Holiday Stories

Thanksgiving & Christmas

There are about ten formative years when the deepest, strongest, and longest lasting memories of the holiday season are created.  These early days set the baseline, and from then on everything is measured against those first holidays.  That’s why the old codgers are sad to wake up and not be a child on Christmas morning anymore.  In the early days, the thrill of magic of holidays permeates the very air a child breathes.  Santa is coming. Important adults talk about something strange and beautiful called a virgin birth, stars explode, angels form a heavenly host (whatever that is), and a sensory cacophony of tastes, aromas, sounds, touches, and sights permanently imprint impressionable young brains.

Always, there is a moment of perfection that claims the holiday for a little child.  It may be mom and dad kissing after dad gave her a new coat to wear to the family gathering.  It might be walking out on the back porch on Christmas Eve and staring at a star, suddenly shadowed by what must have been a sled and Reindeer.  It is getting the gift you always wanted, or mom prizing your potpie tin ornament over every other present she received.  For Gladstone Gus, it was going to bed in a new pair of pajamas feeling all snug and tingly.  Then, one Christmas, it is all suddenly gone.  All the things you thought life should be are vanquished in a childhood’s end. We all must move to the constant, insistent drumbeat of “grow up!”

New and different memories of Thanksgiving and Christmas develop over the years, but they are all a pale reflection of that handful of first experiences. Among the café men, there is a shared understanding of the holidays.  They grew up surrounded by families they could see.  Christmas trees were always big, and the packages beneath them seemed to flow across the room.  You have no idea what a Christmas Eve at Grandma’s house meant to these young boys; they all grew up in love in Christmas and Thanksgiving.  Somewhere, deep inside, they want to play it forward.  They want to make it real again.

Every year, the old guys go searching for those now distant feelings and sensory markers.  Every year, they fail.  For them now, Christmas is the journey and not the journey’s end.  They make the miracles happen for others, and that sustains them.  Unfortunately, a sad few end up disliking the holiday.  It is crass commercialism, Jesus-less, fattening, busy, and seemingly endless.  Christmas and Thanksgiving are not for the weak of heart.  You must give up trying or keep going forward knowing you will never make it there again. 

Ridgeway Ron, with his farmer’s crusty heart, has an interesting take on Christmas.  Whenever his kids started getting squirrelly, caused trouble, or needed an attitude adjustment, he took them camping.  Nothing settles a kid like going camping.  No matter how self-absorbed a child might be, there comes a moment when s/he realizes they are all alone in the woods, totally dependent on dad.  Christmas and Thanksgiving, at their best, are like a great camping trip to an unknown destination where anything can happen.  Everyone has a part, and if they cooperate, it can be memorable and wonderful.  Like a soap opera, somehow things work out if you just keep at it.  The secret is to keep showing up and moving forward.  You discover qualities and assets in each other that amaze and delight the entire clan.  Camping takes preparation and a lot work.  You have to devote yourself to the children, but it works wonders to treat Christmas like a camping trip.  There is even a major role for old dad.

Finally, because the scars of childhood’s end do not really heal, the old guys never  again get that moment of perfection they once knew.  For them, however, to remember is to live again.  Magic never entirely leaves the holiday, it creeps up in the dark, and can claim even the most crotchety old curmudgeon.

Meanwhile, the Café is decorated with plastic candles, red bows, frosted windows, and mistletoe.  Christmas tunes are always playing, and reindeer cookies are baking in the great oven in the back kitchen.  Their aroma fills the air.  Ghosts of Christmas past are out, and the old guys are remembering how it used to be. This is where it all gets good.  Read on!

 Thanksgiving for the Least Among Us

Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat.  The freezing rain lingered through the night and covered the morning with a dull, gray sheen.  Fallen leaves marked the final vengeance of autumn.  Bare trees glistened in the haze, waiting.

This is Café weather.  This is huddle together, slap back, dumb joke, where-ya-been weather.  The coffee never smells better or warms deeper.  Like those little kids who make fortress tents of old sheets and pillows, the men crawl into their Café, and they are safe.

“How about that guy they left dead on the golf course for two hours?” asked Camelot Bob.  “His buddies just played on through.  Now, doesn't that beat anything you ever heard?”

“That's what happens when you move to Florida – value disorientation.  Compassion fatigue sets in, and death on the course is just another hazard,” said Ridgeway Ron. “Ron, shut up!” Bob said.  “Or talk English like the rest of us.”

“If I croak on the golf course, promise me you won't leave me out there for two hours while you finish your game,” said Manor Hill Mack.

“Depends,” said Bob, deadpan serious.  “If you die on the front nine, no problem, but if it's the back nine, and I'm hot, well....”

Wadded napkins bombed Bob, as usual, with a chorus of “boo's.”

The rain picked up outside, and the men drew closer.  The talk wound around the KKK, to a cross burning in Liberty, and finally landed on Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving, now there is a topic.  Families are gathering, birds are getting smoked, oysters dressed, bread baked, and toilet paper stocked up.

Mack, the ex-Gas Service Company employee, told the now legendary, and mostly untrue, story of being called out to check a gas leak on Thanksgiving Day.  Mack grumbled all the way to the lady's house where the gas leak turned out to be an old dog with a digestion problem.  Jake told his boyhood story about hiding the Thanksgiving goose, because he hated goose and wanted turkey –Jake blamed the disappearing goose on the dog. 

Wind drove the rain harder against the plate-glass windows, and the laughter got louder.  Some stories had been told so often, the men knew by heart, but the telling never gets old.  The friendship implied in their shared stories was its own Thanksgiving. Then, after a while, the talk wore out.  Men excused themselves to the rest of the day.  The Café was mostly empty as Stella began clearing and wiping tables.  She, too, knew the stories and loved them.

On Thanksgiving Day, she would open the restaurant for those who had no place to go.  It was her tradition and cost her plenty.  Stella is not a religious person in the traditional sense.  She does remember a Bible story, however, about a man who was left for dead on the side of the road, and others passed him by.  Finally, it was an outcast who gave him help.

There's also a story she remembers about doing things for the least among us that brings us closer to Christ.  While the men stayed home and plied their day with food and family, Stella and her ragtag band of mostly gay men and women, those not welcomed by their own families, fed anyone who asked.  None went without.  Nobody was left on the side while others played through.  Stella watched the wind and rain.  Her Café was a safe harbor for Thanksgiving, one of the few for those who might be different.

Outside the rain and wind swirled tearing leaves from the trees and harkening winter.  “Values disorientation, compassion fatigue, cultural blind spots, safe harbors” – Stella had never actually heard of any of those words before, but she knows something very special about Thanksgiving.  She knows our Thanksgiving will be most blessed when the least among us join the feast.

Some Stories Go On and On

By Gladstone Gus

This story was first told many years ago.  Today, you will read the rest of the story.

You could not miss Walter A. Dunn.  He drove a bright orange pickup truck.  On Saint Patrick’s Day, he spray-painted his work boots a bright green, proudly combed his shock of bright red hair, and walked about the Downtown Square in Savannah, Missouri, handing out candy.  At Christmas, he broke out a decidedly shabby Santa Claus suit and beard, the green boots, and bag of candy to spread cheer.  Children sensed there was way too much kid left in this man, and so they took to him as bigger version of their own kind.  Walter Dunn was my dad.

Come December, he would roar into the back driveway, rocks flying, and his bright orange truck skidding, and call me to the work of Christmas.

“BOY, GET IN THE TRUCK,” he said.  “WE’VE GOT WORK TO DO!”

I don’t know why, but the work of Christmas was always during my favorite TV show, or when I had something planned, or when I was in a sour puss mood and ready to BAH-HUMBUG Christmas.  No matter the excuse, Dad insisted I go.

Walter Dunn was the town Gas Service Company representative, better known, to my endless embarrassment, as the town “Gas Man.”  My dad dug ditches, put in gas lines, checked furnaces, read meters, and solved problems as a one-man show in Savannah.  One consequence of his job was he knew who could pay their gas bills, and more importantly, who could not; that is where the “Work of Christmas” comes into play.  In the back of Walter’s orange truck were big, plastic leaf bags full of presents.  It was Christmas for the folks who would have had none without Walter.

Small, rural towns are full of four-room houses built on bare ground with a crawl space underneath.  One gas space heater warmed the whole house.  Worn, yellow wallpaper covered pictureless walls.  Sparse, throw-covered furniture and cord-bare area rugs, now a dull gray or brown, were all there was to hold back the empty space. No house we ever visited had a Christmas tree.  Walter burst into these homes, packages flying, grins churning, and hearts flapping.  “SANTA SENT ME!”  Walter said, and nobody questioned his word.  Then, just that quick, we were gone!  Behind us, kids were playing, a mother was crying, and Walter was grinning ear-to-ear.

Why do we forget the real joy of this season is in the giving?  Why do we forget to be grateful for the things we do have?  Walter Dunn was grateful for what he had, and being grateful made him good.  Being good made him great.

Most every Christmas season has a moment when it all works.  The family is together or the night sky is crisp and cold and full of life.  We sing a carol, and the words touch us, or we have a memory and celebrate our luck to have had a good life.  We connect with the spirit of the season.  At these moments, we know the greatest gift of Christmas is bittersweet. 

All those years ago, Walter A. Dunn had a chance to make a difference, and so he did.  A Christmas Star ornament with Walter’s name hangs proudly on our tree each year.  You see, our family did not have the money to buy presents for other families, but it was a sacrifice my dad made with joy.  It is my memory of the real meaning of Christmas.

Here is the rest of the story.

Last year, I spoke and played guitar at a local church.  I read a few columns, including the one printed here.  After the program, a lady came up to me and said, “I was one of the children who got Christmas from your dad.  I still remember what it meant to me.”  She grew up in Savannah in the early 1960’s and still thinks about my dad’s Christmas gift.  We cried, and then we laughed, just like I am crying and laughing now.  Walter’s good does live on!

Jodi Gives Up Her Blanket

Holly Lake Jake couldn't help the smile that was breaking out across his face.  He knew the prelude was a time to reflect, pray, and generally be holy, but the smile won.  Up front, the children were lighting candles to begin the advent worship service.  Of course, two candles wouldn't light despite the joint bonfire three of the acolytes were throwing against it.  Jake knew the situation was getting desperate.  It was just like adults to have candles that won't light; kids can't win.

The unlit candles stirred an old memory in Jake.  It was Arkansas in his youth, and Christmas at a country church.  Reverend Fred had it in his mind to create a living nativity and had gone about recruiting children from the congregation for the various parts.  Jake was to be a Wise Man, and his little brother a shepherd.  Conspicuously absent from the cast was Jake's little sister, Jodie.  The Bible said there was a multitude of angels in the birth story, but not Jodie.  Jake knew why.  Jodie was problem.  She forever endeared herself to Reverend Fred by walking out of his children’s service after complaining to the entire congregation that the birth story was prejudiced against pigs.  Jodie loved pigs, and when the preacher didn't include them in the barnyard animals present at Jesus’ birth, she walked out swinging her blanket behind.

That was another thing about Jodie.  She had never given up her smelly childhood blanket. The cloth was a journal of her growing up experience.  The stains recorded her first attempts at eating, the list of hated vegetables, and her dreaded milk allergy.

The blanket was wrecked, tattered, and limp beyond recognition, but Jodie clung to it.  Adults begged her to give it up, but Jodie was not ready for that.  Jodie irritated much of the older congregation.  She never stood to sing during hymns, kept her eyes open and head up during prayer, and constantly fidgeted.  Pastor Fred knew this and wondered what to do with Jodie.  Jake, the newly ordained Wise Man, quickly lorded his high status over his brother and sister. First, he ridiculed his brother for being a lowly shepherd and then mocked his blanket-bound sister for not making the Multitude of Angels cast.  Ah, youth! It really isn't as sweet as we remember.

That night, Pastor Fred was nervous.  A rare Arkansas cold snap had settled in Malvern.  Snow was spitting, and you could tell it was just aching for a big storm.  Pastor Fred hurried the congregation outside to the makeshift stable.  Mary and Joseph were shivering looking less than adoringly at the raggedy China face doll doubling as Jesus.  Finally, Joseph gave up and put on earmuffs.  Jake, ever smug and self-centered, thought he looked nifty in his mother's bathrobe.  He held a cigar box wrapped with gold paper.  Finally, despite an increasing volume of falling snow, everyone was in place.  Pastor Fred passed out the candles and commenced to sing Silent Night.  Unfortunately, the wind picked up and snow came even harder.  Now, everyone was more concerned with keeping his or her candle lit than singing. Mostly, everyone just wanted to get inside.

“Silent night, Holy night, All is calm all...” The song started, and Pastor Fred thought he had it made.  Then Jodie stepped forward.  In front of God and everybody, she came strolling right into the stable and up to the manger, just staring.  She hesitated only a moment before taking her blanket and putting it on the lifeless doll.  Jodie stepped back a pace and sang, the snow falling, a serious look on her little girl face.  The congregation scattered on the last note, heading for shelter.  Jodie stood alone in the falling snow.  She was quietly crying.  Pastor Fred knelt beside her, “Shall I get your blanket?” he asked.  Jodie shook her head, “no.”

Pastor Fred scooped her up and held her close as he carried her into the little church.  Jake saw it all and hid it away.  What a wonderful little sister he had.  And so no one knew why Jake walked to the front of the church and helped the kids light the last candle, but it was for Jodie and her blanket from all those years ago.

Christmas Wears You Out

Manor Hill Mack is ablaze with Christmas preparation.  Over the years, through

his own children, the grandchildren, and now the great-grandchildren, so many Christmas traditions have developed, he has trouble keeping track of them all.

There are drumsticks to cook, a ham to prepare, live tree to cut, Christmas lights to go up, traditional ornaments to hang, special presents with messages to write, Christmas wreath pastry to make, and Christmas letters from Santa with a recipe for Santa’s favorite double chocolate cookies to send to the children.  There are Christmas Eve PJ's to buy, a pewter goblet to find, songs to write and perform, phone calls to make, and letters to send.

Family will start arriving December 15, and there will be a seemingly endless array of events, all special and unthinkable to miss, to completely fill the season.  In-between, Mack will fit in caroling, playing Santa for the church youth group, serving at the soup kitchen, ringing Salvation Army Bells, choir practice, and house cleaning.

Fortunately, Mack’s wife is busier than Mack with Christmas preparations.  You might say Mack and his wife are the very spirit of Christmas for an ever-widening circle of family and friends.  Starting the day before Christmas, and ending late Christmas night, there will be four major events for Mack and his family, every one of them centered on being with family.  Each one is packed tight with responsibility and expectation.

Camelot Bob and his family do Christmas differently.  You can feel the dread they have for the Christmas season.  There are just too many demands.  There are too many parties and family gatherings.  There is too much food to prepare, too many presents to wrap, traditions to uphold, and commitments to keep.  Neither spouse particularly likes the other’s family members, so someone always dreads the next family gathering.  Someone is always looking at the clock and asking if it is time to go home.  They can’t even agree on church.  Expectations and responsibility wear Bob and his wife raw.  Their idea of a perfect Christmas would be to sit and do nothing in Cancun. They flat don’t like Christmas.

The rest of the Café crowd is somewhere in-between when it comes to Christmas.

Wherever you are on the Christmas continuum of overdone expectation and responsibility vs. comfort and joy, here are two things to consider. 

First, whatever you are doing for Christmas and however you are feeling about the holiday season is 100 percent your own choice.   If you are healthy, you have at least some family, and you are unhappy, cranky, and depressed, there is nobody to blame but yourself.  You ended up exactly where you chose to be.  If Mary and Joe could make it through in a stable, you can too.  Only you can make your own Christmas over-commercialized, spiritless, too much, or too little. Only you can decide what Christmas 2003 will mean for you.

Second, nursing homes are filled with people who would give anything to have one more Christmas opportunity like the one you have now.  Should you have any trouble finding comfort and joy in Christmas, take one day and visit a nursing home, work in a soup kitchen, help at a homeless shelter, volunteer in a hospital, or work at your church, and just be aware of the lives others live.

There is no one perfect Christmas for everyone.  For some, it must be quiet and reflective to be good.  Others, like Mack, want a Go-Go Christmas.  One truth, however, rings clear in the holiday season.  Christmas is not about you; it is about the comfort and joy that you can share with others.  If Christmas is too much, if you can’t give with a cheerful heart, if you aren’t right with the season, just stop.  You are heading the wrong way.  The road to Christmas runs through smiles and tears and hearts that care.

Tips for the Season

The North Side Guide to a Better Christmas

In case you have forgotten how to make the season right, the North Side Boys have thoughtfully prepared a few guidelines.  Follow them all, and they guarantee a Merry Christmas.

TOYS FOR EVERYONE:  No matter how old or young, people still like toys.  Paddleball or expensive stereo; make sure everyone gets a toy, and Christmas will be better.

DECORATE:  The minimum is a tiny tree.  If you won't put up at least a picture, you deserve to be miserable.  Other than that, the more you do, the more fun you and everyone else will have.

LOVE THE ONE YOU IS WITH:  It's hard, but the best way to honor those you miss by death or distance is to spread joy to the ones you have.  Find somebody and share something.

COOK:  Special food makes everything special.  Take the time to make something.  Become famous in your family for some dish.  If you can't cook, buy something and say you did it.

HELP SOMEBODY:  Volunteer for something, or just be nice to a friend.  You won't have Christmas unless you find a way to help somebody.

FAMILY IS #1:  If you have a choice, opt to be with your family.  Forgive and forget.

RELIGION HAS A PLACE:  In an era when people have given up on our major institutions, church included, Christmas has to be more than gifts and good feelings or you miss the point.

SURPRISE:  One surprise gift is a must.  Be generous, and go for it.

MAKE ONE PRESENT:  Make one gift by hand – bake it, saw it, sketch it, sew it, or write it; just do it.

HOLDING AND TOUCHING:  Break out the mistletoe, and use it.  Christmas is for touching.

ENJOY:  Attitude is everything.  Enjoy your chance to go to lots of parties or cook for the family.  Enjoy having 1,000 things to do.  Enjoy being tired and still having a list. Hospitals and nursing homes are filled with folk who would give anything to trade places with you.

BE A GOOD “GETTER:”  Giving may not be better than receiving, but it's close.  When you get something, please appreciate that somebody gave you something.  Show some joy!

SING:  Go caroling if you can.  Go to the church musical; put on some Christmas music.  It will soothe the savage beast in you when you start to frazzle.

START TRADITIONS:  Collect Santa's, pewter goblets, Teddy bears, or coffee mugs. Have a traditional family toast, read the Christmas story or do advent wreaths. Create the traditions that will carry you through the hard times.

TELL FAMILY STORIES:  Gather everyone around, and tell about Grandpa when he was young or Christmas long ago.  Kids will listen.

GAG GIFTS:  Give at least one each year, and watch the fun begin (DO NOT HURT ANOTHER’S FEELINGS!).

SPECIAL THINGS:  Parents (children), dig through the old photo albums and find pictures of you with your child (parents).  Have one enlarged and framed and give it to your son or daughter (parents).  Write, “I love you” on it.

SHARE YOUR BLESSINGS:  The person who dies with the most toys is still dead.

NEW PAJAMAS:  Every kid should have brand new pajamas to wear to bed on Christmas Eve.

HAVE THE COURAGE TO PLAN:  Somebody has to get things going.  Make a plan, and see what happens.  Draw names, go skating, cut a tree, string popcorn; do something with your kin.

Merry Rock’em Sock’em Christmas!

How to Bake a Christmas Wreath

By Gladstone Gus

The recipe read, “Cut in the butter.”  I had no idea what that meant though my imagination came up with a few alternatives.  Thankfully, none were close to the real meaning.  I do have a set modus operandi for solving such problems, however.  We will get to that in a moment.   First, I should explain just why my life had come to cutting butter in the first place.  Every Christmas since at least the Cuban Missile Crisis, I have savored my mother’s Christmas wreath.  The Christmas wreath is not an ordinary coffee cake.  It is the stuff of youth and memories.  My brother and I would sit in a warm, fragrant kitchen eating the Christmas wreath and drinking cold milk.  We licked our fingers and pressed them against the platter for the last possible crumb or bit of icing.  There is no better food.  This season, my mother fell and cracked her ribs, and then she got an infected tooth.  There would be no Christmas wreath if I did not take on the challenge and bake my own.

Now, about the modus operandi mentioned earlier.  When I don’t know what to do in my life, when I’m stuck, I call my wife.  If she doesn’t know everything, she certainly has me fooled.  Fortunately, she did not mention that the last time I tried to make a coffee cake we had to use the fire extinguisher.  My wife said to just drop the two sticks of butter in the huge bowl of flour, salt, sugar, and mysterious special ingredients, and use two sharp knives like a pair of scissors and cut the butter into tiny little bits.  What a cool concept.  Christmas wreath and sword fighting all at the same time.  I never had so much fun baking.  My wife was not available to take my phone call when it came to the drizzle of white frosting, so I called my mother.

She enlightened me to the wonder of powdered sugar, milk, and heat.  Viola!  The miracle of powdered sugar frosting.  I used a syrup dispenser to create the drizzle effect.  Unfortunately, it was more downpour than drizzle. 

I called my brother when the Christmas Wreath was ready.  He came over and ate a huge portion, but he was not suitably impressed, so I talked to my father-in-law and told him he had to pinch hit for my father and properly compliment my Christmas Wreath.  He did a fine job.

Christmas day, the moment I had waited for, finally arrived. I went to the kitchen, cut a generous slice of Christmas wreath, and poured a tall glass of cold milk.  The kitchen still smelled of cookies, cinnamon, Dutch potatoes, a ham roasting in the oven, and morning coffee.  I ate my coffee cake, washed it down with milk, and tasted the memory.  It was so sweet.  I licked my fingers to compress the last crumbs and pieces of chopped nuts.  The powdered sugar frosting was magical.  I thought about my mom and all the years she made the Christmas wreath for my brother and me.  The memory never had more meaning.  My busy brother came to mind and our connection from so many years.  Since my father’s death, my father-in-law has been his agent in my life, and I thought of both with great appreciation.  Mostly, I thought of my modus operandi.  In times of trouble, and the best of times, I call my wife.  She knows how to cut the butter.

T.S. Elliot said we should not stop exploring, that if we do continue to explore, there will times we return to the place we started and know it for the first time.

The truth is my Christmas wreath was not even close to being as good as the ones my mother made.  It never will be!  Those days I sat with my brother in mother’s kitchen eating and laughing were a gift long in the making, now lost in time.

I can’t help but hope that someday my son, or even a grandchild, will sit in his or her kitchen eating a Christmas wreath that tastes so unusually good.  I hope they, too, will one day know the love that makes it taste so fine.

What Men Really Want?

It is time again for the annual North Side Café Christmas gift list.  This is, of course, the definitive list of gift ideas for anyone with a cantankerous, old geezer on their shopping list.

Let’s say you have a father-in-law whose dog likes to bite you, he accuses you of freeloading whenever you eat lunch at his house, and, he makes subtle hints that his daughter could have married better like, “Tarnation, my daughter sure could have married better!”  And, you have drawn his name for the family gift exchange. This list is for you.  Perhaps your grandfather likes to parade around in seed caps, manure spotted boots, and five-day-old slightly damp handkerchiefs saying, “I like my clothes to be able to stand up in the corner of the room waiting for me each morning.”

Well then, here is some help for your Christmas shopping.  Each year on the first day of December, Water Street Pete calls the Café boys together.  They drink fully leaded coffee while eating cholesterol and sugar laden foods.  It takes about two hours to finalize their Christmas list.  A warning is appropriate at this point.  This list is not politically correct.  Sensitive, sensible, compassionate, and considerate people should stop reading now.

The North Side Café Christmas shopping list for the distinguished, outrageously handsome gentleman in your life.

1.     Money in huge quantities is always welcome.  We learned this from teenagers.

2.     Coupons for picking up our wet towels, our discarded suit coats, our kicked-off underwear, and hauling firewood all winter are always appreciated.  We know you do these things anyway, so this can only be a simple stocking stuffer.

3.     Fishing and hunting vacations are always appreciated, complete with laundry, cooking, and cleaning service.  Please don’t think you will ever get to drive the boat, however.

4.     Grandchildren may come to the house adoring us with homemade gifts.  Allotted gifting time is about one hour.  After that, children should sit quietly the rest of the day.

5.     We like anything that has a leather handle.

6.     Baked goods, preferably warm, with butter and coffee upon demand are good.

7.     We like going to the church Christmas program, but we don’t want it to be any kind of a hassle.  Just take care of that for us, would you?

8.     We like the commode to be fresh.  A weekly cleaning and hair trim would be nice.

9.     Large bulky jacket with lots of pockets that look good with stains would be nice.

10. Grills, smokers, deep fat fryers, huge lighters, power tools of any kind, gloves, and anti-itch cream are good ideas.

11. New batteries for the remote would be nice.  Just this once, you may hold the remote to put in the batteries, but don’t get to thinking about pushing any buttons.

12. Cigars for Christmas Eve are nice.  Bush beer, Cheese Whiz, and Ritz crackers make an evening really special.

13. We like animals, preferably dogs, that you will promise to care for and clean up after.  Can we have them all in the living room with us on Christmas?

14. We just love it when we come home from the Café and the house is all decorated, the lights and tree are up, and all our clothes are washed for the week.

15. We like everyone to come to our house for a big meal.  Take care of that, too.

16. Leave that worthless son-in-law at home, ok?

17. You could get a new, slimmer vacuum; I noticed you looked a little tired lifting the sofa by yourself.

Thanks for your consideration.

In Memory of Katie Reed

The irony struck men hard at the Old North Side Café.  Katie Reed, age 2, had died on Thanksgiving Day.  We all knew her.  Katie's picture had been on TV.  The papers ran the story of a hometown girl who was battling fierce odds against cancer for survival.  For a grown man to take on cancer is one thing, but when a little child does, it is different.  Instinct pulled these men to Katie Reed’s side.  Mighty Blue Cross and Blue Shield yielded to Katie's plight and changed their "No Pay" policy, finally agreeing to send the little girl to California for a painful, but potentially life-saving bone marrow transplant.

Others felt her sway.  The Mayor of Pleasant Valley used his precious few minutes before area political officials to talk of Katie.

"We've done a lot of great things here in Pleasant Valley lately," he said, "but what I want to tell you about is Katie Reed.   All the improvements we've made, the new streetlights, the repaved streets.  None of them will mean a thing if Katie Reed is not here to walk on them."

Town Mayor, State Senator, District Representative, TV and newspapers; all of them eventually turned to Katie.  A season of tender mercy began in Pleasant Valley.  Fundraising efforts came up with the necessary California plane fare.  There was a City picnic, a dance, a breakfast, people worked on their own projects, and the money came in for Katie.  So did the prayers.  The family said perfect strangers would come up with a few dollars and a prayer.  "I wish I could do more," the strangers said.  It is no wonder the news of Katie’s death on Thanksgiving Day came hard to the Old North Side.

Holly Lake Jake wrestled with the news.  He had been to Katie's house, held her, and talked with her parents.  He knew what Katie lived with for the past year – sickness, pain, needles, and hospital visits.  Fighting cancer had forged an iron will in this little girl.  It was hard not to be touched by her determination to live.  Jake knew the loss of a child from his own life.  It is a wound that never heals.  He had gotten caught up in cheering for Katie and was not prepared for Thanksgiving Day.

"So live, that when thy summons comes to join

The innumerable caravan, which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take

His chamber in the silent halls of death.

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon....

Somewhere in the back of Jake's mind, the poem Thanatopsis appeared.  He had memorized it in high school.   Katie had certainly reminded others to live, just as she herself had done.  In one short year, she turned a whole community on its heart.  She made them feel.  She made them reach outside themselves.

 ...But, sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Katie died in her father's arms.  All the miracles of science failed, and it was left to love to hold the last days.  The cold irony is that it came on Thanksgiving.  Jake made peace with this irony later that night.  It was a Thanksgiving for Katie.   A Thanksgiving for reminding all of us to live while we can, to be tender, and to love. 

Jake stepped out on his back porch and searched the yard.  A silvery mist hung around the old pear tree as a damp chill etched its way between the fibers of his parka.  Down deep, where sorrow and joy somehow mix together, Jake felt a twinge of peace.  His eyes were on Christmas.  If a two-year-old could do so much, what could he do?  Tender hearts make big dreamers.  "So live..." Jake whispered to himself as he turned to walk back inside.  The night held his words as a promise, and a season of Advent was begun.

Anybody Seen Christmas?

The steam drifted out of Westwoods Robert's coffee cup in a soft line, bending to the motion of his breath.  Around him at their familiar table, the men were gathered.

Their faces were crisp red from the new cold.  Snow and spits of ice had marked the new season.  Winter had come at last, bringing Christmas close behind.  This was their season.  It is the time hot coffee makes sense, and packing around tables to turn the cold is a last line of defense.  Christmas, with all its tradition and family meaning, calls these venerable icons of age to life.  They remember Christmas without the hubbub of commercial madness – back before money was everything – when Christmas was in the heart.

"We were really poor," says Gladstone Gus.  "I remember Dad told us after Thanksgiving he wasn't sure Santa could come.  In the end, Dad went to the basement every night after we went to bed and made us presents from scrap lumber.  He made me an easel.  It was the first time I ever realized that liking art and wanting to draw was ok.  That was the best present I ever got."

"We got clothes for winter and always had a big dinner.  There were so many of us, we knew we wouldn't get much for presents,” offered Ridgeway Ron.  "Somehow, Mother saved enough to get me a wooden airplane.  When I saw that plane on Christmas morning with my name on it, it was one of the most glorious moments of my life." 

The North Side stories are rich mines of emotion.   Here, Christmas memories gather around lighting candles, singing, playing wise men in bathrobes, decorations, and one toy, usually not very expensive, that touched the heart.  Behind it was always the personal touch that made it special.

"On Christmas Eve, we always went to church.  There was a gigantic Christmas tree lit with candles, and we sang.  Everybody came.  Church was what we did on Christmas.  Then, almost at the end, Santa came.  He knew all of us by name, and we rushed forward to greet him.  In his sack, he had bags filled with candy, nuts, and fruit; my favorite was an orange.  I will never forget those Christmas trees and bags of candy," said Water Street Pete.

"If the wind wasn't blowing too hard, we would go outside around the nativity scene, light candles, and sing Silent Night.  My mom always cried and grabbed my hand.  I felt like Jesus and the angels were right there with us,” said Camelot Bob.

There is a mission at the Old North Side Café every Christmas.  You feel it when they grab your shoulder and say, “Merry Christmas.”  You hear it when the family gathers, and they pull out a Bible to read the Christmas story.  You see it when they take the time to play with little kids.  You taste it in the pecan pies and chocolate fudge they just happen to have around. These guys know the value of a few simple things – a cup of coffee, some friends, the fine lines of winter, and a personal touch.  They don't want the old Christmases back.  They have had their day.  They only want it where it used to be – where it has to be to make it count – a Christmas in the heart.

Bernice Learns a Lesson

It is a well-known fact of life that any reasonable man who goes to the Café for coffee, conversation, and companionship does not like cats. You see, real men like dogs.  They ask themselves why would anyone want an animal that coughs up fur balls and takes a bath in its own spit.

“Cats tend to act too much like women,” says Manor Hill Mack, and most men seem to know what that means.

Therefore, each Christmas when talk begins to lag, Holly Lake Jake is asked to tell his Christmas Cat Story.  Jake swears this is a true story.

Clinton (honest, that was the cat's name well before the now famous politician) was the church cat.  He was the church cat, because Ms. Bernice Tavener liked cats.  Bernice was the Women's Auxiliary head, the Pastor Annoyance Committee permanent chair, and a church choir soprano who demanded a solo at every service.  Even for a soprano, Bernice's vocal chords were wound a little tight.  She also looked the part.  Her dresses were small tents, and her Christmas hat was an expanse of green felt topped with two turtledoves.  Though most men of the church would gladly have handed Clinton over to the notoriously dense Sipes brothers for proper disposal (the Sipes brothers liked to cook live frogs), the powerful and obnoxious Bernice Tavener would not allow it.  That brings us to the Christmas Eve Pastor Presley got the idea to let a dove loose during his sermon.

“Now Leslie,” said Pastor Presley, dispatching Leslie Sipes up to the organ loft. “When I say, “Let there be peace on earth,” you let this dove (actually a pigeon) go. You got that?”

“Yes sir,” Sipes said and up he went.

Pastor Presley then told Bernice to do her mandatory soprano “oooie-oooing” when he first said the words, “peace on earth.”

It was set.  Leslie Sipes was in the organ loft, Bernice in her green tent and turtledove hat was in the choir, and Pastor Presley was ready for a Christmas Eve service nobody would ever forget. 

Knowing the stunning effect the dove (pigeon) would have on the congregation, Presley went full tilt.  At the “peace on earth” part, Bernice started to “oo-oo,” and Leslie Sipes, cue, reached for the bird.  Unfortunately, the bird was dead, and Clinton the cat was grinning ear to ear.  Leslie Sipes began to panic.  Down below, Pastor Presley was now saying, “Peace” like it had three syllables. “Paw-ee-suh, I say,” and his neck veins were an inch thick. “Let tharr be paw-ee-suh, on earth,” Presley said and looked to the choir loft.  Nothing.

“I saaaaid, let tharr be paw-ee-suh, on earth!”  Presley shouted.

At that moment, Leslie Sipes became unhinged and threw Clinton over the rail as if he thought cats could fly. The cat's screech hit perfect pitch with Bernice's “o-ooing,” and Clinton's flight path seemed to hone in on Bernice.  From its perspective, the cat could just see the outline of two turtledoves in a green field below.  It unsheathed ten sharp daggers for combat and struck!  Some say it was the highest note ever achieved in operatic history. The shock waves broke windows as far away as Missouri City.  Later, Bernice personally turned the cat over to the Sipes brothers who considered it a fine Christmas present.  Bernice, herself, never sang or annoyed anyone again.  Pastor Presley said it was his best Christmas ever.

Stella Serves Thanksgiving

A stiff, cold wind blew across the old Café.  On Thanksgiving, it is closed. The men are at home with children in houses about to be filled with warmth and the unmistakable aroma of roast turkey, hot rolls, and pumpkin pie.

Stella, the waitress, lowered her head into a sharp gust and counted the blocks to the Café.  She was already cold.  The kids were with their father for the holiday.  Stella spent Thanksgiving without them.  Before the divorce, and before her boy’s death, Thanksgiving was awful.  She cooked a meal for at least 20 – turkey and all the trimmings.  Rolls, cranberry sauce, and the little extras like oyster dressing and fudge made the day special.  She remembered how mad she was after the feast was over. Hours and hours of hard work were reduced to thirty minutes of consumption and a football game.   Few said thanks.   She and a few others were left to do dishes while the men lounged.  Stella did not miss that part of Thanksgiving.  She chided herself for her moment of self-pity.  Saturday, the kids were back for Thanksgiving with her family.  Still, she felt alone.  The wind blew a little harder, and she picked up her pace.

When Stella was little, Thanksgiving was a family time.  Even as a child, she understood this holiday was for adults.  It was their celebration of the things they stood for.  The best moments came with the simple rituals like prayer and carving the turkey.  Her dad had been harsh and distant at times, but on Thanksgiving his house was always open.  She remembered resenting some of the ragged looking people who came to their home, but her fathered welcomed them.

It was 4:30 a.m., and Stella knew she was behind.  Little spits of snow filled the air. Her fingers ached with the cold as she unlocked the Café.  Soon, the ritual began.  The first smell of coffee, the rattling of pans, ovens warming, vegetables peeled, Stella moved with an ease that betrayed the size of the task before her.  Tug showed up at 8:30 a.m. with an armload of groceries.  Tug was from the church.

"Hey, I brought my TV to watch the games.  Do you mind?"

"Heck no," said Stella.

By 11:30 a.m., the first of the day's guests had arrived. He was ragged looking, had a blue stocking cap, which he clutched in both hands as he stood by the door.  Soon, they poured in from the cold.  Mostly, they sat in silence, their eyes down.  Old men, some women, and a few children; they all shared the same hunger.

"Welcome!" said Stella, bursting from the kitchen, coffee in hand.  Her smile was a mile wide.

Stella and her helpers, other people who had no place to go on Thanksgiving, served about 60 that day.  Tug said a prayer that made 'em all cry.  She carved turkey till her hands ached, and the football game was as stupid as ever.  Few said thanks.  They finished washing dishes about 7 p.m.   Stella stayed and cleaned the Old North Side until 10 p.m. and walked home in the dark.  The day had cost money she didn't have.  The boss let her use the restaurant as long as it was clean for business the next day.

Stella bowed her head to the cold.  All those years when she had so much, she never thought about those who had nothing.  Becoming tender was not easy and at times took the strangest of turns.  She welcomed the cold walk home.  The stars were sharp pinpoints.  The warmth from inside etched a smile on her face.  Her lost boy was with her once again.  This Thanksgiving had been a good one.

Daddy Battles a Dirty, Dusty, Depression

By Manor Hill Mack

The dust settled into every corner of that old house.  It floated effortlessly through the morning shafts of light coating even the dishes with a fine film of discontent.  Dad had stripped wallpaper through the night, and chunks of aging plaster littered the floor.  Every remodeling job always takes longer and costs more than planned.  Now, Christmas was coming, and there was more to do than money or time would allow.

That was my Christmas 41 years ago.  It was not to be the happiest or the best, but it would be one to remember for all the years to come.  Lurking through the dust and demands of three young children, depression was also in the air.  My mom suffered from a profound sadness no Iowa farm boy was equipped to handle or understand. And, so Dad worked.  Dad was a working man who spent his days fixing furnaces and water heaters, dryers, and gas lines.  At night, he remodeled the house.  His way to love was to give more.  And so he gave, but once the rotting wood in the termite infested floor structure was exposed, the Christmas money went for mandatory repairs.

Anger and tears creaked in the old house with each new disappointment.  The profound sadness of depression dug deep into the family, centering in my mom.

“I'm afraid there won't be much for Christmas this year,” Dad told his assembled family.  “Santa is having a tough year.  He wanted me to let you know.”  We kids took the word almost too well, as if it was expected.  We went back to black and white TV and Dad went to sand the hard oak floor – more dust and disappointment.

That would have been Christmas all those years ago if not for the oak floor.  Dad figured wrong and ordered too much.  He took the leftover scraps to the basement, and ideas formed.  Each night, instead of sleep, using the oak strips, Dad worked making gifts for his children.  For my sister, he made a baby bed.  My older brother got a basketball goal, and I got an easel.  They were amazingly sturdy and real.  Christmas morning, that's all there was.  A plastic sheet sealed off the disheveled parts of the house, and for a moment kept the dust and depression at bay.  The details of the morning are long gone now, but the gifts linger.  Little Cindy spent long hours singing her dolls to sleep in that marvelous bed. Tommy shot baskets and found peace.  I drew slender birds lifting off through blue skies.

Depression struck Mom four more times (often at Christmas) over the next 40 years, but medicine and understanding began to catch up on that devil depression.  There were other years when the Christmas trees were bigger than the room, and packages flowed across the floor spilling into closets and the attic.  You can't imagine the joy of those Christmas seasons.  If you had asked Dad to name the best one, he would not have tried.  He certainly wouldn't have thought of that dreadful old house and the mean season it spawned.

My sister has four children now, and a better mother cannot be found in Northwest Missouri.  Sports paid Tommy's way through college, and to this day offers him solace in harder times.  And I love books and art and airplanes to places far away.

All of us have a fine coating of grit on our souls that keeps us both tender and tough in hard times.  That old house was torn down to make a parking lot.  Dad took every stick of the oak floor and used it for twenty years (he took a lot of kidding about it too!).

Santa has hard times now and then.  Families get separated by death, disease, and distance.  About all Christmas can be sometimes is hope and a promise of what may come tomorrow.

What Happens if You Eat Too Much

A massive conservation effort is underway at the old North Side Café.  With only days left to Thanksgiving, a vague terror has swept through local stomachs that there may not be room to hold the coming feast.  These men know that in the next four days, they will damage themselves.  Massive doses of moist, succulent turkey, rich steaming oyster dressing, warm home-made rolls running with butter, candied sweet potatoes and, of course, dessert (this is a holiday for pie eaters) are coming and must be prepared for.

The storage problem is incredible.  As a result, the collective North Side is cleaning its system, so to speak.  Rigid fasting is hollowing out vast caverns once filled with a daily piece of coconut cream pie and gallons of coffee.  There is even a notion that some walking will help sift and compact what is already there to make more space.

Remember, most of these men live on the last belt notch.   Many have already gone to pants with elastic waistbands (an excellent wardrobe selection for Thanksgiving Day itself) and large, bulky sweaters – dark blue, of course.

This year, Manor Hill Mack is in a special quandary.  Two month ago, his arteries  were ballooned out; the doctors have him on a diet.  A diet is an unconceivable thing to an old Iowa farm boy.  For most of his life, eating, like most everything else on the farm, was another chore.  He ate on the run.  There were cows to milk, pigs to feed, chickens to check, and land to till.  Even the big Thanksgiving feast was an obstacle course to the real pleasure of the day – rabbit hunting with his uncles.

Unfortunately, Mack has now learned the pleasure of eating, and with no rabbits to chase or farm to mend, Mack now has to wear roomy velour sweaters and stretch pants.  So, it was with hesitation that Mack eyed the Thanksgiving feast spread before him at his daughter's house.   His eyes fell to the smoked turkey spread center table as the family joined hands to offer a Thanksgiving blessing.  The family tradition is that each person present (including the little kids) name one thing they are thankful for.  The prayer begun, Mack was still sneaking peaks at the buttered mashed potatoes and giblets gravy when it came his turn to offer thanks.

"I'm thankful for my family, that we are able to be here together and share this day," said Mack, the warm aroma of fresh baked bread drifting under his nose.  Mack squeezed his granddaughter’s hand to let her know it was her turn to pray.  Mack grinned to himself; who knows what his precocious three-year-old grandchild would say.

"Thank you, God, for my Paw-Paw Mack," she said.  Her eyes squinted tight, and now she was praying as hard as she could.  "Please take care of his heart."

Mack felt her hand squeeze his, and he reached down to pat her head.  She looked up at him with tears filling her eyes.  Little people know so much more than we ever dream.  Mack picked her up and whispered in her ear that God was taking care of him just fine.  She laid a reassured head on his shoulder.

All of his life, Mack had been so busy that he missed a lot of little things, little joys, and little pleasures.  He would not miss them today.  This Thanksgiving, the food never tasted better.  What little he ate melted in his mouth as he watched his family – little eyes devouring giant drumsticks; his children and their spouses laughing, enjoying one another; his wife, the most wonderful of all.  It was a fine gathering.

Mack had a feast of the heart that day.  In the end he was stuffed, but there was room for more.  There always is for a true Thanksgiving.

I Heard Him on the Radio

Gray clouds hung close to the skyline.  The air was damp and cold. Only the oaks still had leaves. The earth was a textured brown collage in the last days of an Indian summer.  Gus watched it all speed by.  This was his season.  Thanksgiving was his holiday.  Free of crass commercialism, Thanksgiving is what a holiday should be —food and feelings.

Heading north on the interstate, Gus couldn’t resist the urge to pull off at his old stomping grounds and home.  Home is the old river town of St. Joseph, Missouri, where the Pony Express originated and Jesse James was shot. “You can see the bullet hole,” the old sign off the Belt Highway used to say.  Gus took the new alternate route along the river and pulled off in the north end.  An old house at the end of 4th Street called him.  The mist grew and the sky came closer.  Carved dirt banks lined with giant cottonwoods were just as he remembered, and for a moment, Gus ached that it could still be so real.  He half expected Jip, Grandpa’s old black lab, to bound across the street.   So many memories were made of what Thanksgiving should be.

At a big, white house atop the hill, a roasted duck was waiting.  Grandma would have mincemeat pie and oyster dressing. In back, a barn was filled with ancient radio equipment.  The highest point in St. Joseph was Grandpa Charley's log pole radio tower with a blue Christmas star on top.  From Grandpa's ham radio room we children talked with Europe, South Africa, Iran, South America, and all points between.

“WØNMD, this is W – Zero – Nancy – Mike – Dog, go ahead,” Grandpa said, and the world came back.  That mystery in the airwaves was Thanksgiving to Gus.

Of course, now in the present, the house was smaller and looked shabby.  The barn was gone, but the tower stood.  Gus was looking for the blue star when his car radio crackled.  Maybe it was just a CB radio, but he heard a voice.

“Go ahead, I've got you now,” a man said.  Gus knew it was not a radio station.

“Roger, I've got a copy on that.  We've got gray skies and cold weather here, and a turkey in the oven.  How's it there?  Over.”

“Uuugh Roger that, we've got 85 degrees and clear skies.  Turkey's on.  Over.”

The static crackled again, and the radio program returned. That was it.  A broken line of geese angled across the gray sky honking out instinct's mystery map.  Did they hear the voices, too?  Gus wondered and then smiled.  If he had gone crazy, it was pleasant enough.  He hadn't thought about Grandpa and his ham radio in a long, long time.

Back on the interstate, Gus felt he was on the world's edge.  His recall of everything was so real –the smells of Grandma's kitchen, her old butcher knife, the jar of mills she had in the pantry, and the great silver maple in the back yard – all of it came back.  He saw the barn with its magic old microphones and vacuum tubes; so many times he had gone in there alone and imagined talking to the world.  The magic stayed all through the drive north to pick up Mom and bring her back Liberty.

At the table that night, a living family waited for the traditional toast and prayer to begin the feast.  Only a few knew the meaning when Gus raised his glass and said, “W – Zero–Nancy–Mike–Dog, Thanks for the copy; we got a good Thanksgiving going on here; you have a good one, too!  Over.”

Then Gus smiled.  Somewhere, it’s all there, all magic and alive.  Those people and times we loved so much, floating on the airwaves of Thanksgiving.

Beware the Christmas Pepper

This Christmas story begins in the late fall.  Water Street Pete was at the Farmer's Market buying the last few squash of the season, when he spied a little orange pepper.

“It's a hot one,” the old farmer said with a wink.

“I like 'em hot,” Pete said and bought a bunch.

The slightly dried peppers were still in Pete's pantry when he began fixing his famous Christmas chili.  Every year, Pete went to his daughter's house for tree trimming.  His grandkids decorated the tree, and Pete made chili.  As you know, the real fun of decorating a tree for kids is the constant fighting over who gets to hang prized ornaments, their eventual placement, and who turns on the lights.  Parents don't understand that kids would rather fight than just about anything.  Pete had fought with his brother at every opportunity.  They counted M&M's to see who got the most and drew endless lines on couches, car seats, and tables marking their territory, then fought over the smallest infraction.

The greatest Christmas tree battle of all is “TINSEL WARS”.  Kids, tinsel, and parents do not mix.  Parents believe tinsel should be “placed” on trees; kids know tinsel is to be thrown.  Tinsel should fly about the room and hang in gigantic bunches.

“NO, No, no-no-no!” Pete heard his daughter say.  “Put one strand on at a time.”

“Why does Tommy have more tinsel...” the child interrupted grabbing from his brother.

“I do not! Give that back to me,” the oldest shouted, grabbing the tinsel back.

“CHILDREN!” the mother shouted. “IT'S CHRISTMAS.”

Pete closed the door to the kitchen and got out the bowls.  The chili smelled especially good this year; the kids would be hungry after the big fight.

Ten minutes later, bits of tinsel could be seen in every corner of the room.  The work was done.  They turned out all the lights.  Silent Night played softly on the stereo, and they plugged in the tree's colored candle bulbs.

“OOOHHH, AAAHHH,” they all said.  For a moment, nobody fought.  They were a family.

“I'm hungry,” said the youngest after about 15 seconds.

Naturally, the children fought over who got the biggest bowl of chili.  It was to be the last such fight they would ever have.  The first indication that something was wrong came as a whimper more than a scream, but the screams followed.  The chili peppers from the Farmer's Market (the ones in Pete's chili that night) were the dreaded habanera – the hottest in the world.  Pete's chili was just slightly hotter than Death Valley.

“Eat sugar,” Pete yelled, but the damage was done.

The story is now one of the great memories of Christmas.  Seems that after grandpa’s chili, the kids lost their taste for fighting.  

Now that tinsel has gone out of style, the only fight is where to hang the chili pepper ornaments Pete bought each of his grandkids.  It was the least Pete could do to remind them of a grandpa's goof in a time that will one day be long ago and far away.

The Great Christmas Decoration Controversy

Manor Hill Mack admired his Christmas star.  It was atop the pole in his backyard, and on a good night, you could see it from the interstate.  Mack once dressed his entire house in a cornucopia of lights and little animals.  He vaguely knew it was garish, but his critics were all under seven in those days, and they approved.  Ok, he admits, the black boots pointing out of the chimney may have been a bit tacky, but Mack liked it.  His son liked it too, when he was five, that is.  Now, Mack’s children uniformly think he has poor taste.

Mack couldn’t see why. Sure, he liked polyester, he did not worry that most of his sweaters had a food stain on the front, and so what if plaids and stripes don’t go together. Mack didn’t worry about that stuff; why should anybody else.  Besides, his Christmas decoration was now down to the star on the back pole, candy cane striping on the front porch pillars, and a blinking Santa in the window.

Mack wondered if this would be the last year for the star.  His father-in-law once had the highest star in St. Joseph, Missouri.  It was on top of his ham radio tower on the tallest hill in the North End, just up from St. Joe Avenue.  What a climb it had been to put that star up. “Pop”, the father-in-law, had passed the star tradition to Mack.  Now, that tradition was fading.  Not that Mack’s memory of the old Christmas days was fading, there were just fewer people who knew “Pop” and why the star was important.  Getting old, losing health; that was a nuisance.  Watching traditions sink slowly in time’s pool was an offense.

Later that night, Mack got a call from his grandson asking him to come over.  Mac couldn’t believe his eyes when he got there.  His son’s chimney was illuminated, and two chubby legs with black boots were sticking out the top.

“Ain’t it great,” a grandchild beamed staring at the boots. “Dad said you put Santa boots in your chimney when he was a little boy.”

Mack nodded.  He was looking for a star, but, there wasn’t any star; just boots.

“Dad said you would love the boots,” the boy continued.  “He said you were a ‘boot’ kind of person.”

Mack just laughed. So this was it, his legacy.  Mack would have preferred a star, but if the purpose of our living is to constantly surprise and astonish each other with our creations, boots will do just fine. 

Talk of those boots would reverberate in cars around town, and who knows how far it could go.  Cultured adults, of course, will say the boots lack class; their elite sensibilities will be properly offended.  But little kids won’t care; they’ll love it.  Just like they love Mack and his goofy polyester striped shirts and plaid pants.

We can’t all be stars, and thank God for that.  There needs to be a few boots in the chimney too.

Quest for the Perfect Tree

A cold rain spitting snow closed the world around them as Manor Hill Mack and his family drove into the unknown. They were on a Christmas mission, a quest for a perfect Christmas tree.  Perfect trees are no longer found hanging around outside supermarkets or in lots with bare light bulbs dangling above them.  Now, the perfect tree is fresh cut (like our ancestors used to do) from a farm where they wait in rows.

Mack had chosen the old clunker for this mission.  Named the Great White Hope (because every time you get in it, you hope it starts), it was the car to face the wondrous mud/dust of the country and the friendly residue of dried pine needles embedded throughout the car.  Old farm men love their clunkers; cars that can take abuse and still start.  Cars that are not afraid of a little dirt.

“Are we there yet?” asks a little voice from the back.  Mack grinned.  They had only been on the road five minutes.  They were heading on a twenty-minute drive to a tree farm in the middle of nowhere, located at the end of a gravel road.  In the old days, perfect trees were whatever Mack’s dad said they were.  Mack’s dad claimed he could hear them singing.  The old trees were marvels of perfection.  There was the bare side for a snug fit close to the wall.  There were big holes for the most prized ornaments.  They were spindly and gangly, just the kind to show off tinsel and construction paper chains, but the most perfect thing about them was the price.  Perfection did not exist above $4.75.  So here Mack was driving into oblivion braced to shell out $45 for a tree with no wall side, holes for ornaments, or space for tinsel.  Today, trees are supposed to look like copies of artificial, perfect trees.  Mack wondered when he had lost control.

One does not just walk into the great Christmas tree forest and calmly cut a tree.  One must run into it screaming frantically, “This one, this one; no, this one, this one!”

“Here is a bare spot,” they say, and a great tree is rejected.  

“This has a hole,” says another, and a beauty is passed by. 

Children, sensing all the perfect trees are being cut, become even more frantic in their search.

“Nobody will look at the tree I like,” says a very unhappy child.

“I’m wet and cold,” says another.

They begin to play hide and seek in trees.  At this point, Mack lifts a hand to his ear and strains to listen.

“What is it grandpa?” say the kids.

“I hear singing,” Mack says, turning toward an unknown sound.

 “What is it, Grandpa?” they ask again.

"I think I hear a tree singing.  It’s this way.” Gramps is now turning toward the part of the forest they had already come through.

“Do you hear it?  It’s like a song.”

“I hear it!” says one, and then another.

The next moment, Mack is hugging a tree right at the entrance.

“This is it!” he says.  “This is a wonderful tree.”  Mack hoists the little ones up to take a real good look.  Then, Mack starts singing.  “Oh Christmas tree…”

They all hug the tree together.

“Let’s get it!” Mack shouts with obvious joy.

“Let’s get it!” the children shout back.

Once back at home, the decoration began.

“This tree side fits right up against the wall,” cries one voice.

“This bare spot is perfect for the Teddy Bear,” says another.

“Look how my paper chains hang on these branches,” adds the smallest.

Then there's the marvelous moment of lighting.  All lights in the whole house are turned off.  In total darkness, the countdown begins.  Three...two... one... the nine-year-old flips the switch. The tree bursts to life.  Ornaments, some of them dating back 40 years, sparkle and shine.

It is a “perfect” Christmas tree!

Great Grandpa Charley Makes a Decision

By Holly Lake Jake

Somewhere along the river bottoms of the Grand River outside Pattonsburg, you can still see the old shack.  It's a dilapidated mess now, but it was already in bad shape when Great Grandpa Charley was a boy.  Somehow, the shack's story comes up at the Café every few years around Christmas. 

You'll have to know the Watson family to understand why.  They were poor, rural folk. There wasn't a college education in the clan and wouldn't be for another fifty years.  In summer, they fished catfish and grew watermelon.  They kept a few chickens, had some mules, and a cow.  Come Christmas, they would hitch up the wagon and go to Grandma Horton's house where they ate and exchanged gifts.  Then, they went hunting. That takes us to the shack.

Charley, age 15, was out hunting after Christmas dinner when a storm blew up.  Sleet came first, and the hunting was good.  Then the clouds ripped open, and a frightening white darkness shut the forest down.  That's when Charley saw the wagon pulled by an old mule.  It was obvious there was a problem.

“You folk doing all right?” Charley asked.

“We been better,” the man said.  The answer shocked him.  It was a black man's voice.  Charley had a decision to make.  Helping a negro was not popular or wise.

“Where you going?” Charley asked.

“North,” the man said, and Charley knew there was big trouble.

The small bundle next to the man moved.  It was a white woman.

“We need help,” the woman said. “I'm having a baby.”

Charley was struck dumb. The snow swirled, and his mind clouded.  He needed to get himself home.  Charley made the decision. “Follow me,” he said and led them to the shack. The snow was deep and getting deeper.  Nobody talked.  Charley put a fire in the stove.  He was about to leave when the baby came.  It was messy; it was loud, and then it was soft and silent.  Charley never learned their names, but the baby was to be called James. When he left, the mother was nursing, and the father was just sitting, staring at them. Charley left them all he had. The next few days, Charley came back with food and a blanket.  His mom would have died if she knew.  The three left on the fourth day.  There weren't many words of parting.  He held James once.

Now, as Christmases drift past and Charley is long-ago dead, the story dims.  Of course, there is all the obvious stuff about Mary and Joseph and no room at the inn.  He was black, and they were outcasts; James would have a tough row ahead. The story has all the elements of Christmas.  For Charley, those ideas never came up.  Maybe they should have, but what the teenage boy remembered was that when the chance to help came, he took it.

When culture's prejudice stared him in the eye and said, “No!” Charley looked it down and said, “yes.” Charley would be like that all his life.

There is no “rest of the story.”  Charley didn't hear from the family again.  James did not grow up to be somebody in a history book, or at least Charley never knew it, if he did.

All that's left is the shack and a memory.  Along the Grand River by Pattonsburg, you can go see it.  It's a Christmas reminder that the way the world is, is not how it has to be.

Season’s End

The old boys are staggering back into the Café today.  They have had about as much Christmas and New Year’s Eve as their cranky old dispositions can stand.  They need relief.
According to café lore, holiday seasons of their youth were never such extravagant events.  There were maybe two good meals, one late night, and three or four events. You could count all your presents on one hand, and nobody they knew jetted off to the Caribbean "just to get away."  Nobody had to deal with such nonsense in the coveted good old days.

Yep, the men are happy to be back at the Café.  They wonder how the holiday season ever got turned into a marathon of obligations, spending, and extravagance.  They need the simple pleasure of caffeinated coffee, friendly teasing, and some soul cleansing complaining.
"I don’t care if I never see another slice of coffee cake in my life," said Camelot Bob. His belt buckle was already at the last notch with a considerable "overhang" straining  both sides and over the front.
"I’m even tired of football," said Water Street Pete.  "I don’t even care about the Super Bowl."
It is a sad day when the old codgers are so worn down they can’t get a healthy disagreement going over a football game.  Unfortunately, this is how it will be for at least two months as the men settle into their winter mode.  January and February are the traditional months of depression and self-pity at the Café.  The recent colder weather has only exacerbated the problem. 

You would think men who once chipped through six inches of ice on a farm
pond in minus 10 degree weather would have a bit more tolerance and
gumption.  Now, the walk from the car to the Café in a brisk 20 degree morning is life-threatening.
"It’s cold out there," says Camelot Bob, peeling off a down parka, Thinsulate gloves, thermal hat, and stomping imaginary snow off boots cold-rated for a South Pole expedition.   A close inspection reveals Bob is actually sweating.

Manor Hill Mack annually put plastic sheeting on his second story windows in
blizzards.  He held the nails in his mouth and never wore a glove on his
left hand.  Now, Mack is overwhelmed with a thin coat of ice on his windshield.
"We are going to pay for the warm weather we had.  This winter is going to
get bad," Mack said, and you could just feel storms moving in.
The gloom and doom, the retelling of old stories, now exaggerated into heroic acts that triumph over the forces of nature, and the camaraderie of battle-hardened curmudgeons is simply glorious to these old guys.  This post-holiday gathering in the bleak midwinter is the magical restorative therapy that will take them through to spring. The hot coffee is an elixir; the complaining a balm that soothes ravaged
dispositions.
"Go down to the Café and see your buddies!" the wives all say.  “You are unbearable here."
The curious cycle of life turns once more, and the little boys are sent out to play. They run off all that negative energy.  They find adventure, and they stop driving everyone crazy.  The Café should receive federal funding for all the pain and aggravation it saves us from grumpy old men.

Warrior King of Light

By Manor Hill Mack

Grandpa was a stern man.  A child of the Great Depression, he knew the value of a warm house and enough food.  Legend has it that his family was teased one Sunday at church for their ragged clothes.  His young heart was cut deep, and he never attended church again, though he lived into his 70's.

Grandpa always had a boat, and he always had a dog.  He served in both World Wars. The second time he left a wife and four young children at home, because the army needed his skills in ham radio.

Unlike today, when we tend to think everything is a Kodak moment, the pictures of Grandpa speak volumes.  In his few photos, Grandpa stands looking into the future with tight lips and no-nonsense eyes.  Mother says he danced and played cards as a young man.  Another family story says he rode a motorcycle.  Grandma says she was only 15 when they married. You don't see any of this in his picture. Mother also says he worked long hours for the Light and Power Company and slept many evenings and Sunday afternoons with a newspaper pitched over his face.

His hobby was ham radio.  Today, there are still some who remember W0(zero)NMD (Nancy Mike Dog), but their numbers are fewer and fewer.  Each Christmas, Grandpa climbed the enormous pole tower in his backyard to place a magnificent blue star on top of his ham radio antenna.  You could see it from miles away.  It was a Christmas landmark in St. Joseph, Missouri.  On Christmas Eve, the family gathered at Grandma and Grandpa's house.  Grandpa was not a rich man, but his gifts were.  One Christmas, now so long ago that it is more emotion than fact, Grandpa gave his grandchildren ray guns.  In an age when battery powered toys were scarce and hideously expensive, the ray guns were monumental toys.  There were eight grandchildren in all, but only five were old enough to fully appreciate the divine significance of red, blue and gold beams piercing the darkness.  With ray guns, children were invincible.  No force on earth or from the stars could match this mighty weapon.  The five children ran upstairs in Grandpa’s cavernous old house and blasted away in the darkness. 

The upstairs rampage took a nasty turn, however, when the middle grandson dived to the bed firing his blue beam at interstellar demons.  The bed moaned and slid into the nightstand crashing Grandma's cherished bedside lamp to the floor.  The sound shook the house, and the terrified grandchildren waited in darkness.  A light flipped on, and there was Grandpa, his lips tight and his eyes stern.  “What is going on?” he demanded.
“We were saving the world, and knocked over the light,” a grandchild meekly replied.
Grandpa picked up the lamp and all its pieces, then he flipped the light out again.  In the dark, we heard him move, and then a brilliant beam of white light from a four-battery flashlight cut the darkness.
“I am the Warrior King of Light,” Grandpa announced, “come to save the planet.”
Side by side, grandchildren and grandfather battled into Christmas night, romping and hiding, slamming doors, and sliding under beds.  It was a glorious victory for childhood, light sabers, and life.

The grandchildren never saw the Warrior King of Light after that Christmas; it was just stern Grandpa.  Still, in the cold dark of the holiday season, sometimes those grandchildren (now all grown and old) spot a blue star atop some high place and smile.  The Warrior King of Light is up there waiting.  They know it's true.