We all have a special Christmas story — one that is always near our hearts for the entire year, but especially at Christmas time. Here is mine:

 

The name Kris Kringle will bring images of a jolly old man with cherry red cheeks and a chubby tummy. However my mother’s Poppa was nothing like that. He was tall and thin and perhaps even a little haggard. His demeanor was of an honest, hardworking man, who loved his family, such as he was.

 

It was during the mean years of The Great Depression that my mother and her baby sister remembered their Poppa’s heartfelt concern for the family. The sisters overheard their Poppa and Momma discussing financial matters. It was almost Christmas. The taxes on the homestead must be paid within 30 days. The fall crops had been meager. What were they to do?

 

“Oh, my babies, my poor babies,” Poppa’s words, almost a sob, could be heard late at night, when my mother and her sister should have been sound asleep. The little girls knew something was wrong, but as most children have done throughout the years, they relied on Poppa and Momma to make it right.

 

As the December days slipped away, the children had dreams of a visit from Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. My Mother remembered actual tears in her Poppa’s eyes as he reluctantly admitted that ole Kris Kringle might not make it this year. Poppa always preferred the name Kris Kringle rather than the newer term, Santa Claus. Perhaps it was from his upbringing within a large Irish/German family.

 

When their blue eyes clouded, Poppa would quickly add. “But maybe he will.” He reassured the children even as he worried about simply surviving and keeping a roof over their heads. During earlier years, especially the time that was known as the Golden Age of the early 1900s, Christmas was a joyous occasion, with plenty to eat and large family gatherings. A beautiful evergreen cut from the farm was always placed in the center hallway in the home of Poppa’s parents. Candles were placed upon the tree and gifts for all of the children were tied to the branches, with handmade ribbons. It was a beautiful sight.

 

But now in the 1930s, at the height of the Great Depression years, Poppa’s parents had passed away and their home place had recently suffered a terrible fire. Nothing was saved. Plus, Poppa’s property taxes loomed like a suffocating presence. It seemed hopeless.

 

But there were two little girls – one blonde and the other brunette, who had pinned their dreams to a visit from Santa Claus. Night after night  my mother’s Poppa and Momma struggled with overwhelming consequences, much as did the entire nation. Were they to lose their home? Where were they to find their next meal? And what could they afford to buy the girls for Christmas?

 

These many years later, as I remember the abundant blessings of that Christmas as told to me by my mother, I know it was a God-thing. Christmas Eve day arrived and my grandparents were still in a dilemma. It was mid-morning when a neighbor stopped by with two fuzzy kittens. Grandmother tied a handmade ribbon around each of their necks and come Christmas morning, the girls had the best Christmas gifts ever.

 

There was still the matter of taxes, but with the sale of an old smoke-damaged black Buick that had belonged to Poppa’s parents, there was money to buy an even older farm truck, plus pay the taxes and buy essentials such as chickens, flour, sugar and salt, which would get them through the winter.

 

Finally, Poppa Kris Kringle had a reason to laugh. My mother said he sounded just like Santa Claus.

 

Anne McKee is executive director of Meridian Railroad Museum. See her website: annemckeestoryteller.com.