The Music Box Doll

The Wonder of Christmas

It was definitely not looking festive on Christmas Eve in 1963. Not at our house anyway. There was not a single item around that might indicate it was even Christmas except for the surplus of snow that had filled the canyon. Six moody kids and two mentally ill adults were cramped together in a four-room shack made out of slabs, sawdust, and beer cans in western Montana. I felt isolated, confused, and ever so alone in the futility of our situation. I knew that life wasn’t meant to be always fair, but for us to be so ridiculously bereft of good things left me distancing myself from the Jesus who sent Santa Claus to other homes and only snow to ours.

Dad had both wood stoves going to at least give some warmth to the dismal silence. The one in the living room had a serious ‘smoke leak’ in the stove pipe spreading ghostly layers of thready haze that eventually grew tired of searching for a way out and just settled down wherever it could find a spot.

We all looked like worn out coal miners with charcoal-rimmed pink eyes and black nostrils. It was too much of an attack on our dignity to try to joke about it, and we deliberately avoided looking directly at each other to give some privacy for our smudged cartoon faces.

When there was a knock at the door, I thought it was one of the women who lived on the other side of the highway. Mrs. Birch had brought us a cherry pie once, because her guests, “didn’t like pies with soggy bottoms”. I was hopeful as I opened the door.

It wasn’t Mrs. Birch.

It was a fully decked-out Santa Claus holding a tricycle high over his head. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” He choked on the last “Ho!” as smoke billowed out and engulfed him. I was embarrassed at the look of horror and disbelief as we stared into each other’s faces. Dad saved the day by stomping out and slamming the door, but not before we had seen the boxes and gifts.

We listened to the rise and fall of voices as the smaller kids paced the floor anxiously. My brother and I had been recently baptized into a church in Bozeman, and I was sure that I recognized the Santa. Excitement replaced the dull, heavy atmosphere. We were important enough to drive all the way up a snowy canyon on Christmas Eve!

Dad came back without any gifts or boxes. We thought they might be hidden in the shed to surprise us with in the morning.

We waited all Christmas Day for a sign of gifts or food. Dad made us fried potatoes for dinner while mama sipped coffee and smiled. We all felt they might be holding out so they could enjoy our suffering for as long as they could—which they were. Mama had a narcissism disorder that made her feel powerful and important if she could inflict suffering of any kind. We didn’t understand disorders. We only knew that the gifts must have been sent away, and that must mean we didn’t deserve them. We went to bed properly humbled and subdued.

Some days later, I sneaked into mama’s room after she went to the outhouse to see if she had anything pretty to look at. She kept pretty things in an old octagon shaped depression-glass cocktail table. It was the nicest thing mama owned. I loved the green felt covered shelves and tilting doors. That’s where she kept fun stuff! Old greeting cards, strange looking pinks bras, belts and garters, yellowed letters, and interesting knick-knacks.

But the cocktail table was forgotten as soon as I saw the beautiful doll standing on mama’s dresser. She had long blonde braids and was outfitted with a coat and matching hat made of soft blue fur with white trim. Her hands were demurely tucked inside of a white muff. I was so overwhelmed that I could hardly breathe. Afraid to get too close, I stared for the longest time and then fled the room.

Mama’s trips to the outhouse instantly became the highlight of my day. I fervently prayed for her to make a trip just so I could slip into her room and spend time with the doll. My hands trembled as I caressed the exquisitely detailed costume. She was so delicate! So wonderfully made! I could never describe the pleasure that holding her gave me. One day I turned her upside down to examine the wooden pedestal she was standing on. There was a metal key poking out that I turned ever so gently. Music! I turned it a bit more and listened to a hauntingly lovely melody. Now I was even more obsessed!

My joy ended abruptly one afternoon when I excitedly opened the door only to discover the doll was missing. I frantically searched through the cocktail table and under the bed. I dug through boxes of clothes and pulled the bedding apart. Then with a startle, I heard mama’s low, throaty laughter on the other side of the door. The only way out of my awkward situation was back through the door where mama was still bent over laughing. I never saw the doll again, but the memory of the kindness that brought the doll into my life stayed with me. It gave me hope that there were good things out there that would someday light my world.

I’ve looked for that doll online searching for a picture of the original or even a copy of her, but I’ve never found one. And in my heart, I know it’s not really the doll that I’m looking for. If I could sit on Santa’s lap and whisper in his ear, it would go something like this, “Do you remember the doll you brought me when I was thirteen? Magic and glittery promises and fairytales of romance have lost all meaning. There is no passion! Life is not as joyful as I know it can be. Could you please give me back the wonder that I felt as I held that doll for the first time? That’s all I want this year. I just want to feel wonder again.”

I wish everyone a heart filled with wonder. It’s one of the greatest gifts we can ever receive.

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