I have a story for you today. Welcome to the Christmas column, Dina style. It’s a memoir, of sorts, though not a Gloria Vanderbilt type of memoir. It is more like a Dolly Parton sort of memoir, minus all the kids. Most times, when I write to you, I sort of know a basic outline. I’ll start out with one thing, throw you a contemplative curve ball, then finish with a tale for the ages. That’s not the case today. I’m not sure where to start. I have no idea where we’ll end. I’m not even sure what the point will be. Let’s talk about Christmas when the years are lean. You’re getting sleepy, very sleepy. Put on your stocking cap and recline in your Victorian tester bed, Ebeneezer. Do you hear my chains? I’m the ghost of Christmas past.
For nearly a year, I’ve been crying tears over being parentless. It’s still sad. I don’t think you ever get over the loss of the people that brought you into the world. Yet, there are many stories that have mysteriously fallen into my wheelhouse lately. See, I didn’t talk about certain things because I could hear my mother’s voice telling me not to air the dirty laundry. But now, I don’t have to worry about hurting her feelings. I would rather lose limbs than hurt my mother. Let’s go back to the 70s. After much thought and intense concentration about things like how many years after the big sesquicentennial parade did this happen, I have come to the conclusion that ’76 - ’79 were really bad years for this GenX gal, especially at Christmas.
I was a lunch ticket kid. I have no idea how the public school system handles free lunches these days, though I am sure it is blessedly digitalized. I had not always been a lunch ticket kid, mind you. My dad was selfemployed, and we’d had a slew of rough years. By this time, I was aware that things weren’t normal. It started with the gardening frenzy one summer. We always did a garden on our property situated in no man’s land between Seagoville and Combine. But, on that particular year, we tripled the size. Our neighbors across the street at the old Ballard homestead, where the matriarch, Granny Ballard, had passed on, allowed us to move our garden there. The soil was slightly less black gumbo and just a smidge easier to manipulate, Daddy said. Every evening, we toiled in this garden. We watered. We flicked away grasshoppers. “Moooooooooom, I don’t want to do this anymore,” I whined. My dad flipped around to face me. Internal panic ensued. He was the gentlest man, but he did not suffer a foolish child. I remember seeing many things in his eyes: embarrassment, guilt, fury, and indignation, to name a few. Daddy had black eyes. I could never see where the iris ended and the pupil started in his beautiful, deep set, black eyes. He spoke. “DD, this is what we have to eat this winter. This may be all we have to eat this winter.” Next came the winter coat debacle. I’d been wearing the same blue velveteen coat with a white fur collar for 3 seasons. I was small for my age. I guess I hadn’t realized I needed a coat. Yet, when the temps dipped that winter, the sight of my knobby wrists meant the coat was awkwardly small. My mom pulled out an old jacket of hers. It had those sweater sleeves at the bottom, the knitted cuffs that are on high school letter jackets. Momma was an amazing seamstress. She expertly sewed those sweater sleeve thingamabobbers onto my blue coat. It was still too small through the shoulders, but as long as I didn’t raise my arms up, it was no worse for the wear. But, back to lunch. My mom sat me down at the kitchen table one night. She asked if I knew what lunch tickets were. I assured her I did. She told me I was going to be issued one every day & use it to purchase my lunch. I was terrified because any deviation in routine was terrifying to me, but what’s a girl in the 70s to do? The next day, my name was called. I heard murmuring, as this was not a time my name was normally called. Back in the 70s, there were 2 names called before lunch: the kids who needed their “hyperactivity” meds (sorry, I am using period correct terminology, I promise) and those who needed their lunch tickets. We were sent out into the hall to wait. Up and down the long DISD hallway stood those who needed meds, those who needed free food, and those who needed a good booty paddle. Surely, I did not belong here. Spoiler alert, everything went great. I developed character. I made friends with some booty paddle kids who were, actually, pretty cool, and I learned that those meds were considered miracles by parents and evil by the patients. See, sometimes things just work out. There were other perils that winter. Turns out, Santa Claus was having just as bad of a year as we were. Instead of gifts, I was left a series of IOUs under the tree. But, wouldn’t you know, Santa made good on those handwritten coupons with the gorgeous script lettering. Mrs. Claus has the penmanship of an angel. There was one gift, a brand-new rabbit coat from my grandmother, an angel in her own right. The card inside the gift went something like this. “Dina, you are a sweet granddaughter. Mae Womack called me. She said she was working at Myer’s Department Store and saw you try on this coat. She said it looked real nice on you.” Angels we have heard on high. God bless grandmothers, Mae Womack, the med takers, the booty paddlers, and the kids who need a hot lunch. God bless us, everyone.
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