Back in the day, I worked for a weekly newspaper in rural Columbia County, New York. My kids were 8 and 5 at the time, and proud that the photos I took at their school assemblies, Cub Scout meets and basketball games ended up in “The Paper.”
The holidays were a pretty big deal there. The Christmas issue always ran the passage from Luke 2:1 that started with “And it came to pass in those days that there went out a decree…” and ended with “And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them” on its front page and Clement C. Moore’s A Visit From St. Nicholas on the back page.
In between were photos of Santa arriving at the town’s center in a fire truck, announcements of holiday parties at the VFW and the Lions Club, quilt raffles and wedding photos of brides carrying holly and poinsettia in their December wedding bouquets, all lovely and comforting visuals of small town life.
And on page 2 of the December 23, 1982 issue was a column very much in keeping with the Christmas spirit, although it was written by the paper’s Jewish assistant editor, me. Here it is, adapted with permission from the Roe Jan Independent. Keep in mind that this took place pre–instant gratification internet which now allows us to find anything, anywhere, anytime we want it.
A Very Small Miracle
She loved the doll as soon as she saw it…what was there for a five-year-old not to love? The object of her affection was a Barbie doll, but not just any Barbie. This one was Spanish, with dark eyes, dark hair, skin the color of caramel, a black lace mantilla and a flouncy red skirt. In short, exotic compared to the rows and rows of her blonde blue-eyed sisters lining the shelf.
“That’s what I really want for Christmas, Mommy, that doll,” whispered my captivated little girl.
“Put it on your list,” I told her, “And I’m sure Santa will try to get it for you.” I made a mental note to pick up Barbie on my next shopping trip. My girl didn’t even like dolls, preferring to play make-believe with her stuffed animals or preferably, her older brother. In hindsight, I should have picked it up then and there, but couldn’t figure out how to do it with my little one standing right beside me.
We perpetuate the myth of Santa Claus at our house. For my husband and me, one of us a Christian, the other a Jew, Santa is the ecumenical symbol of what all of us could be—warm, generous and loving—but unfortunately are not, most of the time. It saddened us when our eight-year-old son figured out who really put those presents under the tree. An irretrievable part of his childhood was gone, to be recaptured only in spirit, if he has children of his own.
Our daughter still believes in Santa Claus, despite the fact that she’s absolutely positive she’s discovered the identity of the Tooth Fairy. We have sworn her brother to secrecy (and he may still harbor some wishful uncertainty of his own). We hope our daughter will continue to believe, for at least one more Christmas.
On that next shopping trip, my husband took the children to the grocery store, while I hurried off to “get a couple of things.” I was off to pick up “Spanish Barbie.” We had heard little else from my younger offspring for the past week.
The doll was an unusual item, not ordinarily carried in stores in this area. She was probably a stock item in more urban areas, but she was an anomaly in the Berkshire foothills. I had only seen her in that particular K-Mart.
I hurried to the shelf to retrieve my prize…and she was gone! I searched the shelves, moving aside every box, hoping I’d just overlooked her, or hoping that the doll, knowing she was destined for my girl, had hidden herself in a corner like some neglected puppy, waiting for me to rescue her.
Rows and rows of bland, blonde, blue-eyed Barbies stared back at me—Ballerina Barbie, Malibu Barbie, SuperStar Barbie—but the love of my daughter’s life was not to be found.
“If it’s not on the shelf, we don’t have it,” replied the harried clerk to my desperate query.
“But couldn’t you just look in the back?”
“If it’s not on the shelf…”
I fled, close to tears, trying to figure out what to tell my daughter.
I found my family in the baking aisle, the children gleefully choosing candies to decorate this year’s gingerbread house.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry, but I just spoke to Santa on the phone and, he feels terrible, but he’s gone to a lot of stores and there aren’t any more Spanish Barbies. He wants to know if you’d like a beautiful Ballerina Barbie, instead. She has a pink tutu, and tights, and ballet slippers…” I rattled on desperately.
She must have sensed my desperation. Her lower lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears.
“It’s all right, Mommy. Tell Santa it’s all right.” She stifled a sob, even as she tried to smile.
I trudged back to K-Mart, to the shelf of identical dolls. I half-heartedly chose one and was about to depart for the cash register, when a flash of red caught my eye. There, behind the doll I had just selected, was Spanish Barbie, flouncy red skirt, and all!
I’m sure the other customers questioned the sanity of the weeping lady who was clutching the Barbie doll to her breast, but I was oblivious to my surroundings.
“Sweetheart, I just spoke to Santa again, and he says he found her! He went to the very last store at the North Pole and he found the very last Spanish Barbie! He didn’t want you to be sad, so he looked extra hard to make sure you’d have what you really wanted.”
The sunshine came back to my little one’s face. Her grin actually did stretch from ear to ear. And then she said with a shrug, “I knew he could.”
Of course he could. One very small miracle had convinced me, once again, that, yes indeed, children, there really is a Santa Claus.
#
Note: A few years ago, while cleaning out a closet, I found Spanish Barbie in a box of my daughter’s memorabilia. I remember her being played with and dressed and undressed, but every hair was in place and she was fully costumed, down to her tiny, strappy high heeled sandals. She went, once again, to live with my daughter, but she’s back in a box on a closet shelf. My 11 and 9-year-old hockey-playing grandsons showed no interest in her at all, other than a passing glance at an artifact of their mother’s childhood. Perhaps she’s being saved for my future great-granddaughter?