🍊All I Wanted for Christmas Was an Orange

A powerful Christmas story about family, sacrifice, and finding joy in the darkest of times.

Photo by James Steger

In Poland, 1981, martial law had turned Christmas into a luxury we could barely afford.

The shelves in the stores were empty, and coupons for food were scarce. The black market was thriving, and you could get anything you wanted as long as you had money—preferably US dollars.

I remember that all I wanted for Christmas was an orange. Don't ask me why—I have no idea. Maybe I saw it on one of the two TV channels we had, or perhaps one of my rich relatives was serving them to their children. I can't remember.

My mother, a proud academic, refused to participate in the black market schemes that seemed to be making everyone else rich. She insisted on earning an honest living, which meant our family was always broke.

A Drastic Decision

A week before Christmas, my mom took out her emerald ring from her beautifully carved jewelry box. She looked at it with sad eyes and said to me and my brother, "I'm going to sell it so we can have a good Christmas."

My heart sank. That ring was her most prized possession, a family heirloom passed down from her grandmother. But I knew things were desperate. We had been surviving on bread and potatoes for weeks, and the holidays looked bleak.

We drove with her on a bus for two hours to the next big city and found a pawnshop that would take her ring. The place was dingy, smelling of stale cigarettes and desperation. A man with rotten teeth and a stained shirt looked at the ring and sneered. "It's worthless," he said. "I can't give you the amount you're asking for."

My heart stopped. That meant we would not get anything for Christmas and would go back to surviving on bread. I looked at my mother, her face pale and drawn. I felt tears welling up in my eyes.

A Mother's Courage

But my mom was smart and savvy. She started haggling with the man, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. She argued about the quality of the emeralds, the craftsmanship of the setting, and the history behind the piece. She spoke with such passion and conviction that the pawnbroker was taken aback.

After what felt like an eternity, we walked away from the store holding $25. The ring was worth at least a thousand percent more than that, but it was enough. Enough for a Christmas dinner, enough for some small gifts, and enough for my orange.

I remember that Christmas Eve vividly. The smell of roasted chicken filled our tiny house. We had potatoes, cabbage salad, and even a small piece of cake. And there it was, my orange, shining brightly on the table like a golden orb. I peeled it slowly, savoring the aroma, and took a bite. The taste was heavenly, sweet and tangy—a burst of sunshine in the middle of a cold, gray winter.

The Orange Legacy

To this day, oranges are my all-time favorite fruit. Every Christmas, we make sure there is an abundance of oranges in our house to honor that one orange from 1981 and the sacrifice my mother made.

That Christmas taught me the true meaning of giving. It wasn't about the material things, the presents, or the feast. It was about the love, the sacrifice, and the resilience of the human spirit. It was about my mother's willingness to give up something precious to her so that her children could have a moment of joy in a time of hardship.

Her emerald ring may be gone, but the memory of that Christmas, the taste of that orange, and the love behind it will stay with me forever. It's a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always hope, and there is always love.

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