Most of us have a silly wish list of improbable gifts that we would love to find underneath our Christmas tree this year. On the top of my list, I have scribbled ‘Big Red Truck’. Not the big grown-up kind of truck. The backyard-in-the-dirt kind of truck. In my day, it wasn’t nice to play with a boy’s toy, although boys were all I had to play with. Whenever I asked my brothers if I could play with them, I would get a sigh and a rusty three-wheeled vehicle that neither of them wanted. I never complained about the missing wheel, but I always felt less than them. Inferior. I often heard their friends say, “She’s just a girl! Make her go away!”
I knew I was supposed to play with dolls, but when mama started having a baby every year, I cared less and less about dolls. I learned how to bathe and diaper the squiggly, wiggly little loves and wrestle with diaper pins, powder, and rubber pants. If mama was gone, I sometimes dressed them in sunsuits in the middle of winter because the frills and straps and buttons were so darn cute. I didn’t need a doll. I had plenty of real-life baby dolls at home.
If Christmas ever showed up at our house, it was delivered by the various clubs and organizations around Livingston, Montana in the late 1950s. We would get a knock at the door on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning, and smiling, cheerful men delivered gifts and food. I could tell from their beaming faces that they loved what they were doing. I always got a doll, although I longed with my whole soul for a big red truck that would make my brothers cry with envy.
Boyscouts sometimes brought us a tree, and the boxes always had red Christmas stockings filled with peppermints for each of us. Mama tacked the stockings on the wall to make it look more festive. The smell of peppermint and evergreen was the best treat ever, but I still wished that I could have a big red truck!
Christmas took a twist one year when dad took me with him to the Salvation Army to sign up for assistance. It was awkward and uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to do. Papers were handed to a white-haired angel behind a desk, and dad answered questions. I remember wondering what an ‘honorable discharge’ meant. While dad signed papers, she leaned over the desk to look at me and ask, “What do you want from Santa this year, sweetie?”
I couldn’t believe this Christmas miracle. Choking on emotion, I finally blurted out, “A big red truck!”
Her eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed into blue-dotted slits. “No you don’t! You want a nice dolly, don’t you?”
“NO! I wanna truck!”
She rose up from her chair like an angel getting ready to ascend into the heavens and floated around the desk to take my hand. She pulled me over to a bin of clothing and started digging through it until a pair of frilly white gloves were held up in the air. “Let me see those little hands, darlin’ “.
I obediently stretched out my hands and felt the scratchy material smooth over my fingers and cradle my wrists. They were dainty, transparent, seriously girly things. My white-haired angel smiled triumphantly no doubt thinking she had successfully unleashed my feminine side. I still thought I might get a truck. A truck that would make my brothers cry with envy.
I got another doll that year. I was so disappointed that I stayed sad for days.
So I would like a big red truck this year. One that would have made my brothers cry with envy. The truck would reassure me that dreams can still come true. It would remind me of beautiful yesterdays and renewed hope for all my tomorrows. It would whisper forgiveness for the foolish mistakes and hurts in life. It would tell the story of genuinely wonderful people who do their very best to serve others during this season of joy, and if they make mistakes, mistakes can be corrected. It would tell that little girl who forever lives within me, that she is more than okay. Big red trucks are wonderful things for girls to play with.
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