Christmas Past
My father was a renaissance man of sorts. He could tear a motor down, rebuild farm tractors to suit his needs, follow blue prints to construct a house and discuss the finer points of American history and economics. Okay, the American economics was a bit skewed. He had a firm belief that General Motors was the real power in the US and was dictating our policies. He may have had something there, in retrospect.
Building a barn, although a major task was not an impossible one for him. I vaguely remember him building the frames what would become the floor. I have little memory of the walls being put up but I am sure I was there. I don’t remember the roof being put on either, but I do know it was a tin one. I can remember the huge five gallon containers of paint. Red of course, what other color could there be for a barn? When he was done, he had constructed a huge building that was capable of housing all of his farm machinery and a truck and car if needed. Seldom did all of these make it into the building if at all. I don’t remember that old Dodge entering it unless it was to change a tire or oil.
What did make it in was an old tomato sorting machine, something my dad acquired and thought he might use. It was a huge monster of belts and conveyer belts that never moved. It became of repository for my mother’s books. In the summers after I started school, I would rummage through the boxes and read them. Marjory Morningstar. The Studs Lonigan Trilogy. The Compete Works of Shakespeare. American Poetry. The Last Plantagenet. My mother’s eclectic taste in reading became mine and has stayed with me all these years.
The other side of the barn held a huge water trough, one that you might see for horses or cattle. It was here all summer long that my parents washed the bunched radishes they had picked. They would box fifteen bunches in a crate, load up to 100 crates on the bed of my dad’s truck and haul them up to Southwater Street in Chicago. There was a produce market there, and my father’s middle man would sell the radishes for the best price he could get. I can remember the crates so very distinctly. My dad bought them used from somewhere. They were actually produce crates with colorful stickers on them from growers in the West hawking oranges, peppers or grapefruit. Some would have the names of the farmers and the towns they hailed from printed on them also. Exotic places. Santa Rosa, California. Santa Fe, New Mexico. San Jose, California. Some would have voluptuous women holding the fruit, offering them to you in a suggestive manner. I used to tear some of the more colorful ones off the crate, careful as not to tear them. I would save them during the summers and lose interest in them by the fall. Funny, so many of the places that these crates came from I would eventfully visit or reside in. At the time I was saving them, I had no idea that would become the case.
On the other side of the barn was my dad’s concession to my mother’s needs…a wash room. It was an enclosed area in which her Kenmore washer and dryer were stored. These pink machines were her pride and joy, since most of her married life she had been using a hand-powered ringer washer and had to dry clothes on a line. It was after my sister had been born that my dad finally decided to join the world a mechanized washing and drying. Melanie had arrived in March and was followed by vicious cold snap in the weather. My mother nearly had frostbite from hanging wet diapers on the clothes line in this cold weather. My dad was then faced with the dilemma of either joining the world of modern clothes washing or have a wife with no fingertips. He chose Sears. He also purchased her a deep double wash sink while he was at it. Nothing says love like something galvanized.
So this was the barn. There were other items in it, but I think I have painted it for what it was-a work area for a farm. In the summers when my parents were knee deep in the business of raising radishes it was a busy place. There was always some tractor coming and going out of it, either with a planter behind it or with a cart full of bunched radishes. We as kids used it as a playground. It never mattered what the weather was in that barn. It could be raining or blowing or snowing and you could still ride a bike or chalk down a hop-scotch game. In the summers, my parents would come in from the fields for lunch and set up a table in the barn full of cold cuts, pickles, rye bread, cheese and every condiment the Kroger in town offered. I can remember my older sister joining us out there for these feasts. She was off from her teaching job and helped my parents during the summer some times. At other times my Uncle Andy, my dad’s brother, would join us out there. My family never went on a picnic together, but this was as close to one as we would get.
In the winter, this barn became less busy. The large sliding doors in the front were closed in the winter to keep the snow out otherwise it would create an icy mess my mother would have to trek over to get to the wash room. She did manage to keep the doors slightly open for the cats to enter. We had a lot of barn cats. People would dump them off, thinking a farm was the place to be for a cat. Some did not make it. Indoor cats have little to prepare them for the rigors of outdoor farm life. Other would carry on. My mother would try to take care of all of them in any way possible. Her contribution in the winter was to make up a slushy mush of milk, bread and leftovers and feed it to the masses. She also made up a haven for them from an old tool box of my dad’s. The thing was the size of a coffin and my mother had hay put in the bottom of it. The then found a piece of wood that would just nearly cover the box but allowed a small access hole. It was there the cats spent most of the winter amassed together in a warm huddle of fur. They would exit for food, water and the eventual outcome of eating and drinking. We kids would lift the top to see how the cats were. I swear it had to be 80 degrees in there with all those warm kitty bodies.
Now let’s talk about one winter before Christmas a long time ago. I am perhaps five. I am not in school. Kids back then did not do the pre-school, kindergarten routines they do today. You started school in first grade and I am not yet there. Next year, I think. Gretchen, my older sister, is still at home. By June the following year she will be married and gone. Now, she is only dating Roger her future husband. I am impressed with Roger even at this young age. I personally don’t find him handsome, but he is the owner of an impressive car. A 1959 Chevy Impala. It is black with white and red trim stripes and an immense amount of chrome. It also has tail lights that look like eyes. I have been allowed to ride in it once or twice and have been quite taken with it. My dad is not so impressed. Remember he has a distinct distrust of General Motors.
Nick, my brother and co-conspirator, is 18 months younger than me. We are the surprises that have spoiled my parent’s middle age. Gretchen was 16 when I was born and certainly not welcomed at first by her. She had been an only child for that time and sharing the limelight was not appreciated by her. She also was horrified that her parents may be still having carnal relations, something she had been experimenting with herself. The idea that her mother and father were doing what she was considering doing herself was a bit much for Gretchen for awhile. It did not last. She finally accepted the fact I was there. Besides, I was such a cutie she could not resist. It was futile. Besides, Nick was on the way. There was going to be a parade of siblings arriving and she had little control over it.
Nick is still Beaky at this point. Upon his arrival in the house, I was still struggling with language. Nick became Beaky in my effort to call him something. My mother always thought it was a combination of baby and Nicky..Beaky. It has stuck with Nick for nearly fifty plus years. There are still ancient ones back in Chicago that call him that. Every year my Christmas card and birthday card from him will be signed “The Beak”. He has come to terms with a nickname that came from my baby talk. Takes a big man to do that, you know.
Now we have awakened one winter morning and have announced to our mother that we want to go outside and explore in the snow. This can only mean one thing to my mother. Twenty minutes of struggle to get two toddlers into protective snow gear. Boots, socks, mittens, leggings, parkas, and scarves have to be pulled, shoved and mashed onto two uncooperative kids. The awful thing about this struggle is that we will be out less than ten minutes and will want to come back in. Many a time she would tell us, no way. Stay outside and blow some stink off. I don’t think we stunk, I just think she did not want all her hard work be short changed.
After the chore of suiting up for our expedition, we enter the world of a Northern Illinois snow. You know, now a days the idea of sending a five and a four year old off on their own outside would have CPS on your doorstep. A mother these days would never consider doing this. I don’t know what it was that made my parents and the parents of other baby boomers feel so relaxed about sending their children off into the world. We all share memories of staying out late on summer nights or biking way across town without calling as to where we were. Our parents seemed more relaxed about our activities than parents today are. Maybe it was living through the Depression, Pearl Harbor, WWII, the atom bomb, the Communist scare, Korea and whatever else that made them bold about their children. I guess they figured if they had lived through all that, what harm was there in letting their children head through the snow to play in a barn. These were simple times, I suppose.
Beaky and I are trudging through the snow to discover what has changed. There are icicles hanging from the barn roof corners. What little bit of warmth from the sun has melted the snow on the roof but not enough. Ice has formed long dagger like spikes from the edges. We are fascinated by them and how the light changes color through them. We push on the sliding door of the barn and enter, carful of not falling on the ice that has formed on the concrete floor. I have taken a spill on this ice before and know that even the packing of my snow suit will not soften the pain from the fall.
We make it over to the cat haven and have a look in. We are greeted with sleepy eyes and a loud buzzing of warm and sleepy kitties. Beaky wants to take one out but I talk him out of it. Mother has strictly denied us access to them at this time of year. She wants no frozen felines on her watch.
By now we are ready for a warm up, but know that returning to the house will be out of the question. Our mother will turn us away telling us to enjoy the cold. We have decided the wash room will be the perfect place to toast up for a bit before we trek out to the yard and see how the snow has buried our swings. We open the door to the wash room and enter.
Although this oasis is not nearly as warm as the cat box, it is a bit more comfortable than the rest of the barn. We take a look around and check out my mother’s piles. She is an expert pile maker. It is the one trait of hers that I can honestly say that I have never tried to mimic. She perpetually had something piled on top of something else. The wash room is her crowning glory. The one wall is a mass of clothing, sheets, towels, and pillow cases several feet high. I doubt seriously that the bottom has been seen in years. In retrospect, when you have three little ones, a twenty year old and a husband piles are bound to happen. It does not change the fact I still cannot handle a pile of anything, including clothes.
We take our mittens off and blow our breath at each other. To see your breath materialize into a vapor is always great fun for a kid. We are no exception to this joy. It is during this activity we notice in the corner of the wash room, barely buried in the pile of clothes some rather odd items. A doll. A train set. Coloring books. New crayons, with sharp tips.
OMG. OMG. What are these things doing here? Beaky and I are thrilled and puzzled at the same time. Could it be? Can it be possible?
SANTA HAS BEEN HERE ALL READY AND LEFT THE TOYS WE ASKED FOR!!!
It is a miracle. It is an unbelievable event. Certainly in the history of kids, no one has ever had a pre-Christmas drop off by Santa. But a busy guy like Santa must have to start early if he is going to hit all the homes of all the good kids. That’s the answer!
We have to share our good news with our mother. She will no doubt be astounded as we are. We tear out of the wash room, past the cat box and through the sliding barn door heading for our mother’s kitchen with the great news.
It is at the front door we are told to stomp our boots off. Our mother has no desire to have snow turn into wet slop in the house. She and Gretchen are in the kitchen, drinking coffee and planning a wedding. There are pictures of wedding gowns scattered on the table and I suppose that decisions were being made at that time. All of this mattered so very little to Beaky and I. Our news of the discovery in the wash room would certainly take both of the breaths away.
I announce that we have found stash of toys in the barn. In the wash room. Yes, there are toys out there. A doll with blue eyes and dark hair. A red train set. Coloring books with Yogi Bear on the cover. Crayon with the sharpener in the box. I have noticed, but do not register, a look that is exchanged between my sister and my mother. My attention is only is on my mother, intent on convincing her of what we have found. I barely notice Gretchen grabbing her coat and leaving the house.
So you found all of this where, my mother asks.
In the barn, mommy. In your wash room. On the clothes. Oh come and see.
Are you sure you saw toys out there? Are you sure you did not see some of your toys from last year?
No, no, no mommy. There are new toys out there. Still in the boxes.
By this time my sister has re-appeared wearing a coat and has the flush that only a cold day can put on cheeks.
Show me where, she says. She offers her hand.
I practically drag her through the snow to the barn, excited beyond belief. We make our way through the barn and to the wash room door. I fling the darn thing open to show Gretchen the pre-Christmas bounty.
Nothing. Nada. Just a pile of clothes.
They were here, I lament. Right here. I saw them.
Gretchen shakes her head. Of course you did. Maybe you imagined it.
I am not sold on the imagination part of this explanation. I know what I saw. Nick saw it too however he is assimilating the imagination theory and accepting it. I can never expect backup from him when I really need it.
I spend the next few days trying to rationalize the event that I have been part of. In a toddler’s mind this can manifest itself in the wrath of Santa. I had found his stash and now he is angry at me. He has taken it all away and I will be left with empty boxes under our tree.
This sucks.
No doubt, you have all ready foreseen that the presents arrived under the tree Christmas morning. The same exact ones that I found in the wash room as a matter of fact. Although Nick had forgotten the whole incident and was content with his new electric train, I still questioned the situation. I had to ask my mother what had transpired.
Well you know, she said, Santa does ask for help every year. Sometimes he hides the presents even from us. Perhaps he had placed them there and did not know how you two would play out there.
It was an explanation I swallowed but did not entirely buy. I think that may have been the turning point for me and the great Santa charade. I mean, I did keep up the appearance for a year or so. I mean even if you have doubt you never want to give up the entire belief. Eventually, someone at school informed the class that Santa was really your parents. I may have had a hint before, but it was that smart ass kid in second grade that put the lid on it.
Now you may find this a sad story…of how one kid may have lost the belief that Santa Claus was real. In fact, it is not. For me I have remembered this event every year since it happened and savored the emotions I felt that day. The rush that somewhere out there a being was indeed inspired by my good behavior and was rewarding it. The excitement I felt at the discovery. And most importantly, at how my mother and older sister tried to maintain that child’s belief in their explanations and actions. None of it has ever escaped me and I cannot remember a Christmas in which the story has not been repeated by us. It happened almost fifty years ago and yet I can still see it so very clearly today.
I hope I have not bored you with this cascade of old memories. But it is Christmas and I cannot help myself.