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The
Spirit of Christmas
Submitted by Kate Burch & Lyn Bliss
The Dayton Report, By Ron Browning
It was just about a year ago and as it turned out, one of the colder
days of the winter. It certainly was not the coldest day of the year,
and the snow that fell was less than some other days, but the wind was
gusting just enough to make it miserable to be outside.
The foot traffic in my neighborhood is usually loud enough (people
pushing grocery carts full of metal to the scrap yard) that I can tell
if the weather has gotten worse. It takes a lot of pain to keep the
homeless types from cashing in their scrap. It was very quiet for a
weekday.
If the snow had been deeper that day, school would have been canceled,
and if that happened, the after-school program that I volunteered at
would have also been canceled. Our rule was to mirror what the schools
did. If they are open, we are open.
I can’t say that I was hoping for more snow and a shutdown of the
schools but I really was not thrilled about what lay ahead that night.
My work had me out of the weather, thankfully, but spending all day in
an unheated warehouse was taking a toll. At 39 degrees or so I can
dress to stay comfortable but there is no way to keep the cold concrete
slab from stealing the heat from boots. My feet reminded me of the
temperature all day long. Additionally, the clothes (and shoes) that I
would change into for the program sat in a bag in the same 39 degrees.
And so the hours passed, the sunset, and the temperature continued its
slow decline. At 5:30 PM we stood in the stairwell of the church,
looking out through double doors into the snow covered parking lot.
Overhead security lights lit the path to our door.
Within minutes a chorus of voices could be heard approaching. As had
been the recent norm, five siblings (three girls, two boys: 4 thru 10
years old) would travel together and be the first to arrive. A gust of
wind and a swirl of snow entered the building along with Makayla, the
first child to walk thru the door.
As with any of the children I look at their face first. Their
expression may tell more than they are willing to share. With Makayla,
it was that day the same as it almost always was, a beaming smile. She
is a happy 6 year old.
Immediately after seeing her face and seeing her mood, I turn my
attention to her shoes. There is nothing more predictable than children
arriving at the program with untied shoe strings. Makayla did not
disappoint me on this day and I directed her to sit on the top stair
for me to untangle the mess that was her attempt at tying her shoes.
As I focused on Makayla I did not notice her youngest brother, Deonte,
4 years old, who sat down on the top step next to us. I became aware of
him, suddenly, howling and crying at the top of his lungs. I turned the
few inches to look at him and my attention went from his face, then to
his shoes. They were dark gym shoes, frosted white with snow. The laces
hung off to the side with a knot tying the ends together. The flaps of
his shoes were open wide. I pulled his shoes off one at a time and
tapped them on the stairs, upside down. Snow poured from the shoes.
There was so much snow I did not understand how his feet could have fit
in them also. As I pulled off his socks he continued to scream. Those
cold damp socks were a sign of the battle between the warmth in his
body and the cold of the snow. The snow was winning, it seemed to me.
I placed both of his cold clammy tiny feet in the palm of my left hand,
and placed my right hand over the top. I pressed hard and rubbed back
and forth. As the friction dissipated the moisture and raised the
temperature of Deonte’s feet, the volume of his cries lowered and
lowered until he went silent.
Without an obvious better plan, I sent him to his carpeted classroom,
without any objections. I spent the next hour and a half (not very
successfully) trying to find a way to dry his shoes and socks. In the
end he was sent off into that cold December night with his four
siblings. With the temperature continuing to drop and the unrelenting
wind, the five children would cross N. Main St. and travel some unknown
amount of blocks to reach their home. I had watched them cross Main St
many times before. The ten year old girl leads the pack. She carefully
waits for the traffic light to change and then subtly starts them on
the way. Deonte always trails the group taking large steps to try to
keep up. As long as the cars that race up and down Main St stop for the
red lights, the kids with be safe.
As I headed home to my safe warm home, I was thankful that Deonte had
screamed a reminder into my ear. A reminder that my problems are
actually very small compared to many around me. Life presents lots of
reminders if I can only pay attention.
I tried to write this story down last year but I waited long enough
that the weather had warmed up. I found that I could not make use of
mere words to convey the coldness that will make a boy scream and cry.
I don’t think language is up to the task. My use of the English
language is certainly not up to it. I filed the story away in my memory
and waited for the cold to return. It may make more sense to the reader
if they do something similar.
Ron
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