A Christmas Story

Rick Smith/Columnist

I first met Sally Sue as a nursing colleague. We became friends and within a couple years, she was as good as family. Friend to family is a cultural thing dear to us Southerners.

Sally Sue was kindhearted and compassionate. Her ability to connect with others and truly “see” them registered ten on every empathy scale. Her comprehension of the human condition, especially those areas in which trauma had set up residence within the soul, outpaced her years. 

Sally Sue loved Christmas. If it hinted of vintage Christmas, she collected it. Her shadow was very familiar with every recess of “The Junk Drawer” and “Good Riddance,” her two favorite resale and upcycle shops.  

Getting ready for Christmas took a bumper size bite out of Sally Sue’s time.  She began displaying her treasure trove of one-in-a-million finds while the aroma of Thanksgiving dinner still lingered in the air.  Her bedroom was home to sundry straw, stick, velvet, clay, paper, plastic, and porcelain St. Nicks of every size, shape, and semblance.  There were trumpeting angels, suspended like a celestial chorus in midair.  There were faded and fatigued toys of yesteryear neatly tucked under a gangly gold glittered aluminum Christmas tree balanced atop an old, forgotten oak desk.  

Her childlike excitement permeated each room of her home.  Folk art reindeer, country snowmen, and quilted angel babies peeked from behind lamps, under armoires, and over countertops.  The Star of Bethlehem, a cardinal wreath, and gingerbread men lined the mantel amidst a spray of glittered holly.  Stockings were hung above the fireplace. 

During one of our conversations over cups of hot mulled cider, Sally Sue told me about a Christmas tradition of hers. The mission was to be salt and light in the earth and do something worthwhile for someone. The deed could be the fulfillment of a financial need, a gift, or gifts for an individual or family. There was one rule. You could never tell another human being about the deed.  

We’ve practiced this tradition of giving with no recognition over the years. At first, this act of anonymity is not easy. One becomes very aware of just how the act of giving can point back to the giver and that it feels good for others to know of our kind deeds. I’m not saying that all philanthropy or good deeds done need to be delivered anonymously, but I am suggesting that everyone from time to time give something with no recognition to self or expectation from another. 

Sally Sue has been gone for quite a few years. I have the fondest memories of her during the holidays. This Christmas season I honor Sally Sue by passing on to you this blessing of anonymous giving. 

Wishing you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! 

[Side Note: The “I brake for trash!” bumper sticker plastered across Sally Sue’s rear window birthed many a chuckle from fellow motorists but created quite a stink one Friday night while parked out on Highway 80 east of Bossier City, Louisiana.  But that’s another story that is best told around the Fourth of July.]

Rick Smith is a Jeffersonian and can be reached at theriquemeister@gmail.com.and can be reached at theriquemeister@gmail.com.

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