Lando 
Posted on 12/24/2004 6:33:11 PM PST by Lando Lincoln
Throughout my life I have always experienced the joys of Christmas. But once, many years ago, in order to keep that string of joyous Christmases intact, there had to be a miracle.
Throughout my life I have always experienced the joys of Christmas.
No Dickensesque Christmas replete with coals in my stocking for me. They’ve all been Christmases of familial congeniality, caroling, and midnight Mass. But once, many years ago, in order to keep that string of joyous Christmases intact, there had to be a miracle.
It was 1958 and I was twelve years old. My brother, Jim, was four and we lived on 7th Street in East Liverpool, Ohio.
“Liverpool” was lively and bustling town then, it isn’t now, but it’ll be a long, long time before the last fellow out of town, turns off the lights. The town was built on muscle and sweat with most folks laboring in either the potteries or a large steel mill just up the Ohio River. But 1958 was most notable for a countrywide recession; there were a lot of layoffs, a lot of unemployment checks.
Unfortunately, the recession struck the construction industry as well and my dad, who was an Operating Engineer, was laid off for much of the summer, and fall, and into winter. Times were tough. My mother made potato soup -- she was Irish -- and didn’t call it vichyssoise. We weren’t picky eaters, either then or now, and when dinner was served we ate whatever was on the plate; no complaining, no whining. Even my four-year-old brother cleaned up his plate.
I don’t know what went through my father’s mind during those trying times. I know he worried, and when he worried, my mother worried, and she was not particularly good at it. Dad looked everywhere for work, but everyone was laying off. He hung close to the phone waiting for the “go-to-work call,” from the union hall, but it didn’t come.
In 1958 I was an alter boy at St. Aloysius Church on 5th Street. You might recall that it was the time before Vatican II, when the bishops and cardinals got the addlepated notion that they should make the church accessible, diverse, and unfortunately, politically correct.
Lacking in seniority, I made the daily trek to church in the crepuscular light of predawn to serve the 5 AM mass. Well, as you might expect, I prayed. I prayed everyday during those masses, in between the opening prayers and the Confession, though my Latin recitations may have lacked a certain expertise, I was loud and the priests liked that. The Lord and I got on a first name basis. I offered deals, I confessed my sins, and I made many, many promises. It wasn’t that I entertained concupiscent visions of Christmas presents, my concern was about my family, and I just wanted the Lord, my God, to make things right.
I remember it was two weeks before Christmas and my dad took me aside one night and told me that Christmas was going to be a little thin this year. I told him that it would be ok! He patted me on the shoulder and turned away. I think he had a tear in his eye, but my “old man” was a veteran of Patton’s Third Army, a veteran of the Bulge, and he was a tough old bird, so maybe it was my imagination.
Then something miraculous occurred!
During the first week of December my dad bought a ticket at the Knights-of-Columbus hall for their monthly $1,000 drawing. He only bought the one ticket, and on a Thursday night, just a few days after he’d told me that Christmas was going to be tight, the phone rang.
My mother answered and after a few moments I could see she’d lost all her color, and her eyes bulged! I thought she was going to faint!
“Bob, Bob,” she cried as dad came quickly into the kitchen. We thought someone had died! She handed the phone to my father and after a few minutes he hung up and they began jumping and shouting.
“We won, we won,” they shouted in unison, and in that moment I knew that my string of happy Christmases would not be broken.
My dad put on his coat and hat and made his way to the Knight-of-Columbus Hall that very evening where he was awarded the $1,000 prize. The next day he went to Chuck Fluno’s grocery store and paid off our bill; in fact he paid off all his creditors. My old man was debt free! It must have been a grand feeling; you couldn’t get the smile off his face.
As for me, I waited until we’d all gone to bed, then the Lord and I had a long, private talk. I thanked Him for this blessing, for the kindness shown my family, and I vowed to fulfill the promises I’d made: I would not cuss, I would not smart mouth my mother, I would not give my brother “Dutch rubs,” I would not look on Ann Gerace’s paper at school to get the right answers, I would go to Mass everyday -- and receive communion, and I would make a novena every Wednesday night. Well, there was a two-month time limit on these promises, but I managed to do my duty.
The tree went up the next day, a live one, of course, and within a short time the whole house smelled of pine; hey, Christmas was in the air! But, to tell you the truth I didn’t much think of what I wanted for Christmas. In a way, I understood the old cliché about “the real meaning of Christmas.” When I heard Bing Crosby singing Silent Night on the radio, I was moved to tears, I sang the Gloria in Excelcis Deo with fervor and panache. The air seemed clean, and cool, and crisp; “it was all good,” as they say.
On Christmas Eve we went to Midnight Mass and I again expressed my gratitude. In fact, I thanked Him everyday for a very long time.
On Christmas morning, it must have been around 5 AM; my father could no longer contain himself. He rousted my brother and me out of bed!
“Get up, you boys,” he said, “It’s Christmas morning and Santa’s been here!
Well, up we jumped and into the living room we ran. And, there before our eyes was the Christmas of Christmases!
To be honest with you, I don’t remember what my brother got, but to this very day I remember the gifts my parents -- because of the Lord’s blessing -- had gotten me. The sight that greeted me on Christmas morning, 1958, is indelibly etched in my brain.
In the center of the living room was a genuine, twenty-six inch, top-of-the line, Roadmaster Luxury Liner bicycle -- the king of the road, the greatest bike ever built! The sight of that bicycle sucked the air out of my lungs. I was speechless, I trembled in excitement!
But, there was more, for around the bicycle roared a genuine, deluxe, Lionel train, powered by a perfect replica of the powerful and majestic, Pennsylvania GG1 Electric engine, pulling six cars and a caboose with lights. And, around the tree, its multi-colored bulbs welcoming us to Christmas morning, sat two huge piles of wrapped presents.
My brother and I dove into those piles with relish, and ripping away the wrapping paper we found toys, games, puzzles, Lincoln Logs, as well as the required robes, slippers, pants, shoes, boots, shirts, and sweaters. It took us a long time, we grew arm weary but we managed to open every gift.
And then, after we’d settled down, and in the manner reminiscent of Ralphie’s dad in the movie, The Christmas Story, my father said there was one more present for me behind the tree.
It was a fairly large box, nicely wrapped, with a bow that I immediately tore away. Inside was a two-gun holster. Yes, that’s right a TWO-GUN holster made of REAL leather, a soft and sensuous leather that smelled of horses, Arizona, and the fear a man experienced in a gunfight. And, within those beautiful, real, leather holsters were lodged two Peacemakers, the gun that settled the West! These were not guns with a Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, or Hopalong Cassidy logo stamped on a cheap, fake leather, gun belt. No sir! These pistols were heavy, they were exact replicas, they were on the cusp of reality and I had no difficulty in going over that cusp. I handled them as if they could discharge a .45 caliber round at any moment as my father nodded in approbation. The holster belt was buckled on over my pajamas and much to my astonishment they fit! I strapped down the holsters to my legs with the accompanying leather strings, they hung heavy on my hips.
The two-gun holster set stayed wrapped around my waist all of Christmas Day. My parents lodged no objections, indeed, dad seemed pleased.
That afternoon mom had the turkey ready. That’s right, just like Ralph’s family we dined on turkey at Christmas and my mother made a mean turkey. But before we ate she placed a large bowl of oyster stew on the table; that’s how I knew times were good, when my mother bought oysters from Weston’s Meat Market. And, beside the bowl sat a plate of raw oysters, slightly peppered. Those babies were for my dad and me, we loved raw oysters!
Well, that’s my little Christmas story. It isn’t destined to be a Mel Gibson movie but it is true, or at least my memory of it. In the future, when Christmas time came around, my family would always make a comment about THE Christmas. My father never told me where he got that holster set.
By the time summer arrived I had the Roadmaster stripped down for speedy delivery of my paper route. She was still a sleek beauty but one day, while I was delivering papers, my pant leg got caught in the chain (I’d removed the chain guard as well!) and as I careened down the 7th Street hill, unable to apply the brakes, me and the Lord got on a first name basis again, and again He intervened, but that’s another story.
The Lionel train set stayed at my parents even after they moved. When they passed away I sold it to a train collector friend of mine and bought my wife of thirty-four years an emerald necklace. But then, that’s another Christmas story, too.
My brother, Jim, inherited the Peacemakers and I think he loved them as much as I, though he doesn’t remember what happened to those magnificent guns and holsters.
As you know this isn’t the story of a secular Christmas, where some lost nihilist finds true happiness through the robust application of moral relativism. Those grand and wonderful presents I received that day were just the material reality of a spiritual act, or if you prefer, a metaphysical reality. I’ve always thought that the Immanent God of the Universe was giving me mercy; he answered those prayers because my heart was true. I did not pray for my needs, my wants, my desires; rather, my prayer was for my family, and I was willing to make any sacrifice to bring them peace.
I must confess to being an imperfect human being, full of pride, and all the other sins you care to name; hey, I even smoke cigars and take a postprandial wine! I have sorely tried His patience. But, I have and I continue to seek forgiveness, and I have not been refused. I have been blessed with faith, I have seen His miracles and they are endless.
THE END
Bob Cheeks has written for The American Enterprise, Human Events, Southern Partisan, and The Pittsburgh Tribune Review.
Lando
Humph, your string of successes continues.
God has Blessed us, Everyone!
Thanks, needed that. And Lord bless our troops bountifully.
Great story, on a par with "A Christmas Story" if you ask me.
And it would make a great movie of the sentimental sort.
Thank you, Lando..Wonderful!
Lando
I think that's a high compliment!!! ;>) I hope Christmas morning greets you with love, warmth and security, FRiend.
Lando
I always enjoy your posts..Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas Lando!
Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.