Finding the Christmas Spirit: A Gift of Dreams

Christmas Eve, 1944. I was a sailor in the U.S. Navy, on a one-day leave in San Francisco. I had won $300 at poker that ordinarily would have burned a hole in my pocket, but I couldn't shake an over-whelming sadness.

Scuttlebutt had it we'd be pulling out before the New Year for the South Pacific. I'd just received word that another friend had been killed in Europe. And here I was, an 18-year-old alone in a strange city. Nothing seemed to make any kind of sense. What was I going to be fighting for, anyway?
I spent most of the day in a mental fog, wandering aimlessly through crowds of laughing, happy people. Then, late in the afternoon, my vision suddenly focused, and for the first time a scene registered.

There in a department-store window were two electric trains chugging through a miniature, snow-covered town. In front of the window a skinny boy around nine years old, his nose pressed against the glass. He just stood there, fixed on those trains.

Suddenly the boy was me nine short years before, and the store was Macy's in New York City, my hometown. I could see, could feel the same longing, the same desperate hoping. I could hear the sigh of resignation - the frail attempt to hide the disappointment that Dad could not afford those trains. And I saw the reluctant turning away and then the one last look.

Not this time! I don't know what came over me, but I grabbed the boy by the arm, scaring him half to death.

"My name is George," I told him.

"Jeffery Hollis Jr.," he managed to reply.

"Well, Jeff Hollis Jr.," I said in my best grown-up voice, "we are going to get us those trains."

His eyes grew wide, and he let me lead him into the store. I knew it was crazy, but I didn't care. Suddenly I wanted to be nine again and have a kid's dream come true. The salesclerk looked at us suspiciously, a scruffy black boy and a black sailor in ill-fitting dress blues.

"Those trains in the window," I blurted before he could speak. "The whole setup. How much is it?"

His snorting response was interrupted by the arrival of a much older man wearing a warm Christmas smile. "One hundred and sixty-five dollars and sixty-three cents," the elder man replied, "delivery included."

"We'll take it," I said. "Right now, if we can."

"Sailor," he said, "we can! What about the rest of the family?"

I leaned down, and Jeff Jr. whispered that he had two little sisters as well as his mom and pop. I gave him $50.

"I'll have someone help him out," the elder man told me. And he called over a cheerful woman who took Jeff Jr. by the hand.

While the trains and other purchases were being wrapped, the man told me he had two sons of his own in the service. After a lot of "Merry Christmases," a delivery truck was assigned to take us to the boy's home.
Jeff Hollis Sr.'s reaction reminded me of what my own father's would have been if I had shown up with a stranger and a whole lot of gifts. I could see he was a hard-working man, breaking his back to make ends meet and knowing he couldn't give his family all he wanted.

"I'm just a sailor a long way from home, Mr. Hollis," I said respectfully, explaining how I had seen myself in his son's longing gaze at the store display.

"You couldn't have spent the money any other way?" he asked gruffly.
"No sir," I replied.

His face softened, and he welcomed me to share their table. After supper, I read to Jeff Jr. and his sisters until they went off to bed.

"I guess you know we've got a lot to do before morning," Jeff Sr. said. His words startled me for a moment. Then I understood. I was no longer a child; I was a man now, with adult responsibilities. So I joined him at what turned out to be nearly an all-night job of getting the trains put together and set up. His wife, Marge, made sandwiches and coffee and kept me talking about growing up in New York. At midnight we paused to wish each other a Merry Christmas, then went back to the task of making a boy's dream come true.

When we finished, I was bone-tired. Jeff Hollis Sr. looked for a long time at what we had done, then sighed and sat back in a worn easy chair.
"Mine was a bike," he said quietly. "A big two-wheeler with shiny spokes and bright-yellow handlebars. The seat was real leather. I loved that bike. I dreamed about it and wished for it."

"Mine was a Christmas dress I'd seen in a dressmaker's window," Marge said. "I wanted everyone to say, "What a pretty little girl in that fine dress.'"
Dreams, I thought sleepily. Kid dreams. I guess I dozed because the next thing I knew it was five o'clock, and Jeff Jr. was shaking me. He had remembered I had to be back by eight.

"Is it time yet?" one of the little girls inquired.

"It's time," Jeff Sr. said. "Merry Christmas."

"Wow!" Joy mixed with disbelief. We hadn't done as spectacular a job as the window dressers, but we got the trains laid out all right.

"Dad?" Jeff Jr. asked. "George?"

I exchanged glances with his father and nodded my agreement. This was the honored, official first outing. With Jeff Sr. at one control and me at the other, we set the trains on their way. On the second circuit I eased Jeff Jr. into my place. For about five minutes he ran his train. Then abruptly, he stopped and, without a word, left the room. He returned with the presents he had bought, a look of pride on his face. He'd had some help, but he'd made the choices himself.

I thought he was finished when he turned to me with a package in his hand. "Merry Christmas, George" he said quietly.

I was totally surprised. The gift was a comb-and-brush set, along with a case for other toilet articles. He held out his hand, then changed his mind and hugged me warmly. The moment of parting was bittersweet, for I knew I would probably never see the Hollises again. Jeff Sr. and Marge thanked me, but I was the grateful one.

As I made my way to the station to catch the bus back to the base, I realized I had no more nagging doubts. I had found more in this experience than I had received from all the pep talks and patriotic speeches I had ever heard.
For me, it was a revelation. I knew now what this war and the fighting was about. It was something at once wonderful and simple. This country, my country, was a place of dreams.... and of dreamers who had the faith and the will to make dreams come true.

Condensed from Gannett Westchesster Newspapers, George H. Brooks
From December 1990 Reader's Digest, pg. 63