Coal in My Stocking

Do you know of someone who actually got coal in their Christmas stocking?  If you know me, you do.

When I was little, the items in the stocking were treasured almost as much as larger gifts under the tree.  Fresh fruit was not plentiful in winter, and what was available was too expensive for our family with one breadwinner who was a blue-collar worker.  My stocking always contained at least one orange….a real treat.  There were also chocolates wrapped in foil and nuts in the shell waiting to be cracked.  Sometimes a small toy might be tucked in also.

The joy of items in my stocking was not in my mind when I learned to use scissors.  I believe I must have been 3 and a half, as I started school at the age of 4 years, 4 months and I am fairly certain my scissors misdeeds were a result of being on the loose without enough to keep my mind busy.  I started school at that early age, because I was driving my mother crazy.  The scissors episodes were probably part of the reason she felt like her sanity was teetering on the edge.

There were three scissors infractions, and I only remember two of them.  An aunt had hand-knit a skirt for me, and I hacked a triangular hole in it.  I had no appreciation for the hours of work I destroyed. I don’t remember taking any particular delight in that, but I do remember the fascination I felt cutting the chenille off my mother’s lovely bedspread.  The classic design at the time was wave-like curves running horizontally as the bedspread hung over the edge of the bed.  Cutting along these curves was a challenge and in my little mind was just plain fun!  I still remember sitting on the floor next to my parents’ bed snipping along the wavy lines and feeling pleased with my scissors skills.  It actually didn’t occur to me I was doing anything wrong, until my mother came in and expressed her shock and dismay.

Unfortunately, these incidents were not long before Christmas.  As I excitedly slid my hand into my stocking on Christmas morning I found a brown paper sack containing coal…..no candy, no nuts, no toys and no orange….just yucky black coal.

I was furious.  I stomped to the cellar door and down the stairs.  My Dad came along and opened the furnace door for me.  I pitched the bag of coal into the furnace and stomped back up the stairs.  I have no recollection of what Santa had left under the tree for me that year.  All I remember was the coal and the rage I felt.

I don’t really think it was effective in improving my behavior.  My mother once told me that I was her most difficult child before I started school and her easiest child once I started school.  The coal didn’t help, but keeping my mind busy productively did.  Learning to read opened up a whole world of fascinating adventure….no scissors required.