I believe that one of the reasons I became Head of a school that serves elementary school-aged children is the vividness of memories I hold from those years. Brad Bell is one kid I still remember and think about, particularly at this time of year. Small and rail thin, Brad had a permanently raspy voice. He always seemed to squint at the world, and he always seemed to be more disheveled than the rest of us. If a teacher wasn’t looking, he would hit you hard in the arm as he walked past.

            Brad’s differences didn’t end there. He lived tucked next to the new interstate that transformed our small town into a suburb of Boston. When the highway’s new cloverleaf entrance was excavated, Brad’s house became cut off from any others, and his yard became increasingly overgrown before they moved.

            Besides for giving us arm slugs, Brad rarely mixed with the rest of us. He wasn’t a part of our recess games, and I can’t remember even seeing him outside at our school.  Yet, I often saw him all over town riding a barebones bike with a scraggly hound beside him. We kids knew that Brad’s dad had died when he was little and that his family struggled, something pretty much unheard of amongst the student body at Henry B. Sanborn School.

            During those years one of the ways my parents kept my sense of privilege in check was by keeping our holiday gifts modest. My sister and I usually got one special toy (Mr. Kelly’s Carwash was my favorite). Then it was all practicalities: new boots, socks, and, to our groans, underwear. We also were expected to do regular purges of outgrown clothes and toys, and several times a year my father and I would load up our station wagon with our former treasures and head to the “sharing shed” at the town dump. There you could leave items in decent shape that you no longer wanted, and you could take items you thought you could use. It was there that I had found two pairs of old suede boxing gloves that, besides for missing laces and their dampness, were virtually pristine. The day I triumphantly brought the gloves home, my father started teaching me to box. I imagined boxing might prove useful if Brad Bell ever acted up.

            One cold Saturday morning weeks after I had discovered the gloves, my father and I brought some large bags of used clothing to the sharing shed. Mr. Miller, our school’s custodian, had a weekend job overseeing and sorting the items brought in to share. Those he deemed worthy would be set out, almost lovingly, on some shelves inside the shed; others were put into huge burlap sacks through which one was welcome to rummage. Before our dump run that day, I remember weighing if I should surrender a favorite flannel shirt that had a rip in one elbow. “I’ll sew it up and then toss it in,” said my mother. “The sleeves are getting too short for you anyway. Someone else will treasure it, like you have. Just like you’ve loved those boxing gloves.” I reluctantly surrendered my shirt.

            Shortly after our winter break, I noticed Brad Bell wearing a shirt just like the one I had given away. I remember at first being flustered but then saw the telltale repair. I wondered if Brad had found it himself in the sharing shed. Even though I felt new emboldened by my boxing moves, I knew not to ask him about it.

.           At dinner that night I shared my confusion. As I was running through whether or not the shirt had been mine and how it would have come to Brad, my father stopped me. “Might be your shirt. Might not. You did the right thing in not mentioning it. Let him have his dignity. Imagine if that were your Christmas gift.”

            I think of Brad Bell and that shirt most years as the late fall and early winter holidays of light approach. I think of my mother sewing the ripped sleeve and of my father telling me to put myself in Brad’s shoes. I think of Brad’s scrawny dog, his rickety bike, and mostly his family’s plight. I think of his characteristic squint and his preemptive arm punches. And I think how grateful I am for the lessons he unwittingly taught me.

            I hope that your winter break is full of hope and light and the making of long-lasting memories.