Of Miracles and the Christmas Orange

Our country is not very old.

My maternal grandfather fought in World War I. His grandfather fought in the Civil War for the Michigan Infantry, and his great-grandfather moved to the Northwest Territory before Michigan was a state. My maternal grandmother’s family were immigrants from Ireland’s famine who traveled wherever the railroad and their jobs took them. My father’s great-grandfather’s family settled in what was known as Missouri Territory. For all of our ancestors up through the mid-20th century, death from war, disease, and infant mortality was an everyday occurrence. Living another day was considered a gift—a miracle never to be taken for granted.

I am reminded of this because it is Christmastime. My dad would have been 91 this year if he were still alive, and Christmas always reminds me of him because of a tradition passed down from his family.

Poverty in the Depression

Dad was born at the cusp of the Depression in a farmhouse to a family of three adults (his uncle was a sheep shearer who stayed in between his travels to farms across the Midwest) and seven other children, with an eighth one having died at birth. While two of the oldest children would eventually move away for work and the military, there were plenty of mouths to feed. Heat was provided by the single pot belly stove in the front room, and the large cast iron stove in the kitchen. Baths were taken on Saturday night in the kitchen in a free-standing tin tub.

Growing up in Northwest Missouri, there were many sub-zero wintry mornings when the children would throw their clothes on while still under the warm quilts before running outside to the outhouse. There would be no indoor plumbing until World War II, and electricity didn’t arrive until the early 1950s.

They read from their home library of the family’s handed-down books—ranging from historical novels and Shakespeare plays to 19th-century poetry and the family Bible—by the light of kerosene lamps. They finally obtained their own “wireless,” a radio run by large batteries, in time for the 1942 World Series between the St. Louis Cardinals and the New York Yankees. Dad would later share his awe at this “miracle,” as he often described it, at age 10, of hearing the game announced live from New York City in his front room.

Making Do

At a time when farmers earned very little if anything at all, the food that my father’s family ate was the food they raised. They had meat and milk, plenty of vegetables, fresh and canned, and fresh bread made twice a week. The fruits they ate were either freshly picked or in the jams from the berry garden which Grandma carefully tended, full of gooseberries and strawberries, the apple and cherry trees they had planted, or wild raspberry and blackberry brambles that grew nearby. Butter and egg money, income that would decline through the Depression, was used to purchase sewing notions, sugar, salt, spices, flour, and coffee—items that the family itself could not produce.

Dad said that they never considered themselves poor, but rather just having to make do with what they had. He often shared with us a memory of walking in the nearby town with his older brother.  He was 5 years old, and his brother was 7. They came upon their maternal grandfather who just happened to be in town as well. Grandpa reached into his pocket and brought out two brand-new pencils, one for each boy. Dad was so delighted to have his very own store-bought pencil.

Gifts at birthdays and Christmas were handmade: new clothing or a knitted hat or pair of socks were the typical fare. Grandma was an expert seamstress on her old foot-pedaled Singer sewing machine. Everything was either homegrown, homemade, or handed down.

Except for the Christmas orange.

The Christmas Orange

In each child’s stocking on Christmas morning, there would be two items: a handful of walnuts, carefully collected during the fall from nearby groves, and one brightly colored orange.

An orange was an exotic, exciting, and expensive thing. Its golden color stood out from the Midwestern winter hues of forest evergreens, barren tree browns, and cloudy greys. Its texture and flavor were unlike any other fruit—it was like biting into a burst of sunshine.

For a farm family whose income continued to decline while costs rose, oranges became a nearly impossible expense. Farmers still needed to pay taxes, repair machinery, and purchase gasoline, feed, and seeds, yet each year, in my father’s home, the bright orb would appear in each stocking. Every part of the orange was used. After the insides were eaten, the skin was saved for baking or dried for use later in the year. Like hearing the World Series on a “big box” in the front room, receiving an orange at Christmas was a miracle.

When my brothers, my sister, and I were children, we would all receive an orange in our stocking … and promptly push it aside. Being able to have fruit every day—bananas, apples, and, yes, oranges—made this gift uninteresting. Having many other gaily wrapped presents under the tree made a mere orange undesirable. It was only when we were older, and heard Dad’s stories, that we appreciated why we received an orange in our stocking and grew to appreciate its meaning.

Conclusion: Every Day is a Miracle

The orange may signify many things during Christmastime: the gold that St. Nicholas left in the stockings of three impoverished girls, the gift of gold from the Magi to the baby Jesus, or the arrival of something and Someone unique from a very different world. I would add that they also represent the belief that miracles happen every day. We don’t need to be children to perceive these, but we must have the hearts of children.

When we choose to treat each day as a miracle, we come to understand that it is true. Miracles do happen every day. Let us vow to live this way from this day forward. And on this last day of Christmastide, may the blessings of Christmas be with you always.