Christmas

Christmas was my favorite holiday for one simple reason; that was the day I got a lot of presents. The joy of giving was not in my experience before I turned eight years old.

Every year my parents would tell us to not expect much because they had very little money. On Christmas morning, after the presents were opened my father would always turn to my mother and say, "Focha, I think that we really spent more than we should have this year." But when he said it they both had a big smile, which was a surprising thing to me. Not that he didn't think it was true, he was just sort of happy that we were happy. But I didn't understand it then.

There was always a lot of excitement in anticipation of Christmas each year. My mother would decorate the house with Christmas cards we had received. We made things at school and brought them home for decorations. There were special programs and Christmas music at school, at church, and on the radio. Normally we would have a special family home evening on Christmas Eve. Each of us would share a talent such as singing, playing an instrument, or telling a story. Dad would read the story of Christmas from St. Luke. Sometimes we would act out the story. It was always a warm, exciting, happy time.

Usually my dad would wait until the day before Christmas to buy the tree because he could get a better deal from salesmen anxious to get rid of the picked over remains of their stock. My dad told us that the longer he waited, the longer the tree would last after Christmas. Usually the trees were kind of dried out by the time we bought them, so we threw them away by New Year's Day.

One year my dad convinced my mother to follow the tradition of his family, rather than her family. He said it was a German tradition. It was a more efficient tradition that didn't require a lot of time, effort, or expense. My normally subservient mother objected, but was overruled. She was resentful of this; she didn't want her favorite time of year ruined. She didn't say much, but you could tell she was unhappy about the arrangement and looking back I think she was subconsciously trying to subvert his tradition. "Let's just try it this year," he had said, "and we'll see how we like it."

So, that year, in accordance with my dad's tradition, we didn't have any wrapped presents under the Christmas tree. We didn't all sit down in the living room and wait for my dad to pass out the Christmas presents one at a time, like he usually did. That year all of the presents were unwrapped and put on the dining room table, covered by a bed sheet. We all gathered around the table, sitting where we usually do for dinner. "Now children," said my mother, "don't expect too much. We didn't have much money this year. And this wasn't my idea of Christmas." We had heard that sort of thing before. With a little fanfare my dad lifted the bed sheet.

I could see at a glance all I got for Christmas. It was in a small little pile at my place on the table. Taken all together, without any boxes, wrapping, or ribbons, it didn't look like much. For a moment I was stunned. "Is this all there is?" said one of the older boys. The negativism was contagious. A wail of rude and thankless groans went up. Soon we were all complaining. My mother did nothing to stop it. She looked unhappy, and she had a self-congratulatory I-told-you-so look about her which was not pleasant. My father finally realized he was beaten.

"All right," he said, with a sigh. "We won't ever do this again." And we never did.

Some of the boys just couldn't wait for Christmas to find out what they got. Once David came to me when I was alone and whispered to me, "I know what everyone is getting for Christmas."

"Oh, really!" I said. "What am I getting?"

"Well, I was looking around among the boxes and fire extinguisher on the landing at the top of the stairs, when I found all kinds of stuff. I also found some stuff in the basement. Want to see it?"

I did, so he showed me some stuff upstairs. We then heard someone come home so we quietly went to our rooms. Later I felt guilty about looking at the Christmas presents, so I told my Mom about it. "Mom, David found where you have hidden the Christmas presents upstairs."

My Mom was furious. "He did? And did you look at them to?"

"Well," I said, trying to think of a way out of this, "David showed me a couple of things. But I didn't look around by myself."

"I think that this year none of you should get any presents at all." She called us all together and gave us a scolding. Everyone denied having looked for presents. David privately gave me a dirty look, and I tried to look as innocent as I could. My mother again threatened to take back to the store all the presents she had bought. We wailed, moaned and complained. We figured that she won't really do that, and we were right.

I never looked for presents after that, partly because I didn't want to get caught, partly because my mother would be mad at me, and partly because I could tell that most of her fun on Christmas morning was seeing our surprise and delight. And except for a certain smug satisfaction ("I know what you're getting and you don't") I think that David didn’t really enjoyed Christmas that year. I know that I thrilled to the suspense of Christmas, imagining all the wonderful things that I might be getting.

The Pony Picture

I have a picture of my older brothers David, Richard and James sitting on a pony. The picture was taken on a hot summer day and the boys are shown shirtless and shoeless, just as they usually were dressed. Some enterprising photographer with a pony had come around the Windham apartments looking for business in August of 1948, when I was twenty months old. My mother couldn't resist. Dad was a little surprised when he came home from work to find that my mother had spent some of his hard earned money for a picture that he thought he could have taken himself. My dad had been in the business of selling pictures, and he considered himself something of a photographer. "But you don't have a pony, Artel," argued my mother. Dad smiled that smile of his which seemed to say that he would refrain yet again from commenting on what he perceived to be a lack of logic on my mother’s part.

Every time I see the picture I remember how unhappy I was that day. I wanted to have my picture taken on the pony too. For some reason I was not included in the picture. I may have been taking a nap, or my mother might have thought that I was too little, or you couldn’t fit four boys on one pony, and my mother couldn’t afford two pictures. I don’t remember now. I do remember how I felt left out, and I was unhappy about it. I cried and cried about it. When my mother understood what I was crying about she tried to find the photographer again, but he was gone forever.

Most of my childhood pictures bring back happy memories. I have another picture, also labeled as August 1948. It is a picture of the family at an amusement park. It is one of my favorite pictures. We are happy looking. I had become very tired and my dad was carrying me lovingly in his arms.

The Milk Bottle

I was about three or four years old, and we were living in Windham Ohio. One morning my mother, brothers, and I were sitting around the dinning room table eating mush (oatmeal). Dad had an hour long drive to work, and had already left. We had a quart bottle of milk on the table which was being used liberally. When that quart was gone Mom asked for someone to get another quart from the icebox.

"I'll do it," I said, jumping up from the table.

"Okay, but be very careful."

"I will." I went over to the icebox, and pulled the door open. There was one quart of milk left. The milkman would probably not be coming by with more milk until the next morning. When I reached for the milk I noticed that the bottle was cracked all over. That was strange. Carefully I picked up the bottle at the neck. On the way back to the table I tried to say something about the milk bottle. "Mommy, there is something...." Just then the milk bottle burst open and milk drenched me, from my arm down to my shoes. Broken glass and milk rained on the floor. I was stunned. For a second there was silence as I stood there dripping milk. Then everyone began to speak at once.

"Look what you've done! You've dropped the milk bottle, you dummy!"

"I told you to be careful! Why can't you look what you're doing!"

"Ha! Ha! Oh, way to go, Dougie. What a jerk."

I started to cry. It was so unfair. I had been very careful. I couldn't understand it, I just knew I hadn't dropped the milk bottle, but how else could you explain the broken glass on the floor and the milk all over the place. I began to shake, whether from the cold milk all over me, or from being upset, I couldn't tell. Seeing me shake was amusing to my brothers, who started to laugh and point at me. My mother was very angry over the loss of the milk. The only thing I could think of to say was the truth as I saw it. "I did not drop the milk bottle."

"Oh boy, what a liar. I suppose that is not a broken milk bottle on the floor!"

"Ha! Ha! Ha! Very funny!"

"You expect us to believe that? You really are stupid."

"I did not drop the milk bottle," I repeated. Just then I noticed that the neck of the bottle was still in my hand. "Here's part of it still in my hand." My mother could see that I was right. Her anger left her immediately.

"I believe you. Here, I'll get a rag and help you clean up the mess," she said. I loved her for believing in me. Meanwhile my brothers continued to ridicule me. Just then I remembered what I was going to say before the bottle broke.

"The bottle was all cracked before I got it out of the icebox."

"Oh, no, Dougie didn't break the bottle," said one of my brothers in a sarcastic tone of voice, "it was broken before he touched it. Ho! Ho! Ho! Pretty funny, Dougie. What a little liar."

"Don't worry about it," said my mother. Suddenly she was angry with the milkman. "I'll have a talk with that milkman tomorrow morning!"