Most weekends I talk to my Dad on the phone. The older he gets the more time he spends reminiscing about the past. This past weekend he re-told a story I’ve heard before but hearing it this time somehow caught my attention on another level. As he re-told the story, I could hear the excitement re-lived by his childhood self. It was touching to hear the impact one particular Christmas present had on him over sixty years ago.
By the time my Father was six years old he and his three siblings had left their childhood home in Morell and were being raised by their Aunt Hilda (Auntie) and Uncle Harold in Greenwich. His father had died when he was ten months old only to be followed by the tragic death of his mother six years later. To say this young family had a rough start would be an understatement, but they were fortunate in that Harold and Auntie kept the children together and raised them in a loving, structured home.
Christmas of 1944 was his first Christmas in Greenwich. My father, two months shy of his seventh birthday, remembers that winter well. One pastime the children had was watching their next door neighbour Walter Hayden from the east window in the kitchen. Everyday Mr. Hayden would walk to the back woods to see if he had caught anything in his traps and Dad said they would always watch him as he made his way back to his farm to see if he caught anything. Dad recalls that he was barely tall enough to see over the window ledge.
On Christmas day, 1944, Dad recalled that everyone sat in for dinner at the kitchen table and before long there was a knock at the door. Harold got up to answer the door and he heard Mr. Hayden at the door say “Is Bob there?” Dad said he nervously got up and went to door. When he got there Mr. Hayden reached into an inside pocket in his long black coat, pulled out a little white kitten, and said “Merry Christmas Bob.”
Dad recalled the excitement both he and his siblings expressed and remembered how difficult it was to then sit down to Christmas dinner. Ever since that Christmas, we have always had white cats on our farm – and if we don’t, Dad is in search of them. As I said, I’ve heard this story many times. But hearing it again recently I put it into context and saw, and felt it in a whole new light. I suddenly realized the impact that that the gift of this little white kitten would have on a child who at only six years of age had recently experienced such great tragedy in his life. I never knew Mr. Hayden but, but am touched by his gentle gesture. It is another reminder for me at this time of the year as to the true meaning of Christmas.
The Hayden Farm
