ROBIN WRITES: My Favorite Christmas

By Editor | December 30, 2025 |

When I was in kindergarten, my father developed rheumatic fever. As Christmas got closer, Mom looked sadder every day. She was also on the phone a lot. I didn’t see the embarrassment in her smile as she accepted canned food from our church and secondhand coats for my brothers and me.
I made my Christmas list that year just like every other year: with the enthusiasm of a child who knows Santa can make any toy for free.
My brother, Jim, helped me with my spelling as I wiggled a pencil across my Big Chief paper tablet. Jim was 9 years old. He didn’t make a list that year.
That snowy Christmas Eve, the elementary school secretary called to say someone would be bringing a basket of fruit to us from their Holiday Charity Committee.
I sat on Grandma’s lap and waited, hoping the snow wouldn’t keep them from coming. I could feel a draft slipping under the windowsill like cold needles. We snuggled together under her old, crocheted afghan.
I heard a sound outside the door; a loud stomping followed by a cheery rap-tap-tap. Mom came hurrying into the living room. She looked tired, but she put on her “everything is fine” smile for our visitor.
The principal of our school, Mr. Allen, was freckled with snow…from his wide, big-buttoned suitcoat to his bushy gray eyebrows and shiny black Principal shoes. His meaty hands held the biggest, most beautiful wicker basket I’d ever seen.
It was covered with shiny red cellophane that glimmered in the light of Grandma’s reading lamp.
Mom took the basket and carried it to the dining room table, all the while glancing at my brothers and me to stay where we were and wait.
Mr. Allen and Mom stood just inside the door, murmuring adult words to each other. I saw him cover Mom’s fingers with his burly paws and pat them tenderly. Then my principal said “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” in a Santa voice and went out into the snow.
As soon as the door closed, I ran to the dining room, jumped up on a chair, and climbed to my knees. The basket was piled high with all kinds of fruit. Mom tore off the cellophane carefully and pushed it toward me to look through.
Mike and Jim sauntered in to grab their choices. Mom gave my baby brother, Butch, a pear to chew on. Now it was my turn.
As I peered inside, deciding on my selection, I saw something sticking out on one side of the basket near the handle. It was yellowish and long, but much too skinny to be a banana. I reached toward it with tiny, curious fingers.
I pulled out a plastic, high-heeled leg, attached to a curvy body covered in a red corduroy coat with huge snaps and a neck topped with the prettiest head I had ever seen. Black, curly hair peeked out from beneath a white, fuzzy beret and beneath the hair was a beautiful, carefree smile.
I clutched the Barbie to my chest and looked up toward Mom, afraid to hope that it was mine. Amid fruit and straw filler, I had found my Christmas heart’s desire. I just couldn’t stand it if it was a mistake.
With tear-filled eyes, Mom nodded the best nod I’ve ever seen from that day to this. Someone cared about me. Someone knew I was a little girl who had scrawled BARBIE in capital, kindergarten letters all over her Big Chief list.
And someone knew it took more than apples to fill a child’s hunger at Christmas.
I will never know who sent that Barbie. But I honor them every Christmas by donating a Barbie for a child who may need a nod that year. And every time I see a basket of fruit covered with red cellophane, I smile with a grateful heart.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].