Copyright Doran Roggio 2008

It was the Christmas of 1973. I had just given birth to a baby girl a month earlier. Poverty was a way of life. I was on my own with two children, my infant daughter and a seven year old son. My daughter’s father was not around and I had little help from family.

When my infant daughter was three weeks old, I fell asleep during a night feeding. Laying on the edge of the bed I dozed off, my arm relaxed and my tiny daughter slipped onto the floor. Her persistent screams frightened me and I thought it best to take her to the emergency room to make sure there were no injuries.

Having no car or money, I called the local police department for a ride to the hospital. The officers were extremely kind and showed concern as I communicated the incident, over my infant’s persistent crying. Reaching the hospital, the officers guided me into the ER and expressed hope that all would be fine.

After examination it was determined that my baby had a fractured skull. She had to remain at the hospital for tests to ascertain whether she had any brain damage. Daily I would walk the mile and a half to the hospital to be with my daughter. The end result was that there was no brain damage and she was able to come home within a few days.

A nurse who had cared for my daughter was kind enough to provide a ride home. The officers had stopped by shortly after to check on my daughter’s progress. I thanked them for their help and concern and relayed the good news of my daughter’s well being in spite of the fracture which would heal.

It was three days before Christmas when my daughter came home from the hospital. My son and I did what we could to make the home festive. We made play dough and cut shapes of Santa, candy canes, gingerbread men and reindeer, then painting the hardened shapes and hanging them on the little artificial tree a neighbor had been kind enough to give us.

We made toys out of everything imaginable. I used my maternity clothes for material and made hand puppets for my son. For my daughter I bought an old doll at a local thrift store, cleaned it up, made an outfit from the same material.

Neighbors hearing about my daughter’s hospital stay stopped by to wish us a Merry Christmas, some bringing food items or small gifts. We had only been in the apartment building for a short while and I was touched by the generosity and genuine concern of the other occupants.

On Christmas Eve there came a knock on the door. Opening the door revealed the two officers who had driven me to the hospital. In their hands was a large fruit basket with a twenty dollar bill tucked inside. The officers explained that it was their tradition to give a gift basket every year to someone in need and they had chosen me to receive the basket this year. I have never forgotten the generosity of my neighbors and the police officers and the Christmas of 1973 was one of warmth and love and the realization that there exists in all men the desire to help one another.