Magical Monkeys and Milk Chocolate Christmas

Growing up in my family, Christmas was always a celebrated event. My parents were children when the Great Depression began in late 1929, so they both grew up understanding what it meant to be poor. Their families worked hard, but with large families and difficult economic conditions, there was little money to spend on fancy toys and pretty dresses that children often dream about. However, they had their families, and in their love they were happy and contented.

My mother doesn’t remember feeling poor, because everyone they knew was in the same financial condition. They grew their own food, and traded for things they did not have. Mother grew up in the warmth of a loving family. Perhaps because of her meager possessions as a child, or perhaps just because she loved the happy memories of Christmas morning, warm coal stoves, and oranges and peppermint candy … my mother always worked hard to make Christmas an extra special day for each of her children.

I remember my mother hand flocking her own Christmas tree with our old canister vacuum—white clouds of fluffy snow filling the carport, as she sprayed the green branches of our freshly cut Christmas tree. While most of the neighborhood decorated their Christmas trees with traditional colored twinkle lights, candy canes, and silver icicles … Mom was a trend setter and liked modern, designer trees with big red and purple balls, soft white lights, and coordinated wrapping paper. She’d paint Christmas scenes on the front window and hang twinkle lights around it. And there was the Christmas sewing. Throughout December, Mom’s Singer sewing machine could be heard late into the night, long after we were asleep. On Christmas morning there would be new pajamas, Christmas dresses, and doll clothes, skillfully made with her two hands.

Dad used to tease mother and bark in a loud, gruff voice, “Christmas … Humbug,” with a twinkle in his eye. But he’d work hard for extra money to give mom for the shopping, and we knew he enjoyed Christmas as much as we did.

As the big day got closer he’d jokingly question my mother, “Is Santa bringing anything special to Linda?”

They had a communication code in front of the children because Christmas secrets and surprises were part of the anticipation of the long awaited day. Mother would reply, “Yes dear, Santa is bringing her a D … O … L … L,” spelling the letters of my secret gift.

“A what?” Dad would say. And then it would suddenly click in his head what she’d spelled out, and he’d blurt out loud, “Oh, … a doll!”

“Milt!” my mother would exclaim shaking her head and hoping I hadn’t heard. They were like a hysterical comedy team of players and I loved the dance between them.

On one particular Christmas I wanted a monkey. I imagined having a “real” live monkey—a blackish-brown, furry, clothes wearing chimpanzee—like in the popular 1965 Disney movie, “The Monkey’s Uncle,” (with Tommy Kirk and Annette Funicello), that created the hit song by the same name. I was a young naive teenager, as well as an Annette Funicello fan, and having a pet monkey around sounded like a blast. After all, it worked for Annette. 

The monkey was the main item on my Christmas wish list. My mother pointed out how impractical having a real monkey around the house would be and the improbability of ever sharing our home with such a smelly animal. I understood, but kept it on my list just in case ole’ “Santa” had a change of heart.

Right before Christmas, Dad came home with a package of two-inch “milk chocolate” Santa’s—colorfully wrapped in foil Santa suits. My younger brother and I were wide-eyed and curious. Chocolate candy was rare in our home. Were they for us?

The next morning we discovered the mouth watering Santa’s had been placed on specific presents under the tree, identifying Dad’s gifts to each of us. We were so excited! I could hardly wait to find out what Dad’s special gift to me would be. We knew our parents were the real Santa’s, of course, and that mom did the majority of the Christmas shopping. So to have a special gift marked just from Dad, was a thrill we hadn’t expected. I counted the days until Christmas.

On the long awaited day there were stockings hanging on the fireplace—filled with candy and small toys. There were wrapped presents galore and several opened Santa gifts, waiting to be discovered under the tree. I looked around curiously for my monkey and wasn’t surprised to find him missing-in-action among the hall of Santa gifts. It was a glorious Christmas morning full of surprises and shouts of joy. I saved the best for last—my gift from Dad, wanting to savor the chocolate Santa and whatever the contents of my gift would be. Much to my surprise, attached to the present was a note written in Dad’s scribbled hand, explaining Santa could not bring my monkey, but hoped the gift would take it’s place. I ripped off the wrapping paper—revealing a huge, furry, blackish-brown, thumb sucking, stuffed, toy monkey—wearing rubber white tennis shoes. I was in love—with the monkey for sure, but mostly I was filled with love for my Dad and his desire to fill the wishes of my young impressionable heart.

Now, as I prepare for Christmas for my own family, I try to create the memorable traditions of my youth—the designer Christmas tree and coordinated wrapping paper, Christmas lights, and Christmas surprises. It’s not about the money or material possessions … It’s about the magical feeling … creating a special day and being with those you love on “His” special day. I like to fill the stockings with small toys and special trinkets—like my mother did. And I try to find the Christmas magic—with that one special surprise under the tree … Like that “Magical Monkey and Milk Chocolate Christmas” so long ago.