Like graceful wild flowers thriving amidst a garden overgrown with weeds, my childhood Christmases filled with basic human needs are perennially recalled renewing and dictating my holiday deeds. Christmas seasons for poor families offer a classic muse filled with moods of quiet desperation and divine spiritual foods. Renowned as the season of great joy and unselfish gift giving, Christmas in poverty can be cruel and unrelenting. Too often defined by depression and fiscal blues, the season brings spiritual blessings that transcend the material and refreshes the soul. Most cherished among my memories is the Christmas season at the height of our impoverishment. As life would unpredictably dictate, the real joy and beauty of that season got lost in the ache and pain of the moment; it occurred the year I turned eight. I attained this great old age a few days before Christmas on the twenty-first. As usual the day received scant attention amid the excitement, hustle and bustle of Christmas preparation. Those similarly situated can testify that a birthday near a holiday sucks! But, that misfortune of my birth is another story!

I was born during a snowstorm at the end of 1950, momma's eleventh surviving child and/or number nineteen between both of my parents, depending on who is counting my siblings. Through multiple unions, in total my brothers and sisters numbered twenty. By 1958, the number living at home dwindled to six. This number included my nine year old sister, my elder by eighteen months, my younger twin brothers who turned six on November 28th, another birthday too close to a holiday to celebrate, and I were the youngest. There are advantages to being the youngest; we were most likely to receive toys from Santa Claus. My two elder siblings, both brothers aged twelve and fourteen, completed the six. Because they no longer professed the Claus faith, they generally received little from the jolly old gent. Given their sad example, attaining their adult-like status was to be avoided at all cost. Fear of being pushed aside causes a poor child to profess belief long after common sense and logic dictate otherwise. Consequently, to prevent being overlooked at Christmastide, a ritual of double think is devised, and unconsciously passed from one generation to the next, confusing commercialism and Santa Claus with the birth of Christ. For the first time, in 1958 we were not rewarded for professing the traditional lie.

Sights and sounds from my most memorable Christmas are carved in sharp relief across the landscape of my most painful, but precious childhood memories. Those images remain so precious and vivid because I am reminded of my beautiful momma, the center of my youthful life. So much pain, because of the anguish and abject poverty. Our poorest Christmas coincided with the year momma needed medical assistance; it reminded us just how lucky we were to have momma. My family's normally strained financial status completely collapsed under the additional pressure of a medical necessity. Obtaining needed medical assistance can financially decimate an already poor family. In 1954, my family left the cotton fields of Mississippi and a life of sharecropping. Daddy was lucky to get a seasonal job working long hard hours making an individual subsistence wage as a construction worker, off-season he worked odd jobs, even chopping cotton in Arkansas. Already stretched beyond its limits by momma's frugal management, the family's income could not be expected to provide more. Despite her careful attention to every cent, conditions of the time dictated there were times my family barely ate and paid the rent. So, momma's hospitalization created a tremendous financial strain that necessitated that everyone sacrifices something to relieve our momma's pain.

To prevent recurring damage to a leg injury sustained years earlier, momma needed surgery. While making lard, the last and most tedious part of the hog slaughtering process, momma was badly scalded. She recalled completing the crackling and pouring the hot grease into tin pails when she heard her baby crying. On looking up from her task, she saw smoke coming from the back door of the house several yards away. Pails of hot oil cooled around the big black boiling pot. Because her two toddlers, too young for work in the field, and an infant were the only ones in the house, momma panicked. Thinking only of her small children, momma dropped the pail she was holding. The liquid splashed on her heavy shoes wetting her cotton stockings; she never stopped, inadvertently knocking over more pails of hot grease in haste to reach her babies.

Momma raced for the back door; black billowed from the house. Grabbing a bucket of water from the dry sink, she splashed herself to wet her dress, and tossed the remainder toward the smoke and heat coming from the front of the wood frame house. Flames licked at heavy curtains and layers of old wallpaper near the fireplace. Frantically calling her children, momma made her way to the bedroom where the baby could still be heard screaming at the top of his little lungs. No fire was in the room only smoke; the fire apparently started in the front of the house. The two toddlers were no where in sight. Making her way to the crib, momma picked up the crying baby and started back through the house calling. Because the front room was completely filled with smoke, momma made her way back toward the rear of the house, cradling the baby in her arms. She ran around the house calling her children. Luckily, having made it out of the house safely, the toddlers were huddled in the front yard, too frightened to respond to momma's frantic calls.

The rest of the family responding to the sight of smoke rushed from the fields to put the fire out. Only the front of the house sustained any real damage; the house remained habitable. Under the circumstances, that proved fortunate, because my family had no place else to go. It was not until after the fire was out that momma felt a stinging sensation in her leg. She sat on a stump in the back yard, removed her work shoes and wet cotton hose. As she peeled down the coarse stockings, the flesh from her leg bone slid smoothly away like melted butter, leaving the limb rawly exposed. Bare of its normal covering, for months following that fateful afternoon, momma battled to save her leg and life. The local physician wanted to amputate her leg; momma adamantly refused. A sharecropper's wife needed working legs to make a way for her family to survive. Eventually, momma regained a semblance of her former strength and learned to walk and work again. As the years passed, the leg grew stronger, though it remained susceptible to recurring injury.

When my family left sharecropping behind and moved to Memphis, Tennessee a possibility of correcting the problem presented its self. Increasing in their severity, these recurring injuries eventually forced momma to seek medical attention. A medical team recommended grafting skin from other areas of her body to provide protection from future injuries -- an expensive operation. With no health insurance to cover the cost, other sacrifices made it possible. Momma's lengthy illness and eventual hospitalization severely strained the family's already limited resources. Surgery left a scar that marred the surface of momma's smooth torso, and left an indelible mark on my family time can never erase. Made so memorable because of momma's hospitalization, 1958 is the year we were told we were too old for Santa.

The first frost came early that year shortly before Thanksgiving. An exceptionally cold fall forced us to use more gas than usual, an added expense we could ill afford. Like the fall, the winter proved colder than normal. Room heaters used to warm our small three-room shotgun house roared constantly at full blast throughout the day. Cold winds buffeted the doors and windows, seeping through cracks chilling those unlucky enough to be out of the heater's limited range. Because the heat was turned off at night to conserve energy, early mornings were especially cold in the non-insulated house. We vied continually for the choice space around the heaters. Our squabbles were generally good-natured, a small amount of shoving to jockey into the best position for maximum warmth.

The cost of momma's impending hospitalization could be felt long before her admittance. It's initial impact was felt Thanksgiving, always a special holiday; momma baked cakes and pies, and prepared a large roasting hen with corn bread stuffing and all the traditional fixings; it was something special. We looked forward to the first annual opportunity to really fill our bellies to overflowing with momma's homemade delicacies. To our surprise, this year's traditional dinner offered a different experience. By delaying her admittance, momma tried to make our Thanksgiving as nice as possible given limited funds. Though she refused to go before the holiday, most of what she did had to be done while sitting. With our help, despite her limited movement, momma prepared a feast for Thanksgiving we will never forget. Like the Christmas of '58, Thanksgiving that year is long remembered in familial infamy.

Desperate to stretch every dollar, momma and daddy decided not to purchase the usual Thanksgiving delicacy, a plump juicy roasting hen. Instead, one of our lean pet roosters became the meal's piece de resistance. Easter presents received several years earlier, the brightly tinted green and blue baby chickens matured rapidly into ordinary noisy brown roosters; our childish fascination faded just as quickly. Ironically, we cared little for barnyard fowls living in the big city; it was sort of embarrassing really. From us, the fowl received scant personal attention. We gave them the obligatory chase around the yard for sport, whenever we recalled their presence. In fact, were it not for momma's care in feeding them on a regular basis, the roosters would probably never have reached maturity. Nonetheless, despite this obvious fickleness, when our parents suggested using one of them for Thanksgiving dinner, those roosters became cherished pets, a worthy cause to be fought over in principle, if not physically. To be blunt: We were outraged! Imagine your reaction on learning your sometimes playmate is slated to be stewed in a pot and served on your plate!

Understandably, this parental decision caused a radical revolt among the fowl owners, the twins and me. When our impassioned verbal appeal failed to influence our pet's fate, a chase to capture one of the reluctant roosters offered comic relief tinted with visions of the pending tragedy. We knew one of our playmates would certainly be caught, cooked and consumed. Diligently, daddy and our elder siblings fell all over themselves pursuing our fleet friends. The twins and I watched laughing and sometimes crying, bemoaning the prospective loss of a sometimes playmate. Since the birds were identical, we did not know which one finally ended up on the dinner table. Horrified, we watched as daddy finally succeeded in capturing a squawking bird. It valiantly flapped its wings trying to fight daddy off to no avail. Adeptly, daddy rung our friend's neck and threw his lifeless body into a pot of boiling water. Momma plucked the bird of its feathers and prepared him for baking. Being reared on a farm, my parents surely suspected the rooster would be tough, so special effort went into making the dressing and special delicacies making up our traditional Thanksgiving dinner.

A strange odor accompanied the plucking of our fowl friend, permeating our small house. All Thanksgiving day this rancid odor overlay the other more appetizing aromas. Vowing not to eat a morsel of our pet's precious flesh, we unanimously agreed to boycott the meat portion of the meal, swearing to do so whether momma and daddy said it tasted good or not. Besides, the smell alone made one leery of eating the fowl. When dinner finally made its way to the table, we graciously accepted generous helpings of corn bread dressing-- without chicken. Only so much could be asked of those boycotting. What's a Thanksgiving meal without momma's cornbread stuffing? While we all refused to eat any of the chicken, momma and daddy accepted generous servings. Eating our pet was such a thankless chore that even our folks were forced to forego the dubious pleasure. In fact, our fowl friend was so tough and stringy, he could not be eaten. Unfortunately, the bird's foul essence tainted momma's meticulously prepared corn bread dressing; so, it too failed to live up to its usual excellence. Momma's corn bread dressing was so rancid we were forced to trash the entire dish, finally ridding the house of our foul friend's fragrance. We filed the day away in our collective memory as the Thanksgiving with mixed blessings. It is hard to resist momma's exquisite chicken and dressing. But, we remained dedicated pet owners, having staged a successful boycott against eating playmates. Thanks to our fowl friend for failing the folks' taste test, we kept the faith!

The next day momma was admitted into the hospital. During momma's hospital stay, daddy warned us not to expect much for Christmas. After all, we were too old to be expecting Santa Claus to come sliding down a chimney that did not exist. All the money was spent to get momma well again. That was more important than toys and foolishness we didn't need anyway, according to daddy. Being children, but well versed in the art of Claus, his explanation did little to tarnish our dreams and hopes for Christmas day. Daddy never was one for believing in Santa Claus anyway. Momma made Santa a reality. Daddy worked so hard, yet, there was always so little, he seemed to care nothing about celebrating Christmas beyond a clean house and the delicious meals momma placed on the table. For daddy, Christmas was one of the few days he got to put up his feet and rest. Usually, an hour or so after momma's delicious meal daddy would be fast asleep. Santa Claus was a promise for her children momma worked diligently trying to keep.

Momma made the holiday special with what she had available. We never invested limited funds in a Christmas tree, at least, not one a tree we remembered. Our elder siblings recalled live Christmas trees when they were small and the family lived in rural Mississippi. In the country, every year they would trek through the woods, chop down the best looking tree available, and drag it home. There, momma would direct the tree's decoration. She popped corn for stringing, painted pine tree cones, and from someplace magic, she produced ribbons, bows, candy canes and fragile ornaments. The wonderful scent of evergreen and the aroma of momma's baking set a festive holiday mood. With momma, we could vividly imagine how special Christmas must have been living in the country.

When my family moved to the city, the free live Christmas tree became a thing of the past. By 1958, those of us still living at home had no memory of those long gone Christmases. The only Christmas decorating done that we remembered was the string of ancient lights strung along our front porch's roof and around a window, a pathetic display. The over large bulbs and mismatched lights highlighted our house accentuating and calling attention to the conditions of our impoverished plight. But yearly, momma insisted daddy string the lights. We learned even pathetic displays can uplift the spirit when momma was home. Without her, no one bothered to make the effort. Daddy no doubt welcomed the respite. He did not particularly relish taking life and limb in hand scaling walls to string momma's lights. The days following her hospitalization grew increasingly somber. Gone were scents of momma, the delicious aromas characterizing the holiday, baking cookies, cakes and pies, her out-dated but faithfully used Christmas decorations, and her smiles that brightened our house. Everybody's spirit declined, taking a nosedive as momma's hospital stay lengthened. As the days of her absence stretched into weeks, we became increasingly worried that momma would not be home for Christmas.

Momma proved to be an excellent patient and a real fighter impressing her doctor and the nursing staff. Everyone liked her and knew how concerned she was about the Christmas holiday and her determination to be home with us at Christmas. Momma's doctor, Stanley Cloisonne, a clean cut rather handsome man of medium build, was perhaps the most popular doctor in city hospital, at least with the patients in Ward L. According to momma he cheered patients with his winning personality. He more than any of her doctors helped in her relatively quick recovery and successful surgery. When momma entered the hospital for the skin graft, there were plenty of reservations, not all financial. Dr. Stan apparently saw personal problems inhibiting momma's otherwise rapid recovery. Though her leg healed well, momma must have displayed signs of depression and unhappiness at the prospects of returning home soon.

She later recalled the day before her dismissal, he entered the ward probably like always, but this time she was not looking. When he approached momma's bed that day, Dr. Stan could not help but notice the contrast between momma's mood and the cheerful atmosphere of the room. An array of Christmas cards and brightly colored decorations made the room a festive kaleidoscope of red, white and green. A tiny Christmas tree occupied the center of the large airy room; its branches lovingly laden with silver tinsel and hand painted ornaments. Beneath its artificial branches, gifts donated by the hospital's staff bore the names of Ward L's patients. On Christmas day, those no released would celebrate, opening the presents.

Most of Stan's patients welcomed the coming festive occasion. Momma no doubt made a noteworthy exception. With the passage of each day, I am certain she grew more despondent, concerned about us. Momma was always thinking about making a way for us. In previous years, lean though they had been, somehow she put away a little and purchased our Christmas toys in advance, storing them in her secret place to thaw the curious. It was part of her "making a way out of no way" philosophy of life. This year, no matter how hard she worked all the extra money was spent so she could have this much need surgery. Being momma, she probably felt guilty for using all the money. Momma admitted Dr. Stan chastised her about being so gloomy. Assuring her she would be home for Christmas, and reminding her to keep her faith and believe that God will somehow make a way.

Against his better judgement, momma's doctor allowed himself to be persuaded into sending momma home earlier than anticipated with the threat of re-admittance should she not follow his advise to the letter. Two brief days before Christmas, momma was discharged from John Gaston's Hospital on the condition she remained in bed. Under no circumstances was she to try and walk, nor was she to make any effort to resume anything resembling her normal routine, until advised by her doctor to do so. Of course, being bed ridden, momma was unable to do little more than direct us in cleaning the house and preparing meals. The mood in our small house remained subdued despite momma's return. Every effort to bring some cheer fell short. Having momma home was definitely a blessing for us. Now, we anxiously awaited Santa Claus.

To prevent the disappointment sure to accompany Santa Claus' failure to appear, momma reaffirmed daddy's earlier warning. After dinner, momma, with us sitting around her, explained why we should not expect Christmas toys this year. The words did not come easily. We watched as momma valiantly fought to keep tears at bay. Nonetheless, her eyes overflowed. I wanted desperately to make momma feel better; she deserved to be happy she gave so much to everybody, especially us. I got up from where I sat at momma's feet, and placing my arms around her neck, I said with childish honesty, "Momma, we already got the best Christmas present of all, you." I meant it; the others did too!

Momma could no longer hold back the swell of tears; big drops cascaded down her round bronzed cheeks. "Momma don't be sad; don't cry momma," I recalled pleading.

"Oh baby, yo momma ain't sad at all. These things here," she indicated pointing at a tear, "are the jewels of my happiness spilling over with joy." Pretty soon every eye in the room suspiciously shone with momma's jewels of joy; we were rich beyond imagination. For momma's entertainment, we staged an impromptu talent show; momma loved to hear us sing her favorite Christmas carols, dance, tell stories and recite our favorite poems. That night in momma's honor we performed better than ever; it was a joyous evening.

Like the day before, Christmas morning was extremely cold, dry and clear. The windows in the little house were frosted over from the cold of the outside and the valiant efforts of the room heaters to warm the inside. We arose early filled with anticipation, a Christmas morning custom. We huddled around the gas heater and playfully jockeyed as usual for the best position to enjoy the meager warmth it provided. Daddy, my sister and me worked together to make breakfast. No one mentioned the absence of Christmas presents; no one lamented aloud the fact that Santa failed to make an appearance, we knew better. It would only make momma feel worse, destroying the blessing we received in getting momma well. Just like daddy said. We were happy to have momma back home, though sorely wishing Santa had come. After breakfast, there was absolutely nothing to do, except try to remain warm, and pretend nothing was wrong. The familiar sounds of Christmas could be heard beyond the thin walls of the house as other children came outside riding shiny new bikes, shooting cap guns and trying out new roller skates. Their joyous shrills of childish laughter rang out accentuating Santa's failure to visit our house.

Our daily chores were completed in record time. How much cleaning could one do in a three-room house? So, we stood silently around the room heater. As the day wore on, we tried to hold the disappointment at bay. An impromptu talent showcase chased our blues away. Momma always enjoyed watching our antics as we vied for attention trying to out do one another dancing, singing and telling lies to make her smile. The talent showcase was soon in full swing with everyone laughing and having fun. Momma started singing; soon, every voice in the house joined in; before we knew it, the disappointment of Santa faded, we were filled with the true spirit of Christmas, every heart in that house, big and small, knew the meaning of unselfish love and the boundless joy of giving. We were truly blessed; we had each other and momma. We were poorer than dirt, but richer than kings.

Through the long afternoon, the spirit of Christmas lingered slowly waning as the day dragged on. We were once again engaged in the ritual of vying for heater space, when a knocked sounded at the door. Opening the front door, daddy peered at a man standing there precariously balancing a big box. Before daddy could ask who was calling, to everybody's amazement, his head popped from behind the big carton. There he stood a tall man dressed in dark blue suit and long camel coat; his face clean-shaven and pink. He wore a white shirt and a red, white and blue necktie. When the man leaned from behind his box, daddy recognized the gentleman as momma's doctor. Before daddy could respond the doctor greeted daddy saying, "Hello." "Merry Christmas," he added as daddy stared wondering what he was doing there. "May I come in?" the man politely inquired as he balanced the box awkwardly against one side.

"Why sho'," daddy said, reclaiming his lost composure. "And a Merry Christmas to you too, sir. Come on in out of the cold, " daddy invited. Remembering his manners, daddy opened the screen door wide to allow the man and his big cardboard box inside.

Surprising everyone further, rather than come inside, the doctor handed daddy the large box he carried saying, "Please take this for me, I have something else in the car." Daddy took the box, the young man dashed back down the steps to a shiny black car parked in front of the house. He reached inside and retrieved two more boxes. Balancing the boxes one atop the other, the man came back up the steps onto the porch. Daddy held the screen door open and the man entered our house. Silently, we watched in wonderment. All activity in the room ceased. We stood like solders at attention arrayed against the wall looking from our parents to the stranger standing in our front room. Blinking to adjust his eyes to the somewhat gloomy interior, the man spied momma perched in the large bed occupying one corner. Sitting his boxes down, the stranger said a general "hello" to all of us and made his way to momma.

"Well, "he said, "I see you are following my advice and staying off that leg. How are we doing Ada?" the man charmingly inquired

"I'm doing just fine doctor!" she enthusiastically replied. Momma appeared really happy to see the man, a stranger to us, but apparently well known to daddy and momma. Momma introduced us all to Dr. Stan. After identifying everyone by name pointing at each of us, she proudly said, "This is Dr. Stan, who operated on my leg. Say hello," she instructed, and in unison, we enthusiastically responded, "Hello, Doctor Stan!" Momma told us some nice things about the hospital's doctors and nurses.

"And hello again to all of you," he said, looking briefly at each of us. Dr. Stan politely shook daddy's hand, saying, "It's a pleasure to see you again Fred. Ada talked so much about all of you, I feel as if I already know you. You are a lucky family to have Ada. She has been a model patient. Everyone at the hospital loves her. But, all she could talk about was getting well, leaving us and returning home to you. She badgered me until I had no choice but to allow her to come home for Christmas."

Daddy smiled; we giggled knowing well when momma wanted something badly enough nothing could stand in her way, certainly not the lanky young man identified as her doctor. As our notion of doctors went, he did not look much like a doctor; he seemed far too young looking to fit our image of those august professionals. Very tall, well over six feet, Dr. Stan wore a long camel overcoat with black leather gloves, nothing covered his close cropped light brown hair. His bright blue eyes twinkled with health and happiness; his cheeks though lean were rosy from the cold, as was his rather aristocratic looking nose; he was really pink all over.

He smiled at us and winked. "Now we all know who is really in charge," he said, and everyone laughed outright. Laughing himself, Dr. Stan began removing his overcoat. Daddy hurried to assist him apologizing for his lapse saying, "Where are my manners, please let me take your coat and have a seat," he invited, pointing to the sofa occupying the wall opposite the momma's bed.

"Right here is fine Fred," he said. As he handed daddy his coat and gloves, Dr. Stan moved to sit on the side of momma's bed. "I have something for you and your family, a few things to help you celebrate Christmas." Looking down at momma, he said, "I know how worried you've been about the holiday, and I wanted no excuses for your complete recovery."

With tears in her eyes, momma smiled up at the young doctor. She placed her work-roughened hands in his and squeezing she quietly said, "Thank you. I can never say how much this means to us."

"I know Ada, " he assured her, "you don't have to say a word."

Moving from her side, Stan reached for the largest box sitting in the middle of the floor. Our eyes raptly followed his movements. He opened the flaps of the box and extracted a large doll. The blond blue-eyed baby doll stood about two feet tall; she wore a delicate dress adorned with white lace and ruffles. A matching bonnet graced her cap of blond curls; she wore white panties trimmed with lace and lace-trimmed white ruffled socks and black patent leather shoes. She was beautiful and practically brand new. Dr. Stan held the doll against his chest and looked directly at me saying, "This must be for you." I became short of breath; it was too exciting. I certainly wanted that doll, yet it somehow seemed wrong. It reminded me of how we lost one of our pets. Our folks decided to eat one for dinner. Did someone else's parents take away a playmate, I wondered. Would they be sad and miss it? I could not imagine not being sad over the loss of such a wonderful doll. At eight living in our deprived state, I could not conceive of someone willingly parting with a perfectly good doll, simply because another one could be readily purchased by parents with money.

Hesitantly, I looked from momma back to the man. Momma said, "Go on honey, it's yours, now."

No further encouragement necessary, I stepped eagerly forward with a ready "Thank you," unconsciously slipping from my lips. I could already envision endless hours playing house and eventually lovingly combing out all that blond hair. While not brand new, the barely used doll had all her curls in place. I vowed to correct the oversight. The used toy afforded more hours of fun than I can count throughout the following year.

"You're welcomed," Dr. Stan said as he again reached into the box pulling out two sets of cowboy cap pistols and matching hat sets. These were given to the twins. In that large box of used toys there were games and tea sets, something for everyone. Our excitement over the contents of that cardboard box recalled our joy at school when we received newly "used" books from the white schools in Shelby County. We exclaimed as each item left the box. Through it all, momma and daddy wore smiles glued in place, swallowing shame, secretly shedding a few more tears, and thanking the lord for Dr. Stan.

Once emptied, Stan pushed the big cardboard toy box aside; turning to one of the smaller boxes, he removed red meshed Christmas stockings filled with candy, fruits and nuts for each of us. The smallest box he handed to Ada and said, "And this is for you."

"You shouldn't have," she said, "you've already done too much."

"It's not my doing," he feigned innocence. "The hospital staff wanted to do something special for you; I just got appointed the job of delivery boy. I'm just sorry I couldn't get by last night, but I was on duty until real late. I just hope it aids in your recovery. We do want to get well and back on our feet again. Don't we?"

Nodding in customary agreement with the royal we, Ada opened the box and tears rose afresh to her eyes. Nestled on top of the box wrapped in white tissue paper was a pale blue gown. She pulled the gown from the box; a tear rolled down her brown cheek. Beneath the gown was a pair of matching bedroom slippers and a warm terry cloth robe. At the very bottom of the box, Ada discovered an assortment of nuts and fruits, she had sometime during her acquaintance with the hospital staff identified as her favorites because they were all there.

Tearfully, she said, "Thank you. Tell them all I said thank you a million times over for remembering me today."

"They know Ada," Stan said squeezing her hands again. "And you should know that you're welcomed." Dr. Stan informed momma that as soon as she was on her feet, there was a job waiting for her in his home. He'd discussed the possibility with his wife and she agreed that having Ada working in their home would help tremendously with the rearing of their children. Momma promised Dr. Stan she would consider the position.

Again thanking Dr. Stan, we gathered our loot and disappeared into the adjoining room to enjoy the unexpected holiday bounty. It wasn't until much later that evening long after Dr. Stan left that we remembered it was Christmas, and Santa failed to appear the night before. In fact, we were already convinced Santa was really Dr. Stan in a clever disguise. Our house overflowed with a joyful spirit; the sounds of our laughter mingled with the other children in our neighborhood. I am certain our joy could be heard for blocks away. Dr. Stan knew momma would enjoy a swift and complete recovery. What better gift for a doctor in any month to spread some joy and save a life, especially in the heart of winter. For us, Dr. Stan melted Memphis' cold December and gave us a Christmas to remember.