A Christmas remembered... Christmas Cuties

My father did not remember much of his childhood. The abuse he suffered had mercifully wiped his memory slate clean. But one Christmas memory remained and I treasure this story he told me as his grown up daughter.
My grandfather had no money for Christmas for daddy and his brothers and sisters. He was prone to gamble and drink, a good time Charlie, so it had probably had been spent on wine, women and song. GrandMary asked my father to walk to his grandfather’s house to ask for some Christmas money. Daddy was a small boy and remembered the humiliation and shame he felt having to ask his grandfather for money. Every time he told the story I could see that small boy in his eyes, dragging his feet as he walked the dirt roads, shamed by his father’s behavior, sent by his mother to petition for charity. The five dollars Poppa sent home with him stuffed (sort of) their stockings. In the toe was one orange, a little dry and hard on the outside, but still sweet and juicy on the inside. It was the only orange they ever had during the year because oranges were dear, rare fruit for regular folks. Daddy said he saved the skin and chewed that after the fruit was gone just to remember the flavor of the orange.
Every Christmas, we would drive across the state line just a few miles from our home and buy big bags of Florida oranges, juice oranges and navel oranges. Daddy taught me how to cut a cone shaped hole in the stem end of a juice orange, how to suck it dry and then how to tear it apart to eat. Navel oranges were for peeling and eating, for ambrosia at Christmas dinner. We all loved oranges and in my childhood home, there were oranges in abundance. It was a Christmas gift for that small boy who lived in my daddy and a gift of abundance he gave my sister and me.
This tradition continued in our home. Michael loves Christmas oranges, too. Those of us who grew up close to Florida tracked the winter season by the appearance of the oranges and grapefruits. Our children grew up with their daddy peeling oranges at night as a winter bedtime ritual. Often we would eat ten oranges in one night. Big, sweet, juicy navel oranges were our favorite.
Now I have a new orange in my citrus vocabulary... the Cuties. Our church in Texas orders these by the ton, I think. Sharlande, the associate pastor, has written of the smell that floats down the church halls when the Cuties arrive. They are a small orange that peels like a tangerine with no seeds, perfect for little children (and big children,too).
Yesterday the minister’s group met at the Farmhouse for their regular monthly meeting. I carried down the coffee, cream and sugar, set out the tea bags and agave nectar. Then I found a lovely old wooden bowl, filled it with Cuties and set it on the living room table as a Christmas gift from my daddy and me, a remembrance of days gone by and loved ones now departed. It was a gift of love and memory, a gift to honor the little boy who was finally able to eat his fill of oranges.
This Christmas, as in Christmas past, we will take oranges and grapefruit to our local day shelter for the homeless as a Christmas happy. It is one of the ways we choose to share the more than enough in our lives as a living testament to those who gifted us. Our church has adopted a care giver and his charge, a developmentally challenged man. Along with the flannel shirt, fleece jacket and moccasins and food, Michael and I will take a big bag of navel oranges. I hope their Christmas is a merry one. It is our gift to honor the little boy who was born in Bethlehem so many long years ago.
Merry Christmas, daddy. When we gather around the fire with all the grandchildren and great-grandchildren, orange juice dribbling down our chins, I will tell your Christmas story and the story of the baby boy Jesus. That little boy grew up and left us a legacy of hope, love, joy and peace. I wonder if he would be pleased with how we have turned out, with our memory of his Christmas story, and our sharing of the abundance he shared with us?