Marshall Ramsey

It was the big night at the East Mississippi Christmas Tree Farm Christmas Festival. Cool December air nipped at the visitors’ red noses as they sang Christmas Carols and drank hot chocolate. Families from all around Mississippi flocked to the moon-lit countryside to cut down their own Christmas tree.  There were Red Cedars, Virginia Pines, Leyland Cypresses and Frasier Firs.  Each tree had waited a whole year for this night. It was the night when they’d  finally get to fulfill their purpose and finally become a Christmas tree.  Smoke from the bonfire drifted across the open field.  A full moon illuminated the trees, making them look like sentinels guarding the Christmas season. One by one, the families cut their trees, leaving nothing but stumps and memories behind.

On a hill by himself, one tree watched the other trees being hauled off to their final destinations.  The little bent tree was a short, three-foot Virginia Pine with a bent trunk.  One customer had asked if he had the tree version of scoliosis. The comment had made the little bent tree’s thin branches droop even more.  The sadness in his heart of pine caused his needles to fall like tears as he watched his family being carried away.

The little bent tree wanted nothing more than to be a Christmas Tree.  And he knew that he would never be one.

He watched as the crowds left and the last embers of the fire burn out.  As the moon set, darkness covered the field like a blanket. If a Christmas tree’s dream dies and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? The little bent tree knew the answer. Yes.  Yes, it does.

The owner’s little boy came out of their house with a lantern.  Although it was well past the eleven-year-old’s bedtime, he liked sneak out and walk through the fields at night to see deer grazing.  He skipped along the frost-covered grass while holding his lantern. It’s bluish light lit the ground ahead, illuminating the stumps and casting cross-like shadows across the countryside.   He paused and heard a rustle to the right.  The little boy turned east and headed up a small hill.

There his lantern illuminated a sad looking tree. Short and bent, the little boy knew why it had not been chosen. His dad would come out tomorrow and cut the tree down for the next bonfire.  But as the little boy held up his lantern, he felt sorry for the little tree.  Feeling the brace on his own back, he knew what it was like to be considered different.  He smiled and said, “Don’t worry little tree. I know just what we’re going to do.”

The little boy returned thirty minutes with a box.  Inside it was three strings of battery-powered lights, four strings of gold beads and two-dozen beautiful red balls.  The little boy carefully decorated the bent tree and soon, like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree, it was spectacular.  As he finished, a bright star rose over the horizon, rising to right over the top of the tree.  It looked like it had been chosen to be the little bent tree’s personal star.

The little boy smiled and said, “Merry Christmas little bent tree.”

The little bent tree had never stood taller.

The next morning, the tree farmer came out with his chainsaw.  He rode his four-wheeler across the field and up a small hill. There he stopped, and was stunned to find a beautifully decorated Virginia Pine on the hill’s crest. He put his chainsaw back in the four-wheeler and wiped his eyes.

As he saw his son playing off in the distance, the tree farmer realized, Christmas didn’t have to be perfect. It just had to be from the heart.  And on that special Christmas, a little bent tree’s dream came true.

He got to be a Christmas Tree.

Late one Monday afternoon, a lone man sat on a park bench.  He opened up a brown bag, stuck his hand inside and quickly closed it.  He shut his eyes and started muttering something under his breath.  At a time he should of been at work, he wasn’t.

That was the root of all his problems.

While the sky was beautifully clear, James Washington had a thick black cloud hanging ominously over his head. He had recently been laid off from his job. And now, depression had wrapped around him like a straight jacket.  James was paralyzed with an odd combination of the blues, fear and indifference.  A pigeon walked up to him, hoping there would be a scrap of something in the brown bad.  But what James was drinking, the pigeon would have refused.  The fog of his despair swirled around him, leaving him in a black mist.

About 25 yards away was a little boy with his mom.  The boy was trying to learn to ride a bike without training wheels and so far, as best as James could tell, was failing miserably.  But the kid kept after it.  He’d climb on, pedal about five feet and tumble over into the soft grass.  But instead of moping about it, the kid just got back up, dusted himself off and tried again.  Over and over the kid did this until he started to get the hang of it.  His mom would help him roll as few feet and then the kid would go a little farther.  Until finally, about an hour after James first noticed him, the kid pedaled around the park and back to his mom. (where he promptly fell over once again.)

James put his bag down and walked over to the boy and his mom.

“I’ve been watching you, young man. Good job!”

The mom smiled and said, “Thank you.”  The little boy adjusted his bike helmet and  said, “Thanks.”

Then the boy said something in a different voice to James: “I didn’t quit.  I didn’t lie there in the grass feeling sorry for myself. I got back up and dusted myself off.  I could’ve not gotten back on the bike. But I would’ve missed a lifetime of thrills.  I didn’t quit. You shouldn’t either.”

James was taken back by the kids’ comment.  He wondered, “How did he know?..”  James shook his head.  He looked back over at the bench and at the bag.

His tired eyes watered as he looked at the kid.  The little boy looked just like James did as a small child.  And that made James start to think.  Kids have no fear of failure.  They try things. They experiment. They fail and then learn from that failure. Adults? Well adults are so cautious. There are mortgages to worry about and insurance and blah, blah, blah.

And then James realized an undeniable truth: Failure isn’t falling off the bike. Failure is not getting back on.

James Washington fist bumped the little boy and said thank you again to his mother. He then walked back toward his house and prepared to get back on the bike.

“34 79 23 6 12  and Powerball 7.”

Kris Kaylor sat in his pickup truck on the edge of the Natchez bluff.  He listened intently while a man read the winning power ball numbers.  His hands holding the ticket shook as a cold chill went down his spine.  In the past 30 seconds, his life just changed.

He won the $500 million Powerball lottery  jackpot.

There, on the banks of the Mississippi River, an out-of-work factory worker was now one of the wealthiest men in Mississippi.  He felt his heart race. He knew one thing though: No one could find out.  Ever. Not even his extended family. And  he knew what he had to do next.

Kris Kaylor had a plan.

The Oxford Square

Two weeks later, he claimed the jackpot anonymously. He immediately quit his job at the MiniMart, put his trailer up for sale and moved to the Oxford, Mississippi.  He had always loved Ole Miss as a kid, even though he knew he could never afford to go there.  Now he lived two blocks off the Square in a small condo paid for with cash.

The next thing he did was enroll in Ole Miss’ College of Business. Kris had seen too many lottery winners go broke soon after they had won.  It was time for him to learn about his money and how harness it.  His new-found fortune was like the river he had grown up with; he knew he could quickly drown in it.

Kris soon befriended his accounting professor, Dr. Bob Dollarhyde.  One afternoon, he went to Dr. Dollarhyde’s office and revealed his secret to him.  As he sat across from his professor, he said, “I’ve read that you’re the best. I need your help.  I’ll pay you — but really need some advice on how to set some things up.”

Dr. Dollarhyde sat there stunned. He then stammered.  “OK.”  And from that moment on, accounts were set up. Income began to stream. And Kris’ immense wealth quietly multiplied.

Jenni Frise was a first-generation college student from Eupora, Mississippi. The daughter of factory workers, she realized that education was her ticket to a better life than her parent’s. But it was so expensive. Her tuition was rising like South Delta floodwaters, threatening to wash her dreams away.  Brunette with glasses, she wiped her eyes as she sat in the coffee shop on the Oxford Square.  A nice man served her coffee and said, “Everything OK?”  The girl, stressed out over school and her finances unloaded on a total stranger.

“NO!  I have dreams of becoming an accountant. But I’m going to have to dropout. My mother lost her job last week and my dad is worried about his job.  I can’t afford to stay here.”

The waiter put her coffee down and said, “What’s your name?”

The girl, a bit put back by the stranger’s request, told him anyway. “Jennifer. Jennifer Frise. My friends call me Jenni.”

The man smiled and said, “Don’t worry Jenni, things will be OK.”

Jenni wiped her nose and thanked the kind man.  Little did she know her life was about to be changed, too.

The waiter walked back into the kitchen and made a phone call, “Doc, this is Kris, we have our first winner. Contact the bursar’s office and pay Jennifer Frise’s tuition until she graduates.”

An older couple sat in the booth in the back.  The woman was crying as the husband held her hand.  Kris brought them some coffee and slowly walked past but remained within earshot. “I’m sorry honey.  I know what the doctor said but we can’t afford the treatment for me.  I’m going to make sure you are well taken care of after I die.”  The woman burst into sobs immediately.

Kris walked back into the kitchen and asked his manager, “Do you know them?”

“Yes,” his boss said, “Edna and Frank Marsella.  They live a couple of blocks off the Square in a small cottage.  Good people. Donate a lot of volunteer time to the school and Oxford.”  Kris thanked his boss and walked out of his earshot.  He picked up his smartphone and once again called a familiar number.

“Yes, call Ed at the hospital and make sure Frank Marsella’s treatment is paid for.”

A few minutes later, Kris watched as Frank answered his cellphone. He saw him pause and then drop the phone. Kris picked up dirty dishes three tables away and just smiled.

Judy Bowen was a single-mom with two kids. She had left after her husband Billy Jack had nearly beat her unconscious.  She was a woman of great courage and now was desperately trying to rebuild her life by taking night classes at Ole Miss. But she lacked the funds and the energy to go on. And now that it was Christmas, she was faced with a terrible choice: Rent or Christmas.

She looked at her waiter and said, “Did you ever just want to give up?”

Kris smiled and said, “Only on days that end with Y.”

Judy grinned at the joke.  “No seriously. My kids are so good but there won’t be a Christmas for them this year.”

Kris said, “Why not?”

Judy unloaded her whole story on the nice man bringing her a cup of coffee.  Kris sat down and said, “I know how I can help.” Judy looked at him suspiciously but then he said,  “I’ll buy your coffee today.”

Judy laughed.  And when she got home from class that night, she found $500 in an envelope with a note that read, “Buy your kids some presents. Santa.”

And in a way, Kris Kaylor did become Santa.  He quietly found ways to use his new-found fortune to help others. To bring gifts to good people.  He developed a network to find out who were truly in need and then paid a tuition here, helped with a house note there.   And over the next five  years, he assisted over 2,000 people.  All quietly. All anonymously.

Everyone in Oxford just knew him as the kind man who worked in the local coffee shop. Everyone except two people. One was his best friend Dr. Bob Dollarhyde.  And the other was his new wife, Judy Bowen.  The day she married the nice coffee-shop waiter, she learned her kids would never have to worry about Christmas presents again.

Late one Christmas Eve, Kris looked at his sleeping wife and realized he had truly won life’s lottery after all. It wasn’t about the money. It was what he was now able to do to help others. He payed his good fortune forward. And as Oxford’s secret Santa drifted off to sleep, Kris dreamed of his winning numbers:

“34 79 23 6 12  and Powerball 7.”