I had no intentions of seeking out Mrs. Whitman in the beginning, none at all. The story that came annually to my ears was just that—a story and nothing more. It could not possibly be true after all. It was nothing but a Christmas tale to amuse children and the gullible.
As the years passed I became privy to inside information about Mrs. Whitman that made me even more of a disbeliever. My barber’s wife’s brother’s secretary knew a woman whose cousin’s sister-in-law knew the boy who shoveled the snow from Mrs. Whitman’s sidewalk. The details related to me in confidence were so preposterous that I had no doubt the tale of Mrs. Whitman’s Miraculous Christmas Tree could be anything but entirely false.
One of my friends, being more trusting, or more gullible, depending on how one looked at it, did not react to the particulars of the story as I did. Indeed, he took the tale ever more to heart and insisted that it must be true. I argued the point, of course, as any sane being would, but he would not be dissuaded from his false beliefs. He even went so far as to bet me $100 that the tale was true.
Partly to teach my friend a lesson, and partly to lighten his wallet, I took the bet and set out in search of the very Mrs. Whitman of the tale. I was confident I would discover falsehood and return to enrich myself with my friend’s foolishly wagered funds.
Locating Mrs. Whitman was not as easy as it might seem. My barber’s wife’s brother’s secretary’s friend’s cousin’s sister-in-law revealed many peculiar particulars of the tale, but not the location of Mrs. Whitman herself. I momentarily considered approaching my barber for the information, but by the time my request made it along the chain and the reply come back it would likely be well after Christmas. Christmas was, in fact, only days away. It was either find Mrs. Whitman now or wait another year to collect on my bet.
The tale vaguely related that Mrs. Whitman resided in a small town in the neighboring county of Pike. The size of the town was of no assistance, for all the towns in Pike County were small. That the number of towns in the county was few was of considerably more help. I traveled to said county and began to discreetly enquire as to Mrs. Whitman’s whereabouts. I will not tire your mind with my quest for, though long, it was not particularly interesting. Suffice it to say that a waitress in a small café pointed me toward Winslow and the residence of Mrs. Whitman herself.
In minutes, I had driven to the pleasant, if not quite charming, little town located on the banks of the Patoka River. There was little to recommend the town except for a small grocery and the obligatory gas station. I did note the presence of a modern looking library. The citizens were obviously possessed of some pride, for the Main Street was well decorated for the season. All in all, Winslow did not look as if it was a bad place to live.
I pulled up to the address given me. It belonged to an antique house that, despite my familiarity with architecture, I could not quite place in time. It was old, in any event, and a bit on the worn and shabby side. Still, it presented a pleasant, homey ambiance and seemed just the right kind of place for the famous Mrs. Whitman to reside.
Gaining entrance to Mrs. Whitman’s abode was not as easy as finding it after I’d been given directions. Her nurse, a fairly disagreeable woman named Susan, refused me entrance. It seemed that I was not the first to come seeking to establish the veracity of Mrs. Whitman’s tale. Unlike the others, I’d come with a secret weapon. I would like to claim that I foresaw the difficulty of gaining entrance to Mrs. Whitman’s home, but truth to tell I’d merely brought her a token of thanks for her time. One detail I remembered from the story was that Mrs. Whitman was fond of flowers, red and white carnations, specifically.
When I presented the bouquet Susan decided that I was a cut above the rest and agreed to inquire as to whether or not Mrs. Whitman would receive me. After some minutes spent standing in a long hallway filled with Victorian prints and photos of no doubt long dead relatives, Susan returned to escort me into the presence of Mrs. Whitman.
Mrs. Whitman received me in an old-fashioned parlor from the Victorian era. The furniture, the objets-de-art, and even the wallpaper dated to a hundred years or more before. Mrs. Whitman might well have been of the same age. When I set my eyes upon her I knew, without doubt, that part of her tale was true. Mrs. Whitman was confined to her wheelchair and most certainly could not have decorated the allegedly miraculous Christmas tree herself. Even if she had not been confined to her wheelchair, she was far too old and frail to hazard decorating a purportedly sixteen-foot-tree. That did not, of course, eliminate the distinct possibility that others set up the tree and decorated it for her, as had been my suspicion all along.
Mrs. Whitman thanked me for the flowers and agreed to speak with me about her miraculous Christmas tree. According to the tale, the tree appeared, fully decorated and lit, complete with presents, sometime on the night of Christmas Eve. Mrs. Whitman related that she’d never given out the exact time as it was hard enough on Christmas Eve to keep the curious at bay.
Mrs. Whitman asked Susan to make us some tea. I should remark here that Susan had become a good deal friendlier once she knew that her employer was more than willing to speak with me. Perhaps her abruptness was not rudeness, as I had first believed, but rather a dedication to preserving Mrs. Whitman’s privacy.
When Susan left to make tea, Mrs. Whitman continued with the tale of her miraculous Christmas tree. It was much the same as I had heard it often before, differing only in unimportant particulars. Her tale was nearly finished when Susan returned with an antique tea service and porcelain cups. I had no doubt these were relics of a time when the Whitman’s possessed considerably more wealth. Despite the antiques, I could tell without difficulty that Mrs. Whitman was of the most modest of means.
Once Susan had again departed and Mrs. Whitman and I sat tea cups in hand, I was free to question the old lady about her story. I did so with great politeness and respect, of course, even though the story could not possibly be true.
“An angel, Mrs. Whitman? I daresay that few believe that part of your tale.”
“No doubt you are among those disbelievers,” said my elderly companion.
I knew there was no hiding anything from this sweet, but shrewd, old lady. She had already figured me out and I’d barely begun to question her. She did not seem in the least angry, however. She was more amused than anything.
“Well, you must admit, it is a bit difficult to believe.”
“For some,” she replied. “Others take it on faith and they are all the richer for it.”
“So tell me, how did you come to meet this angel?"
“That was during my hardest time. I was merely old then and not yet ancient. I was, however, confined to my wheelchair just as I am now. It was the first Christmas after my dear, sweet Harold passed on. Harold was my husband. We were childhood sweethearts. Oh, the tales I could tell you about those days! But, you’ve come to hear about my tree.
“Each year, on Christmas Eve, Harold went out and cut down a beautiful pine tree. I sat and watched as he set it up, strung the lights, and hung the many decorations. In earlier times when I could walk, I helped him decorate the tree, of course. It was mostly my province then, but Harold was always here to help. When I could no longer handle the decorating in more than a very minor manner, Harold took over. We used to sit here in the parlor with a fire in the hearth while Harold decorated the tree for me.
“After Harold passed away, there was no one left to set up the tree. Some neighbors presented me with a small potted tree which I decorated and sat on the parlor table over there, but it wasn’t the same. I was sitting in this very parlor on Christmas Even night, missing my Harold terribly, and fondly remembering the Christmas tree he set up for me each year when He appeared.
“The angel?”
“Yes. Oh, he was beautiful—so beautiful I couldn’t bear to look at him at first. He was a mere boy, and yet it was hard to tell his exact age. The more I looked at him, the less he seemed to be of any particular age. He had long, golden hair and a face I can only unimaginatively describe as angelic.”
Mrs. Whitman described the angel with such a light in her eyes that I found my skepticism ever so slightly in doubt. She seemed to truly believe what she was saying. There were, of course, the possibilities of senility or dementia. Mrs. Whitman was of quite an advanced age after all.
“I assure you I was in my right mind,” said Mrs. Whitman, as if she had read my own. “I doubted my senses momentarily as I think most would, but it soon became evident that what I was seeing was quite real. I was more convinced by the feeling than by the sight. Not that I doubted my own eyes. It’s just that I felt such peace, such love, and such understanding in his presence that I felt this must really be an angel who had come to visit me.
“I couldn’t speak at first, but the Angel told me that he’d come with a Christmas gift for me. I found my voice and asked what I’d done to deserve such a gift and he replied that I had loved with all my heart. He told me he knew how keenly I missed Harold. He reminded me that Harold wasn’t really gone and that someday I’d be with him again. He told me that to remind me of that he would cause a beautiful Christmas tree to appear every year and disappear again on New Year’s morning.
“I had no time to doubt his word, even if I’d been inclined to do so, for a brilliantly decorated Christmas tree appeared with the most enchanting decorations and beautiful lights. The tree looked so like the last that my own dear Harold had decorated for me that I almost felt as if he was with me again. There were even gifts under the tree that the Angel said were for me to open on Christmas morning.
“Of course the tree aroused great interest. Friends and neighbors who dropped by during the remainder of the Christmas season enquired as to who had decorated such an enchanting tree for me. They knew full well I could not have set it up and decorated it myself. I could reach only the lowest branches. I was loathe to tell them the truth for I was almost certain they would not believe me. I have never spoken a dishonest word, however, and to do so now seemed ungrateful to the beautiful angel who had given me such a great gift.”
“How did your friends and neighbors react?”
“As I thought they would. At first they thought I was teasing them or playing a joke, but as I stuck to the story they began to fear for my sanity. For a while, I myself feared they would have me carted off, but apparently they decided that if I was crazy, at least I wasn’t a danger to myself or others.”
Mrs. Whitman chuckled for a moment before continuing.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you about Christmas morning. I spent the early morning alone as I had for some time. I had my tree to keep me company, however, and I had the gifts left by the Angel.”
“What did he leave you?” I asked with growing interest.
“What I needed or desired most. There were six packages. In one I found a new coffee maker. Mine was on its last legs. I’d been putting aside some money to purchase a new one. I unwrapped another gift to find a receipt indicating my heating and electric bill had been prepaid for the entire winter. I can’t begin to tell you what a relief that was. In another box, I found a new housecoat and matching house shoes. Mine were threadbare so I was especially pleased. The fourth box was filled with books from my favorite authors. That gift alone was worth its weight in gold. There would be no more lonely winter nights for me as I would have my books to keep me company.”
“What was in the last box?”
“That was the darnedest thing. I’d been thinking of a particular doll I had as a child. Oh how I loved that doll, but somewhere in all the passing years it had disappeared. My parents had given me that doll and I’d spent many afternoons playing and having tea parties with her. I tore the wrapping away from the last gift and there she was. It wasn’t merely a doll like my old doll either, but the very same one. I knew because one of the blue eyes had a violet cast to it the other didn’t. If I hadn’t believed before, I would have believed then that the boy who came to visit me was an angel.”
I must admit that my skepticism was no longer intact by this point. I was far from convinced, to be sure, but the story about Mrs. Whitman’s long missing doll struck me in the most particular way. Still, those gifts, even the doll, could have been left by someone other than an angel. Perhaps someone had found her old doll in the attic and had wrapped it up for a special Christmas surprise.
“No one bothered to ask me where I’d obtained the new coffee maker, the books, and other items. I think by this point they feared the answer. I could tell by the way they spoke to me that they believed I was a bit off my rocker. You know, the way one speaks to a small child or to those who have truly lost it? I believe, by this point, that my friends and neighbors had decided I was charmingly eccentric, rather than crazy, although there is no real difference between the two. Eccentric is just a polite way of saying someone is a bit insane. Something soon happened, however, to shake their certainty that I’d gone batty. On New Year’s Eve my neighbor and his son told me they would come the next day to take down my tree for me. I told them they need not bother, for the angel said it would disappear by New Year’s morning. They told me they would stop by ‘just in case,’ which, of course, meant they fully expected the tree to be standing there when they arrived. When I came into the parlor the next morning, the tree and its decorations were gone. There was not so much as a pine needle upon the carpet. When my thoughtful neighbor and his son dropped by later in the morning, the tree was, of course, nowhere to be seen.
“They asked me who had come and taken away the tree. I told them the angel had taken care of it. This was the truth, of course, but they weren’t able to believe it and more’s the pity. I have a notion that they asked around to see who had taken down the tree for me, but, of course, could find no one who would admit to the good deed for none of my friends and neighbors had anything to do with it.”
I myself chuckled at this point. It was obvious that Mrs. Whitman found the disbelief of those around her entertaining and had enjoyed their efforts to get at the truth. I was finding the story behind the story quite as entertaining as the story itself.
“The next holiday season those around me became just a bit uncertain as to whether or not I’d gone potty after all, for the tree reappeared on Christmas Eve decorated as before. What especially perplexed my neighbors was the timing. The tree appeared between two closely spaced visits from neighbors. It wasn’t here when Mr. Franklin dropped in to check on me, but it was here less than an hour later when Mrs. Thompson dropped by for a chat. It was when Mr. Franklin and Mrs. Thompson compared notes that things began to get interesting. No one could figure out how anyone could set up and so beautifully decorate the tree in under an hour, especially without being seen. My neighbors, then as now, tended to keep an eye on my place, more out of concern for my welfare than nosiness. Of course, no one saw the freshly cut Christmas tree coming through my door because it didn’t come in that way. I was in the parlor when the tree appeared. One moment it wasn’t there, the next it was—complete with presents again, no less.
“It was then that my neighbors, God bless their disbelieving souls, decided that one of their number must be in cahoots with me. Someone must have delivered a tree at night, hidden it within the house, and then secretly decorated it. My part was merely to claim an angel had made the tree miraculously appear. Suspicion fell most heavily upon Mr. Franklin and Mrs. Thompson, naturally, but no one was quite sure.
“Well, the next year my home was under much closer surveillance. You can be sure not so much as a cat approached my home from any direction without being observed. But, of course, the tree appeared again on Christmas Eve, much to the astonishment of all.”
Mrs. Whitman actually laughed at this point and I joined with her in her merriment. I could just picture the bewilderment of her neighbors.
“It was the next year that people ‘round about began to believe. Word about my miraculous Christmas tree had spread and not only was the house watched from the outside, but from the inside, too. Mrs. Perry and Mrs. Conder both paid me a visit on Christmas Eve. They didn’t say they’d come to observe, of course, but I wasn’t fooled. I wasn’t bothered in the least for I enjoyed their company and had nothing to hide.
“Well, they both left the parlor to make us a bit of tea. They were gone not five minutes, but when they returned there was the tree! I greatly feared Mrs. Perry would upset the tea tray and smash my cups when she saw it, but, trembling, she somehow managed to set it on the table.
“Of course, neither could explain how the tree had so suddenly appeared. No one could have erected and decorated it that fast. In fact, it would have been a feat if any living soul could have decorated that tree in less than six hours. There were that many ornaments and that much detail.
“Word quickly spread about what had happened. Some believed that Mrs. Perry and Mrs. Conder were part of a growing conspiracy, but more than a few began to earnestly believe.
“As much fun as I had with my neighbors’ dilemma, I began to grow tired of living under a magnifying glass at Christmas. The next Christmas Eve I invited my closest friends and neighbors to spend Christmas Eve with me. Everyone accepted my invitation, of course, because by this point the entire town was just dying to know what was going on.
“Everyone brought a little something and we made it quite a party. At no time were there less than three or four people in the parlor. When the tree did make it miraculous appearance every one of my invited guests was in the room. They were astounded for the tree appeared, apparently right out of thin air, before their very eyes.
“Well, there was no disbelieving my tale now, at least as far as the Christmas tree and gifts were concerned. Some few might have doubted the involvement of an Angel, but most believed the entire story after that day.
“From that Christmas season on my neighbors became my allies in keeping the curious at bay. I would have had no peace without their help because word had spread and everyone would have liked to have seen for themselves when the tree appeared. At first my friends and neighbors had quite a time of keeping the curious out, but as the years passed the task grew easier. Most came to believe the story was just a myth, just a pleasant Christmas tale to tell by the fire, but those who were closest to me knew the truth.”
Mrs. Whitman turned her eyes upon me and fixed me with a stare.
“I can tell that you don’t quite believe the story even now, do you?”
I was most uncomfortable under the old woman’s gaze for her eyes were piercing and I felt as if she could look into my very soul.
“Well, I…I’m much closer to believing it than I was when I arrived.”
Mrs. Whitman laughed. “You tell the truth. I like that. I let you in on account of your thoughtfulness in bringing me my favorite flowers. Since you are a truthful man, I will allow you to return on Christmas Eve to see the miracle for yourself.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Whitman. I very much appreciate that.”
“Return on Christmas Eve, not after one p.m., for otherwise you may miss the miracle and have to wait another year. I’m not sure how many years I have left, so time is running out.”
“I will be here sharp at one ma’am. I give you my word.”
With that I took my leave of Mrs. Whitman because I’d taken more than enough of her valuable time. She had been gracious to tell me her tale and I was not so ungrateful as to demand more.
I eagerly anticipated the arrival of Christmas Eve, perhaps as eagerly as the children of the world anticipate the coming of Christmas morning. When the 24th at last arrived I set out early, for it was a veritable blizzard outside and I did not wish to be late. It was a good thing I allowed myself an extra hour for travel because I arrived just barely before one.
When I arrived, however, I found a black wreath upon the door. I knocked and Susan answered, clad in black. I knew then that though I had come on time, I had arrived too late. Mrs. Whitman was gone. She had passed away only hours before.
I turned away from Mrs. Whitman’s home feeling a sense of loss. I had come so close to witnessing the miracle for myself and now it would never be seen by anyone again. The proof had been within my grasp, but had slipped away.
The truly odd thing was, however, that I no longer needed proof. I no longer needed to see Mrs. Whitman’s miraculous Christmas tree appear out of thin air to believe in it. I realized that I believed in the story even before I had reached Mrs. Whitman’s door on this snowy Christmas Eve afternoon. Seeing her eyes as she related the tale told me all I needed to know. Her eyes spoke the truth.
Some might say that the look in an old lady’s eyes was not proof enough, but then some would not believe if they had witnessed the miracle for themselves. They would insist that there was some magician’s trick to it. Others believe without seeing the tree or Mrs. Whitman at all. Those who could believe without seeing were all the richer for it. I had set out demanding proof, but somewhere along the way I’d become one of those who could accept the miracle, and others like it, on faith. Mrs. Whitman’s Miraculous Christmas Tree was indeed a wonderful gift, and not only to her, but to all of us who believed.
I shed no tears for Mrs. Whitman. I grieved for her not in the least. I knew her angel had come for her and had taken her to her beloved Harold. They were together again in a place where they would never be parted. Mrs. Whitman’s miraculous Christmas tree had helped her through all the long years until she could once again be with the one she loved. This was not a time for mourning; it was a time for celebration. I bid Mrs. Whitman a silent Merry Christmas and went upon my way, all the richer for having known her.
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