Recently, something occurred to send my thoughts back many
years to a memory of my childhood.
Christmas in those days differed markedly from those of
today. The Christmas Season began on December 1st. Before that, no Christmas
songs blared from radio or over a store's speaker system. No Christmas advertisements on TV, Radio, or in the Newspaper. Few put up
decorations before the First. November 30th passed and suddenly, next morning,
Christmas Season began.
A big department store in town created its
"Toyland". Toyland bore little resemblance to the Christmas section
of a store today -- at least as far as the small northern town in which I lived
knew it. Toyland did not consist of several aisles in the store, but of a room
in and of itself -- perhaps they built temporary walls for that very purpose.
Toyland opened on December 1st.
One moment, you walked in the mundane part of the store, the
next, after passing through a portal -- sometimes just a door, sometimes a
short tunnel -- you arrived in Toyland. Everywhere one looked, one saw toys,
games, festive lights, and the rest of the accoutrements of the season.
For youngsters such as myself, it seemed a magical place,
filled with wonders, hopes, and dreams.
On one particular occasion, I had wandered into the store
and through the portal to Toyland. I was maybe eight or ten years old at the
time. Whilst looking over things that I couldn't afford, but could dream about,
I saw a man standing nearby. He appeared really, really old -- maybe in his
late twenties or early to mid thirties.
His expression caught my attention. I can only describe his
smile as one of radiant joy as his gaze took in the same things that mine did.
I only saw him for a few seconds, as the board games and toys reclaimed my
attention. I don't know if he even saw me. And, if he did, I doubt that he
thought anything of it.
What caused that joy? Did he shop for others? Did he shop
for himself? Did he see in his mind's eye his children opening their gifts on
Christmas morning? I'll never know.
I saw this man for a few seconds on one occasion half a century
ago. Yet I remember him. And those few seconds engendered in me the belief in a
greater goodness in mankind. Joy became a real possibility, for I had seen it
with my own eyes.
And what had he seen in return? Just a child looking at
toys, if he saw me at all. And what did he get out of that? Probably nothing.
And he'll never know the gift that he gave to me on that cold and dark December
day. A gift that has lasted throughout decades of living.
Now, don't get me wrong, I don't live my life with this a
constant memory, but it comes back from time to time. And, just as he
unknowingly gave me this gift, I have given in return.
I know this because on some few occasions others have told
me so. Some little thing I did without thinking became a gift to them. And if
these few people do exist, then surely others do as well, others who did not
later tell me.
Likewise, I figure, all of us have done similar. Some small
kindness given that means almost nothing to us at the time has found a grateful
recipient. It could be the gift of a smile, the picking up of a dropped item,
the holding open of a door, or even simply a presence in an otherwise cold and
brutal world. But, as small and effortless as this was for us, it may have
triggered something all out of proportion in the ones to whom we gave -- even
if we gave unknowingly. And they will remember us for decades to come, with
gratitude.
Likewise with writing. I recall a time when I worked in an
isolated work camp -- a radar station in the Arctic. I went through a lot of books
in the station's 'library'. Having finished all the (to me) good ones, I went
on to those not-so-good. One, in particular -- though I no longer remember it --
contained a single sentence that I needed to read at that time. I no longer remember
what it consisted of, nor why it was important to me at the time.
That author will never know what he or she gifted me with. And,
I have done the same with my writing, for at least a couple of readers have later
said so.
What could be more fitting in this season, as the year ends,
than to remember with gratitude those who have aided us -- knowingly or unknowingly?
I wish you all the best of the season, and hope you all experience radiant joy.
* * *
As for my own writing, it progresses. Editing and proofing a
book takes longer (for me) than writing the thing in the first place.
However, I'm on the last stages of editing and proofing the
final two books in my 4-book Not With A Whimper series. They should join the
other two on Amazon before the end of the year -- sometime between Christmas
and New Years's Eve.
