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Anyone as lucky as I’ve been shouldn’t have the nerve to ask for anything for Christmas. I’m lucky to be here for Christmas.
When I recovered from that auto accident fifteen months ago I told myself that I’d had my share of good luck for a while — so, as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing I want for Christmas, for I have everything that matters — good health, a good job and good friends.
Of course I haven’t, as yet, the one perfect girl — the wife who would make my bachelor house a home — but girls like that don’t come on Christmas trees.
My Christmas wishes this year are for other people. For Dr. William Branch, the great guy who saved my life when I was smashed up. I’d wish for that vacation he’s always talking about but never getting.
I’d like my dad to have a shiny new station wagon with white-wall tires and lots of chrome. I know it’s impossible until the war ends.
While I’m wishing, I’ll wish that my pal Keenan Wynn will get his Christmas wish — which is a chance to direct a motion picture.
And that’s all, brother.
My Christmas wish is one I know is echoed in the hearts of millions of other women — it is that my husband who is far away fighting — fighting with those millions of other longed-for men so that this world will not turn back into barbarism and darkness— will be home with me again, safe and well.
I wish I could hope to have Richard home this Christmas, but as a naval lieutenant aboard a U. S. destroyer in the Pacific, he will not be back, I know, until the Japanese, as well as the Germans, have been beaten.
This Christmas I shall have to be content with a Christmas letter from “somewhere in the Pacific,” but it will be better than any other gift I could ask for if he tells me he loves me, aches to be home and is taking care of himself so that he can come back unharmed, and soon.
&a/ v
If there weren’t a war on, with the hoys praying to get it over fast and come home — and their families praying for their safe return—
And if the most important thing in the world weren.t that their prayers be answered —
If it weren’t necessary to plunk every possible dollar, and even the impossible
ones, into War Bonds — . , ,
Well, if then, we could permit ourselves to dream a little about less vital and more foolish things, I believe the thing I’d like for Christmas is a new meeting place for my Irish club.
I’d want it to be a big room, sound-proof and air-conditioned to whip out the cigar smoke. I’d like it rock-bottom comfort, with old easy chairs and a raft of tables everyone could put their feet on — and a good old gay-patterned rug that wouldn’t show the cigar ashes. The ash trays, by the by, would have to be the twofoot-diameter variety-and plenty of ’em. And what a loaf it would be to have some push buttons handy for service— and a private phone just in case the meeting lasted too long and someone had to phone the little woman.
But why all this foolishness when we’ve got V-Day to ring up first. Im putting this old wish-pipe out and waiting for another Christmas.
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