Christmas Far from Home
Caroline Warfield
When you grow up in an Army family, moving and change become part of your tradition. Where the holidays were concerned, we always had a tree, there were always presents, there were always friends packing the house with much noise and celebration. Everything else tended to be fluid and changing — even the actual folks packing the house in any given year. We dropped traditions and picked up new ones. One year stands out from all the rest.
My father was sent to Fort Rucker in late 1951, while Mom and I followed behind later as we often did. I was four that year and still an only child when we arrived in Dothan, Alabama two weeks before Christmas.
I have a few clear memories of that year, but I can still visualize the house we rented. Much of this story, however, comes from my mother’s telling and retelling. She faced three big problems that Christmas. Moving means expenses, and soldiers got paid the first of the month — three long weeks after our arrival. They were broke. In addition, two weeks wasn’t long enough to meet people; for once, they faced Christmas alone. Worst of all, we arrived by train and the railroad lost our luggage, luggage that contained not only clothes and belongings, but all the family holiday decorations and all the gifts for their only daughter. That would be me.
Every day for two weeks Mom went to the station. Every day the kind gentleman (whose name has been lost over the years) told her he was doing his best, but he had no good news. They scraped up enough for a tree and put it up without decorations. I gather even food was tight, but I have no idea what she expected to serve on Christmas. Dad brought home an electric train he had bought at the PX the month before and put it in the closet.
My folks were from Detroit and found the deep south unfamiliar. I often thought it was the most foreign-feeling place we ever lived. Even the weather didn’t feel like Christmas. The gentleman at the train station, however, proved friendly and kind. If he couldn’t find our things, he certainly understood why it mattered. On Christmas Eve, Mom trudged over once again and got the same bad news.
They fed me supper (in one version of Mom’s story they skipped eating so I could) and put me to bed. Dad gave me a whistle to blow when I got up to let them know Christmas had come. Once I was asleep, they set the train around the undecorated tree. It would have to do. At least Santa didn’t forget entirely.
I awoke Christmas morning and ran into the room to find a beautifully decorated tree surrounded by a train and presents — lots of presents. Santa delivered big time! I ran in and blew the whistle. I blew it right in my father’s ear. That I remember quite clearly. He jumped really high and I never got a whistle to blow again.
Over the years the rest of the story came out. It was late, ten o’clock or so, when Mom and Dad, already. ready for bed, heard a knock at the door. It was the friend from the station; he had located the luggage and ordered it returned to Dothan. He invited them to dinner the next day and was so excited that he tried to convince them to wake me up and go right then. I’m glad they refused because that Christmas morning is a precious memory.
I don’t recall the rest of the day, but I gather we were scooped up, taken to a big old farmhouse for an abundant dinner, and treated like family. Aside from a moment when my reserved Catholic father feared he might be expected to join in the spontaneous prayers of thanks flying around the table, good times were had. They were very grateful in their own quiet way. Christmas had everything we needed: a tree, presents, and a house full of noise and celebration.
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About Caroline Warfield
Traveler, would-be adventurer, librarian, technology manager, Caroline Warfield grew up has many things. Someone who begins life as an army brat develops a wide view of life, a love of travel, and a talent for rolling with the punches She reckons she is on at least her third act. When she isn’t off seeking adventures with her Beloved or her grandson down the block, she works happily in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to even more adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.
Read Caroline’s latest historical romance novel, Music on the Waters.
