Christmas is Love and Sharing

Just because you're 65 and your joints creak when you arise from your favorite chair, a lot of younger folks think you're dotty-senile, the doctors would say-and tend to speak to you in simple terms, as to a small child.

They smile knowingly, but hold their tongues, when they see a frowzy, badly scuffed Teddy Bear that I keep locked in the china closet with the curved glass front, the one where my wife used to keep all her treasures. For the mangy bear with the floppy ears and one brown eye missing looks strangely out of place between gleaming pieces of Lotus Ware and other prized examples of the potters' art.

If a visitor occasionally presses for an answer, I tell him: "Oh, that's just an old Teddy Bear I got when I was a little kid. I just never got around to throwing it out." But the truth is that I don't like to tell the real story of the sad looking old bear because it brings tears to my eyes, makes me uncomfortable and stirs up memories from a long time ago. Some things are private, you know, even in this day when the government agencies and their like believe that nobody should have secrets.

But my grandson, Billy Bishop, was here the other afternoon for one of his usual visits. Billy and I have man-to-man talks often, and there's nothing I would deny him, even the story of my Teddy Bear.

He climbed on my knee in the livingroom after we had drunk our milk and eaten our cookies. And for at least the hundredth time, staring straight at that old china closet with its claw feet and its gilt trim, he singled out the Teddy Bear and asked me about it.

"Well, Billy," I said. "I'm going to tell you a story, a true story about a little boy just like you. It goes way, way back when I was a little fellow like yourself, clear back into the middle of the 1920's. I hope you will remember it. For one of these days, you are going to be the owner of that Teddy Bear, for I intend to leave it to you.

"There's a lot more to this story than just a Teddy Bear. For it is about love and trust and kindness-and Christmas. If you listen closely and remember it well, then someday you will be able to tell it to your grandson."

"Tell me, Grandpa," the little fellow said. "I promise to remember."

"Well, Billy, as I told you, it all happened back about 1925, when my mother and father lived in this same house. I was the little boy in the family. I was 6 then. Our home was just as it is now, except that there was a rambling rose in the front yard, where the pine tree is now. And there was a small sign screwed to the siding above the door bell button. It said 'Mr. and Mrs. William A. Bishop.'

"William A. Bishop was my father, your great-grandfather. And his wife, my mother, was Nellie Bishop. I was named for my father, only I was William B. Bishop. So you can see where your name came from.

"My father worked in the pottery and my mother stayed home and kept house. We weren't rich, but we weren't poor either. I guess you could call us average. This part of W. Sixth St. was mostly all houses then, not cluttered with vacant lots and empty storerooms the way it is now. The trouble began right after Thanksgiving. My father came down with an awful sickness. And one day they came and took him away. My mother said he had to go to the hospital because he had diphtheria, an awful disease in those days.

"So, as I say, that was when the bottom fell out of everything for our family. The men from my father's shop took up collections every payday and brought my mother a few dollars, but it never seemed to be enough to buy the groceries and pay the rent.

"The days went by and things seemed to get more and more bleak. I wasn't allowed to go to the hospital to see Father. When Mother came home after one of her twice-daily visits she always seemed grim and distracted. I knew Father was not improving. Aunt Mollie Bishop came in from her house in Calcutta to stay with us while Father was in the hospital. Aunt Mollie was kind and understanding and lenient, for she did not have any children of her own.

"Sometimes she would give me three pennies and ask me to walk up to the Diamond and buy a newspaper for her. There were always two cents for the paper and a penny for a piece of candy for me. Late November was very warm that year, the same kind of weather we had here a few weeks ago.

"So that's how I happened to meet Mr. Herbert Andrews. I walked past him a number of times before he spoke to me-at least four or five days on my trips to the Diamond to buy my aunt's newspaper. He was a forbidding figure, a menacing figure.

"He took the pale afternoon sun by sitting bolt upright on the bench in front of the pharmacy about two blocks from our house. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, every button unbuttoned. He wore a stiff, starched collar with a stringy blue tie.

"But best of all, I remember that his hat was positioned squarely on his head, as though he had used a carpenter's level to get it just so. And he held a cane upright between his knees, with his hands locked on top of it. Most of the time he seemed to be staring directly across the street, although for the life of me I don't think there was anything over there worth seeing.

His face was a pasty color, almost dead white. The darkness of his whiskers, although he was always shaved closely, gave a bluish tinge to his skin.

"Well, anyway, one day as I walked by with the newspaper under my arm and a piece of penny candy in my mouth, Mr. Andrews turned his head slightly and said to me: 'Hello there, young fellow.'

"I stopped in my tracks, for I was not certain at first who had spoken. But he gestured with one hand, as though inviting me to sit on the bench with him. Cautiously, I slid onto the seat, several feet from him. Mr. Andrews did not talk about much of any importance when I first met him, just asked my name and where I lived and things like that.

"But gradually as the days went by and I stopped each afternoon to sit with him for a few minutes, he wormed the story out of me-the story of my father's illness and his stay in the hospital and the way it all worried my mother because she never seemed to have enough money. He would shake his head slightly in agreement and ask more questions.

"One thing I forgot to mention. In the lapel of that old-fashioned suit, there was a little crimson rectangle of ribbon. I asked him if he received it for something like perfect Sunday School attendance or maybe in a spelling bee.

"Mr. Andrews told me it meant he had the V.C. That was a mystery to me, you can be sure, even when he told me the initials stood for Victoria Cross. He seemed proud of that little bit of ribbon. And of I learned later why he squared his shoulders and got a distant look in his eye when he mentioned the V.C. For it is the most highly-prized military decoration in Great Britain, as I know now. He brought the actual medal with him one day, folded very carefully inside a heavy piece of flannel cloth and kept in a small blue velvet box. And he read the inscription to me. I can remember the words clearly: 'For conspicuous bravery in the presence of the enemy…'

"As our friendship grew closer, Mr. Andrews began to ask me what I wanted for Christmas. I told him my mother had promised last fall that Santa Claus would bring me a brown, fuzzy Teddy Bear, just like the one in the window in the variety store on the corner. But something had happened since my father became ill and she said that Santa might not be able to keep all of his promises that year.

"Mr. Andrews listened intently, muttering a word now and then to let me know he understood. But he told me not to give up hope, because Santa Claus sometimes found he had a last minute overstock of toys and he might be able to bring my Teddy Bear after all.

"I did not have much hope of that, for I knew that what my mother told me almost always proved to be true. But Mr. Andrews insisted that Santa was a miracle-worker, particularly when it came to filling the wishes of good little boys and girls, and that I should not give up hope.

"Mr. Andrews wasn't well, you see. He had been wounded in the Battle of the Somme. And later he had breathed poison gas, before he could get his mask on. He told me he came to the United States to work in the potteries after the war, but the company let him go because he could not do a full day's work. So he was living on a British Army pension. And it was a very small one, I am sure, for he lived in one tiny room on the top floor of a dilapidated brick building on Dresden Ave.

"I guess he sat on that bench in the sunshine whenever the weather was nice because it was much more pleasant than the room where he lived. He had a sink in the corner and a tiny table and a bed-not much else. The only window looked out to the rear of the building, into a dank alley.

"Ah, that was a beautiful Teddy Bear. One particularly warm afternoon in December when Mr. Andrews was feeling chipper, he asked me to show him the bear that I wanted above all else for Christmas.

"So he took my hand and we paraded along Sixth St., a strange combination, you can be sure. For there was the old British Army man, walking with a brisk, military stride, despite the cane. And I trotted along beside him in my high-topped shoes and corduroy knickers, sweater and cap, trying mightily to keep up without showing what an effort it was for me.

"We passed the wallpaper store and the pawnshop and then came to a halt in front of the variety store. I pressed my finger against the glass to show him the Teddy Bear, looking very lifelike there in the window. When the bear was new he had a wide red ribbon around his neck. And his fur was long and glossy.

"I stood there for a long time admiring the bear and Mr. Andrews stood beside me, with a small grin on his face. He left me for a moment and went inside to ask the store-keeper something. Then he came out again and we marched back to our bench about two blocks away.

"Well, the days hurried by then, until it seemed like Christmas Eve arrived in no time. My father was still in the hospital, but Mother said he was improving and would be back with us soon. We found a tiny Christmas tree for 35 cents late on the afternoon before Christmas when the dealers were desperate to get rid of the last of their stock. After a long struggle, we managed to get it to stand upright in a corner of the livingroom. Then we decorated it with all the familiar ornaments.

"Before I went to bed that evening, my mother reminded me once again that Santa Claus might not have many gifts for me. She made a great point of emphasizing that I should not expect to receive a Teddy Bear. She said something about hospital and doctors' bills with no money coming in to the house. So I understood very plainly that I would awaken to a bleak Christmas day.

"But I was out of bed shortly after dawn on Christmas morning. My mother followed me down the stairs, for she heard my furtive steps. The livingroom was cold and half dark, for she had not started a fire yet in the coal stove against the wall. Underneath the tree, I saw a pitifully small pile of presents. There was a puzzle and a top and a pair of long black stockings. And an orange. That was it.

"I did my best to hide my disappointment, not very successfully, I fear. But mother started a fire in the coal stove and went into the kitchen to fix my usual breakfast of rolled oats. Just as I settled down at the table for the meal, I heard loud footsteps on the front porch and shouts of 'Ho, Ho, Ho.' And then there was a tremendous loud rap on the front door.

"My mother told me to finish my breakfast and she would answer the door. I think she feared someone was bringing bad news about Father.

"I heard her open the door and exchange a few words with the caller. Then the door slammed and the footsteps moved off the porch. Mother came into the kitchen carrying a large package, wrapped in red and green Christmas paper and tied with a huge bow. She handed it to me.

"'How exciting,'" she said. "'That was Santa Claus at the front door just now. He said he was late-that we were his last stop this year. But he did not want to forget you.'

"I only half heard what she was saying, for I was so eager to rip open the wrapping. It seemed like I had received one genuine Santa Claus gift after all. And as I pulled away the ribbon and broke through the paper, there was that big, beautiful Teddy Bear staring back at me.

"I was overwhelmed. When I turned I could see tears in mother's eyes. But she was smiling broadly. She read me the note tied to the bear's ribbon. It said: 'Christmas Is Love and Sharing.'

"But then I remembered-Santa Claus had left the package and he had walked off our porch. Where was he? I dashed to the front porch and looked in both directions. All I could see was the lonely figure of a man, far distant on W. Sixth St., walking with a determined stride. But his clothing was dark. Obviously, he was not Santa Claus!

"Well, Billy, that was the brightest Christmas in all my boyhood days, for I had been expecting little or nothing and I received that beautiful Teddy Bear, who was to be my companion for years. He slept with me, he often sat at the table when I ate. And we carried on many, many long serious conversations, sharing our secrets. Every little boy should have a Teddy Bear.

"A few days later, Father arrived home from the hospital, much better but still pale and weak. The doctor told him to rest until after New Year's and then he could go back to work. About the same time, Mother asked me about my friend, Mr. Andrews. I nearly had forgotten him. Mother said she thought he was a particularly nice man and that we should go to visit him. She baked one of her prize apple pies as a present for him.

"Together we walked along Sixth St. and then turned south onto Dresden Ave. looking for the narrow door that we knew gave access to the stairway to his lone room on the top floor of the business building. But when we arrived at the top of the steps, we encountered a woman who said Mr. Andrews did not live there anymore. She was busy cleaning the one small room that had been his home.

"It seemed to me that the place was not much larger than a big clothes closet. There was a tiny single bed against the window and a straight chair nearby. And on the wall we saw a series of shelves that a man would use to keep his shaving gear and his watch and cufflinks.

"The landlady pointed to a rectangular spot that was not as big as the palm of a man's hand. That's where he kept the box that held the peculiar-looking Limey medal, she confided. He dusted it every day, even though he was not that particular about the rest of his house-keeping, she said. But she had noticed it was gone a few days before he moved out, saying that he thought he would go back to England and seek the medical treatment that the Army owed him as a veteran.

"My mother stared at the light rectangle on the shelf, but did not say anything. The landlady told us Mr. Andrews seemed to have very little money, only a small British pension. She said a day or so before he left, he received a letter from his sister that must have contained the money he needed to buy a steamer ticket to Liverpool.

"I still remember that dark, dank stairway leading to the street. It was a relief to leave behind the odor of stale, cooked cabbage and laundry and sweat and step out into the fresh air on the sidewalk.

"As we walked toward our home again, my mother paused and stared in the variety store window, noting the absence of the bear, I am sure, and then we stopped in front of the pawnshop window. She stared at that for awhile, too, but said nothing. As we resumed our walk homeward, I could hear her say to nobody in particular: 'What a fine man.'

"There's a long break here in the story of the bear. Mr. Andrews was gone. I was busy growing up and going to school. But the Teddy Bear was my companion for a lot of those years. The story of the bear resumes again in the early 1940s when the United States entered the war and I became a soldier.

"When my outfit arrived in England, training for the eventual invasion of the Continent, one of my mother's letters suggested that I attempt to see if I could locate our friend Mr. Andrews by writing to the British War Office. She said since he was a wounded veteran of the first war and since he held a high decoration, he still would be on their records.

"Sure enough, in that first December in England, I received a very formal reply from the British War Office telling met that Mr. Andrews still was alive, but not very well. He was a patient in a veteran's hospital not more than a hundred miles from where I was stationed. When I confided this to my mother in a letter, she mailed me a small package, with instructions to present it to Mr. Andrews if I could get a day off to go to the hospital.

"So it was a chilly Christmas Eve in 1943 when I rode the train to the village where his hospital was located. The nursing sister told me he was a wheelchair patient, but his mind was alert and he was in good spirits. In a minute, I was face to face with the man I had not seen since I was a small boy.

"He seemed much smaller now. His hair had turned stark white and he was badly stooped. But I knew instantly it was Mr. Andrews, the man who had befriended a little boy with a sick father so many years before.

"He smiled broadly when he saw me standing, tall and bulky in the Yank uniform. But the instant I spoke my name, I could see a flash of recognition in his eyes. I knew he remembered his East Liverpool experience, too. We talked for a moment about my family and the war and his health.

"And then I remembered the small package my mother had told me to deliver to Mr. Andrews. She had wrapped it in white tissue paper tied with a big red bow. Luckily it had traveled well, encased in a heavy cardboard package. Mr. Andrews opened the package with trembling fingers, after protesting that she should not have sent him a gift.

"There was a startled look on his face when he removed the white paper and discovered the box underneath. And then he opened it, to reveal-gleaming like new-a Victoria Cross decoration from World War I.

"Mr. Andrews caught his breath and stared, obviously unable to speak. And when he removed the medal to admire it, he brought out a note on yellowing paper that had been tucked underneath: 'Christmas Is Love, and Sharing.'

"'Your mother, bless her,' he said. 'She saw through my little trick,' When he saw the questioning look in my eyes, he explained.

"He had been determined, he said, to get that bear for the little boy for Christmas those many years ago. But with no money, two days before Christmas, he pawned the only valuable he had-the Victoria Cross. And when he left a short time later to return to England, he still did not have the money to redeem the medal. He had believed for nearly 20 years that his prized medal was gone-the price he paid for making a little boy's Christmas happy.

"'But your mother put two and two together and realized I had pawned my V.C.' he said. 'She redeemed it a long time ago and now sent it back to me, carried by her son.'

"I was overwhelmed, for I never had connected the bear's arrival with the prized medal. I knew instantly what had happened. And I realized the extent of the sacrifice the old soldier had made for a little boy's happiness.

"And that's the end of the story, Billy, except that a few years after the war I received an official-looking letter from that British hospital. Mr. Andrews was dead, it said, and his last bequest to me was enclosed.

"In the spidery writing of the very old, I read his note: 'Always remember this.' And he enclosed the note that I found with my bear when I was a little boy, the same note that traveled back to England with his Victoria Cross: 'Christmas Is Love and Sharing.'

"That's the end of the story, Billy. I hope you remember it each time you see that frowzy old teddy bear. And Merry Christmas!"