Liv I Know a Story d31

Caring for his baby niece on what could have been a blue Christmas Eve helped a young man gain perspective in the late 1950s.

 UNSPLASH

Christmas in the late 1950s found me with six months until graduation from high school and also no plans, aspirations or goals following graduation. I was feeling sorry for myself in the realization my childhood Christmases were over. This reality was best captured in these lines from the song “Toyland”:

“Childhood’s joyland / Mystic merry Toyland / Once you pass its borders, you can ne’er return again.”

I was past the border. During this introspective Christmas, my older brother called me. He and my sister-in-law had a baby, a girl, several months earlier. They were invited to a neighborhood Christmas Eve party, and asked if I would babysit for a few hours.

Having no plans for Christmas Eve, I agreed. I was greeted at their small, duplex house by my sister-in-law. She took me through their small living room decorated for Christmas with a small tree, twinkling with lights and ornaments.

We walked to the kitchen. She told me the baby was asleep, and, in all probability, would remain so until they returned. If, by rare chance, the baby did wake up, there was a bottle in the refrigerator and a half-pot of water on the stove. I was to heat the bottle and check it by splashing a small amount on my wrist to make sure it wasn’t too hot. My brother gave me a note with the neighbors’ phone number in case a situation arose I couldn’t handle. They were just a few doors away and could return immediately. I could tell they were excited about the party and assured them all would be well and to enjoy themselves. With that, they were out the door.

I settled on the couch and watched Christmas Eve programs on TV, enjoying the tray of cookies they sent out for me. Later as I watched the Christmas Eve services from the Vatican in Rome, I thought I heard a small noise from the baby’s room. As the crying gained volume, I went to the kitchen and put the bottle in the pan.

When I entered the baby’s room and looked in the crib, I think she was as amazed at seeing me as I was at seeing her, for her crying stopped. I could not believe the tiny miracle looking at me. I had no prior experience with babies, and by some inexplicable, divine instinct, I gently picked her up out of the crib, bracing her little head with my left hand, and holding her to my chest with my right. With me gently rocking her and softly singing Christmas carols, we made our way to the kitchen.

Testing the contents of the bottle, I thought it should cool a little. Setting it aside, we walked to the living room and looked at the Christmas tree. Returning to the kitchen and finding the bottle OK, I sat on a kitchen chair, cradling her in my left arm, and gave her the bottle with my right hand. As I sat there, holding her, I thought of a line from an old, gospel song, “He’s got the whole world in his hands” — and I guess I did.

When she finished her bottle, we continued our walk from kitchen to living room and back. I gently patted her back for the obligatory burp. We continued our walk and my Christmas carol concert for a short interval and then returned to the crib. I very gently placed her back, continue my singing as she looked at me, and I at her. To my utter disbelief, as I smiled and continued singing, her eyes closed. She was asleep.

Returning to the living room, shortly my brother and sister-in-law returned. I said everything went fine. The baby had awoken. I gave her the bottle and she was back in her crib asleep.

When I walked out the door to go home, I gazed up at the starlit sky and thought on the special night millions around the world were celebrating and expressing joy and wonder and love for a baby.

The author lives in Millersville, and is retired from New Holland. He says he thinks about that special Christmas Eve in the 1950s every year.

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