Papa’s Christmas Coat
By Carole Mortensen
When I was a little girl growing up, I loved Christmas just as every other child did. I loved the snow, the secrets, and the excitement. I loved the music and the stories…the stories of Santa and his elves and especially the story of the birth of the Christ child. I think most of all, though, I loved the stories that Mama and Daddy would tell me of the Christmases they had known in their childhood and as they were growing up. And then, one magical Christmas when I was about five or six years old, I got to be part of a real, true Christmas story.
Our family moved from Arizona to Utah when I was very young, probably about three years old. My memories seem to begin about that time. I had two older brothers, three older sisters and shortly after our move to Utah, a baby sister was added to our family. My Dad had been very ill before our move and he did not seem to regain his strength very fast. Still, he managed to care for his family and have enough energy left over to play and spend time with each one of us.
Work was not very plentiful in Monticello, the town to which we had moved. In the summer months, Daddy farmed some land and also grew fruits and vegetables which we stored in our root cellar to help take us through the long winter months before another growing season came.
It was always exciting to us children as the autumn colors faded, the bright leaves fell and the first flakes of snow began to drift from the sky. We knew that signaled the approaching Christmas season!
Nearly everyone’s home, at that time, was heated with coal burning stoves. Daddy had obtained some winter work driving a coal truck. It was a very old truck and rattled so loudly that it was almost impossible to carry on a conversation as Daddy drove down the road. Nevertheless, it was a real treat to us children as, one by one, we took a turn riding to Price with daddy and bringing back a load of coal. The whole operation took the most part of a day and it was a treat to have a whole day alone with Dad. Mama would bundle us up in our warmest clothes and then wrap a big quilt around us to keep us warm, as that old coal truck had one window that would not roll up and the wind could really whistle in.
Daddy had a pair of gloves but his only other protection against that whistling winter wind was a rather shabby old sweater that did not offer him much protection against the cold. It seemed that he shivered and coughed a great deal of the time that winter. How excited we all were when Daddy was finally able to buy a warm coat! I remember that coat so well. It was plaid wool with a warm, furry lining and when Daddy would hug us before leaving it would tickle our cheeks! It was nice to know that Daddy was so much warmer and more comfortable.
October and Halloween came and went—then November and Thanksgiving. The first snowflakes drifted down and we began to make our Christmas lists!
The two boys asked for new jack-knives and I wanted a buggy for my dolly, while little sister asked for a dolly that would, just like the song says, open and shut its eyes. It seemed that Daddy and Mama spent lots of time whispering but we were all too young and too excited about Christmas to realize how concerned they were about where money was to be found with which to purchase the asked-for gifts.
Christmas drew nearer and it seemed that we could hardly wait! In our excitement, we failed to notice that Mother was doing far more washing and ironing than usual and that Daddy’s cough was back and he was driving the coal truck again in his old shabby sweater.
Christmas morning finally came!! Under the tree, which was a fat cedar tree with the good smelling cedar berries still hanging on it, adorned with homemade paper chains of red and green and festooned with garlands of popcorn, were some gaily wrapped packages and wonder of all wonders—a bright pink doll buggy and a dolly that could indeed open and shut its eyes!! The boys received their jack-knives and the older sisters the gifts for which they had asked and we were all happy and satisfied.
And then, after we had opened and exclaimed over and shown our gifts to each other and it was somewhat quiet again, Mother took from behind the tree one more package. A big, bulky package, wrapped not in bright Christmas paper, but in newspaper and tied with a piece of colored yarn. She laid it in my Dad’s lap and very simply said, “Merry Christmas, John.”
It was very quiet then. I think even as young as we were, we knew that this was a special gift. Daddy slowly untied the yarn, folded back the newspaper and there was a coat—a plaid, wool coat with furry warm lining.
Slowly he rose to his feet and walked over to where my Mother sat. He took her two small hands into his big ones. Only then did we realize how red and chapped those small hands were—red and chapped from extra washing of clothes and hanging them out in freezing winter winds, bringing them back inside half-frozen to iron dry. Extra washing and ironing done, day after cold winter day, to buy back a warm, plaid, wool coat sold by a loving father to buy Christmas gifts for his family of children.
And so, on that magical, wonderful Christmas day, I and my brothers and sisters got to be part of a real, true Christmas story—a story we’ve called “Papa’s Christmas Coat.” We received more, far more, than material gifts which we found under that fat, sweet-smelling cedar tree. We received a gift of Christ-like love as our parents unselfishly sacrificed and gave to each other and to their children all that they had.
