It seems so long ago, 58 years (62 years now!), yet I’m reminded of our first date every year by the headlines from back then…
(Original Caption) New York, New York: Headlines announcing Kennedy’s assassination from three New York newspapers, the Times, the Daily News, and the Herald Tribune. November 23, 1963.
I was eagerly anticipating our first date. We were supposed to go to a fall dance at the high school. We hardly knew each other…had just met in English class our senior year, even though we had been in the same schools since 7th grade. Our paths had not crossed in any class before.
We were in our afternoon classes when the PA announcements came on that President Kennedy had been shot. We all listened in stunned silence. Over the next few hours, we were bombarded with all the speculations from the news media, our teachers and our classmates. The details would unfold over the days and weeks (and years!) to follow.
Many of the pictures in the news are still familiar to me today:
President John Kennedy rides in a motorcade from the Dallas airport into the city with his wife Jacqueline and Texas Governor Johhn Connally.Lyndon B. Johnson, during his inauguration immediately after John F. Kennedy’s assassination, with Jackie Kennedy by his side.
This picture always hits me hard:
Members of the Kennedy family at the funeral of assassinated president John F. Kennedy at Washington DC. From left: Senator Edward Kennedy, Caroline Kennedy, (aged 6), Jackie Kennedy (1929 – 1994), Attorney General Robert Kennedy and John Kennedy (1960 – 1999) (aged 3). (Photo by Keystone/Getty Images)
By the time I got home from school the world had changed. I think we were all in shock. All I could think about was what a relief it would be to go to a dance to feel somewhat normal again…if only for a few hours.
Of course, we had not gotten the memo that the dance was cancelled! (No quick texting back then!). So…I got all dressed up, Bert came over to pick me up and we went to the school. Oh no! The sign on the door gave us a reality check! We headed back home to just go for a walk around my neighborhood and talk. We hardly knew each other so it was an awkward time.
It was also a memorable beginning to our relationship that I will be reminded of every year. I guess it stuck, because 58 years later (now 62 years!) we’re still together!
UPDATE:
We married in 1967 so this year we’ve been 58 years!).
Here we were in 1968 (we eloped in 1967…had a reception in 1968…that’s a whole other story!)
Here we were in 2021…
and in 2025!
For such a pivotal moment in our lives, this event was hardly mentioned in the news today…however, we will never forget that day!
Yesterday I followed a rabbit trail of ideas about my family history. I started with the fiction novels I was reading about the Scottish Highlands and the descriptions of the Tartan plaids that various groups were wearing. Characters could identify friend and foe from a distance, depending on the colors they were wearing. The various colors were associated by Clan name.
Of course, my maternal grandfather’s line was the LOWRY name, back at least 5 generations and I remember my mother saying the Lowry’s were Scotch-Irish Americans. I tried looking up the name Lowry in the Scottish list of clans…nothing. So, I pulled up my genealogy program and found the generation listed before coming to America…and lo and behold, there was my 3rd great grandfather, Morrow B. Lowry…born in 1752 in Grey Abbey, County of Down, Northern Ireland!
I discovered the Tartan plaids in Ireland are associated by County name so I was able to look up the Tartan plaid for Down county!
The County Down tartan, representing the county in Northern Ireland, is a traditional plaid pattern primarily featuring brown and orange with gray and sky blue accents. The tartan’s colors are symbolic: blue represents the sea, orange and brown represents the earth and landscape, while gray reflects the granite found in the region.
Of course, then I had to check out the history of Northern Ireland in Wikipedia.
My goodness! Northern Ireland has been struggling with invaders forever! The region now known as Northern Ireland was historically inhabited by Irish-speaking Gaels. It consisted of several Gaelic kingdoms within the province of Ulster. In 1169, Ireland was invaded by Anglo-Norman forces under the English crown, initiating centuries of foreign dominance and religious strife.
Many rebellions, battles and wars are documented and remembered to this day. During the Scottish famine of the 1690s, many Scots migrated to Ulster Province adding to the conflicts. You can read many more details on Wikipedia. I had to print out the map to see how close Ireland is to Scotland (I think about 12 miles across the North Channel).
The following sentence clearly caught my attention:
Between 1717 and 1775, approximately 200,00 Ulster Presbyterians emigrated to the American colonies, where their descendants are known as Scotch-Irish Americans.
My mother was right! I suspect my 3rd great grandfather was one of those folks! My second great grandfather was born in Pennsylvania!
Here’s a picture of County Down coastline. It certainly brings my fiction novels to life!
So, what do I have left to remember my Lowry family history? I do have my grandfather’s pocket watch. He died before I was born but my brother is older so I’ll have to ask if he has any memories of him.
I also have a large silver-plated tea pot that has a real story! It weighs 5.58 pounds and could be polished up, but I hate to lose any silver plating that is left.
Tucked inside the pot was this story…written by my Aunt Winifred when she passed it on to my mother. I’m glad I can read cursive writing! I’ll type it out here, but I think I’ll include a copy in the pot so future generations can read it!
Silver (?) Tea Pot
The silver tea pot was brought from Pennsylvania by the William Dundas Lowrys who settled on a large farm near Rochester, Minnesota. They gave the tea pot to their son, Milnor Roberts Lowry (our grandfather) when he and his young wife (Mary Jane Wilcox Lowry) and their first baby our Uncle Will, came to Fergus Falls in a covered wagon in June 1871.
Milnor R Lowry started a feed store in Fergus Falls, which later became the first bakery in Fergus Falls. He and his family lived upstairs over the store.
He traded the silver tea pot to a Mr. Smith of Smiths Book Store for wall paper.
In June, 1945, a Mrs. Sidney Smith brought the tea pot to our house on Whitford St. She was the wife of one of Mr. Smith’s sons. She knew the history of the tea pot and thought it should go back to a member of the Lowry family.
Mother (Minnie Sweet Lowry) had the tea pot for a little while but was willing to give it to me when our father wanted me to have it. I was interested in family history at that time.
I gave the tea pot to you, Ruth (Lowry) Bixby, June, 1971
Winifred (Lowry) Nelson, 1971
Now that I’ve explored my Scotch-Irish heritage and seen the maps and pictures, my fiction novels feel more realistic! Now to figure out how the highlanders wrapped all that tartan fabric around them and then rode horses! Doesn’t seem to be very comfortable! Enjoy!
This is a repost of a story I wrote at the very beginning of my blogging days (2021). I’ve had requests from some family members who would like to see these photos again. Quite a journey for all of us!
One of the things I treasure from my parent’s generation was their foresight to save many written stories of their lives. Sometimes it was an envelope of letters from a loved one overseas; or stories they wrote for historical societies documenting life “back in the day” like my grandfather did.
As I get older, I feel like I’ve let the next generation down. Somehow, I was never able to document my life adventures as it happened with daily journals. I did discover I had saved about 12 years of Christmas letters I had written over the years. What a treasure! And this week, while sorting through photographs and computer files, I found my first attempt at my own autobiography. In 2013 I had written several letters to my grandchildren which summarized my early life. I needed the focus of who was going to read the letters and since my grandchildren were just learning to read, I thought about them as I wrote.
I started with an assortment of photographs, hoping to show how as the youngest, I was joining a “family” that already had had many experiences. For a long time that was confusing to me. My sister would say, “Don’t you remember when…?” and it turned out it was before I was born!
I’d like to share that first letter I wrote to my grandchildren.
________________________
April 17, 2013
Dear Aislinn, Annika, Ben and Anna,
My life story started when I was born in 1946 in New Jersey. Since I don’t remember those early years, thank goodness I have a few pictures of me when I was very small. I was born into a family that had been around for quite a few years already. My parents had been married for 11 years and already had two children. They had already lived in Minnesota and New Jersey and apparently had a cat!
Before I was a year old, we moved to State College, Pennsylvania. I don’t remember anything my family did before I was born. I had seen pictures of my sister and brother with grandparents and uncles and aunts that I had never met.
Here is a picture of my sister and brother with our Grandma Cora Bixby. She was my Father’s Mother. This Grandmother died before I was born.
All this is to remind you that your family (your parents, their parents, and their brothers and sisters) had adventures long before you were born. Have them tell you stories about some of those adventures! It took me a long time to realize that I had joined the family somewhere in the middle of the story. I have some pictures of me as a baby but I don’t remember much of anything before I was 3 years old. I think I remember the tricycle I got for my third birthday.
Here are some other pictures that show my sister feeding me and my brother playing with me on my new tricycle. Even today…both of us over 70 years old…my sister sometimes calls me her “baby sister.” That used to make me so mad because I’m all grown up now. She remembers me as a tiny baby and thought I was cute. So, I guess that’s OK.
Mark, Jean and baby Mary
Mary, about 1 year old
Mary, at 3 years old
Mark and Mary
Paul Bixby family around 1950
So…do you remember any early events in your life? Sometimes you can remember a feeling but sometimes you only remember seeing the picture. Don’t feel bad if you don’t remember things like your parents do. Ask them what they remember from being a baby. And then ask your Grandma or Grandpa to tell you a story from when your parents were a baby and see if your Mom or Dad remembers that story. Sometimes all they remember is seeing the picture and hearing the story! Your parents were born in the middle of a story too!
Here is a picture of Ted and Kathy playing with a laundry basket. Kathy was 1 year old and Ted was 2 ½. Ask them if they remember doing this, or if they just remember seeing the picture.
Never forget your life story started when you were born. You might not remember the first few years, but pictures can reassure you that you were part of the family from the beginning!
Love,
Grandma K.
_________________
So, don’t worry if you haven’t kept a daily journal. You can begin documenting your life story. Start with some pictures and create a story around them. Your children and grandchildren will treasure them forever.
My mother was the queen of depression-era cooking. Her meals weren’t fancy but they were frugal. She was married in 1935 and raised two kids during lean times while my dad was in college and finances were very tight. By the time I was born in 1946 our family was preparing to leave dad’s teaching job in New Jersey and move to State College and Penn State.
The lean times were finally in the past but my mother never let go of her efficient recipes and could make a meal out of a few leftovers. To this day, my favorite dish was her casserole that had some meat chunks, leftover vegetables and gravy topped with biscuits.
The Paul Bixby family around 1950
Somehow, I never watched how she made the gravy and I spent many years of my married life trying to duplicate those casseroles. I usually ended up with vegetable soup but could never seem to figure out how to make the broth into gravy. I often gave up and opened a jar of pre-made gravy or used a dry packet to make a cup of gravy.
A few years ago, I finally looked up on the internet how to make gravy and I’ve enjoyed being able to produce a nice gravy with juice left from cooking a roast in the crock pot or roasting chicken in the oven. Last week, I made a delicious chicken vegetable soup and wanted to convert it to my mother’s familiar casserole. I’d like to share the simple recipe with you.
1/4 cup all-purpose flour (or 2 tablespoons cornstarch)
2 cups chicken, beef, turkey or vegetable broth (or pan drippings…strained to remove gristle or fat)
Instructions:
In a medium-size saucepan, melt butter (or other fat) over medium high heat.
Whisk in flour (or cornstarch) until well combined and no white specks remain. Cook 2 minutes.
Slowly pour in broth and whisk well.
Bring to a simmer and heat until thickened to desired consistency, about 2 minutes, whisking constantly.
Making Gravy Out of Soup Broth
I started with a big bowl of my homemade chicken vegetable soup.
I pulled out my strainer and dumped the soup in to strain out the vegetables.
The recipe above is based on 2 cups of broth. You can see I had 3 cups of soup broth. So, I just increased the measurements of the fat and flour to make sure it would thicken properly.
I like to use coconut oil and all-purpose flour to make this gravy.
I measured out 3 tablespoons of coconut oil and melted it in the pan.
Then I added about 2/3 cup of all-purpose flour and stirred them together until all the flour was absorbed by the coconut oil.
Then, I added the soup broth to the oil/flour mixture and whisked until it was all combined. On medium heat, I stirred until it came to a boil, turned the heat down and stirred until it thickened…about a minute or two.
Finally, I added the gravy back to the vegetable soup and had the base for a chicken vegetable casserole!
Now for the biscuits! Of course, I had to try Bisquick like my mother used. She reminded me back then that in her high school Home Economics class she had memorized the ingredients to make biscuits from scratch and had usually done so. By the time I was born, she was thrilled to use Bisquick…such a time saver!
Luckily, I could use coconut milk (or almond milk) to make the biscuits. Of course, with the arthritis in my right hand, I had Bert mix up the biscuits. I just formed them into biscuit shapes and put them on a cookie sheet.
My mother would have spooned the raw biscuits on top of the gravy and vegetables and baked the casserole in the oven. I broke up a biscuit and spooned the hot gravy and vegetables on top of the biscuit. Worked for me!
Save this recipe and make your own gravy anytime! Enjoy!
I have only a few memories from the year my family spent in the Philippines in 1955-56. I was 9 years old and I’m sure my memories were influenced by my mother, who I spent most of my time with…compared to my older brother (15) and sister (18), who enjoyed the freedom to explore a new country without too much supervision. I have shared a few of my memories in this blog. You can read them here:
For some reason, today I was reminded of the experience of carolers coming to our door in the week before Christmas…1955 in the Philippines. I probably watched too many Hallmark movies this week where groups of folks were wandering the streets and neighborhoods in their fictional towns singing Christmas carols. If the snow was drifting down in the movie, the songs were about Dreaming of a White Christmas, and sleigh bells ringing.
I thought back to the songs I heard outside our door in the Philippines. You can be sure there were no drifting snow flakes or sleigh bells on horses on our street! The weather was warm and sultry…not cold and snowy! We heard traditional religious carols, like O Little Town of Bethlehem and Away in a Manger. The most common song…in my 9 year old memory…was Whispering Hope! I don’t recall ever hearing that song before or since…especially at Christmas. I barely remembered the tune.
Time to do a little research! First, I looked up the history of the song. It was written in 1868 by Septimus Winner (1827-1902). This article, by Pam Griffin, summarizes his life as follows:
STORY BEHIND THE SONG: From folk tunes to jail to ‘Whispering Hope’
“What could the comforting hymn “Whispering Hope” have to do with well-known little ditties such as “Listen to the Mockingbird,” “Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?” and “Ten Little Indians?” They were all written by Alice Hawthorne, one of the pseudonyms used by the 19th century songwriter Septimus Winner. The famous poet, composer and violinist, born in 1827 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, was the seventh child of Joseph Eastburn Winner and Mary Ann Hawthorne, a relative of Nathanial Hawthorne.
Winner, a self-taught musician, did study violin briefly around 1853 with Leopold Meignen, a former bandmaster in Napoleon’s army and a composer and conductor. Winner could play a variety of instruments, including the guitar and banjo, and became proficient in the violin by the age of 20. After graduating Philadelphia’s Central High School, he opened a music shop and gave lessons on a number of instruments and performed locally with the Cecillian Music Society and the Philadelphia Brass Band.
From 1845 to 1854, Winner and his brother, Joseph, formed a music publishing business, Winner & Shuster, which Winner continued with various partners and names until 1902. During this time, he wrote or edited 200 volumes of music for more than 20 instruments and produced more than 2,000 arrangements for violin and piano plus more than 1,500 easy arrangements for a number of instruments.
Winner, who died in Philadelphia from a heart attack in 1902 at the age of 75, was a frequent contributor to Graham’s Magazine, then edited by Edgar Allen Poe, and was the founder of Philadelphia’s Musical Fund Society. He was inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame in 1970.”By Pam Griffin (pgriffin@thedestinlog.com)
So, how about that! Next, I looked up the lyrics of the song. That helped me understand how it could fit into the Christmas spirit and the recent end of World War II. In 1955, we weren’t too far away from the end of that conflict. I found two versions of the lyrics…the original and a second version that was published as a hymn.
Original lyrics:
Lyrics published as a hymn:
Sheet Music
Finally, I went to musicnotes.com to find the easy piano version of sheet music for Whispering Hope, thinking maybe I could take it with me to our Christmas gathering at our daughter’s house. My grandson might be able to play the tune on the piano. It cost only $5 to print a copy from that website.
So, that’s the story of the song, Whispering Hope, from my memory in 1955. I found a recording of the song by Anne Murray on her album, Amazing Grace: Inspirational Favorites and Classic Hymns. I purchased the album on iTunes and will enjoy the song this season! I’ll add this song to my Christmas playlist.
Follow up
My grandson, Ben, tried to plink out the melody but he had no reference…he had never heard the song. He tried to quickly find the song on his phone so he could hear it. Not much luck! I also had trouble trying to fit the lyrics into the notes on the sheet music. He eventually lost interest in trying to help me…Christmas activities won the day! I’ll have to tackle this myself at my own keyboard.
That’s OK. He tried to help!
This weekend I’ll spend some time with my brother and Lita (his wife is from the Philippines). She should remember that Christmas long ago. Hopefully, she will remember that song too!
This Sunday I’d like to wish my Dad a Happy Birthday! He would be 111 years old (he made it to almost 99, so he hasn’t been gone too long!) I thought I’d share with you the story he wrote as he reflected on his childhood in his later years. It certainly explained why over the years he didn’t want us to make a big fuss over his birthday. Enjoy the story with me!
_____
BIRTHDAYS
My birthday was never celebrated. My Dad gave me a rational explanation in 1917 when I was four years old but the idea never reached me through the fog of psychological and theological mystery involved with the arrival of a baby sister Ruth in October. Sister June joined the family in the month of June when I was six and sister Lois, again in October, just before I was nine. It seemed clear to me and surely evident to Dad that birth events delivered girls to our family.
Dad and I were both born too close to the birthday of baby Jesus. Jesus was a boy but it was clear to me that his birth was one of a kind and not to be generally expected. Dad’s birthday was December 26 and mine was December 22. Probably our birthdays got lost in all the fuss about the baby Jesus celebration. The only firm conclusion I seemed able to make was that birthday celebrations were girl-things and that boys like Dad and me were out of the loop.
In successive years that conclusion was confirmed in practice. At supper on the 22nd mother would suddenly announce that the day was important in her life. After some moments while we all kept on eating and mother mused, she would say to her daughters: “Oh yes, now I remember. December 22 was the date Paul was born.”
Then Dad, also speaking to the girls, would continue: “Santa always helps with Paul’s birthday present. In fact, I think I saw his name on a package under the tree. Should Paul get it now so we can all see?”
All the little sisters would of course squeal “yes.” I would go into the cold, unheated parlor where the Christmas tree was always placed, choose a package with my name on it and come back to the supper table to open it. Usually, it was something I knew I was going to get because for weeks I had watched Mother making it in her spare time. Then the little sisters would plead for a chance to also get packages, but Dad would insist they must wait until the day after the day after tomorrow to see what Santa had brought for them. There was always some whining, but on balance the scheme worked.
Right after sister number 3 arrived, Dad and I seemed to recognize a mutual awareness. “Birthdays are for girls.” In our mature years that assumption has served well for both of us by freeing us from tedious secretarial tasks and the cost of mailing commercially produced, generic messages to friends and relatives.
Did I have a birthday, or did I have a diluted Christmas? When I wondered about it, Dad helped me see that his situation was even worse than mine. By the 26th there was never anything left under the Christmas tree. Dads’ birthday party always had a special name…“clean up time.”Paul W. Bixby
_____
We made sure to celebrate his birthday with as many kids and grandkids as we could. Luca helped him blow out the candles at his 95th party.
My Dad with his siblings. He was proud to be a big brother to them all!
Thanks for the reminder from Facebook that three years ago I posted about our travel to Eqypt in 1956. I had written the story for my grandchildren. It brought back a lot memories of traveling with my family and the year we spent in the Philippines (I was 9!). I’m sure Cairo looks much different today, but 68 years ago it was still a novelty for us in America!
(This is a repost of a story from February 14, 2022. A few of you may have read it then, but when I saw it today I just couldn’t resist sharing it. I wrote it with my grandkids in mind.)
Ruth Lowry, 1930, 18 years old
Growing up, I had heard my mother share stories about her experiences being assigned to a rural one-room school for the 1932-33 school year. She had graduated from High School in 1930 and went on to get a teaching certificate. It was definitely culture shock for her. She grew up in “town” with the many conveniences of the times…like indoor plumbing and central heating (probably coal).
Besides having to live with a nearby family, she had to walk a distance to the school, start a fire in the stove, do general maintenance for the school building and get the classroom ready for 23 students from grades 1-8. The living experience by itself was new; then she had the challenges of her first year of teaching! She was a small, shy woman…barely 5’4” tall. The older students (boys especially) were tough farm kids who often didn’t want to be there. Learning to teach a class of mixed ages was a challenge in the first place. Over the years she would share little tidbits of experiences that wore her down by the end of the year. She taught only one year!
One room school house, stock photoby Wendy White
From my memory of her stories, the whole year was a traumatic experience for her. Recently, I was going through a small photo album of hers from that time and saw a photo of that class. Her note on the picture says it all!
I also came across a box of valentines she had saved from that year…very interesting collection! Most of the valentines were signed politely on the back with, “To Miss Lowry” and signed with a full name, most in neat cursive writing! Maybe by February 1933 things had settled down in her classroom!
I thought you might like to see how clever some of the valentines were:
#1 Front
#1 Inside
#1 Back
#2 This one came flat…
#2…and opened to be three-dimensional!
#3 This is signed by Gertrude Lee. She was Ruth’s best friend all through high school.
#3 Back
#4 Front
#4 Back. Maybe this one came from my dad who was teaching at a different one-room school in the area??
#5 Front
#5 Inside. No signature.
#6 and #7 Front
#6 and #7 Inside
#6 and #7 Back
It’s been a long time since I bought a box of valentines for a whole class, but I suspect none of them have such poetic ways to say, “Be My Valentine!” I wonder if kids today could write poems like these? What a treasured memory of my mother! Enjoy!
My family spent a year in the Philippines when I was 9 years old (1956-1957). When we returned and I went to 5th grade in our neighborhood school, I wrote this story about my Christmas in the Philippines. I think I was still learning how to write dialog!
By Mary Bixby
“Whoever heard of a hot Christmas?” moaned Mary. “Christmas just won’t be Christmas without cold snow and a Christmas tree!”
Mary and her family were spending a year in the Philippines because of her father’s work. Christmas came right in the middle of that year—when everyone, especially Mary, was quite lonesome for home.
They lived in a house that was much different from the one at home but was still nice. The weather was the one thing that made home seem so far away. It was so hot that Mary had school only in the morning and had to take a nap in the afternoon. This was very hard for Mary, because she felt that a grown-up 9-year-old shouldn’t have to take naps. But it was so hot that by afternoon she didn’t really mind.
As Christmas came closer Mary got more and more unhappy. She kept on complaining about what a silly Christmas it was going to be. It didn’t help that her older sister and brother had been invited to join other college students to spend Christmas on a southern island in a track and field competition. Mary was very sad to watch the inter-island boat leave that day.
Finally, Mary’s father had an idea. Since they couldn’t have cold snow and a live Christmas tree, why couldn’t they make some other family happy by surprising them with a Christmas basket!
Mary had never thought about that since she always had most any toy she wanted. The family they decided to surprise lived just down the hill and there were eight children in the family.
“With that many brothers and sisters I bet I wouldn’t get very many things for Christmas at all,” said Mary, thoughtfully.
“No, you probably wouldn’t,” said her mother, “but maybe we can help those children have a few new things to play with on Christmas morning.
So, Mary and her mother went to the store and picked out some toy trucks, a few dolls, coloring books and crayons, and candy, On the way home Mary had a special feeling inside, that was different from the lonesome feeling she had had before. When they got home, they started wrapping up all the presents. That took quite a while because there were so many little ones.
“When will we take the presents to the family?” Mary asked.
“Why not Christmas Eve after dark,” suggested Mary’s father. “That way they won’t see who you are.”
Mary could hardly wait until Christmas Eve, and the days went by much faster than they ever had before. She was so excited that the rest of her family started feeling the Christmas spirit, too.
Finally, the day arrived. Christmas Eve!
“Oh! It’s so hard to wait,” Mary said.
Right after supper, Mary and her mom and dad put all the presents into a big box and as soon as it was dark, they carried the box down the hill. Mary was so excited she would have run all the way, but the box was too heavy for that!
As they got close to the house they didn’t talk and tried to walk very quietly.
“Let’s put it on the front steps,” whispered Mary’s mother.
Mary nodded and carefully put it down. She thought how nice it was that they didn’t have to worry about snow getting the packages wet. Then she knocked on the door as hard as she could and ran up the hill.
“I hope they heard my knock,” Mary said when they reached the top of the hill. “Oh, I wish I could see their faces when they find it!”
They walked home and went inside. Imagine Mary’s surprise when she saw a little Christmas tree all decorated with presents underneath it. It wasn’t a live tree, but a wire one. But it was green and it did remind Mary her of home. Then she heard carolers outside and the whole family went to the porch to hear their own familiar carols…although none of them were about snow!
When Mary went to bed that night she could hardly go to sleep. She was thinking how happy the children would be in the morning.
Then she thought of the Christmas tree out in the living room, and the carolers they had heard, and she said to herself, “I guess Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas if you can’t make someone else happy, and Christmas can still be Christmas no matter where you are.”
And she fell asleep a very tired but happy little girl.
Almost THE END…
Epilogue:
The next Christmas Mary’s teacher in the Philippines sent a letter to Mary’s family in Pennsylvania. Some of the children from the surprised family were in her class that year. She had asked the children to write about their most memorable Christmas. Those children described that someone knocked on their door on Christmas Eve and when they opened the door a huge box of presents was on their doorstep. The whole family had the best Christmas EVER!!
THE END!
P.S. I have posted three other stories about my memories from that year. You can see them here:
