Your favorite Christmas memories

A Christmas Eve rescue

It was 32 years ago. I was working at the fire station downtown, Station 1, on Christmas Eve. We had our families in for dinner. Adults at tables and the kids at the tailboards on the fire apparatus.

We were just starting dessert when the alarm came in. We headed out of the station, sirens wailing, air horns sounding and red lights lighting the sky.

As we turned onto B Street, we saw the flames and smoke. It was a two-story apartment house fully involved. As I was preparing to attack the fire, I noticed a girl, maybe 6, sitting on the stairs crying, tears making streaks down her soot-covered face, crying “Mi Puppito.”

We went in and knocked down the fire. I noticed a puppy on the floor, hair singed, soggy, soot covered and not breathing. I picked it up and blew into its nose. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. I slapped its rump, like a baby being born, and got a whimper. I puffed a couple of more breaths into it and stuck him inside my coat.

When I came out, the little girl was sitting there with her mother, still crying. I sat down between them and looked at the little girl. She was trying to tell me in Spanish that her puppy had died.

I opened my coat and the puppy stuck its wet, singed head out and whimpered. The little girl’s face lit up like a candle. She hugged and kissed her puppy and then handed it to her mother, jumped up, threw her arms around my neck and smothered me with kisses. I still cry every time I think of that night, and it added to my already deep-set feelings of how dear life is.

Merry Christmas.

Ross Bessom

Lemon Grove

Sharing Santa’s spirit

I have several heartwarming stories from my experiences as Santa Claus for San Diego Hospice, but one 7-year-old boy stands out.

When we entered the family’s humble apartment, the kid announced with great enthusiasm, “I love you, Santa. When I grow up, I’m going to be Santa Claus.”

I said, “Why wait. Let’s make you Santa right now!”

I removed my cap, wool jacket and belt. The cap almost covered his face, my coat hung to the ground and the belt was wrapped loosely twice around his body. Santa’s elf took a picture of us, and he was the happiest kid in the world.

Imagine a little boy in hospice who dreamed of becoming Santa Claus when he grows up. I asked why he wanted to be Santa, and he said, “I want to do good things for other people. I want to make them happy.”

Think about this little boy the next time you feel down or overwhelmed by the holidays. Be inspired by the remarkable attitude and spirit of this innocent child.

Santa tried to bring the joy of Christmas into his home, but he filled our hearts with the true meaning of Christmas.

Remarkably, the boy’s name was Jesus.

Bill Swank

San Diego

Related: Police captain’s 20 yrs of giving Christmas

A prayer and a light

Our son Ryan and daughter-in-law Elizabeth had been trying for years to become pregnant. They were at a point of seriously considering adoption. It was 2000, and the Catholic Church tradition is to open wide the gates of the Vatican to worldwide pilgrims who have special prayer requests. Elizabeth’s parents took them to Rome for Christmas.

They arrived on Dec. 23. They were so excited that they went for an evening walk and wandered into an ancient church near St. Peter’s Square. They knelt before the altar and prayed for the gift of a child. After their prayer, they went over to light an offertory candle. At this church, rather than the usual votive candles, they had artificial candles where you push a button for the light to go on inside.

After putting in their offering, they pushed the button of their chosen candle and nothing happened. They pushed another in a different row, and another, and another, with the same result.

Finally Elizabeth said to Ryan with her mother watching, “God knows the desire of our heart for a baby, but if I had to choose one candle I would choose this one.” As soon as she pointed to the candle, the light illuminated by itself.

Fast forward to 6 p.m. Dec. 22, 2001. The four grandparents are sitting in the birth waiting room at Lutheran Hospital in Arvada, Colo. Suddenly we heard the first cries of baby Luke Walker. One of us said, “Wouldn’t it have been amazing if Luke had been born on Dec. 23, exactly one year to the day of the candle miracle in Rome.” Then another one of us said, “Hey, it is the 23rd of December in Rome!”

Today, Ryan and Elizabeth are the parents of six beautiful children and Luke, our family Christmas miracle, is contemplating the priesthood.

Steve and Gae Walker

Scripps Ranch

Unexpected visitor

I am 72, remembering more than 50 years ago when I was married with two daughters ages 2 and 5. My wife wanted to do something special at Christmas for our children to remember.

We saw a Santa suit in a JCPenney catalog. When we received the suit, it was a perfect fit. After that, Christmas was never the same. I played Santa for my children, for my neighbors’ children, for Scout troops, schools, for the fire department and for almost anyone who would ask.

A week before one Christmas, I was at a family party and I ran into a cousin I hadn’t seen in years. He asked me if I would come to his house on Christmas Eve. He gave me his address, because I had never been there before.

That Christmas, he was last on my list. It was almost midnight, and the fog was thick. Driving in the fog, my beard and hair falling over my glasses, I read the address.

There it was, a small house without the porch light on. There I was, my sack over my shoulder and my gloves on. I rang the bell, the door opened: “Hey, it’s you. Come in.”

I asked, “What room are the kids in?”

“Down the hall, first door on your right.”

I turned on the lights and awoke them. Did my ho-ho-ho’s and told them to go back to sleep, so I could put their presents under the tree. When I returned to the living room, the lights were on. My eyes adjusted, and I saw a man standing by the tree.

“Hey Ronnie,” he said. “You aren’t my cousin.”

“No, I am not. I must be at the wrong address.”

I thought to myself, this was a perfect stranger letting me into his home on Christmas Eve. That was last time I wore “the Santa suit.”

Steve B. Long

Vista

Good neighbors

I have a friend, Sheri, who lives in a community of Victorian homes with well-manicured lawns. Two days before Christmas, we sat on Sheri’s porch taking notice of the overgrown yard next door. Her neighbor Tanya was having her share of distractions (one of which was the birth of her son) and didn’t have the inclination or the capability to maintain the yard. Sheri asked if I thought Tanya would be offended if we mowed her lawn. We took action.

The work was difficult because all we had were hand tools. But oddly, the harder it was, the more gratifying it became. We cut, raked and trimmed the grass, hosed the porch, cleaned the mats and swept the walkways. The property looked immaculate. Sheri and I were so pleased.

Later that day, Tanya came tentatively out onto her porch, looked over at me and said, “Did you do this?” Coward that I am, I said, “It was Sher’s idea.” At that point, Sheri stepped next door. With tears on their cheeks, they gently embraced — gently because three days prior Tanya had given birth to a son, had a double mastectomy, a hysterectomy and a device implanted to dispense chemotherapy.

This courageous woman was standing, standing there thanking us for lending a hand. To this day, Tanya calls us, “My angels.”

Todd Cantrell

San Diego

A special present

For years, I had listened to the whining of my three young children begging for a dog. They made all the usual promises of doing all the work and how I wouldn’t have to do anything. I was able to avoid this decision by pointing out that they could enjoy our Ocean Beach neighbor’s dog Arlo anytime they wished.

Arlo was a sweet but not-so-bright wiener dog who was owned by a nice woman named Sundance. My kids would run over to her house to play with Arlo, take him on walks, put him in their wagon for rides around the driveway, or cuddle and pet him. Mr. Not-So-Bright Arlo always went along with things and seemed to enjoy the attention.

Several weeks before Christmas, Sundance quietly told me she was moving and asked whether our family would want to have him. After weighing how much work a dog can be, with thoughts of three little faces looking up at me — “We beg you. Pleeeeeease let us have a dog” — I said OK.

But since my youngest still believed in Santa, I told Sundance I would have to change the dog’s name if Santa were going to bring him. So “Arlo” became “Skippy.” My parents secretly came down from L.A. and picked up the dog, since we would be up there on Christmas morning.

So there on Christmas morning was a box with a not-so-smart dog and a brand new leash and water bowl that proudly said “Skippy.” The kids were surprised and overjoyed. The older two kids were slightly suspicious that Skippy looked so much like Arlo. But my youngest son, who was already rolling around on the floor with him, said he couldn’t wait to get home so that Skippy and Arlo could become best friends.

We had barely pulled up to our house when my son ran over to Sundance’s house and told her that Santa brought him a dog and could Arlo come out and play with his new dog. Sundance told him that she was sorry but that Arlo didn’t live there anymore. My son asked where he was and she said she had given him away to a family with children who were going to love Arlo very much.

My son disappointedly said, “Oh.”

I swore the older kids to secrecy, and Skippy held the magic of Christmas for my youngest for years. Skippy never got the hang of going to the bathroom regularly outside, nor did he ever befriend the postal carrier, nor did he ever stop chasing motorcycles if he happened to get out. But he became a beloved family member, and Skippy’s story became part of our magical and fun Christmas memories.

Dr. Karen Anderson

Ocean Beach

Secret Santas

It was Christmas 1943 in San Diego. My father had passed away after a long and painful illness on Dec. 10. I had just turned 9 and my brother was 11. My mother was a widow at age 36.

Our tradition regarding presents was to open one Christmas Eve and then on Christmas morning, my brother and I would see what Santa Claus brought us and open more family presents. Much to my surprise, that Christmas morning was the biggest and best ever. Santa had brought all I’d asked for — and then some. There were also more wrapped presents for my brother and I than ever, too. We couldn’t believe our eyes.

We also put a smile on our mother’s face, having spent more than usual from our odd-jobs savings on her, too. I thought for a few moments, the three of us were breaking each others’ ribs with all the big hugs — and tears.

I found out many, many years later that a host of neighbors, teachers, church and family friends had come to the aid of my mom to assure her sons a Merry Christmas and the most memorable of my life.

D.T. Radmilovich

San Diego

Cheer amid Depression

The first Christmas that I remember was a bust. There was lots of love but no presents and little cheer. It was 1935, in the middle of the Great Depression. My father was out of work. Because he couldn’t pay child support for my two half-sisters who were living with his former wife, he was arrested and jailed.

Finally in 1936, father got a job selling tractors and by that Christmas my sisters were living with us and hope filled the air. To the mantle over the fireplace, in our humble Livermore home, were hung three rather small stockings. Being a child of 5, I was sure that in this time of “plenty” Santa would surely bring more presents than they would hold.

On my own, I determined that the solution was to find larger stockings. Next door lived a grossly overweight lady. I marched over to her rundown house, knocked on the door and brazenly asked her for one of her “big” socks for Santa to fill. She must have taken offense, because almost 80 years later, I can still feel the swish of air and hear the sound of the door being slammed in my face. Crushed, I went home to mother, in tears.

While I didn’t accomplish my bigger-is-better goal, it turned out to be a wonderful Christmas. We made popcorn in the fireplace, had a small decorated tree and enjoyed our gifts and one another. It was a happy time and the beginning of modest prosperity for my family.

Now my parents and sisters are gone and even the house is no more, but the memory of that special Christmas lives on in the mind of this old man who is blessed to live in Cardiff-by-the-Sea and be surrounded by several generations of loved ones.

Bob Bonde

Cardiff-by-the-Sea

Tasty tradition

My family has a tradition of 50 years: Wherever we are on Christmas Eve, we go out for a Chinese dinner.

This tradition started in the ’60s when my brother and I were young marrieds in the San Francisco Bay Area. After the church children’s pageant on Christmas Eve, we would all go to Oakland for a family-style Chinese dinner at the Silver Dragon. We would gather at a large round table and decide which family dinner we would order, the 60-cent or the 75-cent choice.

In the 1990s, we would meet our nieces and nephews and go to the newer Silver Dragon in downtown Oakland. It was totally different from the restaurant of the 1960s: full bar, fancy décor, three floors and high prices. No longer 60-cent or 75-cent dinners.

When my bride and I visit our children and grandchildren in Seattle at Christmas, we share in the tradition by taking them out for Chinese.

This tradition is contagious. It has spread to my wife’s family so we are all looking forward to my sweet mother-in-law taking us all out for Chinese this Christmas Eve. We will know that in Seattle, Redding and New York as well as San Diego, children, grandchildren, in-laws, nieces and nephews will be enjoying our tradition along with us.

Paul N. Duggan

San Diego

A magical note

After having no children under our roof for the first six years of our marriage, suddenly we had two precocious, highly skeptical kids and a Christmas to make magical. What do you say to a 9-year-old boy and 6-year-old girl, whose mother died suddenly a few months before, when they question whether Santa Claus exists?

They wanted to believe, wrote out their wish lists, but something about it didn’t make sense to them, despite our trying to convince them otherwise. So on Christmas Eve, when we said it was time for bed because Santa doesn’t arrive until kids are fast asleep, we got this response, “OK, if there’s really a Santa Claus, then he can speak all languages, so have him leave us a note in Japanese wishing us a Merry Christmas.” They had been in a Japanese immersion school before moving in with us and knew this language well enough to vet Santa Claus’ existence.

My wheels were turning. How to make this happen? It was 9:30 on Christmas Eve in 1995, way before anyone could turn to Google Translate or search engines for easy answers. I had to think fast: whom could I reach out to at this hour to help us? Suddenly, I remembered a co-worker had lived in Japan. I called her and she was home. (Remember, this is almost 20 years ago when we didn’t carry cellphones 24/7.) She was with her best friend, who had also lived in Japan. I told them the challenge and they were delighted to come right over and help us with a note from Santa.

As we waited for our elves to make the magic happen, we set up a new computer we got the family for Christmas, and there, on the screen in large print, was Santa’s note carefully drafted in what appeared to be perfect Japanese.

By 10:30, the finishing touches of Christmas were done as we ate half of the cookie and drank a sip of milk and left carrots outside for the reindeer. As my husband and I went to sleep that night, we were never more excited for a morning to come.

Rushing down the stairs before dawn were two very excited children, the oldest ready to prove to us what he had known all along, so we would give up this Santa charade and just open presents. Suddenly he saw the computer and the note. His expression was priceless. First he couldn’t believe there was a computer, then the note, and he exclaimed, “Well there must be a Santa because I know you two couldn’t set up a computer on your own, plus you don’t speak Japanese.” He finally said he wasn’t sure, but maybe he believed a little. His sister quickly interjected, “Well I believe and want him to come back every year!”

Looking back, there wasn’t a more memorable Christmas than that first one with the kids. We laugh about it now and know that despite pulling a fast one, they are grateful that we went to such great lengths to help them (and us!) believe in the magic this season holds.

Julia Holladay

La Mesa

Generosity in disguise

Christmas 1947, in Clinton, Ill., was going to be a sad affair for the Gardner family. Our father painted boxcars for the Illinois Central Railroad, and he was laid off until spring.

On Christmas Eve, there was a knock at the door. When Mother opened the door, there stood Santa Claus. He had a bag full of goodies for the four of us kids (and one on the way who was born Jan. 3).

I later learned that Santa was a man named Humpy Lane. He worked with my father on the railroad, and he knew we were going to have a hard Christmas. He bought gifts and food, put on his Santa suit and delivered them to us.

What a blessed Christmas that was! To this day, we remember that Christmas. We now pass it on to other families we know are having hard times. It was a wonderful message of the true meaning of Christmas.

Mary Freeman

San Marcos