I grew up in a Masonic children’s home in Oklahoma. If viewed from above, the place would have looked like a giant, squared-off lightning bolt.
The middle section was a three-story building. The bottom floor was the library and offices, the second floor was where the superintendent and his family lived, and the third floor was used for storage.
From the main building, a long hallway led to the boys’ wing, which stretched off to the north. There was also a long hallway in the other direction that led to the girls’ wing, which stretched off to the south.
Each wing had two floors, so there were, in reality, four dormitories: two for the boys and two for the girls.
The girls had a playground, and the boys had a playground. Each play area was out of sight and off-limits to the opposite sex, which meant that the matrons (or dorm mothers, as they were also called) could send kids out to play unsupervised without worrying about hanky-panky.
There were a hundred or more children, ranging in age from preschool through high school. The possibility of blossoming romances among the older kids was felt to be a legitimate concern.
Boys and girls were together during meal times and on summer evenings when we played on the huge front lawn. On both occasions, there were plenty of adults keeping a watchful eye.
I told you all that so I could tell you this.
In mid-December, an enormous Christmas tree was set up in the dining room. We children helped decorate it. Younger ones were assisted in hanging balls and tinsel on the lower portion, while older kids used ladders to string lights and decorate the upper regions.
Each of us, regardless of age, wrote a letter to Santa, listing some things we wanted him to bring us. The letters were distributed to Masonic families in the area, who shopped for, wrapped, and donated the gifts.
Let me say, for truth’s sake, that I was not a kid who took well to institutional life. Though the children’s home took good care of us, I was miserable there. The days and weeks and months and years dragged by. Living in the home filled me with a restless dissatisfaction and sadness that was unexplainable, but real.
Christmas, however, was wonderful. There was not just delicious food and Christmas carols and decorations, but a festive spirit that even I couldn’t resist.
On Christmas morning, we all gathered in the dining room. Santa and a small army of elves handed out the presents. When young, I was excited that Saint Nick had gotten my letter. When older and aware of how the gifts were acquired, I still, in spite of myself, felt excited.
Looking back, how grateful I am for those Oklahoma families that took a boy’s Christmas list and fulfilled it as faithfully as Santa would have.
It was their version of what today in the Oxford Hills is called Christmas for Kids and Christmas for Teens.
Comments are not available on this story.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
