The Christmas of 1957

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

It was 1957 when I saw something that I wasn't meant to see. I have never forgotten this night because it had such an impact on me. I was only seven years old, and what I saw my father doing confused me. Finally, I had enough courage to ask my mother about it. After she explained everything to me, I was shocked and saddened.

What happened after I learned my father's greatest secret was extraordinary to our family. When my father, Justin L. Reeves, decided to conquer an overwhelming disability in life, he was fifty-four years old. He gave our family an incredible gift to last a lifetime because of what he accomplished at his age.

His triumph made me into the woman I am today. My three older siblings were able to make the best decisions for their adult lives because of our father's influence.

This is a story of determination and hope. My father's journey was not easy. But if it had been easy, I would not be telling his story now.

After you finish reading this book, I pray that the true meaning will linger in your heart and mind, just as the outcome of my long-ago memory has remained in my soul for forty-four years.

My name is Debra Reeves Cunningham and I am fifty-one years old. It's not hard to take you back to the beginning when I was seven and my life was good and simple in 1957. We lived on a farm with eighty acres outside of Findlay, Ohio. My petite mother, Lucille, worked hard doing whatever needed to be done on the farm. She was especially a big help to my dad when it came to dairy chores. With no milking machines, they milked seven cows by hand in the morning and again in the evening.

My siblings didn't help with this time-consuming job. My oldest sister, Gail, was twenty-five and lived at home. She worked as a secretary at the impressive Ohio Oil Company in Findlay. She always dressed in pretty clothes and went out on dates all the time.

My brother, Carl, at the age of twenty-one was in the Army and he hated it. He wrote me the best letters, and just that past summer, we all traveled in our huge Mercury car to visit him in North Carolina.

Next came my fourteen-year-old sister, Kathy, and we shared a bedroom. Kathy never complained about sharing a room with a younger sister. She only worried about not being able to dance. From the time she was a small child, she wanted to be a dancer. She watched all the Shirley Temple movies and practiced on the kitchen linoleum floor. I was told how her dancing entertained me when I was a fussy baby with teething pain.

A short time after Kathy celebrated her seventh birthday, she was stricken with polio. She wore a brace on her left leg because the polio had weakened these muscles. Dancing was no longer a realistic dream for Kathy.

It's time to take you back to the night when what I saw made me question everything. From my siblings, I learned that sometimes we see only what we want to see, and only face the truth when we can no longer deny it. I remember everything about that time so clearly. In my mind I see my bare feet softly walking down twenty-two steps. I remember how I enjoyed counting the steps and jumping off the last one. It drove my sister, Gail, crazy whenever she was in a hurry and behind me. "Why do you have to count these stupid steps all the time?"

"I like to count them. I always get twenty-two."

And so on this particular night I counted them again. With no light on to guide my footsteps, I didn't want to fall in the dark. I knew that I had to be very quiet since I was not supposed to be up at this late hour, so I didn't jump off the last step. With a racing heart I slowly opened the stairway door and hoped it wouldn't make a sound.