by Rushworth M. Kidder
What he most remembered was the orange. Year by year, from my father’s earliest days, it was nestled into the toe of his Christmas stocking. He never said what else might have been stuffed in on top of it — eminent practicalities like a new toothbrush, perhaps, or a pocket knife, or a pair of socks. For him, the essence of Christmas was concentrated in the unadorned simplicity of that last gift — colorful, sweet, and curiously out of place in the world of his boyhood.
That world, in the first decade of the twentieth century, lay outside Redmond, Oregon. I remember, as a six-year-old, visiting the old farmstead. By then it was little more than a windswept crest of pastureland, the dirt road ending where the buildings once stood and the huge, circumambient sky pressing in on all sides. Isolated, raw, and spare, it was like nothing I’d ever seen in my New England boyhood.
It had been a good farm, but it hadn’t given his family — his schoolmaster father, his homemaker mother, and his numerous brothers and sisters — the sweetest of lives. From time to time my father would talk about walking six miles to and from school — and about how, as the youngest child at Christmas dinners, his portion would always be the turkey neck. But it was the rare and wonderful orange that most mattered. Freight-trained in from southern California, ferried by wagon to the local grocer, it found its way each December into his stocking.
And therefore into mine. Sneaking downstairs early on Christmas morning to see the stockings above the fireplace, I remember thinking how odd it was. In those days I had no particular affinity for oranges, though I found them pleasant enough if somebody else prepared them. Besides, thanks to the modern transportation networks of my youth, oranges no longer were rare. In every season, there were always a few rolling around in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator — to which place, having extracted them every Christmas morning from my stocking, I generally returned them.
I hadn’t thought much about oranges and stockings until the other day, when I fell into a conversation with my haircutter. As happens so often these days, our discussion quickly turned to the economy. She ventured that while some small-town shops here on the Maine coast were struggling, hers was doing alright — though she’d noticed that more people were settling for the basic cut without the extras.
She too was trimming her Christmas list. But even so, she had committed to shopping in the unique Main Street shops rather than in the big-box chains. It was a way, she said, to care for one another in hard times, and it took her back to her own upbringing. Like my father, she too grew up with rural simplicities, under the watchful eye of a mother who was a fiend about limiting sweets. Only at Christmas, she said, would her mother relent, putting in each child’s stocking a pop-tart — and an orange.
This Christmas, I suspect my friend will give more than pop-tarts and oranges. But she hopes her kids will learn to trim their expectations — to learn, as she said, that Christmas is about family and not about stuff. In that, I think, she speaks for so many people who have seen the commercial pageantry of the season luxuriate into uncomfortable levels in recent years. Yes, shops need our support. But the times call for moderation. Just as the recession is making us all reassess the distinction between what we want and what we need, so perhaps this Christmas is leading us to recalibrate our sense of giving and receiving.
If it fell to me, then, to fill the stocking on your mental mantle piece, here are the presents I’d want it to contain:
And down in the very toe, tucked away like ballast beneath all these gifts, I’d have started with the Christmas orange. Or maybe I’d just give you the orange itself. After all, it already contains all the qualities you need to turn this season into the best Christmas of your life.
©2008 Institute for Global Ethics

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