The "IOU" Christmas

     

           Christmas day 1983, and I had just turned 8 years old the month before. It was cold; unusually and bitterly cold by Alabama standards. There would be very little playing outside that day, or at least until the afternoon. The high was supposed to be 17, but the early morning sun was struggling just to push the temperature past 2. Daylight had begun to filter through the layer of blankets over my head, and although I wanted to see what presents lay under the Christmas tree, the heavy blankets felt too good compared to the cold air in the house. 

    Anyone who has ever felt the cocoon of warmth an old heavy blanket provides can testify to what I’m talking about. It is a magnificent feeling. One that I cherished, even as a child. I wanted to get up, but those presents weren’t going anywhere, and neither was I until the house warmed up some.

I stuck my nose out from the heavy layer of blankets on top of me and knew instantly that Dad was already up. The fire had been rekindled in the old Ashley wood burning heater, and the smell of smoke had lingered in the air after he closed the door. After only a few moments the smoke began to lose its battle with the bacon Mom had cooking on the stove. With the knowledge that both my parents were up, I thought about getting up myself. I recovered my head; deciding to wait until that heater had pushed some warmer air down the hallway. That’s when I felt my brother, two years older than me, start to stir.

My ten-year-old brother Jeff and I shared a room, a bed, and pretty much any and everything else growing up. We were poor, so there weren’t any duplicates on most things. What he wore was what I would wear two years later. But there were some things we had to ourselves…I did have my own toothbrush, so there was that.

Jeff rolled over, the covers still over his head, and met me under the old, tattered blankets.

          “What do you think we got?” he asked.

 

“I don’t know. What do you think we got?”

 

“I don’t know, but I doubt it’s very much. You remember what they said, don’t you?”

 

          My brother has always looked out for me, and even now I can look back at that moment and see that he was being an extension of my parents. He, at ten years old, was trying to manage my expectations of what might be under that tree. He didn’t have to. I knew. This Christmas felt different. Most years Mom and Dad were joyful in the weeks and days leading up to Christmas, but not this one. There was a serious concerned look on their faces each time we asked how many days were left until the 25^th. Each time that question was asked it was always answered the same way,

 

          “Boys, don’t expect much this Christmas. Things are just tight right now.”

 

          I hated that phrase; “things are tight.” When weren’t they? But this was different. Dad had been laid off again, and he hadn’t been able to find any work for several months. It seemed that no one wanted to give a man who never finished the seventh grade a chance. To this day I don’t know how he kept his head up. But I’m glad he did; especially on this Christmas Day.

          I felt the cold air subside about the time Momma said breakfast was ready. Jeff and I crawled out of the bed and half ran to the kitchen table. I glanced at the tree as I jogged by, an image I can still see clearly today; more floor than presents under the lowest branches. I guess my mom saw me look, and she repeated, once again, the phrase that I hated. Dad just sat at the table. He said nothing. He just stared towards the kitchen. I looked across the table just as Jeff was sitting down. He scolded me with his eyes even though I had said nothing to warrant it.

          After breakfast the four of us took our places in the living room. Mom handed out our stockings first, and they were half full of what was usually in them, a few candy bars and a couple of off brand matchbox cars. To this day, I’m almost 49, my mother still puts cars in my stocking. After seeing what was in the old, decorated socks, we turned our attention to the tree.

          The first thing I saw was two airplanes. They were made of 2x4 lumber, had furniture wheels for landing gear, and were painted differently. My brother and I chose the one we wanted, placed them in front of us, and started looking for what was left under the tree. There were just two small boxes left and about 10 or so small pieces of wrapping paper folded up hiding something very small and thin.

          My mother repeated the phrase I hated once again and handed us each a small box. I opened it, not knowing what to expect, and I found a small handmade pouch sewn by my mother. It was a little bigger than a change purse, blue in color, and it didn’t have a snap, clasp, or zipper. I opened the mouth of it expecting to find something inside, but this scrap of material was all there was. I looked over at Jeff. He had the same reaction I did. I looked at my father, who simply sat there with this pained look upon his face. Glancing back at my mother, whose eyes were laden with tears, she said, “That is for you to put the rest of your presents into,” as she pointed to the remaining pieces of wrapping paper under the tree.

          Reaching underneath, she grabbed all the little presents and handed my brother and I an equal number.

 

                   “Go ahead boys. Open them. See what you’ve got.”

 

          I opened the first one about the same time my brother had. It was a piece of paper with a handwritten note in my mother’s perfect handwriting.

         

                   “I owe you a trip to Dairy Queen.”

 

          “Dairy Queen? We’re going to Dairy Queen?” I shouted.

 

          Before my mother could respond I heard my brother shout the same question, this time with McDonalds as the establishment. My mother told us that we’d have to wait until things got better before we could redeem them, but that the pouch she made would keep them safe until that time. My brother and I both opened four more of the little presents, all of them IOUs, and each to a different place to eat or shop. It was a promise that better things were coming. It’s a Christmas I’ll never forget.

          My parents made good on all those IOUs; each and every one of them were redeemed, the last being almost three years later. We also still have the two airplanes. Although they were made of out nothing with lasting value, they will always be priceless to me and my brother.

          I also see that our “IOU Christmas” was the one that taught me more about the true meaning of the day we celebrate. It was on that night, two thousand years ago, with love, an IOU was written in a manger. That first Christmas present was opened by a virgin, a carpenter, some shepherds, and a small town that no one really cared about. No, it wasn’t written because He owed us anything, but it was a promise of a better time, a better relationship, a better covenant. It was a promise of the cross, a sacrifice so that we may have life, and life abundantly. That’s what my parents gave me then; a sacrifice of themselves and their pride to give me a better life. A life I hope I’m able to give up for my own children. You might say I’m still passing down those IOUs.

 

 Merry Christmas folks.