The Heartwarming Christmas Collection

Mention the city of Stowe, Vermont, and our thoughts turn to beautiful mountains, lots of snow, and marvelous skiing. But it wasn’t always the grand paradise we know it as today, especially to a little girl, six years old, and her Russian immigrant parents. Let me tell you a story my mind remembers and my heart will never forget.

The year was 1907. I was six. I don’t ever remember being four or five, so I must have been six. My Papa, Nicholas, even though he was a common man, was named after a well-known Russian czar. Mama was Ana. I truly believe she was named for her beauty, inside and out. Their first daughter was Inka, and, of course, that’s me. I was named Inka because, well, because that was me.

We lived in a little village called Moscow, Vermont. It was a half-day’s horse-and-buggy ride from the train station near the town of Stowe, the now famous ski resort. One day I asked my Papa why he settled here when he arrived in America. He said, “When we left Moscow, Russia, I wanted to be near mountains and lots of snow in my new country. When I saw the village of Moscow on the map in Vermont, and where it was located, I knew it would be as close to our Russian home as we could ever get, but without the Communists. Besides, it was the first word in English I could spell.”

My parents came to this country with little money and a lot of pride. I know this because Mama boasted of their arriving in America with only the clothes on their backs and the wealth of desire they carried inside themselves.

They rented a little farm and purchased a horse. Papa named the horse Stoli because he was strong, pure white, and very proud. They also bought a cow, which I was able to name Liberty. I named her for the lady who greeted us when our ship first came into New York Harbor.

We did a little farming for food and a little to sell to others, but Papa made most of his money taking skiers in his sleigh from the train station in Stowe to the ski cabins on the mountain. Besides the money they made, Papa and Stoli both enjoyed the work because it made them feel important and needed in this great free country. Mama also did her bit by knitting shawls and selling eggs, milk, and goose down whenever she could.

I remember it was December twenty-third. At the dinner table that evening, Papa and Mama were exceptionally quiet. Even when I tried to say something funny about what happened with the animals that day, neither of them ever looked up from their plates. I gave up trying just about the time Papa lifted his head and said, “If it doesn’t snow in the next couple of days, I don’t know what we will do. We may have to sell Liberty.”

In a sad voice, Mama said, “No, not Liberty! We need the fresh milk for Inka.”

Because I couldn’t believe what he had said, I asked, “Papa, why would you have to sell Liberty?”

“You must understand what is happening. There is no snow, and without snow the skiers don’t come. Without skiers we cannot make any money, and we have bills to pay for the farm and on our loan. The bank informed me they cannot extend our loan, or give us any more money.” After he said the word money, Papa got up from the table, leaving half his dinner untouched. Putting on his cap and coat, he went outside, I think to the barn. He always went to the barn when he was sad and had to think.

While Mama and I were clearing away the dishes and washing them, it was the right time to ask, “Mama, is there anything we can do to help?”

“I don’t know, Inka. Just pray for snow.”

As I dried and stacked the dishes, my thoughts were of how one prays for snow. Do you ask God, “If it’s in your power, or desire, would you sprinkle a few cold powder flakes on our town down here?” Or, “Throw my Papa some snowballs, God, please.” At six years of age, it was hard to know how to pray, especially to God.

That evening, it took me a long time to fall asleep. As hard as I tried, even with my eyes closed, I saw more of my room and the stars outside my windows than I had ever seen before.

In the scary stillness of the night, I heard a noise downstairs. Slowly, I went into the hall, peeked into Mama’s room, and saw she was fast asleep. Looking over the railing, I saw Papa kneeling in front of the holy cross we had hanging in the living room. He was quietly talking to the cross, with his hands squeezed together. It was there, for the first time in my life, that I saw my Papa with tears flowing down his face. It seemed so wrong to me that his handsome face should show the terrible pain he was suffering inside. As he had so often comforted Mama and me, I wished there were someone to comfort him in his hour of need. Someone who would tell him not to worry, that everything would turn out all right and that he would have to have faith to wait and see. Instead, I went back to my room and asked God to answer my Papa’s prayers and take away his sorrow.

Sleep comes quickly when your eyes are filled with tears, and so did the morning and a new day.