The Christmas Dime

 The Christmas of 1969 is one that I will never forget. My family had been through a terrible year--my mother died, and my father remarried very quickly. I was just barely fourteen and felt confused, depressed, and isolated. My daddy seemed to love my new stepmother and her daughter more than he did me.

Christmas Day was a disaster. My stack of presents was small compared to my stepsister's. My stepmother was "ill," so I had to cook chili for Christmas supper, instead of our usual ham and all the fixings.

     But then, a bright spot. Usually, we went visiting on Christmas Day--traveling around Miami to see my grandmother, aunts, uncles, various cousins, and, especially, my Great-grandma Crenshaw. This year, it was decided that we would stay at home, but Grandmother and Grandma came to see US. 

     Grandma was an amazing woman. She had experienced so much--from Dixieland to Rock and Roll; from the birth of flight to the moon landing; from the mule wagon to the Model T to the Camero; two World Wars, the Korean War, the Viet Nam War, and the Depression. Births and deaths; gain and loss. Faith and loss of faith. Grandma was barely literate, but she was so wise about life.

    Grandma was poor, so she didn't give us presents. But that year, as she left, she slipped me an envelope. "Shhh, don't tell the others," she said. I took that envelope to my room and opened it. Inside I found a recycled Christmas card with "I love you, from Grandma" laboriously written in pencil. And included in that card was a dime. One dime. I began crying because that small gift, that dime, that widow's mite, showed me that I was still loved by someone. That dime was the most precious gift I have ever received for Christmas.