My most memorable Christmas

Editor’s note: Margaret Allison is the winner of our Voices in the Wind “A Special Holiday Collection” after she shared her most memorable Christmas with us. There weren’t too many dry eyes in the office after reading this touching piece.

It was a few days before Christmas in December, 1942. I was six years old and had brothers and sisters younger than myself. We didn’t live in our own homes as most of the soldiers’ children lived at the same residences as us.

It was going to be Christmas soon and our father was coming to visit us. My younger brother was very sick with pneumonia and we were told one night we might “lose him,” whatever that meant.

My father was a sergeant at #12 Basic Training Centre and, many times, would parade the soldiers down the street where we lived. What a joy that was; so tall and proud he was. All the children there used to sit in the front bushes and watch them march by.

Now here comes Dad – he gives us all hugs and goes to the infirmary to see my brother and comes out in a short while with a huge smile on his face. The doctor told him and us all that my brother was very sick but would be better soon.

Dad and the other soldiers only had a short period of time for our visits, so we all – many soldiers and children – went to the recreation room where the large Christmas tree was, and we all had our family visit with milk and cookies.

Each father gave his children their gift and I was hoping for a doll, but was happily surprised to receive a Bobbsey Twins book, an orange, a box of Cracker Jacks and precious memories of my last Christmas with Dad. The rest all got gifts as well, and the orange and Cracker Jacks.

Although we were happy for our brother not to be sick any more, we were also sad to see Dad and the other soldiers/fathers leave us all. After all the hugs, laughter and everyone promising to be good for Santa, the soldiers/fathers left; some never to be seen again.

Many times in 1943, the soldiers would march down our street, but the group got smaller for a long time. Then they all stopped coming and we had nothing to look forward to as we loved seeing them, and many of the boys would pretend they were soldiers and boss us girls around.

We didn’t know at that time that 1942 would be the last time we got to celebrate Christmas with Dad as a family. He went overseas in June 1943 and died in Belgium in 1944.

Memories of our loved ones live in our hearts, minds and lives, and the most loving ones are the ones of our last time together as a family. That Christmas is as vivid in my mind as it was in 1942 as I am almost 80 years old now and hold it close to my heart always, as I still miss him and wonder what it would be like if he had come home to us.

Margaret Horne Allison

Chatham