Mine was a fortunate family. We were not wealthy, but we were better off than many families in the factory town where we lived. It might have been otherwise; the Commonwealth of Massachusetts did not pay its judges nearly enough to support a family with six children. Fortunately, my father’s was designated a part-time court. So while he was paid little for being a judge, he was permitted to practice certain kinds of law on a part-time basis to supplement his income.
But one Christmas, that extra income did not materialize. My father had been working on a big lawsuit, and the client did not pay. Both of my parents grew up in financially strapped households; both had also been through the Great Depresssion. They knew how to keep food on the table—I remember lots of canning that year. But there was virtually no money for Christmas.
I remember no better Christmas than the Christmas we were poor. Santa enlisted the help of talented force of elves to make it happen. Mrs. Nettel next door knitted new outfits for all of my dolls, which had been cleaned and fixed up. The broken doll cradle was under the tree, but much better than before; it had not only been repaired but was shining with a fresh coat of beautiful blue paint and pretty flower decals, thanks to the talents of my big brother Dick. A dolly high chair had been similarly upgraded.
These toys were better than new. They were cherished toys passed down through three sisters that were now new—and distinctly mine. It seemed like magic, and it made this the most enchanting of Christmases.
