My family and I lived in abject poverty in the segregated South. There was never money for Christmas gifts. We were happy if we were lucky enough to get an apple, an orange, and some nuts. One particular Christmas, we had to share an orange. We were thankful for the orange. As always, MaDear and Dad did the best they could. They did without so we could have something.
Each year, my four siblings and I looked forward to the next Christmas. Our parents moved frequently in search of employment. This was our first year in this town. We lived in a raggedly shack located on the property of our friendly and more prosperous neighbor. The shack didn’t have electricity or plumbing, but MaDear made it look homey. It was located about a fourth of a mile behind our neighbor’s moderate brick home. Their home and other neighbor’s brick or small plank homes, all with electricity and plumbing, lined the main road on the segregated part of town. The graveyard behind the shack always spooked me.
This year was a little better. Since Dad didn’t own a car, he relied mostly on public transportation. We were now was living about 20 miles from downtown Memphis. Our neighbor gave us a silver worn out artificial tree that had seen better days years ago. Many of the accompanying ornaments were broken. MaDear and Vie, our sister, did their best to make it beautiful. Vie had an eye for beauty and used natural foliage, colorful scrap material, and ribbons she got from her Home Economics class, to make it come alive.
I remember Dad going to Memphis. He had a twinkle in his light brown eyes. He put on his old tattered coat and walked about a half mile to the bus stop on the main highway. He paid 50 cents to ride the bus each way. There was a downtown in the city we lived in, but Memphis was where the shops on bustling Main Street were bursting with enchanting Christmas decorations. Holiday smells like spices and fresh bread permeated the air. Downtown Memphis was the place to be for holiday shopping, laughter, and browsing. People from nearby Arkansas and Mississippi drove from their home towns each year to participate in the excitement.
Even though poor, I was always filled with childhood anticipation of the gifts we would receive on Christmas morning. Our Christian parents taught us not to believe in Santa Claus, but I was secretly hoping he existed. As usual, there would be no toys for my older siblings, but our parents made a sacrifice for me since I was the youngest. I was excited that Christmas morning, and was looking forward to finally receiving a new toy. I was seven years old and never had anything new.
On Christmas morning, Dad was bursting with pride as he watched me tear open the gift under the worn out Christmas tree. MaDear and my siblings knew better. I was immediately disappointed. Staring at me were ornaments of the three wise men. I wanted a doll, not three ornaments that belong on a Christmas tree! Dad was haunted by the disappointment on my face. For his sake, I pretended to be happy, but that night I cried my eyes out! MaDear and Vie tried their best to comfort me.
That evening the tables turned. I was haunted by the disappointment on his face and was ashamed of how I acted. My siblings didn’t receive a gift at all. He gave me his best, and I should have accepted his gift with gratitude. At the time, I didn’t know to have an attitude of gratitude.
The next year, Dad took me downtown in our city so I could “eye buy.” I enjoyed the new smell of the toys that were beyond my parents reach. Dad was a friendly man who grew up in Chicago. He attended integrated schools and ignored many of the customs of segregation. Plus, he was an Army veteran, and we lived in a city with a large Naval Base. He would work at the base years later. If people were friendly to him, he was friendly to them. The white friendly store merchants let me pick up some of the toys if I promised to be careful.
The next Christmas, I received a beautiful Black doll and my siblings also received gifts. I was so excited to show this beautiful doll with the big brown eyes, curly black hair like mine, and new smell to MaDear. I always enjoyed new smells! She took one look at the doll, and I heard her ask Dad how he got it. I didn’t hear his response, but I do know my heart sank. I thought he would have to give my siblings gifts and the doll back. I was curious, but I didn’t ask him how he got the doll. I was happy to finally receive my first toy. We knew Santa Claus didn’t exist so he couldn’t say from Santa. Tippy, our eldest brother told us that Dad had asked his cousin, for a loan. We called him Cousin Fessor. Instead, Cousin Fessor gave him some money for Christmas. He lived in Memphis and they visited each other frequently.
I imagine as a father, it was difficult for him to ask for a loan, but he couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on his children’s faces. He probably felt like he was not providing for his family. He wanted to see the joy on our faces every day but especially on Christmas morning.
When I was a young teen, I went with Dad to chop down a pretty evergreen tree for Christmas. He told me the prettiest and largest tree was not always the best tree. We trampled through the woods until we saw the one just for us. Dad grabbed the branch and pulled it toward him. He explained to me that the needles should stay on the tree and shouldn’t fall when you shake it. He circled the tree and explained to me that he was looking for bald spots. He told me that you have to know what you are looking for. He told me some trees are diseased so you have to be careful what you choose.
Dad told me to stay on the long narrow road. He warned me not to take shortcuts or take hidden roads. As my father, he knew he couldn’t always protect me. I had to live my life. Later in my life, I looked for the prettiest and tallest and didn’t take the time to find the disease. I chose shortcuts and hidden roads. My father knew that I would make wrong choices in life but would find my way back to the long narrow road. I learned to have an attitude of gratitude.
Now, I speak to small groups in my community about growing up in abject poverty and wrote two memoirs. One Christmas, I was invited to a local lady’s home. She had read my memoir and invited about twenty other guests. She asked me to share my story. Looking at her beautiful tree, I was reminded of the story about the Christmas ornament and shared that story. I shared that I regretted not keeping the ornament of the three wise men. Days later, one of the guests presented me with a gift. It was an ornament of the three wise men. This time, I cried my eyes out because I received an ornament!
The next year, I attended our local art gala and bought statues of the three wise men from a local artist. In honor of Dad, I place the ornament on my tree and the statues under my tree every year!
Francie Mae. December 13, 2025.