Perspective: It is the spirit that makes the holiday

Two years ago, it was Furby, a fluffy, pop-eyed creature that in some cities parents fought over like hungry jackals. In Los Angeles, police had to be summoned. All in the name of Christmas.

This year, parents at least have a choice. They can riot over scooters (the Razor, which is the one to have, at $100 and up) or robot dogs, which when first introduced cost $2,500 -- no, you didn't read it wrong. Now, however, for $30 to $100, robot dog is yours, no housebreaking required.

And of course there is PlayStation 2, the end-all, be-all of the season. At a mere $299, it has triggered mob scenes. Parents have sought it, bought it, and in some cases had it stolen seconds later.

The point is: To what limits shall one go in the name of Christmas? How high the moon? How long shall we kid ourselves?

I have in front of me, at this moment, a handkerchief. There is nothing extraordinary about it -- a wisp of linen, trimmed in lace and embroidered in forget-me-nots -- yet it conveys the extraordinary message of Christmas. To understand, you must know something of the person who gave it to me, my grandmother, and of the events that preceded a Christmas of long ago.

Her story begins in a white frame house deep in the mountains of North Carolina. It is dusk. The mountains begin to darken, shadows settle on the house, the front porch with its wooden swing, and the woman sitting in it. There she is, gray-haired, eyes blue and serene, work-roughened hands folded in her lap. The swing creaks softly as she speaks:

"It was the summer of 1891. Money was scarce, but I thought it was an exciting time to be alive. I was 15 years old.

"Then, along about July, a typhoid epidemic struck. Both of my parents died, just four-and-a-half weeks apart. But before he died, Papa made me promise something.

"Clelia,' he said, "promise me you'll keep all the children together. I know it won't be easy, but God will help you.'

"Well, of course I promised. I had 11 younger brothers and sisters, and the baby was only nine months old. It was hard. Oh, our neighbors tried to help, but they weren't much better off than we were.

"One day, a delegation from the church came to ask if I would consider putting the younger children up for adoption. They meant well, I wouldn't hear of it. We managed, for a while. I made shirts for the little boys out of flour sacks and stretched the food with potatoes, until one day the potatoes ran out. That night, I had to send the children to bed without any supper. But I told them not to worry, the Lord would find a way.

"Well, later on, that very night, there came a knock at the door. It was the mailman, with a letter. He said he'd made a special trip because he "had a feeling' it might be important.

"And it was! A woman from Philadelphia, a woman I'd never seen, had been vacationing up here and had heard about us, about our trying to stay together. She said that when she got home, she couldn't stop thinking about us. And in her letter was a check for $50.

"Now in those days $50 was a lot of money. And I had gotten a job teaching school for 50 cents a week, so for a while longer we managed.

"In time, though, the money ran out. I was desperate. Then, one Sunday afternoon, several deacons from the church came -- with adoption papers.

"Clelia,' they said, "we don't want you to think we've gone behind your back. But we had the papers drawn up, and we just want to leave them with you to study. If you decide, all you have to do is sign them. We'll take care of the rest.'

"I'll never forget that day. I hid the papers. But that night, after the children went to bed, I got the papers out and sat down in front of the fire to read them It was bitter cold outside. Christmas was just a month or so away, and I thought about the little ones and sat there and cried. I would rather have died than seen any of them adopted, but I didn't know what else to do.

"I actually had the pen in my hand, ready to sign, when all at once I thought about Papa and the promise I made him. I've never been so ashamed of anything in all my life. Well, I threw those papers in the fire and watched them burn. And then I got down on my knees and asked the Lord to forgive me.

"We came through, all of us. And, you know, that was the best Christmas ever."

Can Christmas be bought, at any price? Hardly. One might as well try and bottle the wind. Christmas itself is the gift, and that is, perhaps, what my grandmother realized.

-- Faith Barnebey is a freelance writer in Bradenton.

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