I was in the fifth grade the year that Lydia came from Mexico to live with a family south of Fitzhugh.
She was a happy kid, maybe 6 or 7, who smiled a lot and was the first person I ever met with a Spanish accent. I don’t recall how Lydia came to be in Fitzhugh and I don’t know why my mother believed this, but she became convinced that the family wasn’t treating Lydia well enough. They weren’t abusive, by any means, but she thought they treated her like she just wasn’t quite their equal.
Like many other rural areas at the time, Fitzhugh had an annual community Christmas tree. Everyone gathered in the old high school gym for Christmas carols, a pie supper and an appearance by Santa Claus himself, who would hand out bags of candy and then call out names for presents from under the tree.
For a fifth-grader, this was sensual stuff – the scent of a freshly cut Christmas tree, pumpkin pies everywhere you looked and lots of sugar-crusted orange slice candy. It didn’t get much better than that.
Most families made sure their kids had a present under the community tree. In the economy of the day, that probably just meant one less present under the tree at home, but no one seemed to notice or care.
That year, I saw my mother wrapping a Christmas present and was surprised to see it was a large baby doll in a box wrapped in cellophane. This puzzled me, because my sister was a freshman in high school, certainly past the baby doll stage, and I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d get a doll as a present from my mother.
I don’t recall if the community Christmas tree was that night or not, but if it wasn’t, it came soon after. We sang carols, had the pie supper, got our bags of candy and then crowded around as Santa Claus headed to the Christmas tree to hand out presents.
Santa had a dramatic flair this particular year. He’d pick up a present, eyeball the name for several seconds, scan the crowd of kids, pause, and then call the name. The kid of the moment would run up, grab the present and start tearing off paper on the way back to sit down.
My present came early that year. A collar and leash for my border collie. She didn’t like collars and, in retrospect, a country dog on a leash didn’t make much sense, but I was happy.
Santa handed out a few more gifts and then picked up one I recognized. It was the one my mother wrapped – the one I knew held a state-of-the-art, burpable baby doll with shoes that actually buckled and hair that was long enough to comb.
Santa scanned the kids’ faces and then called “Lydia Ramos!”
The little girl was stunned. She grabbed the package and opened it like she was afraid she had two seconds before it disintegrated. I can still hear her asking “Who got this for me? Who got this for me?”
No one knew, except for my mother. And me. And probably my father and sister. My mother caught my attention and gave me the furrowed eyebrows that meant I better keep quiet.
I’ve thought about that night through the years. My mother didn’t want Lydia to know who got her the doll. She just wanted her to have a happy surprise and know someone cared. And maybe not knowing was better. Instead of one specific person, Lydia had dozens of potential benefactors.
I have no clue as to what happened to Lydia Ramos. School let out that spring and I never saw or heard of her again. I hope she’s had a happy, fulfilling life.
My mother is now dying and probably has, at most, a few weeks left. She still knows her husband of 62 years and all of us kids, but Alzheimer’s has taken almost everything else from her.
My brother and sister have been spending nights at my parents’ house to help my dad take care of Mom and give him a chance for some sleep and rest. Friday night, I drove to Ada to take my turn.
The nights are cruel. Her confusion is greater then, almost overwhelming, and there were times I wondered if my mother really knew who was there with her. When she called out and I answered, did she know it was me? Did she understand that I was there for her?
She no doubt stayed up countless nights to comfort me and rock me to sleep. Did she now know it was my hand she held and my shoulder she laid her head on? Probably not, just as Lydia never knew who bought her the doll.
Sometime after midnight, I thought of Lydia and her doll and realized my mother had told me by deed 45 years ago what she could never explain to me now.
