ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1995, Roanoke Times
DATE: Sunday, December 24, 1995 TAG: 9512260074
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-10 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
TYPE: CHRISTMAS MEMORIES
SOURCE: THAD RIDDLE
When I was growing up in Spruce Pine, N.C., during World War II, there was little money except for the bare essentials.
My greatest assets in life were my hometown heroes. One hero was Lydia Hoilman, who lived in Altapass, N.C., just past the train depot in a big two-story house on the hill.
Born in Philadelphia, she had graduated from Philadelphia General Hospital in 1895 and was one of 19 nurses accepted for military service during the Spanish-American War. In 1900 she answered a call to nurse a typhoid case in North Carolina and put down her roots there.
In those days, I assumed anyone who lived in a two-story house was rich. Miss Hoilman was not rich in today's terms, but she had money and used that money to help the less fortunate. I was one in that number.
I first came to know Miss Hoilman at Christmas time in Miss Belle McBee's first-grade class. I still remember those little oak chairs we sat on as if they had been custom made for each of us as we listened to Miss McBee sound out the alphabet.
I remember that glorious Christmas because of Miss Hoilman. That was the first year "Santa" was part of Christmas for me. Santa wasn't a "he," Santa was a "she." My dear Miss Hoilman came to our class with Christmas gifts.
Up to that time, through no fault of my grandmother who raised me, my only toy had been a discarded thread spool or a half-worn comb with cellophane wrapped around it to make musical sounds when blown upon.
This Christmas was the grandest Christmas I could remember. I don't remember if each student in the class received a gift, but I sure do remember mine. I wrapped it as well as I could in my paper lunch bag. The bag had grease stains because I carried it for as many days as it would hold together.
I carefully protected the gift under my wool sweater that my grandmother had made by hand for me. I am sorry today that I envied store-bought coats and sweaters some of the other children wore.
I was eager to get on the school bus and get home with my gift. It's a wonder I ever made it across the Beaver Creek foot log, up the hill and home because I was so excited.
My grandmother told me to wait until the next morning, to open the gift on Christmas. I doubt if I slept two winks that night. I could see the gift in the dark, wrapped in pretty paper with holly leaves and berries.
Finally, it was Christmas morning and I rushed from the bed and dressed by the cook stove. Then, I opened my treasure.
I couldn't speak, I couldn't cry! I found it hard to see through clouded eyes as the emotion tried to escape in happiness. It was red, it was a red tractor!
My grandmother showed me how to wind the tractor to create, in my eyes, a miracle. I really didn't understand how the tractor moved, but it moved my heart to believe in Christmas for the first time.
Lydia Hoilman, one of my many hometown heroes, made life a bit easier for me so many years ago.
Thad Riddle lives and works in Pilot.
LENGTH: Medium: 62 linesby CNB