Since 2015 I have been writing post for my Blog of "fictionalized memoirs and over the years I posted a dozen Christmas memories. I grouped them all together and moved them to the top of the list for those of you who haven't read them or those who would like to take another stroll down memory lane with me in the spirit of the holidays.
A few weeks before every Christmas we made a pilgrimage. Not to Bethlehem or Mecca but to Gimbels and Lit Brothers. I think of this every year around the first of December...
...It's a very early Saturday the first weekend after Thanksgiving 1953. Mom, Nanny and I walked to the Public Service Bus garage and waited (what seemed like forever) for the bus to Philly. I was filled to the brim with excitement. This was the beginning of the best part of the kid year as heralded by the Millville Daily Republican (which wasn't published on Sunday?) that posted its first little box in the box on the front page = "25 days 'till Christmas”. I made a mental note to get my Christmas must have list in the works . But right now I was focused on waiting.
Now waiting for a bus is worse than waiting for a tea kettle to boil. Time slows in a way only a physicist could understand. But finally the big shiny behemoth roared out of the garage and we were on our way. The bus driver said, "Vineland Margaret?" and she replied - "No Eddie, all the way to 13th and Market streets." The fare was a buck fifty each – a costly trip in kid finance, but worth it - we were on our way to wonders that predated Disney’s World. The trek took over an hour as we stopped to pick up new passengers every 14 feet. The bus filled. And then we sailed over the big bridge and were there. Downtown Market Street and the big stores, They were all in a row. Lit Brothers, Gimbals, Woolworth's, W.T. Grants , Sears and Roebucks and the Taj Mahal of Retailers – John Wanamaker's. And we were going to walk every floor of them all. This was our day to “window shop” Christmas.
However, our first stop was traditionally at Horn & Hardart’s Automat. I had seen their commercials on TV for months and now I could taste their delicacies in “living color” instead of black and white. Mom let me put 30 cents in a slot this year a little door opened and I grabbed a ham and cheese on white from the little box- this was a fine instant cuisine that predated the fast food burgers to come, but that was years off at this point. Another quarter in down the row and I got a slice of very spicy apple pie with a slice of yellow cheese on top. My mother splurged and spent 40 cents for a BLT, her favorite and Nanny had liverwurst (which I wouldn’t acquire a taste for until I was introduced to it the a Jewish Deli in Atlantic City years later.)
Now the fun finally began - Next stop Wanamaker and the train in the sky.
Escalator or elevator? This was great fun for Millvillians as we basically have a one story town - we rarely rode up anywhere in Millville. I voted for the escalator because. as we were glided to the next floor, we could see the delights below and the sparkling decorations on each aisle. As she did every year, Mom cautioned me not to get my foot caught in the the moving steps, which seemed impossible to me - but. Five floors later we were at the Toy Department, which occupied an entire floor - this was a kid’s dream come true place. Riding high above the countless counters of model airplanes, puppets and pop-guns was the Toyland Express Train, aka The Rocket, that circled the perimeter of the floor twice with about 25 kids aboard on each trip. I always waited in line for the ride first so I could get my bearings - over there was the Hopalong Cassidy stuff in the first aisle, the board games over there. Bikes below. I waved to Mom and Nanny. And then saw “Santa” (his helper of course) seated on a giant golden throne. (I would later see Gimbel's Santa; like him better, he had a real beard) After I made the two revolutions on the Polar Express of my day, it was then off to view the treasures close up. I moved through the rows of glass topped counters like a hunter on a safari. Up and down each aisle. I particularly liked the toy gun arsenal and the Gilbert’s Erector Set display of a skyscraper that looked like the Empire State (that no kid would ever be able to duplicate). Ticker Toys were not a favorite - too babyish.
On the way down we would ride the elevator and stop on each floor as the uniformed operator called out their wares - When he said, "3rd floor, ladies underwear.” I always giggled. This cracked me up every year.
Next, out in the windy air to visited every store on the street - Lit Brother's featured a full set of kid armor for $300 dollars. I knew that would not be on my Christmas list. I was a realist, even at 10 - Anyhow I probably was too big for it. Plus, there would never be another kid in my neighborhood that I could to have a joust.
We stopped several times along the busy sidewalks filled with shoppers with armloads of packages way in furniture stores to pretend we were buying Pop an easy chair. Actually we went in just to sit down and rest our feet for a few minutes. We moved from easy chair to sofa and tested each for its potential comfort! Those with foot stools were especially of interest. Nanny found one recliner with a vibrating seat which we all tried.
Our last stop always was at Lit Brothers - a small but wonderful department store. Here there were more exotic toys to see - in the massive atrium that was patterned after a Roman temple there was a free and famous hourly concert of carols and a giant tree on a marble pillared balcony high above the crowd decorated, as advertised, with 20 thousand lights that blinked in time with the music. After every carol in the book was played at ear splitting volume, there was a big finish the tree danced to Joy to the World as red and green spotlights made sparkled And as every year - WOW! was all I could say along with a bunch of oh’s and ah's from the large crowd. The he lights slowly dimmed to the last chords of Silent Night and the show was over. Done until a waiting crowd filled the atrium again.
We were done too - well done. We had walked all day and Nanny said her "dogs were barking!" She always had had an old saying that made me laugh. As the big stores closed, we caught the bus home and I slept most of the way back to Jersey dreaming of my idol Hopalong Cassidy and his double holstered cap guns with simulated pearl handles - the dream ended all too soon when the bus lurched to a stop and we were home again.
Years later I realized that every time Mom had walked away that day "to look at something" as I gazed at the toys shhe was ordering stuff "for Santa" and a week later the “big brown” truck would bring many of the things I said, “I really...really like" to Stratton Ave.
Our holiday shopping was over and I slept well that night. These were some of the best days in my life. But those great monuments on Market street are gone now and replaced by internet orders to an invisible store called Amazon. They're just memories - when a magic bus trip took us to a wonderland in the City of Brotherly Love.
It was the beginning of December and Miss Ruhlander, my 4th grade teacher, and the meanest at the Bacon school informed our class on the first of December, “By request of our Principal Mrs. McCorristin every class has been asked to contribute to the PTA’s Annual Christmas Assembly. The theme this year is Christmas Greeting Cards and the shop class is building a big frame on stage and a "card" formed by the students will come to life and “ demonstrate our musical skills or do a seasonal reading. Does anyone have an idea for our contribution? “ No hands went up. She looked at us sternly and growled, “No one can play a carol on the piano?” Still nothing. “Recite a Christmas poem?” Again nothing. And then for some internal compulsion I raised my hand and blurted – “I can be Frosty the Snowman!” Miss R was mildly excited as usual. She didn’t even ask how I could be the famous frozen one. And I didn’t know either! What I did know is that I had about a week to figure this one out.
Nanny, Mom and I put our heads together that same night after dinner. And Nanny volunteered, “I’ll make you a snowman costume!” And just like that we were on our way. I had a 45 RPM of Gene Autry's singing of Frosty’s antics and that was my contribution. My grandmother could sew anything. A shirt from scratch, no problem. Repair a ripped winter coat – a cinch. But produce a snowman…I was dubious to say the least.The days passed. And Nanny hummed carols in her room working on some white canvas-like fabric she just happened to have. Her Singer hummed too into the night. Mom’s job was critical to the entire performance. The song goes, “When they put a top hat on Frosty…he began to dance around…” Where in this working man’s town would she get a top hat? Mom racked her brain. During her lunch she walked uptown and tried all of the men’s shops. No dice! And it was too late and much too expensive to order one from Sears & Roebucks – it would never come in time. Then she had an inspiration – She called the local funeral director. And he said, “Sure Margaret, had one from the old days when funerals were more formal. So why not, anything for education.” I couldn’t believe Mom made this deal as she always seemed to do.
The night before the show my costume was finished. I tried on white blossoming pants with a drawstring at the waist to hold them up – we filled the legs with newspaper. I donned a white jacket that looked very much like one a chef would wear. And where did Nanny get those big black buttons down the front that look like coal? I leaned later - borrowed off her best winter coat. Mom stuffed my jacket with three pillows. I looked in the bedroom mirror – good grief I was Frosty!
The show night arrived. Mom did my makeup - white face paint left over from Halloween, rosy roughed cheeks and she drew black squares around my eyes and on my nose with an eyebrow pencil. I was ready to perform. We drove to the school and I nervously paced backstage waiting my turn. The sixth grade class sang. Next a couple fourth graders read Twas the Night Before Christmas. The lights dimmed and I froze in place behind the big wooden "card" as the curtains rolled back and they played my record. And timed with the lyrics, classmate Mary Jane came on stage and placed the top hat on my head. And of course, I from the “card” and started to dance around to the music. I would have made Martha Graham proud – I improvised a series of pirouettes and finished with a magnificent high jumping twirl. I had been inspired by the festive season and the clapping from the audience. I only stopped once when the officer on the record hollered STOP. The song ended and I froze again back inside the “card”. The applause was long and loud. Frosty was a hit.
And from that day on whenever I see a snowman I remember the night when the magic in a mortician's hat made me a star.
In central Florida where I now live Christmas starts November 1 and there tons of twinkling lights and towns with their own snow making machines that gives one the spirit of the holidays without the frostbite. And now after concerts, parades and festivals at all the theme parts it's just a week until the big day…
...And I’m thinking about a much different time... riding with my family looking at the many heavily decorated houses in Millville that were our competition vying for the annual big prize – the Christmas Home Decorating Contest which included a picture on the front page of the Daily Republican and a $25.oo savings bond (which would cover about two days of the added charges on the electric bill) After years of adding lights and wishing, I was determined that we was going to be “OUR YEAR!” I had a plan.
We had just moved into our new very modern designed home. And I had an idea for a decoration so unique it would be a sure winner. I found it thumbing through a well-read Popular Mechanics at the barber shop. Now I just had to convince my Dad that we could construct this plywood decoration? And it was going to fit perfectly on our big stone fireplace wall that was the front of our house.
At supper two weeks before the contest I showed the plan for my 16-foot creation. My Dad looked at it and was a bit skeptical. “Hum…that’ll take a lot of plywood,” was his only response. But he wasn’t noted for being very verbose. Right away I could see reasoning wasn’t going to work with the realist of the family – so I started to work on my Mom. She could get him to do practically anything. Two nights later after the dishes were put in our brand-new dish washing machine my Dad said, “Let’s see those plans again.” And I knew the mom had done her part.
We started the next evening in the “workshop” which my Dad built before he started building our new house – he was an artist in wood and his shop had every wood working machine a craftsman could want from lathe to router. I say “we worked” on my plan – but like most times he worked, I watched. First, he laid out a full-scale drawing of the decoration on brown paper. Transferred it to two sheets of plywood on the shop floor – this very large work of art was taking shape. Over the next few nights he cut out the intricate shapes. He was very patient and methodical in his work. My job was to paint all the surfaces a flat black as each piece was done. He trusted me to handle that task. The night of the judging was looming closer and I was worried we wouldn't make it. My mom had filled out the entry blank and mailed it to the newspaper – with the title of our entry – “O Holy Night”. The die was cast and we had to finish it in before the weekend. And we made it. I helped Dad attach our masterpiece to the front of our house on the chimney. I could not wait until dark so we could see how it looked. Darkness came early as always on my Mom’s birthday, December 21st and I announced that winning the prize was going to be her present! With a birthday so close to Christmas mom always got gypped out a present and a party. We all went to the front of our house. Dad plugged in the extension cord and our tribute to the season beamed with a yellow glow. There it was, a 16’ by 4’ backlit silhouette that told the Christmas Eve Story – on the left were the three Magi riding plywood camels toward the palm trees of the City of a Bethlehem which was in the center complete with a radiating star in the imagined sky; on the right were a couple shepherds staring at an angel hovering above them; running along the bottom of the tableau in 12 inch letters “O HOLY NITE” – (we didn’t have room for “night”). The plan seemed to have worked out. And it was indeed unique – except for the countless other readers of PM that attempted to make it – but in Millville it would literally stand alone. I knew it would win us the coveted prize – a $25 dollar savings bond and a year of bragging rights at school. My mother, with tears in her eyes, whispered, “It’s just beautiful…the best birthday present ever…just beautiful…” My Dad said, “I wish it was brighter.” He was always the perfectionist. I said nothing but I was very proud of the way it turned out.
That weekend when Dad turned on the rest of our electric testament to the season – my city of Bethlehem just looked like a large black stripe on our fireplace wall. We hadn’t factored into the design the ambient light from about hundred red and green lights under the eves and outlining our entire house. Dad added more lights for two nights straight - but the effect or lack of effect remained the same. I was crushed. My creation turned out to be just an ugly black box. Needless to say, we didn’t win; we didn’t even get on the honorable mentions.
The next Christmas Dad tried the shadow box once again in a different spot but with the same result and then it was relegated to the scrap woodpile. Year after year we added lights, a plastic Santa and Sleigh, candelabras in each window - but we never did when the contest. But I did learn an important lesson. The best laid plans may look great on paper – but sometimes in the bright light of reality - they just don't work.
I watched The Christmas Story again for perhaps the 50th time since its debut in the 80’s and I thought of Jean Shepherd, it’s author and my TV colleague and friend. We spent a lot of time together as we produced PBS network shows and I heard the “real skinny,” as he would call it, about his stories – which by the way he always firmly stressed “…were not memories…for god sakes! I’m a writer, don’t they get it? Except for brother Randy the rest of them are not real!”
And then I am back in Millville 1953 and remembering my own Christmas story.
Every kid I knew had BB guns but a couple even younger than me had real 22 rifles – REAL bullet shooting rifles. And this Christmas I was intent on getting something more than a Roy Rogers cap gun and a dozen of those red rolls of caps. So, I started a quest for my 22 when Mom asked , “What’s on your “Christmas List”? Playing it cool, I didn’t start with a target rifle. I slipped it in after some “educational” stuff designed to soften her up. I began with an “Art Kit”. I had an "artistic nature" according to Nanny who always appreciated my drawings. Next, I mentioned a Gilbert chemistry set that I saw in the Sears & Roebucks’ Wish Book- the kid's Christmas gift bible. “On page 85”, I added just to make sure mom would find it - but it wasn’t a priority I just saw when I searched for the sporting goods sections and found two models of Craftsmen 22 rifles available for shipping – one with a plain wood stock and the other, the deluxe model, came with a case and paper targets that looked like deer and bears. Mom countered the chemistry ploy immediately, “You’ll blow up the kitchen!” This was not a good sign. Yikes I thought - is this no time for a sales pitch about a weapon? “You are definitely not getting any guns either,” Mom barked (reading my mind as she often did), leaving no room for negotiation – so I folded. “I guess that’s all I can think of for now…” and I finished dinner in silence.
As Mom and Nanny cleared the dishes, I pulled out the Sears catalog once again. The Wish Book was worn out after a month of pawing through it; dog earring pages; reading brief descriptions that accompanied the photos of toys held by joyous kids; not looking at prices that appeared in fine print at the end of each clever description. If I wasn't getting a genuine target practicing gun, now what?
Since summer, I had been imagining myself as the “great safari hunter of Stratton Avenue” roaming my backyard jungle. (I emulated Ramar of the Jungle which I devotedly watched every Saturday morning as he saved one of the friendly tribe from an attacking carnivore.) Frankly, at 10 years old I had few toy fantasies left – not because I was getting too old for toys – but because I had almost everything a boy could ever want – except something I could really shoot. As I rifled (pun intended) through the pages once again, I couldn’t find one good toy I needed, let alone wanted. And then I saw on the same page as the hunting rifles – An Archery Set!!! Maybe mom would accept an less deadly alternative to the dangers of a gun.
Immediately, I erased my African safari from my memory banks and cooked up one about Indian warriors. (And yes, we called them “Indians” in those days). I saw myself tracking bison on the plains and skinning pelts for wampum. Tonto, pal of the Lone Ranger could shoot arrows with great results and I would too. I studied the “beginner’s” set which included: a fiberglass bow; 6 maple arrows with steel tips and genuine feathers; an arm protector and 5 targets with bullseye over a deer in full stride. Done deal! This was indeed a great compromise and I decided to add this sportsman’s hobby gift suggestion to my list at dinner tomorrow evening.
The next evening the moment we sat down for supper I announced -
“You know what? I have decided what I really need Santa to bring me! All scooping and passing stopped. A Sears Sportsman’s Beginners Archery Set!!!” Mom paused for just a beat, then said, “I think arrows are more dangerous than guns, ya never know where those arrows are going to end up.” Yikes foiled again as they said in the movies. My hopes at becoming a backyard hunter were dashed, and I couldn’t think of a good argument to make my point. I now realized that this Christmas I was just going to get more clothes (which could start a trend for the rest of my kid years). So, dejectedly, I stopped making gift suggestions at dinner as the days marched on to by the greatest day on the kid-calendar.
Christmas Day I was up early after a restless night of tossing and turning with no sugar plums dancing. My house had changed dramatically while I was semi-asleep. The tree in the living room was now trimmed by Santa. Red and green crepe paper decked our hall. And there were great smelling candles burning everywhere. And beneath the tree a mountain of neatly wrapped gifts – (Later in life I would appreciate that it was mom not Santa that did do all the great themed wrappings - she was a much more patient wrapper than I would ever be).
After what seemed like hours of opening gifts, Mom said, “Well do you like everything you got from Santa?” I said without thinking, “Almost, thanks Mom, Nanny, Pop!” Then Pop with a smile reached behind the sofa and handed me one more gift. A very long box with a red ribbon. Inside I found the archery set. My Christmas was complete. My grandfather showed me how to string the bow and notch an arrow. Then he did something that shocked everyone. He turned and let an arrow fly right into our kitchen. BANG! It pierced a metal trash filled with remnants of ripped wrappings. Gads, the arrow went right through it. Pop looked me in the eye and said, “This is not a toy, Calvin. Never point it at a living thing. Be very careful this is not a toy – you hear me!” My mother and grandmother just shook their heads - I think they were still in shock from Pop's surprise gift. “Yes Pop,” I said...
...and then I had an instant revelation that would last a lifetime. guns, arrows, weapons, all seem glamorous in the movies. But now I saw them for what they really were and why they were dangerous – they were made to hurt things or worse.
In the backyard that afternoon I learned how to shoot my bow and arrow – but not once did I try for a robin or a blue jay. I knew, from that day on, I would never be the great hunter of Stratton Avenue - or anywhere else for that matter!
My mother and grandmother were whispering in the kitchen – and at Christmas time I knew that was either a good sign or a bad one. So I immediately I left TV watching and made a bee-line (what do bees do when they do this?) to the kitchen – Milton Berle would just have to go on without me. Of course, they stopped the whispers immediately when I appeared and said, " I just need a glass of water". Both had very grim looks on their faces and now I was really really worried. Yikes, maybe this year, for the first time I was on the naughty list for some minor transgression...I wasn’t going to get anything for Christmas?
I started to list my infractions: I did break a window with a wayward snowball that was a costly error. I was late a few times coming home for dinner. And the worst infraction possible, I got a “poor conduct'' remark on my last report card: “Calvin is very chatty during class, he needs to pay more attention, especially during arithmetic", written in red ink by Miss R - 4th grade teacher. But these were not as grievous as some of my friends had perpetrated year after year and Santa always seemed to visit them – I couldn't figure what was wrong?
The long days before the holiday passed and when Christmas Day was just four days away my mother asked me to stay for a moment at the table after dinner – I knew this wasn’t going to end well. She began in her most serious voice: “Calvin sometimes things happen that we can’t control. You have been a very good boy this year, but I have had word that Santa may be late coming to our hourse…so…ah…please don’t be disappointed if you don’t get everything you asked for on Christmas morning. I am sure he will make it up to you…her voice trailed off..."
Yikes this was the worst news I ever had, even worse then hearing the dentist say, “Oh my....” The next day at recess I held a playground conference with my kickball buddies. None of my chums have ever had a mom make this kind of declaration – they reported that Santa doesn’t leave gifts for free, maybe my mom was broke and needed to save up before he would come – I had never thought of that. I immediately promised myself that I would understand if there wasn’t a new bike (my top or the Santa list gift) by the tree on the big morning – mom being short of money was a much more serious problem than me not getting everything...I thought trying to convince myself of this.
I was very quiet on Christmas Eve after church. Christmas morning dawned and I made my way down the hall to the living room in my official Roy Rogers flannel robe. As I turned the corner I couldn’t believe it. There was a bicycle by our tree and my grandmother, grandfather and mom all had a kind of strange smile. Yikes, a bike. An english racer with those skinny tires - it wasn't the bike I had wanted – but I would take it. Santa had come after all and my worries disappeared as I hugged everyone a bit tighter than usual.
Later that morning, the big brown UPS truck pulled up in front of our house - this was Christmas day, no one works on this day. The driver carried a very large package to our door. I couldn’t imagine what this was all about? My mom called me in and said, “It's Christmas morning all over again,” and I saw another bike - this was the one I wanted, the Schwinn "Black Beauty". I felt like I might faint. This was a mystery. My mother said Santa couldn't decide so he sent another bike and that I would have to choose the one I wanted to keep and return the other.
After a ride on each around the block after a big breakfast I decided I loved them both. I admitted to mom that I couldn’t decide right now which to keep. There was more kitchen whispering as my mom and grandmother began preparing our annual Christmas feast. Later that evening, as we all rested from a wonderful day, my mother announced that she and nanny had decided that I could keep both bikes! (They were both “softies” when it came to me.)
Years later I learned the rest of the story - the UPS drivers (Santa’s helpers) had gone on strike two days before the holidays. My mom decided that Christmas would have to wait until my Gimbels Wishbook bike could be delivered from Philly – but my grandfather, who had a very good night playing poker along with several highballs of Christmas cheer at his lodge meeting bought me a second bike on his way home before Sears & Roebucks closed. He just could bear seeing me disappointed on Christmas day. (He was a secret “softey” too),
And so adding to our family lore, and much discussed over the years, I was the ‘only” kid who ever got two bikes for Christmas!
Tonight, watching the Disney World Annual Christmas Processional with hundreds of voices singing Christmas carols I couldn't help but think of my musical night of the Bacon School Holiday Concert. I played the trumpet. I had to play in our school band because my mother insisted that I was not going to waste her hard earned $2 dollars a week for my trumpet lesson. I practiced that blaring for 8 years until I went out for high school football, put it down and never picked it up again - but that's another story.
This story is about Miss N, our maiden junior high music teacher, who ventured from the shadows into the spotlight, to produce her winter musical extravaganzas for adoring parents. (Miss N always wanted to lead a professional choral group touring the capitals of the world - but like many of us, life doesn’t always work out like dreams do. After college she ended up playing scratchy records of ancient symphonies to kids who preferred rock-n-roll. But this was her one night to shine and her ensemble was as ready as we would ever be.
The choir was made up of about 20 girls picked for their angelic sounds and 7 boys whose changing voices made them baritones on some days and tenors on others. The "orchestra" was 6 trumpets, two trombones, one sax and tuba and Mary Jane, the math shark, on violin which the trumpets succeeded in drowning out. My pal David “played” the snare drum, triangle, cymbals and anything else one could play by hitting it. Miss N accompanied us on the baby grand piano with one hand as she dramatically waved a two foot long baton with the other.
Showtime finally arrived, a blessing as we would not have to practice another Christmas song until next October. Backstage everyone was nervous. We could hear the murmuring of the audience on the other side of the heavy curtain as the auditorium filled up. Our elementary school auditorium doubled as a gym so a faint aroma of musty sweat socks was part of the festivities mixed with the scent of hot chocolate seeping in from the cafeteria across the hall. The band members had been ordered to dress in white shirts or blouses and dark pants or skirts. Everyone complied except Ralph who was wearing the old sweater he wore every day. The choir was adorned, head to toe, in heavy robes borrowed from the local Methodist church. After a brief speech of welcome from Mrs. McC, our always jovial and matronly Principal. Mr. Hays, the school custodian, hit the lights and he opened the velour traveler. Ms. N entered stage left wearing an antique black floor length gown. She whispered, “Ok children do your best…and trumpets keep it down please.”
And so, it began. The band kicked off our holiday salute with a jaunty rendition of Deck the Halls followed by the choir singing a Gregorian Chant from circa 1250 AD. Our program alternated between the band playing fun holiday songs and the choir singing its way through the ages of music, songs that have not been heard for centuries – in Latin, French, Armenian and Gaelic. The printed program was four pages long! By the second hour of our musical marathon the rustle of the restless audience (except for sleeping fathers) sitting on hard wood chairs was louder than the band. My upper lip was like a raw hamburger after playing high note C sharps and B flats. And all of us were feeling the intensity of the 500-watts of stage lights overhead.
And then it happened - Before Ms. N could turn to the next page of her thick music book, one of the choir members on the back row of the choir riser fainted from either the heat or fatigue and slumped in a heap on the floor. Our principal, always at the ready, raced from her perch in the wings and gushed a quick “Thank you children for another fabulous evening of festive cheer and every parent (as was their duty) applauded long and loud – and I'm still not sure if it was for our musical skills or because our performance was finally over. Then the room cleared as everyone rushed to the cafeteria for free refreshments provided by the PTA moms.
As for Ms. N, she remained standing alone on the empty stage looking like a deflated Christmas lawn decoration. As I headed to the post concert party I heard her muttering as she gathered up her reams of music sheets - “But we had another dozen songs to go…what a shame...we practiced them so diligently…we never even got to the Victorian era.”
That year there was no Spring Concert. Ms. N never returned after Christmas vacation. I learned years later that she eloped with a professional bar band sax player from Atlantic City.
Today, it seems everything is getting bigger - except cars which have become miniature station wagons. Houses are massive. Our carbon footprint is size 14 ½ - But I can remember when the trend was to develop smaller things - small and portable was mentioned on every ad. And my smaller wish was in 7th grade. I “needed” a portable tape recorder. “What for?” My mom asked. I told her my idea was to create a lasting recorded history of life; mine, my friend’s and of course my family. She gave me her look that said without words this wasn’t scoring big with her. I continued to sell. “I'm sure everyone will love to listen to it years from now!” Same look, so, I added a bit of insurance. “This was the only thing I put on my Christmas List”. Mom just laughed. I added more, “If I got this new “portable” machine I would be unique in my circle of friends. (A fact because in the 50’s having a tape recorder was a rarity outside of a working for the local radio station.)
I waited impatiently for Christmas morning to arrive. When I made my dash into the living room under the tree was a very big box that had a gift card and red bow on the front OPEN ME FIRST! I did and found a Webcor Portable Reel to Reel Professional Model tape recorder. I was beside myself with joy and immediately I needed to get it working right to capture this morning for posterity. I tried to lift it out of the carton but couldn’t budge it, neither could my mom. My grandfather, who was the strongest guy I knew, picked it up with a grunt as my mother remarked, “Gee I didn’t think it was that heavy!” Pop then added, “Margaret this has to weigh at least 40 pounds... where did you get this thing?” My mother replied, “I didn’t, Santa brought it from Sears & Roebucks. When he put it under the tree I thought that it was the packing which made it so heavy but…(her voice faded away)
That day I produced events to record - me and mom singing carols...interviewing my grandmother about her Christmases when she was growing up…a Christmas Special TV show that I intended to listen to again and again. But as the new year unfolded… I never did. And after a week of vacation the spirit of the holiday faded and I went back to school and my amazing high fidelity machine was went to my bedroom...like many things in life, it quickly lost its novelty and just collected dust under my bed. That winter I taped only one friend who visited me to see what I got from Santa - he had very little to say.
Years later, I wondered how my mom felt about this outcome. Did it disappoint her that I forgot about this expensive toy? I felt bad when my grandmother told me what it had cost her - almost a week’s pay to buy “on time” as they said then - it would take her several months to pay it off. For years afterward my Mom kept those few hours of tape in her bureau drawer until I left home after college to live in my own place. She had never heard any of them. And I know she reluctantly let them go to the city dump on the outskirts of town and she gave he recorder to her minister so he could record his sermons for shut-ins.
Today, I wonder if someday many centuries in the future, archaeologists will be digging up the relics of a place once inhabited by a the people called Millvillians...and they will uncover the echoes of a long ago Christmas Day made by a long gone boy...recorded for posterity on an ancient primitive device called a portable tape recorder.I watched this year's version of Christmas with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and thought of my own concert years ago...
...I was in the Bacon School band in 4th grade and worked my way up in a couple of years from third trumpet all the way to second trumpet (I only practiced when threatened with bodily harm) until I graduated from 8th. I vainly attempted to play the trumpet for years until I went out for football in high school and never touched my horn again – a very expensive and loud instrument bit the dust at a yard sale years later.
Our “ band” was under the direction of Mrs. N. (I rarely use full names to protect the innocent and avoid lawsuits for slander). She seemed a very nervous, very thin, very far sighted music teacher - who always looked worried. I remember two things about our band. One – we never quite got in tune for the performance. And most of all, I will never forget our Annual Christmas Cantata in which we played every Christmas song ever penned. This show went on longer than a history lesson on the day before a school vacation. During the performance chorus members were known to pass out from lack of food. My lip always became numb after the twelfth chorus of My Three Kings, played as a round - and we had just begun our musical marathon. We yet to play Gregorian chants, Medieval Welch carols, Bing Crosby's greatest holiday hits. Some with Latin names like Adeste Fideles ( I always called it “at guest day feed-all-us”) I blared my harmony out as the audience yawned in time with the tunes.
My mother and grandmother were seasoned school program goers – they beamed as I blasted my second trumpet trills, frills and flourishes during the Traditional Olde English Standards of the 18th Century segment of the concert. I had a two note solo. The chorus sang in Latin and English at the same time on these ancient rapsodies in two part harmony, Next, Miss N. thumbed her pile of music sheets, and then tapped the music stand with her two foot baton. We were at the ready for a rare Armenian Folk Song. I operated my long overdue, spit valve which made a loud blatting sound and missed the downbeat. This piece featured a triangle solo by my cousin Warren, a virtuoso on this age-old percussion instrument.
And then it was finally over. All 800 carols had been rendered for another year. The audience stood and wildly cheered. Madame N. made her well rehearsed bow at least five times as the band prayed she would not offer an encore. For many in the audience it was finally a chance to wake up their legs that had gone numb.
Lastly, Mrs. McC. , who must have been 90 years old principal, then thanked everyone in the Millville White Pages and closed by bidding all a “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!” (Editor's note: In the 50’s educators were actually permitted to utter the word Christmas on school property instead of the current generic “Winter Holiday”) The best part of the evening for me was an ice-cream soda on the way home at George and Mary’s Luncheonette.
That night, in bed, as I held a washcloth with an ice on my throbbing lip, (Editor’s note: Technically the lip for a trumpet player is called an embouchure - I would learn this years doing a crossword puzzle), I had a very anxious moment because I remembered that our Annual Spring Concert was just a few months away!
In my kid-years the middle of December had the longest days of all rather than the shortest because it seems Christmas would never arrive. The hours dragged by in fourth grade for me. I could hear the big round clock over the classroom door click each time a second passed and I tried to figure just how many seconds it was until the big day, but I gave up. Math was not my strongest skill. The numbers are too big. (Editor’s note: This was before calculators and laptops in every kid's backpack because they are a necessity.)
At this time of the weary year I bet teachers still imagined all kids really like to make red and green paper chains stuck together with paste from the giant jar of white stuff only found in elementary schools. (This obsequious school tool has been tasted at least once by every student in the world to find out if it as edible as it looks – it’s not!) Students, however, still do prefer making paper chains better than figuring long division problems.
Miss R. announced as class begun two weeks before the big day that we were going to make decorations for the Bacon School Christmas tree that stood in the gleaming marble foyer across from the big double doors that we were never allowed to use unless our parents had come to chat with the principal about our misdemeanors, endeavors or lack of such. So we began an annual task that I hated almost as much as waiting for Christmas - working on the paper chain gang. As we started the paste’s medicinal-like smell permeated the room. We all worked as slow as we could. If we played this task right our chain building would take us right up to our lunch period and the aroma of peanut butter and jelly would replace the paste fumes if we were sure to wash our hands as we were reminded to do constantly by Miss R.
After producing at least 4 miles of paper chains and then having our half hour of eating freedom we returned to Room 103 and to our next assignment - making construction paper snowflakes. Miss R reviewed our crafting instructions, “First select a color of your choice from the construction paper bin. Carefully cut it into four small squares, minding your fingers. Fold it once in half…then again…cut a ‘creative’ design…you then unfold it and you will discover a wonderfully unique snowflake… blah blah blah.” (Now each of us have been doing this since we were 3 but we listened and asked questions because this “lesson” also took up more arithmetic time hoping this work might take the rest of the day and one day closer to the greatest day of the year.
Clip, clip, clip…
The room sounded like the final exam at barber school. It replaced the tick of the big clock for me. And then wa-la we had jointly produced 558 colored snowflakes that strangely all looked somewhat alike and none were white like they are supposed to be? Our room had run out of white construction paper in September. We proud artisans marched out to the hallowed marble hall and reverently adorned the boughs of a real, very fragrant tree…that was already dropping its needles on the pristine granite…
...and like a paper chain of time, link by link, we were one day closer to Christmas vacation.
In her first-grade class last year my granddaughter made a list of what she was thankful for - After some thought Violet Pearl wrote this...
1. My family
2. Our Presidents
3. Jesus
4. Cats
This sort of summed it up for me
too. And I thought of Thanksgiving many years ago...
...The days were
shorter…my heater came on today. I wondered if there would be frost
tonight. And I thought about Thanksgiving with my Aunt Mary and her son
Louis. I can see their long driveway that led to a little white house in
Vineland…and Aunt Mary was little too – she was my grandfather’s younger sister
and as round as she was tall. She wasn’t more than 4 and a half feet
tall. And even though born in Brooklyn 65 years ago she still spoke with
a strong Italian accent. (Her father, Sebastian, had emigrated from Rome
to Brooklyn and then moved to Vineland, to work on a truck farm. Work he did in
the old country. He joined many other immigrants who spoke his language
and understood his ways.)
One of my family
traditions was to spend most holidays with my mother’s side of the family, Aunt
Mary and her bachelor son Louis. And I suspected that the main reason was
that she was a great cook. “I make everything like in the old country,”
she told me this many times. But I am ahead of myself. I had a
tradition too. The day before each feast I would take the bus 10 miles to
“assist” Aunt Mary make her our special dinner. And homemade raviolis
were her speciality and on every menu. I asked her once why we always
made only one hundred and ten pieces, and she replied that she rolled out the
dough to fit on her porcelain topped table - when cut it made that many pieces
each time. Her kitchen was small and always had a trace of garlic in the
air. The preparations for her dinner had started the day before I
arrived. Her incredible “gravy” had been quietly simmering on the stove
for about 24 hours - the fresh plum tomatoes cooked down and marinating with
pieces of sausage, pork and her “secret” spices. Aunt Mary’s had cousins
in Switzerland and Italy who mailed magic seasonings several times a year.
This wasn’t cooking, it was a family ritual handed down through many
generations. I rolled up my sleeves and we began. Aunt Mary dusted
the table with flour and then kneaded a dough ball the size of a basketball
with her hands in an ancient ceramic bowl. She plopped it on the table
with a loud thud – and the job I waited a long time for came next. Using
a large rolling pin, I spread the dough out to the corners of the table into a
thin four-foot square. I would take great pains as Aunt Mary
hovered behind me saying, “Calvin make it thin, make it all very thin.” (Actually,
she said, tin rather than thin - her English faltered sometimes). When I
finished my arms ached - but this was a welcomed price to pay. Next,
Aunt Mary spread the filling on half of the dough, a combination of
spinach, hand ground beef and pork mixed with the ragot cheese as she called
it. Next she carefully folded the dough over. This took a very
experienced hand. My “second best” job was next. I got to make the
little pockets with a serrated wheel on a handle that turned the dough into ravioli.
This whole process took most of our afternoon. After we finished, Aunt
Mary made me a cup of tea and gave me some cookies before I caught the 5:05 for
home. I could not wait until tomorrow when I would brag about how “I
made the pasta.” All 110 pieces. I did the math on the bus trip and
figured that each of us got about 20 each – and we usually didn’t have any
leftovers. Plus, there would be the turkey turned to a golden brown in
her ancient oven. And my favorite dessert ever – “orange icebox cake”.
This was a concoction that I have only had at Aunt Mary’s and never
since. I think she invented it. Its basic ingredient was
“ladyfinger cookies, store bought” as she would say. Cookies with a tangy
orange custard – no matter how full I was there was always room for two bowls
of it.
Thanksgiving Day
came and I watched the Macy’s famous parade in living black and white on our
new and bigger 12” Admiral. I had never been to a Macy’s store - but I
imagined it had to be a great place if it could have a two-hour parade on
TV. I dressed in my “Sunday School outfit” (my mother insisted that I
“dress up” on holidays). And we made our pilgrimage to Vineland and our
afternoon celebration. We filled the small living room (dining room) with
its big round table. Louis brought up folding chairs from the basement and
insisted that he and Aunt Mary use them – “You are guests”, he always said.
Dinner was laid on the table immediately. I then had to say the blessing
(which I always hated to do but…) After our moment of thanks, the passing
of giant bowls and tasting began. My mother would say, as she did each
year, that the pasta was the “best” ever – “Aunt Mary, you outdid yourself this
year.” Aunt Mary always waved off this compliment and worried out loud
“I hope the turkey not too dry”. There was very little chatter as we dug into
the feast. Louis never said anything unless asked a question. He
was a middle aged, lifelong bachelor who had spent his adult life, after
returning from World War II, caring for his widowed mother – he was a good
Italian son and a very quiet man. In all my years, I had never heard him
say more than 10 to 15 words per holiday. Mostly “how are you and
goodbye, happy Thanksgiving”. He had a look of sadness – the look of a
man who had resigned himself to his duty but wishing there had been more. But
Aunt Mary depended on him. I would smile when she would instruct him to
“make the light once” or “Louis, I feel a draft” which was her cue for him to
turn up the thermostat. Aunt Mary lived into her late 80’s in that small cottage
and was soon to stop asking things from Louis. Our holidays with her
stopped. She spent the last five years of her life sitting quietly with
her memories in a straight-backed chair with a knitted shawl on her shoulders.
After dinner, I
was always so full I could hardly move. As I did every visit, I asked
cousin Louis if I could see some more of his Life Magazines. Louis had
collected every issue of Life since it began publishing. He had them in
neat year by year stacks in the basement on shelves with curtains to keep out
the dust. Louis brought up a stack of magazines. Somehow he seemed
to remember which editions I had seen on my last visit. I flipped page
after page of this weekly history of life in pictures until it was time to go
home, fascinated by their content. As we started to say our goodbyes,
Louis neatly gathered up the magazines as if they were first editions of great
literary works and returned them to their resting place. (When Aunt Mary
passed away he moved to a rented room and deposited his entire collection in a
dumpster – I was devastated. When I scolded him about this great loss he
just smiled and in his quiet way said, “Oh well…it was time…”)
Aunt Mary's
ravioli – turkey - orange icebox cake – and the history of the world in
pictures, that was my Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter for me for
years. And the menu never changed. Many holidays have rolled by
since going to Vineland. Aunt Mary and Louis are gone now. And I
have spent many holidays in fine and famous eateries – and yet I still yearn
for one more homemade ravioli dinner that I helped make… an old country holiday
with those who gone now like the faces on the pages of treasured magazines.
Looking back I have decided that my Mother was amazing! She worked at a glass factory 8 hours a day and still came home to spend time with me before bedtime; read a story; play Parcheesi (a game I insisted on playing). But one Halloween she outdid herself for sure.
I guess I was 9 or 10 and Halloween was still a major event in my kid-year. I looked forward to it almost as much as Easter, but not nearly as much as Christmas – for sure. So, one night in early October at play time mom asked, “How would you like to have a Halloween party?” “Why sure!” I replied, but I was not really sure what a Halloween party would be like and I guess I looked puzzled because she added, “Just leave it to me…I will call the moms of your Cub Scout Den and you invite your cousins and don’t forget Bruce.” I was surrounded by “cousins” one or twice removed. My grandfather had built our small cottage between the homes of his two brothers – and they both had a bunch of kids.
One cousin in particular, Bruce, was my nemesis – the famous neighborhood bully, noted for his violent reprisals whenever anyone beat him at marbles, basketball foul shots or even rummy on a rainy day. I wondered why my mother had made a point that I had to invite Bruce. Little did I realize that she was up to producing the best Halloween trick ever? So, I invited him the next day, after throwing a marble game, and losing one of my favorite tommy strollers to avert a black eye or worse. To my surprise he said he would come! Yikes, he never went to parties, of course he was never invited to any, mostly out of fear that he would do something bad to someone before the cake was served.
And so, a couple of nights before Halloween ten boys all in costume, except Bruce, were assembled in our living room. My mother had been working on the event for days. And it was a big secret as she worked in the laundry room. It was off limits for me and this was driving me crazy.
The festivities began with my grandmother turning out all the lights and turning on our record player – eerie organ music filled the darkness. Mom entered carrying a candle – and she was dressed like a witch! Tall peaked hat, black cape (I later learned my grandmother made the costume) and she was riding an old broom. We all shrieked except Bruce who was too cool to be impressed. We sat mesmerized as this green faced old witch cackled and conjured up the fun. First, she “read” our palms and told our fortunes – and she was hilarious. I had no idea where she got the script for this. (Later she told me she had chatted with all the moms for some funny stuff to tell) Next Nanny served us cider and homemade cinnamon donuts. We ate and played games for a couple of hours, pin the tail on the ghost; guess the monster charades and then the big moment arrived. Mom produced a long tube from a roll of paper towels that she had painted black and orange. – after showing it she said in her best witch impersonation that it was a “magic spyglass” and if someone peered into it they would see a real ghost. But it only works once a night, so who would like to be the one brave enough to take a look ? Bruce immediately grabbed it and declared, “I’m the oldest and rest of us are too afraid. ”This was the first sound he had said all night. Most of the time he had been scowling, letting everyone know that he was much too cool to enjoy the kid games. Mom explained that he had to look deep into the darkness of the device. He put it to his eye and growled that he saw nothing. Mom said maybe he should turn it a bit. He did. Not a thing! She suggested he tried the other eye – again NOTHING he yelled. He took the tube away and snarled, “This lousy thing ain’t working”! The room went wild with laughter! The tube left big black circles around each eye. Mom had added her black mascara to the end of the tube. For us ten year olds this was the greatest practical joke ever, played on the one person that surely deserved it – we hooted for a long time, not caring that we might later feel the wrath of Bruce the next day after school. For once Bruce got the black eyes, not one of us. Bruce had no idea what was going on until Mom gave him a mirror and he took a look. He was mortified. She gave him a wet paper towel to wash off his “black eyes”! He didn’t say another word and just grabbed another donut. And we all knew he knew he was undone by a mom no less, and not by a big kid’s punch.
The next day I saw him on the school playground and anticipated a bad end to my mom’s practical joke but he just looked at me with a smirky smile rather than his usual glare. The best Halloween Ever was over for another year and from that day forward Bruce the Bully left all of us alone.
There were many mysteries in my life growing up...and why we observed some traditions in my family was one. For instance, we weren’t Cathol...
