nephews tear the paper from their piles of gifts. It usually takes them about ten minutes to plow through them all. Months of lay-away payments, credit card bills and weeks of preparation is wiped out in the time it takes to eat a sandwich.
After the grand unveiling, the floor is knee deep in wrapping paper which is promptly stuffed into a trash bag. All clues of who had given what to whom disappeared.
Grandma used to say “It’s harder to get excited about something that’s too easy to get.”
She was right. Most of the gifts I’ve received in recent years are a blur of boxes and thank you notes.
Yet heartfelt gifts given during leaner times are rarely forgotten.
Like Grandma’s first Christmas tree.
And I’ll never forget the best Christmas present of my young life.
I’ll always remember Pattaburp.
Michelle Close Mills ©
