The most beloved holiday story of all time has to be “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens. In the days leading up to Christmas vacation, I read it aloud with my Kaukauna middle school students every year from 1982 to 2001. I still know it almost by heart.
Dickens is a challenge to read, but even my least capable learners liked it. They loved watching the movie starring George C. Scott, by far the best film adaptation of the story. I hope they still enjoy it every Christmas with their families.
Thinking back to those happy days brings to mind a not-so-happy fact: many children do not approach Christmas with eager anticipation. I learned that the day before Christmas vacation in 1968 when I was in my first year of teaching at Kaukauna High School.
After the dismissal bell rang, I was gathering my things when “Mike” came to my classroom, as he usually did. Mike was bright but had a huge chip on his shoulder. I knew he’d gotten into trouble both in and out of school. It was just teenage stuff, never anything serious and never in my class. I really liked him. Sure, he was rough around the edges, a tough kid a lot like the farm boys I grew up with. Now here he stood, asking if I needed any help. I made the dreadful mistake of shooing him away. “Go home and enjoy your vacation, Mike. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”
I was relieved when he left because I had two stops to make before heading home. Our English department had pitched in to provide Christmas dinner for a less fortunate family, and I had volunteered to do the grocery shopping. It took a while to get everything, and darkness was descending as I threw in a package of Oreos as my own special treat.
I loaded the car and consulted a scrap of paper containing directions. Soon I found myself in a section of Kaukauna many called “the other side of the tracks.” I found the address, a decrepit old house divided into down and upstairs apartments. Shivering from more than the cold, I saw light in a downstairs window. Ascending the crumbling cement steps, it was obvious no one lived upstairs. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again.
Finally, the door opened. There stood Mike. I couldn’t help but glance inside. Oh my God, how can people live like this? I thought. He must have read my mind because he turned bright red. “What’re you doing here, Miss Brantmeier? Seemed like you were in a hurry to get home.” Now it was my turn to blush.
“I brought groceries to make Christmas dinner for the family … ah … upstairs,” I fibbed.
His reply contained a bit of sarcasm. “Nobody up there; un-in-hab-it-a-ble.” He pronounced each syllable carefully, spelled it correctly, and proudly grinned. It was a vocabulary word we had just covered in class.
I thought quickly. “Then I do need your help, Mike. Can you please take this food?”
“Must be other people who need it more’n we do,” Mike countered.
“Maybe,” I said, “but please take it; as a favor to me?”
He reluctantly agreed. “All right, but only to help you out. You wait here; I’ll carry up the bags. Sorry I can’t ask you in, but Ma’s sleeping. She works nights cleaning.”
When school resumed, I didn’t mention the encounter. He’d quit dropping by my classroom after school, but I didn’t ask him about it. I assumed he was embarrassed that I’d discovered his home circumstances. I found out why a few weeks later.
I was at the hardware store after school when I saw Mike there. He was wearing a shirt with the store logo. We exchanged smiles, but he was busy helping a customer find the right tool to fix a leaky faucet. I was impressed. Obviously, he had found his niche.
As the owner waited on me, I thanked him for giving Mike a chance.
“Great kid,” he said. “Glad I took your recommendation.”
Funny, Mike hadn’t asked if he could use me as a reference. I smiled and nodded, pleased that Mike had trusted me enough to know I would say yes.
For the next three and a half decades, at least one student hung around my classroom on the day before Christmas vacation. Long after the rest had bolted as if the school was on fire, they lingered. I did, too. If they felt safer and merrier with me, well, it didn’t cost anything to give them a few extra minutes.
After all, as Charles Dickens so wisely observed: we are all fellow travelers to the grave. Indeed. Merry Christmas and God bless us all, every one.
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer, and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.
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