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It was Christmas Eve, 1963. I knew Santa wouldn't be able to find my new
home. It was in the middle of the Belizean jungle in Central America,
miles from nowhere and anybody. There wouldn't be any tall pine tree
dressed in shiny tinsel, sporting bright, colored balls, or spicy
cinnamon sticks dangling from its fragrant green branches. There
wouldn't be any of the familiar twinkling, blinking lights necessary to
help Santa find his way. There wouldn't be any mysterious packages
wrapped in festive paper and tied with big, fluffy bows. There wouldn't
be any anticipation of Santa's arrival, or the wonder and excitement of
the first sight of a present-laden tree early Christmas morning. My
heart was breaking! I couldn't bear the thought of no Christmas tree. I
couldn't bear the thought that Santa wouldn't come.
Morning gently nudged me awake with the soft fanning of a light breeze.
Warm rays of sunshine gently caressed my cheek as the squawks and cries
of color-splashed macaw parrots heralded the new day. Sleepily, I
stumbled out of my room to gaze longingly at the empty wall where my
Christmas tree should have been. My eyes popped open wide. Squeals of
utter, complete joy filled the house as I ran further into the room.
There, in the corner, a silvery bucket held a large spray of fresh
bamboo. Wild jungle flowers, tucked among sinewy branches, added a
myriad of bright colors to which no Christmas ornaments could compare.
Dewdrops glistened and twinkled amidst the slender leaves and hung like
tiny crystal balls off their fragile tips. Crowning the top, delicate
snowy bridal veil and feathery maidenhair fern embraced a small cluster
of petite mountain orchids.
Below my jungle Christmas tree lay two packages. Simple brown paper tied
with string replaced the usual red and gold wrappings. But it didn't
matter. In bold, block letters, my name was written on both of them!
Santa had found me after all!
Exploding with excitement, I couldn't wait any longer! My trembling
hands tore at the trappings that held my presents from me. Salty, joyful
tears trickled down my face as I hugged my treasures close. My heart
bubbled over with happiness. He came! He came! Santa got my letter and
he remembered! And, oh! Santa came!
A box of Kellogg’s
Cornflakes and a can of sweet milk may not seem like much to most kids.
But in the jungle one does not have easy access to civilization and oh!
how I missed my American breakfasts! I dug deep into the large,
overflowing bowl my mother fixed for me and shoveled a heaping spoonful
of crunchy, milk‑moistened flakes in my mouth.
The deep, raspy crunching sound of the crispy cereal made it fun to eat.
I plugged my ears with my fingers and chewed vigorously. Sounding like
heavy boots stomping on a graveled road, the deep well-like effects
marched through my ears. Chewing with an open mouth turned the juicy
smacking into a game of skill to keep the milk from running down my chin
before my greedy tongue darted out to capture each sweet drop.
Looking back, there has never been a bowl of cereal I have enjoyed so
much, or a Christmas tree more beautiful, or a time more magical than
that which I fondly remember as my Cornflakes Christmas.
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