My Favorite Time of Year

Fall has always been my favorite time of year. First of all it was the beginning of a new school year. It really didn’t matter what happened last year, this was a new teacher and a new start. A new school year meant new pencils, new crayons, and if I was lucky, new clothes.

Next was Halloween. My mother refused to let us use pillowcases for trick-or-treating because she said we would ruin them. Still we took large shopping bags and ran with our friends up and down Main Street. We each came home with a shopping bag more than two thirds full and dumped it on the living room floor to sort through it. If I was careful I could make my candy last almost to Thanksgiving. The all-day suckers were the last to go.

Every Thanksgiving my Grandma Warner made a huge turkey and brought it to our house. We made little turkeys out of gum drops and raisins, and placed them by each plate. Then aunts and uncles would come with their families, each bringing favorite dishes to share. There was so much good food; I could eat and eat until my stomach couldn’t hold any more. Later that evening we would finally have room for pie; pumpkin pie with whipped cream, apple pie, cherry pie, and mincemeat pie. If I wanted I could eat some of all of them.

As much as I looked forward to the gathering of all the family and the good food, I looked forward to getting my birthday present from my Grandma Warner more. Since I was born on Thanksgiving Day, it didn’t matter what day of the week my birthday was, to my grandmother, Thanksgiving was my birthday. She always gave me the same present, a birthday card with some money in it.

It didn’t take me long to realize that if this was Thanksgiving, Christmas, the most magical of all holidays, would soon be here. Catalogs with pages of clothes, toys, games, and candy arrived in the mail. My brother and sisters and I would sit for hours, looking at the endless treasures, wishing we could reach in our hands and grab them. Santa, that mysterious Grandpa, dressed in white, assured us if we were good, he would bring us our hearts desire.

I knew what being good meant. It meant listening to my mother and helping her as much as I could. It meant sharing with my brother and sisters and when we played a game, trying to make sure everyone got a chance to win, at least once. Being good meant treating others the way I wanted to be treated and helping everyone who needed help. I listened to all the stories of Christmas; the stories of little children being blessed by kind strangers and tragic stories of those who were ignored.

I wanted to be good. So every year I used my birthday money, to buy Christmas presents for my family. It didn’t take long for me to realize that Santa needed my help. Grandma’s birthday present was a start, and I added money I earned babysitting. I tried to get something for everyone, or sometimes I bought a game we could all play together. Christmas was a happy time for me. I was happy when I hid my presents in my drawer, or wrapped them in brightly colored paper, or placed them under the tree when no one was watching.

I often thought how blessed I was to have a birthday in November. How blessed I was to have a Grandmother who gave me money for my birthday. Because of her I learned that Christmas is an opportunity to celebrate the life of the Savior. It’s a season dedicated to making a difference in the lives of our family and friends and all mankind. I’m old enough to know that money isn’t necessary to be kind or helpful and there are many gifts that can be given that don’t cost anything, yet finding those who have very little and using a little money to bless their lives is a wonderful thing. Indeed it’s more blessed to give than to receive.