A Mix of Holiday Memories
By E. P. Ned Burke, Madonna Christensen and Carrillee Burke
NOTICE:
No content or links in this book can be changed or deleted. However, the original purchaser can print out one copy for his or her personal use.
The copyrighted essays in this book are from the writings of E. P. Ned Burke, Madonna Dries Christensen, and Carrillee Collins Burke.
About The Authors:
E. P. Ned Burke is the author of seven novels and many short stories and articles. He is the editor of Yesterday’s Magazette and Writer’s Magazette.
His work can be viewed at http://www.epburke.com
Carrillee Collins Burke is a published author and poet. She has won many writing contests and her story Country Girl was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
You can learn more by visiting http://www.authorsden.com/carrilleecburke
Madonna Dries Christensen is the author of two books, Swinging Sisters, and Masquerade: The Swindler Who Conned J. Edgar Hoover and has numerous writing credits.
Visit her Web site at http://www.madonnadrieschristensen.com
Copyright © 2011 E. P. Burke Publishing – All Rights Reserved
Unauthorized duplication or distribution is strictly prohibited
http://www.epburkepublishing.com
They Wrote The Songs
By Madonna Dries Christensen
Ask a group of people to name a favorite Christmas carol and White Christmas will surely be mentioned. Do you know who wrote it? Ironically, the Christmas classic came from a Russian Jew, born in Siberia. After emigrating with his parents at age five, Israel Baline grew up spending Christmases with Irish neighbors. He held
dear the memories of a towering tree and other festivities. In 1928, known as
Irving Berlin, the composer found his three-week-old-son dead in his crib on
From that day on, Berlin dreaded the holiday season. He and his wife, a Catholic, had three more children, all girls, but while the children were busy with Christmas toys the parents slipped away to visit their firstborn’s grave. When Berlin wrote White Christmas
in 1942, he understood the loneliness of people yearning for a Christmas “…like
the ones I used to know.”
A few years later, another tune, The Christmas Song, competed for top tune of the holiday season. Mel Torme explained the origin of the song he wrote with Robert Wells. Arriving at his friend’s house in the San Fernando Valley on a blistering July day in 1945, Torme entered and called for Bob but got no answer. Wandering over to the piano, he saw on a notepad the words: Chestnuts roasting on an open fire;
Jack frost nipping at your nose; Yuletide carols being sun by a choir, and folks dressed up like Eskimos.
When Bob appeared, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, he explained he’d written the verse because, “It’s so damn hot today, all I could think of was Christmas and cold weather.” The two men sat down at the piano and, in under an hour, completed the words and music. Nat King Cole recorded The Christmas Song in 1946. We’ve been hankering for roasted chestnuts at Christmastime ever since, although most of us have probably never had roasted chestnuts.
The song beginning, “Over the river and through the wood,” originated as a Thanksgiving poem titled A Boy’s Thanksgiving. It appeared in 1844 in Volume Two of Flowers for Children. The author, Lydia Maria Child, wrote the verse as a remembrance of going to her grandfather’s house for Thanksgiving. Child gained fame as a writer at age 22 when her novel, Hobomok, created a scandal with its portrayal of a Native American protagonist in love with a white woman. She also authored the best-selling The Frugal Housewife, later renamed The American Frugal Housewife to distinguish it from a British publication with a similar name. She published The Mother's Book and A Little Girl's Own Book, and Juvenile Miscellany, a children’s magazine.
Always a staunch defender of women’s rights, Child turned to the issue of anti- slavery with Appeal for the Class of Americans Called African. That publication lost her a majority of devoted readers, and sales of her domestic advice book waned, too. Undaunted, she edited the Anti-Slavery Standard, wrote a series of anti-slavery pamphlets, and edited the autobiography of ex-slave Harriet Jacobs. After the Civil War, she edited and published The Freedmen's Book for education
of newly-freed slaves. She later turned her attention to a survey of the history of the world's religions and wrote inspirational essays. In several fictional and political books, she took on issues of justice for Native Americans and African Americans.
One of the earliest American women to earn a living as a writer, her scholarly works are mostly unknown. But her simple verse about going over the river and through the wood has endured for more than one hundred fifty years. Most of us couldn’t name the author, but we know how to sing it.
Medford, Massachusetts, has been established as the birthplace of another holiday song composer, but where he wrote the song is the subject of a years-old dispute. James Pierpont’s descendents say he wrote several bad songs touting the Confederate cause, including We Conquer Or Die and Strike For The South, and one good song, One Horse Open Sleigh (Jingle Bells), but they cannot establish where he lived when he wrote the holiday song.
Born in 1822, Pierpont belonged to the aristocratic family that produced financier
J. P. Morgan. Pierpont has been described as a free spirit, a wanderer who ran away to sea at age 14 and later participated in California’s Gold Rush. During the Civil War, he joined a Confederate cavalry regiment in Savannah, going against the grain of his family’s views on abolition. He married a Savannah belle and lived there and raised a family.
That’s where Savannahans say he wrote the song. The story goes that Pierpont, the organist at a Unitarian Church, one day visited the home of Mrs. Otis Waterman, who owned the only piano in town. After playing the tune for his hostess, she
declared it a merry little jingle and told him he should have success with it. In
1857, he published and copyrighted One Horse Open Sleigh.
The folks in Medford tell a different story. Their account, related to the Boston Globe in 1946, came from Stella Howe. She says that in about 1850 Pierpont wrote the song while sitting in a tavern watching a sleigh race pass on the street outside. Her great-aunt, Mary Gleason Waterman, ran Simpson’s Tavern and
boardinghouse, where Pierpont lived. He sat down at the only piano in town and
wrote the song. Note that both versions of the story, north and south, have a female named Waterman who had the only piano in town.
The Medford story went unchallenged until 1969, when a Savannah man, Milton Rahn, stirred up musical trouble. He says he was listening to his daughter play Jingle Bells on the piano one day. Curious about who wrote the tune, he glanced at the sheet music and found the name J. Pierpont. Rahn had researched the church’s history and knew that John Pierpont, Jr. had been pastor from 1852 to 1858. He found letters Reverend Pierpont had written home to his family in Medford, stating that his brother, James, now resided in Savannah and worked as a music teacher and church organist. Further research told Rahn that Pierpont married in Savannah in 1857, weeks before copyrighting Jingle Bells.
In 1985, Savannah Mayor John Rousakis had a Jingle Bells marker erected in the square across from the church, and proclaimed that the tune belonged to Savannah. When word drifted north, Medford’s mayor, Michael McGlynn, wrote a letter to Rousakis declaring Medford as the unequivocal site where Jingle Bells was composed in 1850. Rousakis replied, “James L. Pierpont is still here with us
(meaning Laurel Grove Cemetery). I’m sure he will join us in spirit when we
finally and formally proclaim Savannah, Georgia, as the birthplace of Jingle Bells.”
Although Mayor Rousakis has since died, the debate is resurrected now and then. Mayor McGlynn says he’s comfortable with Medford’s position on the matter. Folks in Savannah still refute the Medford claim. Why would Pierpont, who never made much money, write the song in 1850 and hold onto to it until 1857? He could have marketed it and made some money.
Ace Collins, author of Stories Behind the Best-Loved Songs of Christmas, might have the answer and the last word. He says he found proof of Medford being the song’s birthplace while researching his book. A New England newspaper from the early 1840s mentioned One Horse Open Sleigh as debuting in Medford at a Unitarian Thanksgiving church service. The song proved so popular, that Pierpont gave a repeat performance at Christmas. Collins concluded that Pierpont probably wrote his song in Medford, but did not realize its potential until he lived in the south. The warmer climate, where snow is a rarity, was the key to the song’s universal appeal.
The tune’s origin is unimportant to most of us. When we start pining for family and roasted chestnuts and a white Christmas, Jingle Bells resounds across the land. Dashing through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh…
It Happened One Christmas Eve
By E. P. Ned Burke
street at Sad John.
It was almost midnight, a heavy late night snowstorm had blanketed the downtown streets and had turned the city into a wintry white wonderland. I heard a faint tap on my window and turned to see Sad John’s lethargic eyes staring at me. The
old man’s white hair was crusted with ice and his woeful face was covered with a
stubby beard. He had on an old overcoat that had seen better days. Beneath the coat was a newspaper he apparently used for insulation against the winter weather. He looked frozen, and embarrassed.
He wasn’t like the other outcasts of society who frequented downtown
Scranton back then. Never once did I, or anyone for that matter, ever see Sad John smile. I guess that’s how he got his name. He never asked anybody for help or a
handout. He appeared to have an inner dignity his peers did not possess. The story around town was that he had been accused of some petty theft years before when he worked in a local bank. Others speculated booze and a faithless woman led to his downfall. Nobody really knew for sure. Few cared, and Sad John never talked about it. He just stood over that iron grate, hour after hour, and pretended to read his tattered newspaper as blasts of warm air fluttered up the legs of his baggy
pants. The thin gloves on his hands had no finger coverings. So he was able to turn pages and give the illusion he was reading.
As I said, Sad John never asked anyone for anything. So it startled me when he knocked on the glass of my booth that Christmas Eve and asked for money for a cup of coffee. Up the street there was an all-night diner. He jerked his head in that direction. His voice was soft and polite. Only his eyes displayed his utter hopelessness. Somehow I sensed his despair and shame, so, without too much thought, I withdrew a bill from my wallet and handed it to him.
He looked at the money and appeared perplexed.
I quickly realized I had handed him a twenty, nearly half my weekly wage. Except for one remaining dollar, that was all the money I’d have for another five days. I reached for my wallet to exchange the twenty for the one, but then stopped.
Instead, I said, “Get me one too, okay?” I said it like someone would say to a trusted friend.
Sad John nodded, and left without saying a word.
At that moment, I was certain I had seen the last of my money. I had only one dollar to my name now, and the next day was Christmas.
I tried not to think about it. I wanted to keep the holiday spirit in my heart. I
told myself the booze Sad John would surely purchase with my money would keep him from freezing that bitterly cold night. However as the minutes ticked by and the silence of the lonely city settled over me, I became despondent and angry.
“What a stupid thing to do!” I said, but there was not a living soul around to comfort me.
Then off in the distance, I saw a figure, head bowed, fighting to stay erect against the chilly gusts of wind and swirling snow. It was Sad John, battling his way down the middle of the snow-covered street. With his tattered overcoat flapping over his knees, he trudged forward, nearly stumbling at one point, but then found his balance and continued on until he reached my enclosed booth.
Breathing heavily, and without uttering a word, he handed me the brown paper bag
he had in his left hand. It contained two containers of hot coffee. Then he opened the stiff fingers of his right hand and gave me my change. Not a dime was missing. I thought of giving him a big tip, but something in his eyes told me he would have been insulted.
We exchanged glances. I really didn’t know what to say to him. I only hoped my initial gesture warmed his heart in some small way. At the stroke of midnight, sounds of laughter and song escaped from the hotel across the street. It lasted briefly, then the city was silent once more.
I withdrew the two containers of coffee and handed one to Sad John. “Merry Christmas, my friend,” I said to him.
The old man studied my face for a long time. Then, with tears in his eyes, he turned and went back to his position over the iron grate. From across the street, he stared at me, his frail body shivering. Then he raised his container of coffee, and finally returned my toast.
That was when I received a special, surprise Christmas gift. For the first time, Sad John smiled.
A Most Distinguished Effect
By Madonna Dries Christensen
There are as many ways to trim a Christmas tree as there are snowflakes in a blizzard. How you do it probably has something to do with family traditions and rituals from Christmases past.
Many people prefer an eclectic approach, glazing the greenery with colorful ornaments and trinkets collected over a lifetime. Each familiar piece is a stepping stone to an earlier era, evoking a string of memories tied together like the lights on the tree. At the top there is often a star or an angel.
Others like a color-coordinated tree, perhaps with only white lights and gold ribbons, or a theme tree laden with Santa Claus figures, snowmen, miniature toys, or collectible items from a classic movie such as Star Wars or Lord of the Rings. One year, in lieu of my traditional eclectic tree, I used an African theme, with lots of carved animals to catch the eye of my granddaughter visiting from South Africa. Breaking with tradition, the tree had no tinsel for the inquisitive toddler to pluck
off and possibly eat.
When it comes to tinsel, there are two kinds of people; those who scream, “No, never,” and those who claim a tree isn’t complete until the silvery threads are added, “One at a time, please.” I’m among the latter; my daughter stands with the former. Still, one year she gave me two unopened envelopes of vintage lead icicles, the kind used when I was a child in the forties. Dull silver in color, each strand has enough weight so that when hung on the tree, it stays put. Today’s flimsy plastic particles create static electricity and float about in the slightest air current.
Humorist Russell Baker shares my appreciation for real icicles. In a column he wrote years ago, he revealed that his wife and children think icicles are vulgar. He explained, “That’s the whole point. Of course icicles are vulgar. Christmas trees are vulgar, too, and in bad taste. Putting a chopped pine in the parlor is almost as tasteless as putting a plastic one in the parlor, and the reason we do it is because Christmas is the only holiday we have that authorizes even the fanciest people to
Tinsel originated in Germany in about 1620. In the late 1800s, German glassblowers produced crystal ornaments that looked like actual icicles, with a built-in hook for hanging them. In darkened Victorian parlors, trees sparkled with these glass, tin, or sterling silver icicles. Along about 1920, tinsel made from lead was introduced. The product was banned from the market in 1960 to protect
children from lead poisoning should they chew on the strands. At that time, Russell
Baker bought all the lead icicles he could find and hoarded them in his attic.
Alas; I didn’t do that, but I have the two packages from my daughter. They originated in Germany, and my guess is they are from the 1930s. On the brown paper envelope are the words: Brillant Eis-Lametta. Vornehmste a. effectvollste Zierde des Weihnachtsbaumes. Loosely translated that means: Brilliant ice-tinsel. Most distinguished, fullest effect for your Christmas tree.
Shimmering on my tree, they do indeed create a distinguished effect. Carefully removed and stored each year, they should last another century. And since Christmas is mostly about nostalgia and tradition, perhaps one day my grandchildren will drape a few strips of these icicles on their trees. They might explain to their children, “We’ll do it for Granny. She always put gobs of tinsel on her Christmas tree.”
My Last Childhood Christmas
By E. P. Ned Burke
Another holiday season is upon us and with it comes memories of another time and another place.
I can still recall when I was ten years old and the very last kid in the neighborhood who still clung to the Santa Claus legend.
After all, my parents would not lie to me, would they? Didn't my older brother swear he saw the jolly old guy with his very own eyes the year before?
Anyway, when Christmas Eve carne that awakening year in my life I still believed in the magic. I steadfastly refused to betray Santa, even with the peer pressure from my wiser friends with their sarcastic snickers and derision. I refused to give up on the fat man ... or my childhood.
After singing in the choir at Midnight Mass, I would always rush home and find that St. Nicholas had visited my home upon my absence. I never once questioned the magic of it all. It was how Santa operated.
In 1952, my older brother and I were both choir boys and we had to make sure to get to church earlier than our folks. It was a good ten block walk and the high heaps of snow made the trek longer.
Well, I soon realized upon entering the church that I had forgotten to take my cassock. I assumed my brother had it, He didn’t. I panicked and quickly did an about-face and rushed home through the snow to get it.
When I breathlessly pushed the front door open, I saw my mother and father in the parlor hastily decorating the tree and placing my toys underneath. (This was supposed to be Santa's job!) In their busy state they didn't notice me standing there in the adjoining hallway with my mouth agape. I scooped up my cassock and quietly left with tears in my eyes.
After the church service, I slowly dragged my sad little disillusioned body home. My brother didn’t know what was with me as I always raced him home after MIdnight Mass, not wanting to waste a minute before opening up our presents. However this time I didn’t run. In fact, I could barely walk. The pain of my broken heart was too much.
Reluctantly, I finally entered the warmth of our home and after a while I swallowed my hurt feelings and began opening my presents. However it wasn’t the same. There was something missing ... and it wasn’t a Christmas present.
I had lost something important: the innocence of childhood.
That night, it had come to an abrupt end. I wanted to cry ... not really knowing quite why. There was a heavy feeling in my heart that I couldn’t explain.
From that night to this, I never again enjoyed Christmas with the same vigor. Perhaps it was for the best. We all must grow up.
But wouldn’t it be exhilarating if we could return to those halcyon days of our youth–even for a few hours– and recapture that sweet feeling of awe and wonderment in believing something so unbelievable that, at the time, it made perfect sense to us?
In Keeping With Christmas Past
By Madonna Dries Christensen
The Salvation Army’s holiday donation drive is a long-standing tradition. The unobtrusive manner of the workers and the merry tinkle of their handbells is all it takes to make me reach into my pocket. In addition to the familiar red kettles, the Salvation Army erects angel trees in shopping malls. Each paper angel lists a child’s given name, sex, age, identification number, clothing sizes, and a wish list. Shoppers choose an angel and place packages under the tree for that child.
My small hometown in Iowa has a similar program, called Sharing Christmas. The weekly newspaper lists participating families by number only, along with their wish list, mostly basic items that many of us take for granted. Family #7 would like a grocery box and boy’s thermal underwear, sizes 10 and 12. Family #23 woman needs a pair of overshoes, size 8, husband needs a sweatshirt, extra large, and warm work gloves. Family #30 needs baby formula, and flannel pajamas for girl, size 4. One little girl wished for a hairbrush. Imagine a child not having a hairbrush. Some lists include the latest popular toy or game, but those
requests read like an afterthought, as if it might be considered frivolous for a child from a needy family to wish for an expensive toy. Some requests are simply for a food box.
The Sharing Christmas program and Angel Trees are reminders of my
childhood. Like many families during the Depression and thereafter, we were monetarily poor. At Christmastime, we received a food box from the town’s Community Chest.
By Christmas Eve afternoon the house was dressed for the holiday. The
fragrant pine tree in the parlor, propped in a bucket of wet sand, held homemade ornaments and strung popcorn. Lead icicles sparkled in the soft glow of blue, red, and green bulbs hidden in the branches. A worn cardboard crèche sat on a table (one of the three Magi was missing); a lighted plastic wreath hung lopsided in the window, its electrical cord dangling to the nearest socket. Strung corner to corner of the dining room ceiling were red and green construction paper chains we kids had cut and pasted together. The heat from the room often loosened the chains and they had to be rehung time and again.
“When will the box come?” one of us periodically
asked.
“It’ll come when it comes,” was her unsatisfying answer.
The clock ticked slowly. As the afternoon drew to a
close, the sky became splashed with variegated colors bleeding together like a child’s watercolor painting. Drying her hands on her apron, Ma walked to the window and called, “Santa spilled his buckets of paint.”
We scurried from all directions, wondering aloud which of the many colors spilled across the horizon had been used for the toys Santa would bring. Had he finished painting before the buckets tipped over? Was this his way of showing us that he had finished his job, that all was ready for that flight from afar?
“When will Santa come?” a little brother asked.
“Not until you’re asleep,” Ma said. “When will the grocery box come?”
“Before long.” She went back to work and, sure enough, within minutes the delivery truck lumbered around the corner, its tire chains squeaking on packed
snow.
The box was delivered by our neighbor who had a grocery store where some of the food was purchased. He and Ma visited for a moment, she thanked him, and they wished each other a Merry Christmas as he left.
We kids gathered around the kitchen table. From the box Ma pulled a plump turkey, a pound of butter (a glorious treat for oleomargarine users), a can of coffee, a jar of pimento olives, a can of jellied cranberry sauce, a fat clump of celery
whose leafy top smelled as fresh as spring, several warty sweet potatoes, and cans
of mince meat and pumpkin that would become pie before Ma’s work day ended. “That’s everything,” she said, closing the lid. I knew that wasn’t everything.
In the bottom of the box were goodies for our stockings: ribboned candies, nuts in the shell, and fragrant oranges. Fresh fruit during Iowa’s severe winters was expensive, so oranges were as welcome as St. Nick himself.
Today, reaching back to my Midwest roots, and in my parents’ name, I
contribute to the Sharing Christmas program in the small community that once nurtured my family. I do it for the kids who might be waiting at the window, wondering when the delivery will come.
And I pluck an angel from the Salvation Army’s tree. My latest angel was Maria. I’ll never meet Maria, but I know her; she’s the child I used to be. I’ll wager that Maria, and the scores of children whose names appear on the trees, will someday, in one way or another, sponsor angels of their own, in keeping with Christmas past.
Johnny’s Christmas Tree
By E. P. Ned Burke
Johnny never had a Christmas tree.
His mother could not afford one. She worked in a dress factory for $80 a week. His father was some man he never knew.
Things were tough for Johnny in those days. He had to get up each morning
at five o’clock to deliver his paper route before he went to school. Days when snow fell waist-high and no one would venture outdoors, Johnny would brave the elements and fulfill his morning responsibility.
His little tasseled cap could be seen bobbing up and down behind waves of
drifting snow and his weather-beaten scarf would hang half in and half out of his tattered jacket as he trudged from house to house. But through it all, Johnny remained optimistic.
“Next year,” he’d say to his friends, “we’re going to put up a real Christmas
tree, the most beautiful tree you ever did see!”
But the years ticked by and never once did Johnny’s home smell of pine or spruce during the holiday season. There were a couple of holidays when his mother managed to save a few dollars for a tree, but each time some more important necessity of life had to be purchased instead.
The same story repeated itself year after year and by the time Johnny was thirteen he had given up talking about a having a Christmas tree. However, to himself, he would say: “Maybe next year … maybe next year.”
Johnny was fifteen when he first smoked pot. Then he began hanging around
other disillusioned youths who introduced him to harder drugs. It was his way of easing the pain and depression he felt, especially during the holiday seasons. When he tried to stop, his new friends told him, “Don’t worry, you can handle it.”
“Sure,” Johnny reasoned, “why not?” Thus the once optimistic lad who
wanted nothing more than a Christmas tree began his downhill slide into hopelessness.
“Ya better get down there quick,” one burly
policeman advised her.
She arrived at the hospital just as they were wheeling Johnny’s lifeless body from the emergency room. “I’m sorry,” the doctor told her. “There was nothing we could do.”
Johnny’s mother slumped into a chair and a nurse
came by and handed her Johnny’s belongings. “Oh,”
the nurse said, “there was something else your son had with him. I’ll get it for you.” The nurse then went through the swinging doors and emerged with a drab- looking, three-foot high plastic tree with a single broken ornament on it. “Your son kept saying that this was the most beautiful Christmas tree he had ever seen. Do you want it?”
Johnny’s mom nodded and took the tree home.
Three days later, she knelt beside her son’s plain tombstone and placed the withering fern on her son’s grave. The lowly ornament still clung to a brittle broken branch … but then the wind picked up and the ornament fell to the cold ground.
Johnny’s mom sobbed.
Finally her son had a Christmas tree of his very own.
Coat of Tan
By Carrillee Collins Burke
You probably know about the Biblical story of Joseph’s coat of many colors and of Dolly Parton’s coat her momma made for her. However, let me tell you about
my coat that was not of many colors, but a plain, soft tan and factory made.
My memory fades back to the 1960s when I was a little bit down and out and a whole lot sad at Christmas time. My brother, Davy, was in the Navy. He and his wife lived in New York and my baby daughter and I lived in Ohio. That particular Christmas both of us visited our parents and older brother, Jim, and family in West Virginia. We decided gifts were not a big thing, or a anything at all; being together was the real gift. Nevertheless Davy and I went to Charleston and reminisced about old times as we walked the streets. Then we ate a banana split at our favorite drugstore soda fountain and went shopping, hoping to find something special for our parents.
We were surprised to discover that the Newberry Five and Dime store, one of the oldest stores in town, was going out of business. I had a connection with the store. I had purchased my first tube of lipstick and Midnight perfume at Newberrys. One Easter season I worked there for a week after school writing names on chocolate eggs. As we stood peeking in the window I remembered the ancient dark wood plank floors that had an oily odor and squeaked when walked
upon. The store not only carried dime store items now but also an assortment of clothing. They did not sell clothing items when I was young. This was a recent thing. The store was nearly empty of people and merchandise. And soon it would be gone. Davy pulled me toward the door. “Let’s go and see what they have.”
On a coat rack, all by itself, hung a tan, rabbit, fur-like, wraparound coat with a hood that laid back over the shoulders. It had deep pockets on both sides. A feature I liked. To this day I don’t know the man-made material it was created from but it was beautiful. I loved it at first sight. I ran my fingers over it and finally took it from the hanger and shoved my arms through the sleeves.
“I love this coat!” I told Davy.
“It’s only seventeen dollars. Buy it,” he said. “It fits and you look great in it. So buy it.”
“I can’t buy anything right now.” I said. “I’m taking pennies from Cindy’s piggy bank to buy her milk, and paying for a divorce. Forget it.” I slowly placed
the shoulders of the coat over the wood hanger and hung it back on the rack. “Let’s go,” I said in a disappointed loud voice and headed for the door.
Davy stopped and rummaged through his pockets. “I’ve lost my billfold,” he said. “I think I might have left it at the drug store.”
“My feet are killing me. Do you mind if I go on to the car and wait for you?” I asked. His car was parked only a few steps away. He agreed and gave me the keys. I shuffled on to the car and waited impatiently for him.
When he returned he was carrying a package. He said the waitress at the soda
fountain had found his billfold on the counter by the cash register after we left. He handed me the package.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Open it now or keep it for Christmas,” he said. I held it a moment and as usual
I could not conquer my curiosity and tore the bright colored Christmas wrapping
off the box and opened it. “Oh my God,” I whispered. “It’s the coat. Thank you so much. I’ll pay you back.”
“No you won’t,” Davy said. “It’s a gift.
That coat has entered into my thoughts many, many times over the years. Davy was in the Navy. Not drawing a big paycheck and he had a wife to support. It was not the best of times and he bought me a coat that I adored. I thanked him in person only once that I can remember, but in my thoughts, numerous times. It was such a nice thing he did for me, especially at a time when my heart was sad and lonely.
I wore that coat through three winters and received compliments because it was so beautiful and expensive-looking. I wore it with black gloves and black leather high heel boots with such pride. It made me feel special. Then one day coming home from work, I stepped off the city bus near a dog that seemed to be waiting
just for me. It growled then lunged at my coat as if the coat were a furry rabbit. It didn’t let go until it had torn a small hunk from the front. I ran the half block home with tears streaming down my face.
However that wasn’t the last of my coat. Later, I cut it into large squares, sewed
them together, stuffed them, and made several soft pillows for my sofa. One even became a bed for my cat. That coat was truly a gift that kept on giving.
Simply Delicious
By Madonna Dries Christensen
Christmastime surrounds us with a potpourri of memorable scents: fresh pine, gingerbread, eggnog, cinnamon, pumpkin pie, and a plump turkey stuffed with sage dressing roasting in the oven. In church, trailing clouds of incense smoke mingles with the inexpensive perfumes and shaving lotions children gave their parents as gifts. That special blend can be intoxicating, often overpowering, but it wouldn’t be Christmas without it.
For me, the definitive scent of Christmas is apples. It drifts toward me from the
1940s, reminding me of a time when life was far different than it is today, when simple gifts were ever so special.
Just before Christmas each year, Uncle Bud stopped by our house with a wooden crate of apples, his gift for the family. He also brought a bottle of brandy, and the two brothers sat down to sip and visit and smoke cigarettes. My dad’s were hand rolled, using Prince Albert tobacco. Uncle Bud’s were store bought and tucked into a cigarette holder.
The crated apples were as tempting to us kids as those in the Garden of Eden
surely had been to Adam and Eve. These apples were not only tempting, they were forbidden fruit. Poppy always stashed the box under his and Ma’s bed in the downstairs bedroom, and we’d been told that we could not help ourselves. Given free rein, we would have gone through those apples like a horde of grasshoppers in a cornfield.
uniform in size, each the same shade of red, shiny and polished, and each nestled in a Prussian blue tissue paper blanket.
Poppy doled out the apples as bedtime treats, cutting them in half with his pocket knife to stretch them further. A half apple was better than none, and we were not disappointed in our nightly portion. We
broke through the rind, sank our teeth into the pulp and gnawed our way to the core
and seeds. Each crisp and savory bite lived up to the name Delicious.
My sister and I saved the blue wrappers, first ironing them and then using them to make Christmas decorations or paper doll dresses. We tucked a few tissues into drawers for a sweet sachet. Later, we lined Easter baskets or May baskets with
them. Now and then, the used wrappers added a hint of cider fragrance to the warm, dry, indoor air of winter and early spring.
It was apple harvest time in Virginia, where I lived when I received word that Uncle Bud had died. Miles and years removed from the place and time when I was a child, the aroma of his gift wafted over me.
Writer Vladimir Nabokov wrote, “Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.” The scent of apples remains a comforting Christmastime memory, evoked when today’s hectic pace and focus on expensive gifts makes me yearn for the simplicity of an era long past.
A Special Gift
By Carrillee Collins Burke
During the Great Depression my dad moved our family to a big dairy farm where he worked. It was a time of exciting new experiences for me. In September, I started school for the first time and rode a big yellow bus to school in town with my brother, Jim.
A few weeks before Christmas, I saw my first movie. It was a western and the only thing I recall clearly about that movie was Fuzzy Knight jumping backward onto his horse. I laughed with everyone, but didn’t understand why.
I also remember it was an extra cold winter and my fingers were always cold. I stuffed my hands deep into my coat pockets when outside. None of us owned gloves, except Dad. He had a pair of heavy work gloves he wore only on the farm.
I do remember wearing mittens when I was younger pinned to my coat sleeves so I
wouldn’t lose them, but I never owned a pair of real gloves.
Our house was never very warm in winter. The fireplace in the living room and the kitchen stove were our only sources of heat. Both burned small chunks of coal that Jim and I found on the railroad track near our house. We’d drag the coal home in big, brown burlap sacks.
Then the greatest experience of my young life happened. It happened because I awoke one morning with an upset stomach. Dad said he would drive me to school later, if I felt better.
Mom made me her remedy for an upset stomach. It was a cup of very weak coffee, half filled with milk, and a lot of sugar. In this, she put pieces of bread made dry
and crusty on the stove. It seemed to work because around ten o’clock I was up and
about. Dad filled the radiator on the Model A with water, cranked it up, and let it hum for a few minutes while I got my Peter and Peggy Reader, paper and crayons, and climbed upon the seat next to him.
times for Dad to fill the leaky radiator when it overheated and bubbled over. He carried an old lard bucket full of water for just such an occasion, but before we’d gone half a mile the water was gone. He then kept the radiator filled by using the melted ice and snow from the drainage ditch alongside the road.
By the time we got to town, it was nearing lunch hour at school. Instead of driving me straight there, he drove to the business district and parked in front of the Newberry Five and Dime Store. I’d never been in a variety store before.
Dad led me inside and said, “Now, Carrie, you find something you like and I’ll buy it for you.” This was something new. I’d never in my short life ever been told I could have anything I desired. We were poor and gifts were rare.
I walked up one aisle and down the other while my dad followed and the salesclerk watched and smiled. If I stood on my toes, I could see above the counters.
There were beautiful dolls and a tiny sewing machine that really worked by turning a wheel. I was just learning how to stitch by hand. That would be nice, I thought, but it probably cost a lot. I knew Dad couldn’t afford anything that expensive. Next to the sewing machine was a display of doll clothes and I drooled over a certain pink dress with tiny roses around the neck that would fit Emily, my rag doll. There were also books galore. And I loved books! I looked, but didn’t touch any of them.
“How about a coloring book or a box of crayons with 16 colors?” Dad asked. I shook my head, no.
Next, we walked past the counter with paints, watercolors, crayons, and stacks of coloring books, scissors, pencils and erasers. I loved erasers, especially the big pink ones that looked like a chunk of chewing gum. I’d never seen so many wonderful things in my life. That Newberry store was like being inside the pages of a Sears, Roebuck and Co. catalog. There was shiny necklaces, pins, earrings, and a counter of perfumes and powders, too.
I looked up at Dad and asked if I could get a tiny bottle of perfume for Mom. “I bet she’d like that blue bottle with the tassel,” I said.
“I’ll get Mom something another time. This is for you and only you. Pick something you want. Now hurry. I need to get you to school before lunch hour is over. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said, and continued to look. Then I saw them!
There they were on the counter with woolen scarfs, socks, and other small pieces of clothing. They were bright red with decorative crosses of yellow yarn on the backside. I pointed them out to Dad. He picked them up, turned them over, then looked down at me and frowned.
“Gloves? Out of all the pretty toys and things in this store, you pick a pair of wool gloves? How about that sewing kit? You could make a dress for Emily.”
Oh, dear, I thought. Dad doesn’t have enough money for the gloves. “Do they cost too much?” I asked him.
“No, Carrie, if this is what you want, this is what you’ll have. I just thought you’d like something better.”
I wondered what could be better than beautiful gloves to keep my hands warm? The saleslady asked if I’d like to wear them or should she put them in a bag.
“I’ll wear them,” I answered proudly.
Later, in the frigid school yard, I fell in line with the other students and walked into the classroom. I hung my coat in the cloakroom, gave Miss Dye my teacher, the tardy note Mom wrote and took my seat, still wearing the gloves.
“Would you like to remove your gloves, Carrie?” Miss Dye, asked.
Maybe it was the expression on my face or the pride in my voice when I stated that this was a special day for me. I held my gloved hands in the air for everyone to see, then clasped them tightly together. “My dad bought these for me today. They are
my first and only gloves ever.”
Miss Dye smiled and gave me permission to wear them the rest of the day.
I kept those gloves for years. Even after they were worn out and I was grown, they still had a place in the cigar box where I kept all my important mementoes of my childhood. I finally had to discard them when intruding moths ate them into a patch of faded red wool with no fingers.
But that day was the start of many between my dad and me. Whenever I was ill, he’d always bring me something special to make me feel better.
And you know what? It always did.
*****************
Disappearing Toys
By E. P. Ned Burke
Like leftover food at our house, any toy I received seemed to have the lifespan of a fruit fly. One day it appeared–usually on Christmas morning– and by the end of January, it had already died, or vanished.
I do have a recollection of an electric football game I received for Christmas in 1950. It had little players with tiny felt feet that gyrated all over the surface of the playing field when you switched on the electricity. However I never got to enjoy it. My father and Uncle Don took over the
controls after I unwrapped it and pushed me aside for some very loud yelling and questionable field goals.
(*Photo of me (on left) with friend, Jerry and the fatal hoop.)
Let me explain: When I was a kid growing up in Scranton, each Christmas Eve–and until the wee hours of Christmas morning–there was always an ear-splitting, exuberant party at the Burke household. The Sweeney relatives on my mother’s side were what today’s kids might call “party animals.” They surely enjoyed a good time. The Burkes, with the exception of my father whose booming voice could attract the attention of a deaf moose in northern Canada, were more subdued … at least until their third holiday beverage.
As the evening progressed, the noise level increased until my poor mother would warn my father, “Hush! What will the neighbors say?”
He’d shrug and say, “I’ll go find out. I think most of them are in our living room.”
And it was true. Nobody wanted to miss out on the Burke holiday Christmas party.
Anyway, my electric football game lasted until that first halftime when my disgruntled Uncle Don’s big fist crushed the life out of a player who he considered too slow. The game was called due to the large dent in the middle of the tin field, and, of course, the tragic loss of one squashed, slow-of-foot halfback.
Another year I got a set of drums because my Uncle Don had always talked about his days as a young drummer in a Big Band. He offered to teach me, but by 3AM Christmas morning he was on a roll and I couldn’t get the sticks away from him with a crowbar. He was into his third Gene Krupa wild number when his big shoe went through the bass drum. He patched it with some old duct tape, but it never sounded the same again.
I did get a great football helmet one time for Christmas.
My Aunt Mary, who had married a rich oilman from Oklahoma, sent it to me. It was an “Official Pittsburgh Steelers” helmet that must have cost a small fortune.
It was padded so well that when I put it on I couldn’t hear a darn thing.
My friends liked to bang on it with small sticks to see if I felt any pain. I never did … that was until Big Ronnie, who years later ended up in jail on numerous assault and battery charges, told me to put on my helmet. Then he swung at my head with a Louisville Slugger. The bat split in two. And, unfortunately, so did the helmet. But it caused no permanent damage to my cranium, as far as I can remember.
Thankfully, I did have a place where few would trespass; it was our attic and, for a very short period of time, I could boast that it contained the world’s smallest basketball court.
My brother and I had painted the wooden floor in our partially finished attic to resemble a basketball court foul line and then we put up the small hoop I got for Christmas. Sadly, this dream court didn't last long. During our very first game, my older brother rushed at me for a layup. I dodged his aggressive advance and put out my foot. He tripped and went crashing through Dad's new plaster wall and landed on several boxes of priceless antique Christmas ornaments that had been in my father's family for three generations … until that moment.
Strangely, much like most of my toys, my beloved basketball hoop disappeared the next day.
Christmas Is Believing
Christmas means many things to many people.
To children, it is a time of wonder and the suspense of waking up Christmas morning to find what Santa had left the night before; for parents it is a time of sharing love and material gifts, coupled with the joyous satisfaction of seeing their children's eyes brighten upon opening each new present; for grandparents and the older generation, it is a time of peaceful contentment, watching others going through the multitude of holiday emotions that they experienced many times in the past.
It is also gratifying to note that though people may be separated by age, they nevertheless always become united at this time of year. It's as though when one believes in Christmas, one is ageless.
This holiday instills in each of us the mystical power of rejuvenation. The more we believe in it, the more youthful we become.
Believing in the charisma of Christmas can stem from the birth of Christ to Santa Claus, or merely having faith in the goodness of the human race. Whatever the reason, believing in something has the power to bring people closer together. And certainly there is no other time when “Good Will Toward Men” is more evident than at this time of year.
So if we must have faith in something, let it be Christmas.
© 2011 E. P. Burke Publishing http://www.epburkepublishing.com
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