Reflections: A Red Ryder Pocket Knife and the True Meaning of Christmas

When my kids were little, they always wanted to hear stories about Christmas when I was a child. One event shaped my ideas on Christmas giving for years to come.
There were seven of us Richardson kids. Mama and Daddy worked hard, but that money went to pay the mortgage, and, instead of lots of toys, Christmas for us mainly meant being out of school, visits from our cousins who lived in Jackson, and lots of good food.
We all went to a little rural school in Choctaw County, where the boys all carried pocket knives and went barefoot until winter. So you can imagine my joy when my Aunt Hazel surprised me with a Red Ryder pocket knife like the one I’d seen in pictures.
In those days, Christmas in the classroom meant “drawing names” … and at our school, nobody wanted a kid named Charles to draw their name. He was the shy, awkward boy that was always picked last for the playground football game, and he was strange—he went barefoot long after we stopped and didn’t wear a coat in the wintertime. But, when we were in the fourth grade, Charles drew my name.
On that last day before school was out for Christmas break, we all exchanged gifts, one at a time, in the classroom. When I tore open the wrapping paper on mine, it was obvious that Charles had given me his old, used pocket knife. Everyone had a big laugh at his expense, and Charles was humiliated.
When school was out for the day, I spotted him, standing by himself, waiting for the bus. Something made me run over to him and, without thinking, I handed Charles my Red Ryder knife. He never said a word, just kept staring down at it in his hand as he climbed onto the bus.
Charles didn’t come back to school after Christmas, and I heard that his family had moved over into Webster County. I finally accepted that I would not see him—or my knife—ever again.
Years passed, and one night I decided to attend an out-of-town football game with some high school friends. We walked the sidelines and watched as a certain running back dominated the game. After the game, I was walking across the end zone when the player ran over and grabbed my shoulder. As I turned, he removed his helmet, and when I saw the long blonde hair, I knew it was Charles.
We talked, and he asked me if I could wait while he ran to the locker room for something. He returned, opened his hand and showed me he still had the Red Ryder pocket knife. “I never said thanks,” he said.
I know this would be a better story if I said Charles and I became lifelong best friends. But the truth is, I never saw him again. However, that brief encounter with that barefoot fourth-grade boy shaped my actions in regard to Christmas giving forever. My kids will tell stories to my grandkids about the Christmas Eves when they all piled into the car with their mom and me, and we rode around inner-city Jackson until we saw a kid playing in the street or an old lady sitting on a porch, and that’s when the kids got out and delivered their Christmas gifts.
I went on to become a teacher, by the way … and in my classroom, we never, ever drew names at Christmas.

Don Richardson attended Mississippi College and is a former clerk of the Mississippi House of Representatives.