Christmas in '42

Mr. Goodings had come out of retirement to run the drugstore for Daddy, and Mommy ran deliveries in the Oldsmobile, so we had to save on gas. Thus, the train.

Even so, Mommy said that getting train tickets in December of '42 was like trying to buy your way into heaven. Servicemen who could get home for Christmas got dibs.

For the first time in my nine years, I didn't care about Christmas or going to Nona and Gramps'. Besides, Mommy had warned that there would be fewer gifts. Fortunately, I had made my gift for her at school, a pink felt pincushion with a tiny pink satin bow on top. But even that seemed cheap and shopworn now. What I really wanted was to curl up and sleep until the war was over.

I'd traveled by train twice before, but this passenger car was different from those others. Mommy said that because of the war, the government had hauled old railroad cars out of retirement. In our case, a really old car. The lamps were gas-lit and the seats covered in a harsh, prickly fabric. The air was overheated and thick with cigarette smoke and a lacing of whiskey.

"Stop squirming," Mommy said.

"I can't help it. These seats make my legs sore. They're going to be all red, and why do we have to go to Marshall anyway?"

"Because it's Christmas."

Since most of the passengers were soldiers and sailors heading home on leave, the atmosphere around me was jolly, even if I wasn't. Outside the window, the snow was falling. The gray of November always made everything look like an abandoned junkyard. But snow, thick and deep, like that sparkling in the moonlight and blanketing the fields, made the world look as glamorous as a "Thin Man" movie.

Mommy had baked chocolate cookies, dozens and dozens of them, with saved-up sugar stamps -- a treat for whoever showed up at Nona's for Christmas. A few "strays" always blew in at the last minute.

With night descending at 5 o'clock in late December, the gaslights were now dimmed and the shades drawn, so that enemy planes, should they drop out of the stars, would not spot our train. Something about the dimmed gaslight quieted the otherwise raucous servicemen. And, just like in the movies, one of them had a harmonica and began to play: "I Don't Want to Walk Without You."

Next to me, Mommy was sniffling, though ordinarily she was not the weepy type. But these soldiers, and the song, reminded her of Daddy. She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her eyes. Then she stood and lifted down the huge box of cookies from the shelf above. "Brenda, pass these around to the men," she said, shoving the box at me.

"You do it," I said, trying to shove it back. Though I was sometimes a "heller," I was rather shy around grownups. When Mommy and Daddy had parties, I never wanted to "come in and meet the guests." In fact, I hated it. Grownups said such dumb things when a child was paraded in to meet them. "Aren't you a cute little girl!" and, "I'll bet you're a great help to your Mommy." I wasn't particularly cute, and I had to be threatened before I picked up a dust cloth.

"Start at the end of the car," she told me.

The men were very polite, taking only one cookie each, and thanking me and Mommy. Some mentioned having children of their own, and several opened wallets to show me Dennis or Sally.

A number of men had procured last-minute leave, too late to acquire a regular seat. Desperate to get home for the holiday, they stood or sat balanced on the arms of seats, or hunkered down in the aisle on duffel bags. To these, I said, "Take two."

"I'll bet you're a great help to your Mom," said the sailor with the harmonica. And further down the aisle, a soldier told me I was a cute little girl. I began to wonder if perhaps it was true.

When the box was empty, I gave it to the conductor, who said he'd take care of it. Returning now to Mommy, I noticed that many of the men were nodding off, lulled by the swaying of the car and the clickety-clack of the wheels.

I pondered for a moment. "Like Christmas," I said, and closed my eyes.