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Junky Skiing Santa
Proves Priceless
Some Christmas stories are as sweet as hot cocoa topped with melting marshmallows. This one is not. All the same, I wouldn’t trade it for the world – or even for a toy Matchbox car.
The year was 1966, wintertime in Ohio, and I bit my quivering lip trying with all the strength a 6-year-old can muster not to cry. I felt like I had just found lump of coal in my stocking.
I was in first grade, in Mrs. Bauer’s class, in a time when “holiday” parties were still called “Christmas” parties and elementary schools held student gift exchanges. I was to swap toys with Paul, a boy I knew little about because he was not in my circle of recess friends.
I knew one thing, however: I would buy Paul a Matchbox car. After all, all boys loved the tiny metal cars. I seem to recall that Matchboxes cost about a dollar, which was probably the price limit for our gifts.
Mom took me to the five-and-dime where my two brothers and I spent our allowance money – we got a nickel for each year in our age, hence I received 30 cents weekly while my older siblings got 45 and 55 cents – on trading cards, comic books and Matchboxes.
I don’t remember which specific car I picked out for Paul, but my best guess is a Mustang since that’s what I would have wanted for myself. Paul did not reciprocate with a Mustang or any other Matchbox. Nor did he give me a baseball or a few packs of football cards.
No, the gift I opened at our class party was a red-and-white hollow plastic Santa Claus, slightly larger than a coffee mug, on green snow skis. A toy bag on Santa’s back was empty although it probably held candy when originally purchased. Even filled with candy canes or Hershey’s Kisses, skiing Santa surely cost less than my weekly allowance.
In other words, I had swapped a shiny-and-cool Mustang for a lump of plastic coal.
As Paul and my best pals Dan, Bob and Bill – boys did not go by Daniel and Robert and William in the ’60s – raced their new Matchbox cars around the classroom and across desktops, I blinked back tears.
Not for the right reason, I suddenly did the right thing. Despite selfishly feeling sorry for myself, I started racing my stupid skiing Santa alongside the Matchbox cars. I truthfully was not trying to erase any embarrassment Paul might have felt for giving such a crummy gift, but simply didn’t want to feel left out.
When the recess bell rang, Mrs. Bauer asked me to remain behind for a moment. I sat nervously at my desk having no idea what I had done wrong. When we were alone, my teacher sat beside me and said, as I remember it: “I’m proud of you for not showing your disappointment – that would have hurt Paul’s feelings. You gave him a very nice toy and you should be happy about that.”
Mrs. Bauer’s message, which I naturally didn’t understand at the time, was that it truly is better to give than receive.
Later, I became friends with Paul and a few times spent the night at his house. I remember his socks always had holes in them; he shared a tiny bedroom with two sisters; and he had no dad – not because of divorce, rather death.
Skiing Santa wasn’t stupid, I came to realize many years later; it might have been all Paul had to give. That perspective is a far better gift than a Matchbox Mustang.
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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.
Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …
- Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com