This time of year, as with every year
we look back and reflect on our lives.
We don’t need Santa to tell us, as it seems very clear,
we know if we’ve been naughty or nice.
We do our best, and at times it’s not easy,
“Such is Life!” I seem to recall.
To be understanding and not too demanding,
and not just from me, but from all.
So, let’s take a step back, from the Fridays of Black
Don’t get me wrong, I love all the Great deals.
But it’s the warmth in our hearts, not gifts from Walmart,
what the Spirit of Christmas reveals.
Merry Christmas to all from The Basket of Fish
And a toast as I raise my glass high.
With all of life’s lessons, I still count all of my blessings
’cause there for the Grace of God go I.
A Boomer’s Christmas Story
The following is an excerpt from the book Coal: A Christmas Story which I feel is the best way for you to understand what Christmas was like for a young baby boomer. Enjoy…
Christmas…. ahhhh Christmas. To a kid, it was a wonderful, magical time of year. Brightly colored glass bulbs surrounded the eaves of our home. Their glow seemed brighter than a full moon on a clear night.
Every house on our block seemed to wait for the owner of another house to put up their outdoor lights first as if giving permission for the rest to follow suit. The first sign of someone on their ladder with a string of lights hanging over their shoulder was like hearing the sound of a starting gun, with ladders and lights flying out of neighbors’ garages.
Once homes were properly decorated to the taste of their owners, you’d find families, including ours, in their cars touring the neighborhood at night, awestruck by the homes with their extraordinary decorations.
Some were truly dazzling displays of Christmas. With each compliment my parents gave about how beautiful these homes were, by the end of the drive they’d always look at each other and say “I’d hate to have their electric bills.”
Downtown was no different. Christmas was everywhere. Street light polls were decorated with garland and silver bells. Stores, shops, even gas stations had their own Christmas displays. Front windows hand painted with holiday scenes and Merry Christmas in bright green and red lettering bringing the joy of Christmas to everyone who visited.
Back home, putting up the indoor decorations and getting our tree were next on Mom’s to do list. Not too extravagant— just enough to let anyone who walked in the front door know that Christmas to this family was cheerfully celebrated.
And break out that list she did. She started making it two weeks before Thanksgiving reproducing most of the activities from the list she created the year before, and the year before that.
First, she cleared the mantle above the fireplace and set up her porcelain Christmas Village on top of snow made from a thick layer of cotton.
Directly in the middle of the coffee table, went the manger scene comprised of Mary, Joseph, three wise men, three angels and the baby Jesus in the manger with a couple of camels thrown in to complete the visual. They were all in and around a three sided wooden shed covered in dried green moss (assembly not included).
Snow globes were placed in strategic locations Mom thought looked best along with garland and a few more lights. To finish this Christmas transformation, all that was needed now was the tree.
Dad’s job kept him busy throughout the week but it was different during the holidays. He did his best to spend extra time with me and made sure I was with him when we went to buy our tree. It’s been a father-son tradition for as long as I could remember.
I was given the honor of choosing what I deemed the best tree on the lot (after my fathers counsel on what to look for of course). Standing in front of what I determined to be the best looking tree, I heard an unfamiliar voice.
“Need any help with that tree young squire?”
I turned around to find a tall older man in work overalls with a name tag I couldn’t quite make out in front of me, but came to the conclusion that he worked there.
“No thanks,” I replied, “my dad is right over there,” I added pointing over to my father. “I think we’ll take this one unless you have new trees somewhere else.”
“Nope, and if you don’t mind my saying so, it is my professional opinion this choice of yours has to be the best tree on the lot. I’m sure your family will love it. You know what kind of tree this is Jazz?
“I don’t— and how did you know my name?”
“You don’t remember me? Well, I guess you were too young. Your dad has been bringing you here for as long as I can remember and I never forget a name once I hear it, especially from such a good customer like your dad. It’s called a noble fir, the king of all Christmas trees.”
“Ohhh, that’s right, I remember you now— kind of.”
“Is my son bothering you Elroy?” Dad said smiling as he greeted the man with a handshake.
“Not at all Mr. Segar, just complimenting the young man’s choice of trees and enlightening him as to its name. No bother at all. He’s sure growing up quick.”
“He sure is— beautiful tree Jazz, you did good. OK. Done and done, we’ll take this one Elroy.”
“Yes, a fine choice Jazz, a fine choice indeed,” Elroy said as he placed the tree on a cart to be bundled with twine for the trip home.
Purchased and carefully secured to the roof of the car so the perfect tree would survive the ten minute ride back to the house with a side trip to our traditional stop at McDonald’s for hamburgers, fries and a soda, Dad said, “thanks for the help Elroy. Have a great Christmas and a happy New Year,” as he opened the car door.
“To you and your family as well Mr. Segar. And hey— Jazz, I hope you’ll remember me next year,” Elroy replied as he waved goodbye.
“Who was that old man? I kind of remember him.”
“Who, Elroy? He either owns the place or has worked there for as long as we’ve lived here and bought Christmas trees. Well before you were born.”
“He knew my name.”
“And why wouldn’t he? You’re a pretty great kid, he asks about you every year and with a name like yours, it’s not so easy to forget. Finish your fries and let’s get going. Lots to do. We have a tree to put up and decorate.”
Back home, the tree went immediately into its stand and the reservoir carefully filled with water. Five large boxes of lights and ornaments brought with care from the rafters in the garage were waiting patiently to be opened and rediscovered. Music from crooners like Johnny Mathis, Bing Crosby, Dean Martin and others played in the background.
“Whew! Done!” I said hanging the last ornament from the last box with crumbs of a Christmas cookie I had shoved into my mouth falling to the carpet.
More to do on Mom’s list. The baking of goodies that helped define Christmas had began. Cookies in the shape of Santa, snowmen, Christmas trees, and reindeer covered the kitchen counter cooling, waiting to be decorated with colored frosting and candy sprinkles then placed gently into tins and boxes for family and friends.
Mom made fruitcakes you could actually eat instead of using them as doorstops. She created other delicacies such as peanut butter fudge and Russian Tea Cakes covered in white powdered sugar. After all these years, I can almost taste them.
Mom did her best to stay on schedule. “Lets get this house clean!” she’d command, with a broom and mop in one hand and a dusting rag in the other. While the house was always clean throughout the year, it was spotless during the holidays, with everything in its proper position.
More importantly, at least for me, was the ritual of being presented with the latest J.C. Penny Christmas catalog so I could spy the toy section and put a mark next to all the stuff I wanted for Christmas. It was of no concern to me who I would hopefully, eventually receive them from. Santa, my parents, grandparents, anyone for that matter. I was an equal opportunity gift receiver.
All the while, the occasional coal warnings were inserted for good measure though most times, I was cautioned with a smile from Mom unless I misbehaved. That stern look only reappeared when necessary.
The house was finished. The sight, sound and smell of Christmas was everywhere. The only thing left to do was the most difficult part of all for a kid. Waiting for presents to somehow magically find their way under the tree.
As the last week of school before the two week Christmas vacation began, I found myself racing home each day from the bus stop. It wasn’t for cookies and milk or a bag of chips and a soda, no— that could wait. I made a beeline right for the tree for the express purpose of discovering if any additional gifts wrapped perfectly, complete with beautiful ribbon and bows were added to the ones already there. Sometimes I was lucky— sometimes not, but it was still fun looking.
At last! Christmas vacation had begun. We all said our temporary goodbyes to our friends and teachers and wished them a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year while hastily gathering our belongings to make it to the bus as quickly as we could. I had two weeks off from school and was determined not to waste a single minute of it.
And what Christmas would be complete without Grandparents? Especially when they needed my help to carry in all the gifts they had neatly stowed away in the trunk of their car.
Every year like clockwork, three or four days before Christmas, my grandparents on my mom’s side of the family drove down to our house.
I never knew for sure, but I think they may have made a secret agreement with my other grandparents that they would celebrate Christmas with us and my dad’s parents would visit a week or so later while they spent their Christmas at my aunt’s house.
It was of no concern to me as I knew I would see them soon after and have the opportunity of helping them carry in their presents from the trunk of their car as well. What can I say, I was a really helpful kid at Christmas.
My grandfather entered our home with his famous line. “Hi there sports fans. Are we ready for Christmas?”
My only reply was, “Yup,” as I gave them both a big hug, delighted to see them again.
With the royal entrance to our home concluded, my grandfather, after his laborious three hour drive, headed directly to the refrigerator for an ice-cold beer.
My grandmother— on the other hand, immediately began inspecting me and the house, pointing out to my mother all the improvements which could be made. Mom just looked down, impatiently waiting for the inspection to be over with so they could move on to enjoying the holiday together.
After a few beers, Grandpa did one of two things. He either broke out the record player, put on the hits of Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman and the like, which gave me the appreciation I’ve had for big bands ever since, or he went straight for the piano.
My grandfather passed away many years ago. In fact, I am older now than he was when he passed. But when it came to playing the piano and teaching me the songs he knew, there was one thing I never realized until reaching the age he was when he taught me.
I always believed it was all the beers that made him struggle with certain songs. Starting over again and again because of the mistakes he made along the way.
I can now affirm that this was not the case. At my age, when attempting to play the same songs I haven’t played for years, the same struggle took place. While I’d love to blame the beers, it definitely wasn’t them— it was me.
But I will never forget the fun I had watching him try, then the look of relief on his face when he finally succeeded in playing the song all the way through.
“Victory at last!” he said as he went for another beer.
With each passing day bringing us one day closer to Christmas, my grandfather took the time to tell me stories of what it was like when he was my age. His childhood, while difficult at times, was for the most part, right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. At least that was the kind of picture he painted as a kid in 1921 growing up in the Midwest with warm lazy summers fishing in a creek near his home with his four brothers and two older sisters along with friends.
Summer evenings were spent catching fireflies in the meadow behind the house, or just sitting on the porch drinking delicious, fresh lemonade his mom had made for them using lemons picked from the tree in the back yard, and planning what adventure they’d be off to the following day. Winters with snow boots handed down from his older brother because his mom threw away nothing which still had some use left— “you’ll grow into them,” his mom said reassuringly.
After a day of making snowmen, snow ball fights and racing down snow covered hills with their sleds doing their best not to collide with a tree or other sledders on their way to the bottom, they spent their evenings listening to radio theater in the living room with a cup of hot chocolate.
I’m extremely thankful, and consider myself very fortunate to have had the pleasure of hearing his stories of a time long past.
“What’s on TV tonight?” he said while getting up from the piano to retrieve another beer and this week’s TV Guide. Back then, you needed a printed magazine to know what was going to be on television.
“I don’t know,” I replied shrugging my shoulders while making my way to the black and white TV in the living room hoping he’d find something good to watch. Also hoping that no one hadn’t already commandeered our only TV.
As luck would have it, the TV was free to watch. I was flipping through the channels— all six of them, by turning the large round knob on the front panel, loudly clunking from one channel to the next while Grandpa searched for a Christmas Special or holiday movie that was scheduled that night.
The big day was right around the corner. Among all the Christmas traditions my family had, the only real tradition was the one my father started a few years earlier on Christmas morning. I was not allowed to come out of my room and open gifts until I heard a specific song being played on the record player. I had already been awake for an hour or so, constantly peeking out my bedroom door, asking for what seemed like the tenth time if it was OK to come out.
“Just a few more minutes!” mom replied as the mouth-watering aroma of eggs and bacon cooking on the stove made their way from the kitchen to my bedroom.
When I didn’t think I could wait an agonizing minute longer, it happened. I heard the song.
[For the curious reader, it was the song Jingle Bells by Fred Waring and His Pennsylvanians which came out in 1950. It was a somewhat comical rendition of various ways the song is performed. I’ve always loved that version and still play it to this day on Christmas mornings.]
Upon hearing the first note, I ran out of my room and immediately stopped right at the exact spot in the living room where I could survey the tree, presents, including any large gifts such as a possible bicycle, telescope or the like that I had checked off from the J.C. Penny Christmas Catalog weeks earlier. I knew such a gift would only appear Christmas morning because it would have to be assembled the previous night. But before one present could be opened, all attention went to the Christmas stockings hanging from the fireplace mantle.
“Whew,” I said as I wiped my brow in relief when I saw my stocking stuffed with toys and candy. No coal, at least not this year “Thank God.”
After a quick breakfast, we all opened our gifts, which never disappointed anyone. Even the clothes I received from my grandparents, as I did each year, were appreciated, (though, to be honest, I would have preferred a toy.) We just hoped other families in our community were having as wonderful a Christmas morning as we were.
With presents opened, big hugs and thank-you’s to all — this Christmas had been as perfect as anyone could have hoped for.
Little did I know what the universe had in store for me.
Don’t forget to get your copy of Coal: A Christmas Story today.
On sale now at Amazon. Click on the book for more info.
