Quotes from "The Old North Side Cafe"

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Nothing is new, but everything is different when a story is told well.

There is love in one another that can make the whole world right.

Life’s old stories are somehow told again and again, but each becomes its own truth.

You can’t stop the storms but you can shovel your neighbor’s walk.

In time, however, real things happen.  Nobody ever sees it coming.  You won’t see it either.  That is how stories usually work.

Ron likes to check the sky and then look at the pocket watch he keeps in his overalls.  He keeps track of things.  He knows everything that is going on and every bad thing that could happen in the next few hours.  Ron is a living, breathing example of what a Missouri farmer used to be.

The things that are true to them are filled to the brim with honor and sacrifice.

No advertiser will pay money for research that concludes we don’t need money, toys, celebrity, physical beauty and personal power to be truly happy.

Maybe we should remember to tell our wives that we love them each morning or tell our children what they mean to us more often.  Maybe we should remember there are no guarantees.  Maybe we should think about not postponing our dreams.

Learn to laugh at yourself.  Help others, stay busy, and make it fun.  It’s a good life!

All fall eventually to their lawns.           

What a season this is, filled with surprise and wonder; life all around. 

Who knows what treasures are buried, waiting to be found.

Caring, thinking people should not lightly join the executioner’s side.

If we are to lead the world, it must be with a solid reputation as peacemakers first

and warriors last.

“Will you quiz me on my spelling words just in case the world doesn’t end?”

You would think people of faith, no matter where they stood in the political spectrum, would denounce slander, hate, and false accusation.

All of our great religions, and especially Christianity, call us to care for each one of God’s children and all of God’s creation.

The shrill voices on the radical edges of the world’s faith communities are all defending their wars.

All of them gathered around a simple antique wood box, fire blazing, eating pies, and telling stories.  No television, no video games or radio, and no little cliques of people off in different rooms ignoring each other.  No martyrs out in the kitchen cleaning up.  Nobody left out.  Everybody gathered around and listened to everybody else.

Though the extraordinary path of life leads through death and divorce, injury and accident, decision and dismay, it has a way of swinging back to the middle and becoming ordinary again.

Those who stay on the road find it flattens now and then.  The return of the ordinary, the blessing of consistency, and the passing of time are the comforts of the old North Side Cafe.

A carpet of soggy leaves layered the lawn, announcing the end of another spring storm.   A cold mist crept through the backyard, looking to bed down in the creek below.  The day belonged to drizzle and things indoors.

It is etched in a farmer's heart.  The harvests of living may not come for many years.

"That is a peckerwood," Jake would say hauling his grandson up in his arms and pointing to a bird.  "Over there is a granddaddy long legs, and you are a little boy – about the best thing God ever put on this old earth."

When did we get so touchy?

These stories are actually dangerous.

Three rows back, young rowdies were flashing flab, swilling beer, and swearing, but it was Mack's hotdog that was nasty.

It was a night of liquid diamonds and rubies, and at long last, rain.

The last day of her life, she gave comfort and then left with a grace and dignity befitting her rank as a purebred Golden Retriever and revered family member.

The best stories are the little ones.

The smell of burning food is a sure sign that men are in the kitchen.

Women understand lists, and men understand schedules.

“You never know,” my father-in-law likes to say.

The guy was a worm evangelist.

People sit in silence, as scattered as the dust in the drought.

The walk to the barn in the morning to milk, nursing a sick calf, guiding a cultivator down majestic rows of beans, the smell of fresh cut clover, and raising kids on open land are memories too rich for letting go.

Rainy days mean nothing to suit and bean counter farmers.

I don’t feel any need to work up anger over gay marriage,

The person who comes to take blood tells the truth. 

"This may hurt," he says, gouging around for a vein.   That guy is always honest.

It was a life filled with the distinctive chug-chug of an old John Deere tractor, small round bales of hay, cats in the milk house, and early mornings in the chicken house to gather eggs.

Eventually, back roads lead to river bluffs and the true splendor of autumn.  Nature’s art is random and wild.  Driven by instinct and physics, not motive, forests wrap themselves in color, unaware of the combined majesty of their effort.

We could be constellations of colors, our lives filled with diversity and amazing transformations.

Educating the young ushered in an era in which the United States became the world’s most important nation.

Everything is important.  Everything comes back to help you someday.

Always over-tip the waitress.

What mattered most were children, and that they were safe.  Home by home, heart by heart, if that thought spread across our country, school violence would diminish.

My dad told me to get along with teachers, even if the teacher was wrong.

Excuses and rationalizations didn’t mean much if the hog died, or weeds took the beans.

My philosophy of teaching is to trust my students and turn on the lights. 

Teachers know how to diagnose illness, react to multiple emergencies, fix Spiderman’s broken arm, counsel love-sickness, duck and roll, and clean-up anything.

A person with a disability is not brave or heroic because they are in a wheelchair.  They are not special gifts from God.  They don’t always need a compliment.  They just want to be a person and be included.

Seeing kids achieve is what makes teachers tick.

We need to brag about our kids!      

In a dazzling display of Martha Stewart Living, towels are coordinated with bedspreads, wastebaskets, toothpaste holders, and Kleenex dispenser.

Our lives are not endless cycles; they are winding roads to a set destination.

Kids have money instead of freedom. 

Those who have the hum can tell stories about rivers, and you hear the water drifting by. 

Stories offer meanings without making the unbearable mistake of defending them. 

The first rule in storytelling is to leave a story better than when you found it.

They seemed to be one living moment gliding on the dance floor, kicking the teeth of time.    

“There’s a rat in the stool,” he called to his wife.  “A rat!” 

“It’s a woman here to bless our land.  The Lamb sent her.” Cindy calmly said. 

  

Even the most stable people have moments when they lose the connections that keep them sane.

It isn’t low-life, mind you.  It’s fine, upstanding pillars of the community – members of boards, church officials, ladies aide societies, and gas station attendants.  They all just seem to lose control.

Stella was never bested, but her tongue always cut toward a smile.

From that moment on, Stella mothered over the young woman like a sunny day.

We never know the good we do, but feel it as a dim reflection – in a stranger’s smile, in sparkling lights across the night sky, in simple pleasures.

He takes the season, with its trees, for what it is today…then sits with the wind, watching the world.

Those were the “good old days” of leaf raking – the soft colors of fall, the kids playing, the scent of burning leaves wafting over the town.

Leaf piles are the swimming pools of autumn.

I'm the mass media teacher who told him to study so he could look good in the interview after the game.

There was once a time when manhood required some discretion among men.

We're sitting here in a restaurant talking about a woman locking herself in an unplugged freezer, and you wonder why people get up and leave.

Armed with that insightful knowledge, they laid a path of broken hearts from Little Rock to Kansas City and back.

What is the world coming to when a woman is reduced to pumping her own gas?

Men serve on the front lines in war, drive on the ice, do the plumbing, and tighten their belts when resources are scarce.

The only pills I take are aspirin for the headaches you give me.

Only the fleeting, ethereal snippets of life are eternal.

Time is the gentle friend who allows them to grow old, to experience each moment as infinite, then allows them to fade, like a fire burns down, and be forgotten.

The meanings of life all smell like a story.

The gold and orange splash across the deep blues of autumn and say it's time for another fling.

Anyway, riding on the back of the pick-up, their feet dangling, their pockets bulging with apples, the old boys were having a day.

These are the days of slush and potholes, windshield wiper fluid, and the salty white residue of a fading winter.

Expectation exceeds reality, and we are out of tune with life.

Haphazard stacks of feed and seed bags created a labyrinth of cobwebbed, shadowy tunnels and passages in which cats and mice played out an endless game of life and death. 

The ubiquitous dust claimed every inch of a feed store leaving a tactile and olfactory signature that every farm boy knows and misses now and then.

Gathered around hot glowing coals, the dust forming halos on hanging bulbs of light, the calico cats sneaking in shadows, our great grandfathers created a tradition so rich and full of comfort, that it is part and parcel to who we are even now.

They run rough, wrinkled hands through the steam rising from hot coffee, and they begin to thaw.

Off we went into the mighty corn belt of the earth, our car chugging, the family reading signs, playing the Alphabet Game or 20 Questions, feuding, drawing boundary lines on car seats, and then falling asleep in each other’s laps.

Autumn feels comfortable to those on the happy hour side of life.

It is a sadness to her that our culture and the media are more interested in death and rumors than the real stories of life and survival.

Autumn with its brilliant death charm was calling for a new celebration, and all earth answered with an obedient technicolor burst of life

They are desperate, inadequate people consuming their own freedom, parasites feeding on themselves.

Truth spins its way in and out of fantasy like steam drifting off cups of coffee.

"I'm better with the yard," he said.  “I know," she replied, and life closed on another day in paradise.

Memories wait just below the surface on a cool June night.  After a rain, they grow again.

I’ve seen it all – the mountains and the oceans – and I’m here to tell you that few things match early summer in Missouri .

“Congratulations son, your first deer,” he heard his dad say.  It is hard to underestimate the emotional impact of a deer with its butt blown off.

They were gone.  The forever days had ended.

He remembered the simple joy of doing what was possible with a day and saying good night tired.

We just want our drains working, traffic lights synchronized, roads maintained, and trash picked up,

Red and yellow, black and white, male and female, old and young, rich and poor, believer and nonbeliever, blessed and hurting; all are precious here.

I’ll just bet the best old teacher, carpenter, nurse, chaplain, or mom you know was once a hippie.

We can poke around the edges of reality with a good story and not get burned.

What will remain is love, and the memory of love.

Confronted with the undeniable fact that evil exists in our world, cell phones rang, and the human spirit went to the well where the water is clean.

The fiddle music, the steel guitar, and songs of lost love, broken hearts, and whiskey nights at the Grand Ole Opry rang so true to a boy who had grown up on the countryside of town. 

There is a common magic in country music.  The world we live in is as messy as any Hank Williams tune, but there is a comfort in the ordinary simplicity of “three guitar chords and the truth.”

We all must move to the constant, insistent drumbeat of “grow up!”

Massive doses of moist, succulent turkey, rich steaming oyster dressing, warm home-

made rolls running with butter, candied sweet potatoes and, of course, dessert are coming, and proper preparations must be made.

A diet is an unconceivable thing to an old Iowa farm boy. 

Thanksgiving is what a holiday should be – food and feelings.

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

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 picture-less 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.

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

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.

All of us have a fine coating of grit on our souls that keeps us both tender and tough in hard times.

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.

Kids, tinsel, and parents do not mix.

One does not just walk into the great Christmas tree forest and calmly cut a tree.

Life truly had saved the best for last in the mysterious bond between grandchildren and grandparents. 

Folks make their living from chickens, lumber, service trades, and farms; but they make their lives from each other.

This detour would be more than across Kansas, however; we would detour through time, too.  Driving into the night across Kansas is a family tradition.  We are usually on our way to Colorado and the mountains, and Kansas is an annoyance at best.  On this night, however, with a generally full moon shining in the driver’s side window from the south, Kansas turned spacious with farm house and grain elevator etchings along the horizon.  Radio stations carry the full spectrum of music, from country to western music.  Grain and hog prices, and radio garage sales joined static to complete the spectrum of wireless entertainment.  Crossing Kansas at night, Highway 54 becomes an endless repetition of white lines, telephone poles, all night Pepsi machines, and empty spaces. 

At breakfast, the milk was five days outdated, and the most edible offering.  A sign above the counter read, “DO NOT SPIT IN THE SINK.”

We are in the same car, going the same direction, but my son is still beginning, and I am going the other way.

The old magic that takes young kids to the right fishing hole or opens doors to old barns where time stands still has its way of coming back.

Do we find ourselves or create ourselves?  Are our stories already written, and we tell them as best we can, or do we make them up as we go?  What does it mean to really live your life?

We are steadily and unalterably becoming part of the past.

This new thing is never noticed in the present.

Forgetting and “who cares,” will eventually take care of everything.  Let’s move on. 

They told “stupid chicken” stories, “good dog” tales, and how a man was once gunned down in broad daylight in front of an entire town in Northwest Missouri, but nobody was ever charged with murder.

Things end, and not much is relevant in a year or two.

Old North Side Cafe Christmas

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Christmas at the

Old North Side Cafe

Dean Dunham

Jim Dunn

Christmas At The Old North Side Café first performed

December 4 and 5, 2014 at the Corbin Theater in Liberty, MO. 

CAST

Water Street Pete --Vincent "Mike" Igoe

Camelot Bob --Dobbe Dobberstine

City Hall Sam --Shelton Ponder

Manor Hill Mack --Tom Dunn

Ridgeway Ron -- Bob Steinkamp

Gladstone Gus -- David Sallee


Holly Lake Jake --Lee Minor


The Reporter --Dick Brown


Stella the Waitress -- Jane Boswell

Director – Jane Boswell

Producers -- Juarenne Hester, Kathy Dunn, Amy King

Dean Dunham adapted the book

Old North Side Cafe by Jim Dunn into the play.

Christmas At The Old North Side Cafe

Stage directions:  For the song, a light spots the singer as he presents his song.  The lights for the audience are dimmed, and the main stage lights are out.

The Singer:  CHRISTMAS EVE AT GRANDMA’S HOUSE

I can still remember a house upon a hill,

And Aunt Ann singing the Christmas tunes;

When Christmas trees were oh so big, and the lights were always bright,

And packages just flowed across the room.

CHORUS

(Christmas Eve at Grandma’s house, and I don’t think you know

What it meant to young boys around the room.

Growing up believing in a family they could see,

Oh, I grew up in love with Christmas Eve.)

Grandpa he was oh so glad to have his family there;

The men they sat joking in smoky rooms.

And Grandma, she had cooked all day; you knew she’d work all night;

She’d do anything to make it right.

CHORUS

As I look around me now new faces I can see --

Eric and Eddy, Jenny and Zachary.

I hope it means to you all it’s meant to me,

And you grow up in love with Christmas Eve.

CHORUS

(End of song)

Stage directions:  As the singer finishes, the lights on the stage

are raised, and the men are ready to begin:

(General joking; camaraderie in the group, and Pete speaks:)

Pete:

What were you saying, Gus?

Gus:

Boys, how about an intellectual joke for a change?  I’ll buy coffee for anyone who can answer this question.

Why are Christmas trees so fond of the past?

Ron:

Dang, that’s a hard one.

Sam:

That’s above my pay grade.  I’ll buy my own coffee.

Bob:

I can just tell this is going be awful. OK—why are Christmas trees so fond of the past?

Gus:

Wait for it—because the presents beneath them!

Mack:

Gus, good lord, that’s bad—even by your low standards!

Pete:

Here, I got a good one, but Stella, you can’t listen.  It’s boys only.

Stella (not missing a beat):

What?  This isn’t junior high.  Grow up, Pete!

Pete:

Well then, you’re on your own now, Stella!  OK, why is Santa so jolly?

He is jolly—because he knows where all the naughty girls live. 

(Pete points at Stella)

  

(Men laugh)

(Stella throws her towel at Pete)

Pete: 

Stella, can I get a picture of you so that I can show Santa what I want for Christmas?

Stella:

You can get a tub of ice water dumped on you!

Jake:   OK, OK.  Let’s move on. What’s the difference between the Christmas alphabet and the ordinary alphabet?  (Pause)

The Christmas alphabet has Noel.  (Pause)  Get it?  No letter “L”

Ron:

Jake, I’d like to knock the ‘L’ out of you.

(General laughter; the men continue to silently banter with each other as The Reporter speaks.)

The Reporter:    

Welcome to the Old North Side Cafe, and to some of you, welcome back.  We’re here to sit in on these old-timers’ get-to-gethers as they sling their remarks, tell their stories, drink their coffee, and have some pie. These characters have made this place infamous just with their braggin’ and mischief. 

But please know, just because the Royals won the Pennant and it’s the Christmas season—doesn’t make any difference to them.  They are still as  cantankerous, implacable, and irrepressible as ever.  Let’s meet ‘em.

Stella:

I’ll jump in here.  I use words people actually understand.  That guy with big the vocabulary talking over there is a newspaperman. We call him the Reporter.  You have probably tried to read his stuff.  The blessed Joe Wally hired him to write articles for the Sun Newspapers here in Liberty around 1983.  That’s how all this nonsense began.  This (waves her arm over the men and the café)  all started, right there, in that reporter’s little noggin.

The Reporter:  

In one-way or another you already know every one of these guys.  You met ’em at church, or one of them fixed your furnace. You probably voted for ‘em at one time or another, and you sure as heck ate some of the corn they grew or Bar-B-Que ribs they raised.  All this will be familiar to you. 

That guy waving his fork and trying to get in the conversation right now is Holly Lake Jake.

Jake:

Now boys you know my gripe with Christmas shopping is long-standing.  Get it?  Long—standing?

Bob:

Jake, do you have to live with yourself all the time?  How do you stand that?  How does anybody become a pinko thinking, bible thumping, labor loving, tree hugging, Obamacare-voting sissy boy like you!  I wish I could have been your commanding officer in the United States Navy.  You would not have lasted a day!

Stella:

Big talk Bob.  You’re just jealous of Jake because can tell a story better than you.  He’s got more brains than you, more friends than you—in fact the only thing you got more of—is chins!

Jake:

Hey, easy now, Bob’s my buddy.  I know he doesn’t mean anything when he spouts off like that.  He just does not know what to do with his big heart so he tries to keep it covered up with his hard guy act.  Bob’s actually a big pussy!

Bob:

What did you say?

Did you say what is thought you said?

The Reporter:

So that’s Bob and Jake.  They are like that most of the time, you know, best friends. 

This here is Manor Hill Mack.

Mack:

I am pleased to meet you. 

The Reporter

Mack grew up on an Iowa farm.

Mack:

Proud of it too.  I like to figure out how to make things work, you know, fix ‘em up for somebody to use.  Iowa farming taught me to be independent, creative, and careful.  I landed my job with the Gas Service Company for those reasons; but, I got my job here, in this town, because the bosses found out I like and get along with people —and I like doing good things for them.

Ron:

You got that right.  Mack would do anything for a neighbor.  You know Mack, if you didn’t have such a bad temper you might be a candidate for sainthood.  And, I like what you said about farming. I farmed my entire life.

Pete:

Everybody in this place has got a farm story, but Ridgeway Ron here, he is the cafe’s original country farmer.  He looks at his watch and then he surveys the sky. He worries about the rain and then he worries about a drought. 

Hey, Ron, why do you say you never have any money and then go off and buy a big truck or a new combine every year?

Ron:

I have money when the crops come in, and then I got to give it all to the bank to pay back the loans I got to grow the crops.  All I got left now is my pliers, my Big Smith handkerchief, and this little old wad of bills I keep tied up with a rubber band.  It’s my rainy day fund.

The Reporter:

Ron’s humor is dry as dust and you never quite know what he is thinking; or, for that matter, what he means.  But I can tell you this, that wad of cash he’s carrying—there’s more money in there than you paid for your first house.

Sam:

Then Ron ain’t got very much money.  My first house was so bad they tore it down and put up a slum.

Stella:

I get to tell you about Sam here.  He is a walking miracle.  None of these old guys know anything about what Sam has faced in his life, and wouldn’t understand the troubles he’s seen if they did.  If  Sam had your head start in life, he would be running a corporation or a university right now.

Sam:

Now Stella, calm down, nobody in their right mind would ever want to be president of a college! 

Pete:

Good Lord, that’s almost as bad as being a lawyer

Stella:

You want to be standing next to Sam when he prays.  He has got a direct line to the man upstairs.

Sam:

I lived through some challenges.  You may not understand this, but I feel like I am the luckiest man alive.  I have a beautiful family and a wonderful home. I got to make a school shine for generations of Liberty children. Not many men can say they have had a life like mine.  I’ve been blessed.

Pete:

Sam was a City Council representative, and one of the good ones.

Gus:

I guess I might as well jump in here before all this City Hall Sam talk get to sounding like a funeral.

I’m Gus, the youngest of the group.  I spent most of my life teaching school, raising a family, and liking music, sports, and movies.

Bob:

Gus also liked a little hippie recreation in his younger day.  He’s another towel-head loving, camel-jockey supporting, tie-dyed wearing, God-squad believing, climate-lying liberal.  Some people are makers!  Gus is a taker!

Gus:

Towel head?  Did you say really say towel-head?

Bob:

Yeah, you know, an A-Rab!

Gus:

What Bigoted Bouncing Bobby here should be saying is I’m a moderate liberal on social issues and a fiscal conservative when it comes to money and foreign policy.  Like anyone in this room that has ever seen it first hand, I hate war.  I do think the world is getting hotter, but that mainly because people like Bob are so full of hot air.

Bob:

Really? Hot air! That’s the best you can do?  Grow up Gus.

The Reporter:

OK, by now you get that Gus and Bob have different views on things.  But when push comes to shove, they’ll stand up for each other.

That brings us to Pete and Stella.  Why don’t you two talk about each other for a moment?  These folk need to know about the café’s two most famous characters.

Stella:

Well, Pete’s a character all right.  He is the Big Hand around here.  In fact we all call him the Boss Hawg, and he’s proud of that.

Pete:

Damn right I am.

Stella:

Pete’s our commanding officer.  If it gets slow, he makes up things for these guys to do,  like making a list of the five most stupid people in Clay County politics.

Bob:

Ha!  Practically everyone on the list is out there tonight.

Pete:

The only person on that list who is here tonight is you, Bob!

Stella:

That’s Pete.  He keeps everyone in line, and doesn’t let anybody get too obnoxious or cantankerous.  And, mercy me, Pete can tell a story.  Word has it he gonna' tell his famous cat story later tonight, and you can’t miss that.

Pete:

And that’s vintage Stella.  She makes everything a bit brighter and easy.  But not because her life has been especially bright or easy.  You see, Stella thought she had it all at one time.

Stella:

You got that right.  Took vacations on cruise ships,  slept on silk sheets, and had a van with 27 cup holders..

Pete:

Then her marriage went south.

Stella:

That means: he had an affair with a girl young enough to be a junior high school cheerleader.

Pete:

Stella got the kids, the bills, and a toothpick holder from Jamaica

Stella:

He got the farm, the tractors, the profits, and his Dad’s beach house in Jamaica

Pete:

Then, real tragedy struck. Stella lost a child in a car crash and her old life just completely blew up.  Now, you will not find a kinder person than Stella.  Hard times make you either bitter or better.  Stella got better; in fact she is the best person I know.

Stella:

Pete, I swear you are going to make me cry.  Now stop it before I serve this hot coffee on your head.

Well, that about wraps up the introductions.  We got a fine crew here at the Café, and we are very pleased that all you out there can take some time at Christmas to sit a spell with us tonight.

 Just be sure to tip the waitress!

The Reporter:  

These are the guys.  Stella puts up with them ‘cause they kind of grew on her. They too, mostly have good hearts.

As you know, just last week the crew celebrated Thanksgiving, and they are still feeling a little tight around the waist. They may just stick to coffee and avoid the pie today.

Pete:

Well, boys, we’re heading to Christmas and it’s time to lighten us up a little. 

I’ve always liked the Christmas story about the traveler who saw the nativity scene on the corner of a park in a town down south.  It showed that great skill and talent had gone into creating it. But one small feature bothered him. The three wise men were wearing firemen's helmets.

Totally unable to come up with a reason or explanation, the traveler parked at a Quick Stop on the edge of town.  He asked the woman behind the counter about the helmets. She exploded into a rage, yelling at him:

Stella (as the Quik Stop clerk):

You Yankees never do read the Bible!

The Reporter (as the traveler):

I assure you, ma’am that I do read it, but I simply can't recall anything about firemen in the Bible.

Pete:

She jerked her Bible from behind the counter and riffled through some

pages.  Finally, she found the place and jabbed her finger at a passage. Sticking it in his face she said:

Stella (as the clerk):

See!    It says right here, “The three wise men came from afar."

Jake:

Pete, you have no judgment, let alone any humor!  That joke wasn’t funny when I heard it in second grade. And it’s still lame.

Pete:

It’s funny unless a person has a lame sense of humor.

Bob (changing the subject):

Well, I’ve said it before, and I say it again.  I am rubbed raw every year with merchants putting up Christmas displays earlier and earlier.

Gus: 

You have said it before, and you just said it again.  Don’t you think merchants simply look at you in July and say:

The Reporter (as a Walmart manager):

Why there’s Camelot Bob.  My gosh he’s looking old and bewildered.  I’d better start my Christmas displays now so he’ll remember to buy gifts!

Ron:

Like last year.  He never did get a gift for his wife, poor girl, and the grandkids got whatever was left on the shelf on Christmas Eve!

Bob:

None of that is true.  I am amazingly generous.

Pete:

OK, Bob, fess up.  It’s December now.  Have you bought ANY Christmas gifts?  Even a little stocking stuffer?

The Reporter:

OH–OH. They’re getting testy now.  

Pete:

Speaking of Christmas gifts, did you know that there is a book called The Old North Side Café?  It’s about some of us and Stella, too.  You can buy all your Christmas gifts right here by the front door tonight.

Bob:

Well, I got my list.  I know what I’m going to get for almost everybody.  You guys, however, are v-e-r-y much being considered for lumps of coal!  If only the Eddie Bauer catalog had lumps of coal to order.  Or maybe I’ll get copies of that book about us.  I’ve got pointed things to say about you guys in there.

Sam:

Bob is right, though; it seems that Christmas was up and going in the stores right after Labor Day this year.

Bob:

OK, let’s get serious now. Here is what I notice. There is a similarity between Christmas and our national debt. Christmas is a time when kids tell Santa what they want and adults pay for it.  And so-called social “safety nets” are when adults tell the government what they want and their kids pay for it.  That’s a truth.

Ron (holding up his fork, just blurting out):

Nothing says holidays, like a cheese log!

Gus (picking up on the silliness, and picking up his fork):

Guys, I’ve got a poem.

Pete:

Go for it!

Gus (using his fork like a baton):

One is one-sie
Two is twoish;
If it weren't for Christmas (pause  a beat)

We’d all be Jewish!

(general groans from the guys)

Ron:

I once just got batteries for Christmas with a note that said, “Toys not included.”

Stella:

You poor old codgers. You are just sad to wake up and not be a child on Christmas morning anymore.  Remember? You used to believe in magic.  Santa was coming! Like the song says, you grew up in love with Christmas.

You just want Christmas to be like it was when you were kids.  That’s the best dream of your lives—the family, the celebration at Christmas!  I’ll bet that dream hasn’t changed since you were still in short pants.  And it’s OK; you just keep remembering. 

Jake: 

I remember at church there was talk about something strange and beautiful called a “Virgin Birth”; there was a story about a huge star; and angels, always those mysterious angels in a heavenly host.

Ron:

Whatever that was.

Gus (with a far-away look on his face):  

And there was a sensory cacophony of tastes, aromas, sounds, touches, and sights permanently imprinted on our impressionable young brains.

Bob: 

“Cacophony”?   Did you seriously just say, “cah-cough-PHONY”?  What kind of phony are you pulling off here?

Mack: 

My “impressionable young brain” didn’t take in “cacophony.”  Never did.

Pete: 

Mack, maybe it’s a good thing it didn’t.  I’m having trouble trying to

figure out what your brain on “cacophony” would do;  we know

what it can do on coffee, but cacophony?  Do you drink that, snort it,

inject it?  Do you have to know some shady guy in a back alley in order to

get a supply?  Gus, are you a cacophony user?

Gus:

OK!  I take “cacophony” back.  But I won’t take “impressionable young

brains” back! I know young people, and you know that’s true!  Stella has it right.  There are about ten formative years when the deepest, strongest, and longest-lasting memories of the holiday seasons are created.  These early days set us up, and from then on, everything about the holiday is measured against those first celebrations.

Mack;

That’s right! 

Gus:

All you guys can claim the specialness of your Christmas memories. You know, things like starring as a shepherd in a church nativity skit and that brown bathrobe and head towel costume. For me, it was going to bed in a new pair of pajamas, feeling all snug and tingly.

Jake:

Well, I’ve got a memory.  I swear this is true; it’s a Christmas holiday story, but I won't divulge the name. It concerns a prominent lady in the Northland, and that's all I’ll say. A lady and her husband were down on the Country Club Plaza doing some Christmas shopping and enjoying the lights. They shopped for a while, and then the lady got hungry for an ice cream cone.

Stella (as the wife):

I just love Christopher Elbow’s ice cream (pantomime holding a huge ice cream cone).  He grew up in Liberty, you know. He’s a celebrity now!

The Reporter  (as the husband):

Speaking of celebrities, don’t look, honey, but isn't that Brad Pitt over by the door?" (He motions to a man standing at the side.)

Stella (as the wife):

Oh my God! Oh dear lord.  It IS Brad Pitt!  THE Brad Pitt! He is standing right in front of me!  (flustered; not knowing what to do)

The Reporter (as the Husband having fun and egging her on)

Why don't you go up and introduce yourself?  Tell him “Merry Christmas”; say you’re a big fan.

Stella: (as the wife)

I can't do that, That's Brad Pitt standing right here,  about five feet away! I'm actually seeing him!  You just don't just go up and talk to Brad Pitt!

The Reporter (as the Husband):

Either go talk to him or we need to leave.

Stella (as the Wife):

OK, we’ll leave, but isn’t it exciting??! I love Brad…  UUUh…  (Stella thinks for a moment)  I bought an ice cream cone, I'm sure of it.  I must have left it at the counter.  (Turns, as if to speak to the counter helper) Oh, miss, did I leave my ice cream cone right here?  I'm sure I had one.

Jake:

Watching from the corner of his “beautiful eyes,” Brad Pitt surveyed the scene. He walked over to the woman who was still leaning over the counter, searching for her lost ice cream cone.  He spoke to her:

The Reporter (as Brad Pitt):

Excuse me, ma’am, I don’t want to pry, but are you looking for your ice cream cone?

Stella (as the Wife, frozen with terror. She nods and then whispers):

Yes.

The Reporter (as Brad Pitt):

Excuse me, but I believe you put your cone (pause) in your purse.

Guys: 

(howl with laug​hter / wisecracks)

​

Bob (If you can actually name some women in the audience, use their names):

Oh man, tell us who it was! Was it ___________(Mary Sallee)? Was it Judge Harman’s wife?   Oh, I'll just bet it was ____________(Mary Alice Dobberstein)!

Mack: (If you can actually name some women in the audience, use their names)

No, no – it HAS to be either ____________(Juarenne Hester) or __________(Kathy Dunn)!   Has to be! Come on, who was it?

Jake:

Oh this is all true—but I won't divulge the name. This prominent lady just might be here in the Cafe tonight, and that's all I’ll say. The ​poor ​woman's secret is safe with me—my special holiday gift to her!

(pause)

Sam  (Rubbing his finger along his chin.  He is perplexed):

What happened to winter?

Mack:

Have you ever seen a winter like this?

Ron:

Never.   It’s the greenhouse effect.  If it stays like this, we’ll need to turn on air conditioning so we can have a fire Christmas morning!

Gus: 

That’s your farmer background showing.  Have you guys ever met a farmer who didn’t fret?  When it rains, you’re afraid it will flood.  If the sun is shining, it’s a drought.

Mack:

I heard it’s the cold water off the coast of South America that’s causing all the problems. The temperature of the ocean went back down about two degrees which caused the jet stream to move up over Canada.

Bob: (mockingly)

I knew it.  The Midwest is going to be a desert. I can tell you right now to forget about your lawn or garden.  We got ourselves a greenhouse situation with no jet stream.

Ron:

You know, it doesn’t seem natural not to have at least one big snow. Do you think maybe God is trying to punish us?

Gus:

If this doesn’t beat all. Last winter you moaned and grumbled after every snow.  If the temperature dropped below twenty you threatened to move to Phoenix.  You prayed for warm days, and now that God has delivered, you think He’s punishing you.

Ron:

We can’t help it Gus; weird weather causes men to wonder.  The Bible even says the world will end with catastrophe.  Terrorists or rogue virus will doom us.  There’s no such thing as a happy ending. Now its climate change.

Bob (interrupting):

ENOUGH!

Global-war…er…climate chan…uh…. What’s that latest term? Ah, yes, “global climate disruption.” However you change the name, though, you can’t change a simple fact:

Global-warming is a left-wing scam. Everyone knows the United States has been “adjusting” its so-called “historical records” by replacing real temperatures with data fabricated by computer models. The U.S. has actually been cooling since the Thirties, the hottest decade on record.   Do you want proof?  Can you say DUST BOWL?

Pete:

So Bob, you think the earth is actually cooling.

Bob: 

I’m saying the so-called scientists are lying.  If they were Pinocchio, their noses would be bigger than our national debt. They have us all running around like Chicken Little.

Sam:

Does this mean we will have a white Christmas or not?

Bob: 

Listen up!  Higher CO2 levels increase plant yields creating better crops. It’s why botanists pump it into their greenhouses and the dinosaurs had such dense foliage — back then CO2 levels were 10 times than they are today. The gas is not a pollutant. It’s a plant food.   

Mack:

Good Lord, Bob; you are seriously under-medicated today.  Now you just said green house gasses are a good thing.

The Reporter:

We’ll just stop this now.  Bob knows the voices in his head aren’t real, but he does think they have some pretty good ideas.  It just shows how hard it is to find the truth in anything.  Still, the boys keep looking, just like they are looking forward to Christmas.   And many of their stories do go back to family times.

  

Sam (with a change of tone, reflecting):

I remember one Christmas especially fondly;  it involves my Grandpa. Grandpa was a stern man.  Legend has it that in the Depression, 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 70s.

The pictures of Grandpa speak volumes.  In his few photographs, Grandpa stands looking into the future with tight lips and no nonsense eyes. 

However, completely out of character, one Christmas, Grandpa gave us grandchildren ray guns. In an age when battery powered toys were scarce and hideously expensive, the ray guns were wonderful toys!  We got them at Grandpa and Grandma’s house.

The Reporter (as a young boy):

Wow!  I’ve got a red ray!

Stella (as another kid):

Mine’s blue!  And Noah’s is gold!  Zap! I got you!!

The Reporter (as a boy):

No you don’t!  I’m going upstairs.  Wait a minute and come find me.  And watch out, I’ll get you, Blue Alien!  I’m invincible!

Stella (as a kid):

Let’s go blast him!

Sam:

This time it was Noah who caused the trouble.  He dived under Grandma

and Grandpa’s bed and somehow caused the bed to collapse and knock over Grandma’s special bedside lamp.  The sound shook the house.

The Reporter (as a boy):

Oh, no!  Oh no!  Here comes Grandpa!

Stella:  (as a kid)

The lamp broke!  He’ll kill us!  What are we going to do?  Hide!

Sam:

A light flipped on, and there was Grandpa, his lips tight and his eyes stern.

The Reporter (as Grandpa):

What in tarnation is going on in here?!

Stella (as a kid):

We were saving the world, and knocked over the lamp.

Sam:

Grandpa picked up the lamp and all its pieces and quietly put them up.  Then he flipped the light out again. In the dark we heard him move.

Then, a brilliant beam of white light from a four-battery flashlight cut the darkness.

The Reporter (as Grandpa):

I am the Warrior King of Light, come to save the planet!!

Sam:

Side by side, we grandchildren and Grandpa battled into the night, romping and hiding; slamming doors and sliding under beds.  It was a glorious victory for childhood, light, and life.

We never saw the Warrior King of Light after that Christmas; it was just stern grandpa.  But when we get together after all these years, someone will jerk their head up a little and grin.  We know that the Warrior King of Light is still up there, waiting.  It’s true.

(pause)

Gus:

I’ve got a fine grandpa memory, too.  Often my family would go for Thanksgiving or Christmas to Grandpa and Grandma’s house there in St. Joe.  They lived in a big white house up on a hill.  When we arrived,  Jip, Grandpa’s old black lab, would bound across the street to greet us with slobber and tail wags. Grandma would have a roasted duck, oyster dressing. and mincemeat pie all ready when we got there.  That is what a holiday should be —food and warm feelings.  And after dinner, Grandpa put some special magic in Christmas. 

Out in back, Grandpa had a barn filled with ancient radio equipment. The tallest point in St. Joseph was once Grandpa's log pole radio tower with a blue Christmas star on top.  From Grandpa's ham radio room we talked with Europe, South Africa, India, Australia, and all points between.

The Reporter: (as voices on ham radios)

---WØNMD, this is W—Zero—Nancy—Mike—Dog, go ahead.

---Go ahead, I've got you now.

---Roger, I've got a copy on that. We've got gray skies, cold weather, and snow here, and we had a turkey for dinner. How's it there? Over.

---Uuuh Roger that, we've got 85 degrees and clear skies. Turkey's on. Over.

Gus:

Grandpa talked, and the world came back. That was mystery in the airwaves for me, and I always associate it with Christmas.

So, every Christmas I raise a toast:  “W–Zero–Nancy–Mike–Dog.  Thanks for the copy;  we’ve got a good Christmas going on here; you have a good one, too!  Over.

The Reporter:

These old guys have been together for decades and they can sometimes tell each other’s stories.  They know the ins and outs of many, many fine tales.  And sometimes they will even ask for a story.

Some of you have heard this next story before, but you’ve got to hear it one more time.

Pete:

Jake, I want to hear your Jodi stories, especially the famous Pig Story.

Jake:

Come on.  I’ve told that story here before and everybody must be tired of it.  You-all want fresh material.

Pete:

Well, yeah, everybody has heard it before.  In fact, some of us could tell it ourselves.  Okay, if  you won’t do it, I’ll get it started.  It features your little sister, Jodi who was precocious in her early-age independence.  I remember the renowned baby blanket which she wouldn’t let anyone wash.

Sam:

Yes, that blanket had stains and particles and a sour milk smell from every month of her four-year-old life.  She ate with it nearby.  (pause) Why did she need so much comfort, Jake?  What was her early life like that made her cling to it for security?

Jake:

Nobody wants to hear this again.

Mack:

Are you just a little ashamed, Jake?  Were you a naughty boy?

Pete:

As I remember your story, Jake, nobody could get Jodi to give up her smelly blanket.  Especially her parents:

The Reporter (as a parent): 

Come on, Jodi.  Leave the blanket in your room.

Stella (as a parent ): 

Oh, Jodi, please give it up.  You’re a big girl now, and you don’t want a BABY blanket, do you?

The Reporter:   (sing-song in a boy’s voice ) 

Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah nah; Jodi is a BABY!

Pete:

Jodi was infamous even in church on Sunday, where she irritated much

of the older congregation.  She never stood to sing during hymns,  she

kept her eyes open and head up during prayer, and she constantly fidgeted. 

Jake:

Okay,  OKAY!  It’s my story, so I’m taking over here!  The surprise was that Reverend Fred kinda liked her.  Usually, he had the children come down front for his Sunday Children’s Service, and this Christmas time it was about the manger at the birth of the baby Jesus.  Reverend Fred said:

The Reporter (as Reverend Fred):

A manger is the bin that holds the hay the animals eat. And let’s name the animals that were there:  a donkey, a cow, some sheep, a dog, and a cat.

Jake:   

And Jodi piped up in her four-year-old voice:

Stella (as Jodi):

You forgot the pig.

The Reporter (as Reverend Fred):

 I don’t think there was a pig there.

Stella (as Jodi, outraged): 

There wasn’t a pig?  I love pigs.  There should be a pig there.

The Reporter  (as Reverend Fred):

Hmmm…I don’t think there was a pig in that stable there in Palestine.

Stella (as Jodi): 

Well then, you can have your old story!

Jake:  

And with that, Jodi got up and walked out of the church, dragging her blanket.  We found out later that Reverend Fred was delighted with her spirit.  He called her,

The Reporter (as Reverend Fred):

Feisty Britches.

Ron:

Thinking of Jodi makes me think of my cousins who lived up in

Fairfield, Iowa.  They were a mixed bag of personalities.  Uncle Merlin and Marie's younger children were cut from tough country cloth. Rough on the edges and quick to defend, they were a handful.

However, the oldest, 12-year-old Marjorie, was different. She was quiet and dignified, reserved and sometimes she seemed afraid. That's how I remember her.  There was a  Christmas tradition to gather at Merlin and Marie’s house for the big feast.  On this year, Marjorie’s parents left her in charge of her younger brothers while they made some last minute trip the day before Christmas—I forget why they were gone.  

Stella:  (as Marie)

Now, I want you boys to behave.  You know Santa is coming, and he knows if you’ve been naughty.  Marjorie is in charge, so you do what  she says.  You can listen to the radio if you want.  You know that tomorrow is Christmas Day, so play nicely.

Ron:

But Merlin and Marie’s car broke down. In fact, it took a day to get the car fixed, and Aunt Marie was in extreme fret about what the kids were up to and about the great family feast she was going to fix for all of us.  Christmas morning it started to rain and drizzle and all that turned to snow.  You know one of those old-time snows with drifts to choke those old highways.  Car travel slowed to a crawl.

Mack:

Some of us remember the snow storm of  ’49.  That was a doozy!

Bob:

Yep, my dad took us out west of town after church on Sunday, and the drifts along the roads were higher than the roof of our car!

Ron:

That’s what I mean.  It took almost all day to drive there.  We arrived to the farmhouse about the same time Merlin and Marie got there.  It was almost dark when we weary travelers pulled in the drifted drive of Aunt Marie's home.

Aunt Marie rushed out of the car before it had fully stopped. Uncle Merlin said,

The Reporter:  (as Merlin)

At least they had enough sense to turn on the porch light.

Ron:

Inside the front door, however, a miracle was waiting.  A beautiful, magnificently-set table graced with bittersweet and burning candles dominated the room. 

Jake:

And what to your wondering eyes did appear?

Pete:

Jake, step back from Old Saint Nick, and let Ron tell his story.

Ron:

Behind the table Aunt Marie's children stood in a line according to height. They were scrubbed and brushed. Their wild hair tamed, and neckties dangled awkwardly from actually ironed collars.  The house smelled clean and wonderful smells of cooking food drifted about the room.

I remember the silence as the shocked travelers on one side of the table faced the smiling row of children on the other.  Then shy, little Marjorie stepped forward.

Stella:  (as 12-year-old Marjorie)

Dinner is served.

Ron:

Quiet Marjorie had paid attention to her mom over the years, and today she had anticipated Marie’s frets.

We had a feast:   mashed potatoes, whipped with real cream and topped with butter, green beans cooked with bits of bacon and onion; Waldorf salad with those red cherries.  The turkey and dressing were up to what we were used to.  And Marjorie and the  boys came up with Grandma’s prize recipe homemade rolls.  How did she do it?  We even had mincemeat pie.

Aunt Marie spoke:

Stella:  (as Marie)

Everyone,  please quiet down.  Marjorie, what a wonderful meal.  It’s perfect.  I am so proud of you.  Thank you. 

Ron:

Marie invited Marjorie to her side, put an arm around her waist and hugged her daughter. Marjorie blushed and lowered her head. Then the children broke into wild cheers and started to chant her name.

The guys and Stella:

MARJORIE!  MARJORIE!  MARJORIE!

Ron:

I remember the feast, and I remember Marjorie's grin and the tears on her cheeks.  Marjorie's meal is a family legend. 

Gus:

I will never think about Christmas without remembering Hamburg Hill.  Hamburg Hill rose five blocks straight up from St. Joseph Avenue, to the highest spot in St. Joseph.  Each morning around 4:30, my brother and I walked down Hamburg Hill to pick up our copies of the St. Joseph News Press, and then we walked back up the hill delivering the paper to our customers’ front doors.  About 3:00 each afternoon, we did it again. My brother practically ran up the hill.  He could deliver one side of Hamburg Hill, do 4^th and 5^th Streets, the Crowder house, and then hit the Valley of the Shadow of Death (the longest part of the paper route) before I could do one side of Hamburg Hill. He was unbelievable. I think I was 10, and I looked up to him. 

Pete:

I’ve heard of Hamburg Hill:  it’s steep!

Gus:

In November one year, we learned my brother had a tumor just below his right knee.  By Christmas, he needed crutches and an operation. I was throwing the paper route alone. My parents were told it might be cancer.  Hamburg Hill seemed bigger each day.

Sam:

Gus, this was a troubling time for you.

Gus:

You got that right.  Well, that Christmas morning, I got up early and trudged down Hamburg to start the route.  The papers were so thick that delivering them would take two trips.  I put as many papers as I could carry in my bag, and the rest I hid in the Laundromat where we folded the papers each morning. Off I went, crisscrossing the street, hitting each front door with a newspaper as I went up Hamburg.  Near the top, I was breathing heavy and my legs were already tired. I knew it was time to start singing.

Pete:

Singing?  Please don’t demonstrate.

Gus:

In times of trouble or joy, I sang.  Maybe it was all the musicals I saw where average people broke out in song.  I just thought spontaneous singing was normal behavior. I started with Hark! the Herald Angels Sing and Oh Come, All Ye Faithful. By the time I had thrown the first batch of papers, I was singing Joy to the World.  And then I spread my arms like wings, and ran down Hamburg Hill, expecting to go airborne at any moment.

Back at the Laundromat, I put the rest of the papers in my sack and headed up the hill again, singing Onward, Christian Soldiers.  House lights were coming on, and I knew Christmas was beginning for these kids.  Here Comes Santa Claus turned into Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer as I marched up Hamburg and then down 4^th Street.  For the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I chose Oh Little Town of Bethlehem and a personal favorite, Silver Bells.  The stars were fading as I threw the last paper at the end of my block, high on the hill. I stopped to look.  St. Joe spread out before me on that Christmas morning.  You can’t imagine what a weird kid I was. 

Bob:  A-hem…I think we can!

Gus:

Exhausted, I stood in the vacant lot and started to sing Silent Night.  I sang every word with all my heart like I was singing it for my brother; or maybe, it was for all the children and their parents down below.  Maybe I sang it just for me.  And yes, I was crying too.  When I finished, I was worn out from walking, singing, and crying.

My brother’s tumor was not malignant, and by Easter he was racing up Hamburg, faster than ever. 

Today, I still play my guitar, and sing the Christmas tunes. Singing is still important to me.  Don’t know why.

Ron:

There’s one Christmas story I always enjoy hearing because it shows the range of our Good Friend Bob’s feelings.  Ha!

You remember, Bob, how Reverend Fred got you to help out with the Christmas pageant.  And you were a Scrooge come again.

Bob:

Well, yeah!  Ol’ Fred got me to transport the Granger girls back and forth, and one of them threw up all over the back seat of my brand new Eddie Bauer Explorer!

Ron:

But, Bob, your exasperation did have its limits.  You carried that little one into her house and comforted her because her parents weren’t home.  And there was more, wasn’t there?

Bob:

What do you want me to say?  Okay.  I was overwhelmed with the mess in their house and what not.  I had to deal with some bad memories:  This is how I grew up—in squalor.  This is how I felt as a little boy—abandoned.  This was my worst nightmare—people finding out! 

So, yeah.  It hit hard.  Those little girls were like I was, as a kid.

Sam:

And you helped those kids have a better Christmas than you had had.  We know you can be a good guy sometimes.  In fact, those little girls had new Eddie Bauer Squall jackets the night of the pageant.

Bob:

I do things for the best reason on earth.  Because I want to.

Ron:

When I was a kid, a neighbor would put a big, lighted Christmas star up on a light pole atop a little raised piece of ground.  On a clear night, you could see that star shining a good many sections away.  We’d always wait to see that star; then we knew Christmas was close.

The Reporter (as a little kid):

Daddy, when will the star show up over there?

Stella (as a little girl):

Yes, Daddy, is it coming soon?

The Reporter (as a little kid):

I can’t wait!  It’s like magic.

Stella (as a little girl):

It’s Christmas!  It’s Christmas!

Mack:

I put up a big star, too.  And this year it has the new LED lights.

Bob:

You got more lights than the Plaza on your house! I’ve heard that starting before Thanksgiving, your neighbors gotta put on their sun glasses every night, even in their bathrooms!

Mack:

Well, a lot of kids get a kick out of it, you know.  I can see them with

their families riding by, reeaal slow, just to see my lights.  I got the little animals, the Santas, Snoopy. (pause…)  AND, best of all, I got Santa’s black boots sticking out of the chimney! 

Sam:

Our kids liked your display.  We had to drive by every Sunday evening, and when they were really young, they would just squeal and laugh; always found something new each year too!

Bob:

Our kids called it “Over the Top.”

Stella (as Bob’s little girl):

Let’s go see Over the Top.  Please, daddy!  I like it soooo much, Daddy,

Pleee-ase?

Mack:

Well, heck.  I knew the decorations were gaudy-ish.  And when our own kids got older, they let me know that it was embarrassing.  But, so what?  They liked it when they were little, and their kids like it now. About ten days ago, I got a phone call:

The Reporter (as Mack’s grandchild):

Grandpa, can I help you put out your Christmas decorations this year?

Mack:

Sure, if your mom will let you come over the day after Thanksgiving.

The Reporter (as the grandchild):

Maybe I can help put Santa’s boots in the chimney, too!!

Mack (to the guys at the table):

Before he comes over, I’ll climb up and get the boots into the chimney.  I’m no dummy! His mom would never let him anywhere near a roof, and I’m not about to cross her!

Bob:

Oh, yeah, I know her; she would get the vapors if she knew he was involved in anything so garish and tacky as Santa boots in a chimney!

Mack:

So, get this: my own son, the one who used to be so embarrassed by all of this, surprised me while the women were out shopping on Black Friday. He had my grandson call me up and say:

The Reporter (as Mack’s grandkid):

Hey, Grandpa, come on over.  Dad and I got something to show you.

Mack:

I get over to the house, and my grandson was bopping around like a puppy and took me out into the front yard.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Bill turned on a spotlight on his roof, and there were two chubby legs wearing black boots sticking out of the chimney!

The Reporter (as the grandkid):

Ain’t it great, Grandpa?   Dad said you would love the boots. He said you were a ‘boot’ kind of person!

Pete:

So, Mack, that’s your legacy:  You’re a boot kind of person!  We’ll put it on your tombstone.

Bob (mocking):

Say, Mack, I like your booty, too.

Ron:

Can you believe how parents ruin the kids’ fun?  When our daughter’s family puts up their Christmas tree, we have the annual Tinsel War.  She believes that tinsel needs to be placed thoughtfully on the tree; as she says:

Stella (as the daughter, gestures, reaching up with tinsel):

It’s supposed to drape down like icicles from the branches.

Ron:

But the kids try to out-do each other in throwing tinsel to the highest branches.  (makes a tossing motion)

Stella (as Ron’s daughter/the mother):

NO, No, no-no-no! Put on one strand at a time.

The Reporter (as young Ron):

Why does Tommy have more tinsel?  Hey, the oldest gets to have more!

Stella (as Ron’s daughter/the mother, shouting):

CHILDREN! IT'S CHRISTMAS!!!!

Jake:

Parents don't understand that kids would rather fight than just about anything else. It's more fun.

Ron: 

Ten minutes later, bits of tinsel can be seen in every corner of the room. The work is done, and we turn out all the room lights, put Silent Night on the stereo, and turn on the tree lights, and everybody says,

Ron, the Reporter, and Stella:

OOOHHH, AAAHHH.

Ron: 

And that is the end of the Tinsel War, until the kids start arguing about something else, like who got the most M&Ms or who’s got the best place to sit by the tree.

The Reporter:

Folks, we will have to take a break here pretty soon.  However, Pete wants to tell his story—he says it’s a true story—about Bernice and the church cat at Christmas.

Those of you who were here last May when we first experienced such life at the Old North Side Café, you’ve heard this story.  We all enjoyed it then, as you remember.  So we are tempted not to let Pete tell the story.

However, we know there are some people here who haven’t heard the story.  So, we want you to vote.  True AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION.

Do you want to hear Pete’s story even though some of you heard it before and even if he gets kinda threatening when he doesn’t get his way? 

Or should we stop for a break right now, take 15 minutes to check out the Café eats up by the front door.

Either way, we’ll have a break.

So,  do I hear NOs about Pete’s story?   Do I hear YESes?

****************************************************
Pete: 

OK, you codgers, we’ve got permission to tell my Christmas Cat story.  You know that this is a true story.  Clinton 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’s permanent chairwoman, and a church choir soprano, who expected 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 boys liked to cook live frogs), the powerful and obnoxious Bernice Tavener was always there to protect it.  That brings us to the Christmas Eve when Pastor Presley got the idea to let a dove loose during his sermon. He made early arrangements with Leslie Sipes to help him out, saying:

The Reporter (as Pastor Presley): 

Now Leslie, I want you to go up to the organ loft with this pigeon.  I was thinking to use a dove, but I couldn’t find one, so we’ll use this pigeon.  So, I want you to take this pigeon up to the organ loft.  And you listen to the sermon, listen real close now, and when I say, “Let there be peace on Earth,” you let this dove, er… pigeon go. You got that?

Stella (as Leslie): 

Yes, sir.

The Reporter ( as Pastor Presley): 

Now, let’s make sure, Leslie, this is Christmas Eve and real important.  When I say, “Let there be peace on Earth,” what do you do??

Stella (as Leslie):   

Uh, I let the pigeon go.

Pete:

So, up to the loft Leslie went. Then Pastor Presley sought out Bernice and asked her:

The Reporter (as Pastor Presley):   

My dear Bernice. I’d like you to do something special during my sermon tonight.  I am going to work toward the point when I’ll say, “Let there be peace on Earth.”  When I say that, would you hum a phrase or two, nice and loud, so that there is some background of musical emphasis?

Pete:   

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 (that is, pigeon) would have on the congregation, Pastor Presley went full tilt.  At the “peace on earth” part, Bernice started to “ooie-ooie-oooo,” and Leslie Sipes, on cue, reached for the bird.  Unfortunately, the bird was dead. Clinton the cat was grinning from ear to ear. Leslie Sipes began to panic.  Down below, Pastor Presley was now saying “peace” like it had three syllables, and his neck veins were an inch thick.  He was looking to the organ loft with fire in his eyes…

The Reporter (as Pastor Presley):  

Paw-ee-suh, I say.  Let tharr be paw-ee-suh, on ear-uth!

Pete:  

Nothing happened.  He shouted:

The Reporter (as Pastor Presley): 

I saaaaid, let tharr be paw-ee-suh, on ear-uth!

Pete: 

At that moment, Leslie Sipes became unhinged and threw Clinton over the railing as if he thought cats could fly. The cat's screech hit perfect pitch with Bernice's “oiee-ooing.”  Clinton's flight path seemed to home 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!  (pause)

Some say it was the highest note ever achieved in operatic history.

The shock waves broke windows as far away as Missouri City.  Or at least Roosterville.  After the service, Bernice personally turned the cat over to the Sipes brothers who considered it a fine Christmas present.  Bernice, herself, never sang or annoyed anyone ever again.  Pastor Presley said:

The Reporter (as Pastor Presley):  

That was my best Christmas ever.

**********************************

The Reporter:

So, when they are together the Café boys have their stories.

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 think they 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.   

We’ll take a break now.  You can stretch and mill around for fifteen minutes.  There are Cafe Christmas goodies and beverages and books for sale by the front door.

And yes, we’ll be back.  There’s lots more to come!

Bob:

There he goes, flogging that book.

Mack:

Do you think he’s really hard up?

Pete:

Buy him a brownie and offer him $11.

15-MINUTE  INTERMISSION
PART  TWO

Stage directions:  For the song, a light spots the singer as he presents his song.  The lights for the audience are dimmed, and the other stage lights are out.

The Singer:     

JOSEPH’S SONG

I was feeling lost at first and certainly confused.

I was feeling angry and afraid that I’d been used;

But on the trip to Bethlehem, I saw the worry in her eyes,

And I was proud to be with her and stayed back by her side.

Evening shadows growing, and there was road to go;

If we’d make the town that night, I didn’t really know.

We’d have to find a place to stay that night in Bethlehem,

Cause if we had to face the cold, she’d need shelter from the wind.

It was late that evening when we finally made the town;

Crowded streets around us, and there were no rooms to be found.

When I begged a man to find a room, he found a stable there;

It was all he had to give us, but he was glad to share.

The place looked so deserted; for a bed some hay was piled,

Hardly the place to bring your wife for the birth of your first child.

I felt lost and so ashamed that tears welled up inside,

But Mary took me by the hand and walked in there with pride.

Through the night and through the pain, she let me hold her near.

We held to one another to help allay the fears.

And as the evening shadows danced, and I prayed a dawn would come,

There lay Mary, at her side a son.

They say that shepherds came that night; they said they’d seen a sight.

Something about singing; something about a wondrous light.

But I don’t remember faces and don’t know that’s right;

All I saw was Mary, and our young son that night.

All the doubts I’d ever had were released that night, you see.

There is love in wonder, and a song in a mystery.

There is ease for all your burdens and a way to find a light;

There is love in one another that can make the whole world right.

Stage directions:  As the singer finishes, the lights on the stage come up, and the men are ready to resume:

Mack: 

I’ve got a family story that has never been made public before last May.  It took place nearly a hundred years ago when Great Grandpa Charley was a boy.   His family, the Watsons, 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 Watson's house where they ate and exchanged gifts.  Then, they went hunting.  They had an old place that they called their “hunting’ shack,”  near the Grand River outside Pattonsburg.

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.  He spoke up:

The Reporter:   (as Charley)  

You folk doing all right?

Sam:   (as the man) 

We been better. 

Mack:  

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 in those days among his people.  But he went ahead:

The Reporter:  (as Charley)   

Where you going?

Sam:  (as the man)  

North.

Mack:  

About that time, the small huddled bundle next to the man moved.  It was a white woman.  Charley knew that as big trouble.

Stella:  (as the woman)  

We need help.  I'm having a baby.

Mack:  

Charley was struck dumb. The snow swirled, and his mind clouded.  He needed to get himself home.  Charley made the decision.

The Reporter:  (as Charley ) 

You folks follow me. 

Mack:

The snow was deep and getting deeper.  He led them to the shack. 

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.  He held James once.  The three left on the fourth day.  There weren't many words of parting. 

Jake:

So what happened?

Mack:

Christmases drifted past, and Great-Grandpa Charley is long-ago dead.  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.

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 ruins of the shack and this story. 

Pete:

Thanks for that memory.  That story is worth hearing again sometime.  Of course, there are lots of us who remember being poor and hard times, even at Christmas.

Sam:

You’re right.  Like a lot of families, we were really poor.  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.

Ron:  

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.  However, somehow Mother saved enough to get me a wooden airplane.  When I saw that plane Christmas morning with my name on it—it was one of the   greatest moments of my life. 

  

Jake:

Once, when I was about ten, the moon came up bigger and more

yellow than I had ever seen it before.  One of the boys in the

neighborhood said it was a sign the world was ending.  I spent a

night worrying about the end of the world.  I prayed and asked God to save the world ‘til at least Christmas.  He did that, and it was one of the best Christmases I ever had.

Pete:

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, in came Santa.

Stella: 

I’ll bet he knew you and every other child by name.

Pete:

You got that right! In his sack he had bags filled with candy, nuts  and fruit.  My favorite was an orange 

Mack:

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.

Reporter:

Here’s the thing about Christmas at the café.  It’s important. No matter how much time passes, or how many holidays come and go.  No matter what takes place in the interim, some things can’t be lost. There are memories that will not slip away. 

Sure, everything is ending. Everything is always breaking down.  I’ll give you that. But, this joking and bantering by aging men means more than you might think.  This is how these men express their luck to be witnessing yet another Christmas. When one starts thinking of Christmas as common, then its value is diminished, and it passes by uncherished.

Don’t be fooled by the jokes.  Christmas has a high value at the Old North Side Café.

Jake:  

I was thinking about Christmas at the country church where I grew up. 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.  I was to be a Wise Man, OK no smart remarks, and my little brother, a shepherd.  Jodi, my sister, didn’t have a part.  The Bible said there was a “multitude of angels” in the birth story, and surely the cast could take one more, but Jodi, as you’ve heard, was a problem, because you never knew what she might do. 

That Christmas Eve, 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-faced doll doubling as Jesus.  Finally, Joseph gave up and put on earmuffs. 

By the time everyone got into place, heavy snow was falling.  Pastor Fred passed out candles and everyone commenced to sing Silent Night. Unfortunately, the wind picked up and the snow came even harder.  The congregation was more concerned with keeping the candles lit than singing.  Mostly, everyone just wanted to get inside. 

With the song started, Pastor Fred thought he had it made.  They had done what he had planned.  Then Jodi 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 tattered, treasured blanket and putting it around the lifeless doll.  Jodi stepped back a pace and sang, while the snow fell.   She was dead serious .

The congregation scattered on the last note, heading for shelter of the Christmas Eve service.  Jodi stayed there, standing there alone in the falling snow.  She was quietly crying.  Pastor Fred knelt beside her:

The Reporter:   (as Pastor Fred)  

Shall I get your blanket?

Jake:   

Jodi shook her head, “no.”  Pastor Fred scooped her up and held her close as he carried her into the church. 

Mack:  (pause)

Jake, I have always loved that story.

( MAJOR  PAUSE)

Ron: (holding up a piece of paper)

We got one of those Christmas letters, this one from friends who have moved to Florida for the winter. It’s full of descriptions of warm weather and walking on the beach. And, well, it’s a bit much.

Bob:

If you’ve got the money to winter in Florida that's one thing, but you could at least have the decency to keep the weather forecasts to yourself.

You boys want to hear my Christmas letter?

Pete:

Do we have a choice?

Bob:  (standing up, with paper in his hand)

Nope!  Here goes.

Dear family and friends, especially you weenies down in Florida.  Merry Christmas and happy holidays to you.  I worried about putting the word “Christmas” in this letter for fear the post office would refuse to send it citing separation of church and state.

Of course no politicians I know really go to church so that keeps it pretty well separated as it is.

Sam:

That’ll Preach!

Bob:

This being Christmas I promise to keep it light. I know there are some good politicians in Washington. And, since it's Christmas I'll even admit there might be one or two in Clay County, but it's hard to say.

Gus:

You shouldn’t be so guarded in your opinion.

Bob:

I didn't write today to get you or me all upset. We've been jawboning about the world for too many years, and none of our griping ever amounts to much. No, I wrote to tell you a story and say happy holidays.

Pete:

Are you going soft on us, Bob?

Bob:

The story is about my Dad, World War II, and Christmas.  After Pearl Harbor, Dad signed up to go back into the service for a second time.  Mom had four kids and a broken heart. She was mighty mad at Dad for going in a second time.  I can't say if she ever really forgave him, but I remember the letter.

Stella:  (as the Mom)

Oh, it's a letter from you father! Come quick!

Bob:

Dad was not a letter writer so this was special. He started off by telling us he was in an airfield in Iran. The food was bad and the nights were cold. He told us he missed us and wanted us to have a great Christmas for him. And then he wrote a very odd thing.  He said that he had found a way to be with us.  He wrote:

The Reporter: (as the Father)

Remember me when you see the moon or feel the cold wind of winter. Most important, think of me in those times when you feel warm.

Bob:

The moonlight, the cold sting of the wind, and the feathery warmth of our beds—they would all be Dad, home for Christmas.  Mom finished the letter and walked back to the bedroom. 

That night I walked up the pasture hill in the dark and watched the moon. The cold felt so good, and I imagined I was talking with my Dad.  Back in bed, the warmth curled strong arms around me, and I slept in peace.

Christmas for me is the regular stuff, but deep inside it’s the moon, the cold wind, and a moment of warmth. Whatever it is for you; I hope it comes this year.

Even if you have run off to Florida.

(PAUSE)

Gus:

 The spirit of Christmas always reminds me of Walter Dunn from my home town.  Though he was publically weird on St. Patrick’s Day and at the city softball games, at Christmas he topped his reputation but on the sly.  He would break out a decidedly shabby Santa Claus suit and beard, 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. 

Come December, he would roar out to the edges of town in his bright orange truck. In his role as a public servant, he knew who could pay their bills and who could not.  Without fuss he became Santa’s helper for kids whose families were down on their luck.  In the back of Walter’s orange truck were big, plastic leaf bags full of presents. 

No house he 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, he was gone!  Behind him, kids were playing, and a mother was crying, and Walter was grinning ear-to-ear.

All those years ago, Walter Dunn had a chance to make a difference, and so he did.  It is my memory of the real meaning of Christmas.

Last year, I spoke and played guitar back home at a local church.  It was around Christmas, and I told the story of Walter Dunn  After the program, a lady came up to me and said, “I was one of the children who got Christmas from Walter.  I still remember what it meant to me.”  She grew up in Savannah in the early 1960’s and still thinks about Walter’s Christmas gift.  Walter’s good lives on! 

(PAUSE) 

Ron:

Do any of you remember old Nicholas Fambough?  He lived up west

of William Jewell, on Liberty Drive in that old red brick house

Pete:

Well, you’re reaching back a-ways.  I knew of him.  I’ll bet Nancy Mose can tell you a lot about him.  She knows things that happened long before she was born.

Ron:

Well, I was telling Stella and our Reporter friend here a story about him.  It involves Liberty, the Café, and the story A Christmas Carol by Dickens. But it’s mostly about Nicholas Fambough.

Stella will read from A Christmas Carol and the Reporter will do the rest.

Stella: (reading from A Christms Carol)

No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such, of Scrooge.

The Reporter:

Old Nicholas Fambough spit as he rounded the corner to the Café. Everything about Christmas left a bad taste in his mouth. It was superficial, overdone, intrusive, loud, and worst of all, expensive.  Nicholas did not often come to the Cafe, and he was not welcome when he did.  Fambough could not laugh, the Cafe's only unforgivable sin. The Cafe was closed anyway. It always is on Christmas Eve.

Stella:

The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever.

The Reporter:

Nicholas cursed being locked out, and then his eye caught the MIA-POW sticker inside the door. It only added to his misery.

---“Cafe's closed,” said a voice from behind.

---“No kidding, Sherlock,” Nicholas said with a growl as he looked around. Strange, nobody was there, but the voice sounded familiar.  Nicholas thought about his boy. Years ago, a Vietnam jungle swallowed his son. Years ago, two lives were lost. 

---“Who's there?” Nicholas asked. The cold and the dark answered with their silence.  Solitude hung on the night where joy has no home.

Stella:

“I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,” said the ghost. “That they are what they are, do not blame me.”

The Reporter:

“It's closed,” the voice said again,

and Nicholas Fambough turned to catch who said it.  In the turn, his boot kicked one of the plastic candles that adorned the cafe. Nicholas reached to pick it up and a memory returned.

---“Dad, how do the bubble lights work?” a small son asked.

---“I don't know, maybe they're magic,” Nicholas said.

---“I like them, even if I don't know how they work,” the boy said.

Nicholas picked up the candle and placed it carefully against the wall.  He had recognized the voice.

Stella:

“Are spirits lives so short?” asked Scrooge.  “My life upon this globe is very brief,” replied the ghost. “It ends tonight.”

The Reporter:

The shadowy figure in front of Nicholas held out his hands, palms up. Nicholas heard the voice again.

---“It's closed, Dad.”

Then it was gone. Nicholas felt himself leaning against the cafe window. He was breathing in great gulps, and the wind froze the tears on his cheeks.

Stella:

“I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the past, present and the future. The spirits of all three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone.”

The Reporter:

Yes! Here they were, just as he left them so long ago—a string of candle bubble lights. Nicholas worked furiously trimming the tree (the last reject from the Boy Scout lot) singing at the top of his lungs. He paid $50 for a $13 tree.

Nicholas had already called for the plane tickets to Washington D.C. He had a wall to visit and a life to get back. One death was enough. He was laughing.  From Washington he would visit his sister.  Oh brother, would she be surprised!

Stella:

...and it was always said of him, that he knew how to  keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that truly be said of us and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless us Every One!

Ron:

Thanks for helping me with that Christmas story, a story of the Old North Side Café, and of one of the old-timers who came here even before most of us.

The Reporter: 

About the time we had heard Ron’s story, an older couple, strangers, came into the Café.  They saw some guys their own age, and they walked right up to the liar’s table.  I’ll tell you what the man said, and Stella remembers what his wife told us.

The Reporter (as Orval): 

I’m Orval and this is Dorothy.  We’re from Omaha now, but I came from here when I was a kid, and we’re back to reconnect with my memories.

Pete: 

Well, sit on down.  You’ve come to the right place.  Stella will bring some coffee.  And we’ve got memories to match yours, I bet.

The Reporter (as Orval):   

Thanks.  I was looking for the church my family went to as a boy, before we moved away.  I was born in this town, but Dorothy here is from Hamburg, Iowa.

Stella (as Dorothy): 

We got married, and Orval got a job in Omaha.           And we haven’t been back here for years.  Orval was baptized in that church.

The Reporter (as Orval):  

But the church wasn’t there today.  It looks the same, but there’s a bed and breakfast place there now.  Anybody know what happened to the church?

Ron: 

That congregation built a new church out near the Interstate.

Pete:  

Oh, yeah.  They got a new priest after the one you’re thinking of, more people started attending, pretty soon the old church was too small for Sunday School and services.

Mack:  

I heard the organ and the plumbing all went bad about the same time.

Gus:  

Then, after they moved to the new place, they sold the building to a guy who liked starting new projects, and he eventually turned it into a bed and breakfast.

Sam: 

I hear it’s real nice inside.  I also heard it’s kinda expensive.

Pete: 

Back in the day, some fraternity boys who lived down the street would come to early Mass after their all-nighters and all-weekenders.

        

Gus:   

Maybe you could say there were some hangover prayers said there.

Stella (as Dorothy): 

Orval’s parents were married in that church.  We’ve got some pictures from then.

The Reporter (as Orval): 

For me it’s always been a special memory.

Bob: 

Your parents’ marriage is one of your special memories?

Sam: 

Careful there, Bob. . .   (To Orval)  You’ve gotta forgive this guy.

The Reporter (as Orval): 

Well, no.  The church.  When I was a little kid.  I spent a lot of time during Mass watching the light coming through the tree branches and waving across the stained-glass windows.

Stella (as Dorothy): 

Orval became an artist and photographer as an adult.

The Reporter (as Orval): 

Sometimes my mother would take me to evening services, and I can remember candlelight magic, too.  At Christmas it really glowed.

One night Mom brought me to evening Mass, and let me go outside while she prayed some more.  I sat on those stone steps, looking at the house lights, hearing those frat boys warm up for the evening.

An older woman came and sat beside me there. We made small talk, and something about her put me at ease.  Then she told me that my Mom

would go through a hard time. That I would have to be strong.  And that God would take care of us.

That was it.  Some weeks later when my father died, I remembered speaking to the woman.

Stella (as Dorothy): 

Orval was strong. He protected his mother as best as a kid could do through the funeral and after they moved away.

The Reporter (as Orval): 

I believe an angel came to me that night. That's why I came back after so many years, to say thanks.

Bob:   

Are you kidding?  Angels. . .

Pete (quickly interrupting):  

Stuff it, Bob.  Just wait.

The Reporter (as Orval): 

Thanks for the time, guys;  I think Dorothy and I will best be going.  We’ll stop at my father’s grave and get on to Omaha before the weather changes.

Sam:   

Be sure to stop to see us when you come around again.  And Merry

Christmas!

The Guys and Orval and Dorothy:

Merry Christmas!

Pete: 

OK, Bob;  they’re gone.  You can have your say.

Bob: 

Well, I hate to say it, but though they were nice enough folks, their letters don’t have enough postage.  Angels? Ha!  Maybe his art is good for greeting cards bought by blue-haired old ladies.

Stella:  

As usual, Bob, you’ve got gravel in your soul.  If you had any awareness at all, you’d know there are angels all around us.

Mack:   

Wait a minute, Stella.  Let me get this right.  You believe angels are flying around this cafe right now watching over people?

Stella: 

Yes, I  do. 

Mack: 

What about it, guys.  I’m looking around here.  No angels.  Do you actually ‘see’ these angels, Stella?

Stella: 

I feel their presence more than I see them.

Mack: 

That’s purely genuine whacko.

Stella: 

Mack, you need to get in touch with your feminine side.  If you were more intuitive, you too could sense the cafe's angels.

Mack: 

Whacko.  I was taught young to keep my hands off my male side; I can't even imagine touching my feminine side.

Stella (laughs): 

I can be patient with you as you work this out.

Mack:   

In my world angels got nothing to do with anything except singing in heavenly hosts and dancing on pin heads.  Or maybe they only dance INSIDE PIN HEADS.

Gus: 

Mack, the world has passed you by.  Angels are back, and they are all the rage.  The return of angels is a sure sign of the post-modern age.  In the post-modern age, there are no longer rules for anything.  Everything is chaotic and continuously disintegrating—sort of like Bob brain. 

Bob:

You wish

Gus:

Name a system that hasn't broken down.  Name an institution that isn't under attack.  Would you rather work hard or buy a lottery ticket? Why muddle through when a miracle will do? Angels are a good deal.

Jake: 

Gus, are you about to involve us in quantum theory?

Bob: 

I’m with Mack on this.  You’re just trash-talkin’.

Mack:  

Stella, those angels you're seeing are just a few overcooked eggs.  You'll feel better in an hour or two.

Stella: 

Since you have declared me a wacko, then I’ll add to your suspicions.   Ever since that business about Weapons of Mass Destruction took our country into war in Iraq, I’ve worn this angel pin and collected angels of every sort. 

Ron: 

Stella, what have angels to do with the war in Iraq?

Stella:

I don’t care.  Believing in angels makes more sense to me than thinking some army or a cowboy president can protect us.  Anyway, I see miracles every day.

And now I’ve got other customers to wait on, and you old guys can sit here and laugh at me all you want.

(PAUSE)

Gus: 

Last Thursday, I was at my in-laws’ house, as we usually do on Thanksgiving.  After we’d finished eating, people were playing cards, and kids were playing Chutes and Ladders and stuff like that.  But no one had a TV on to watch the football game.

Pete:  

This sounds bad.

Bob:   It sounds downright un-American.  Is this something Michelle Obama is promoting?

Gus: 

Whatever, but I saw an opportunity, and I sneaked out of the house and was driving to our house to check in on the game, and then get back before they thought I’d been too long in the bathroom.

Jake: 

The devil made you do it!

Gus: 

Here’s the thing.  I was driving past the café here, and I saw the lights on.  So I pulled into the parking lot and got out to have a look.

Sam:  

You found Stella here working, didn’t you?

Gus:   

I did.  So, I guess you know what she was doing.

Sam:

Every Thanksgiving Day, Stella opens the restaurant for those who have no place to go. 

Ron:

And that tradition costs her plenty out of her own pocket. 

Jake:

Stella told me that she often thinks of the Bible story 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.

Sam:

Stella and her ragtag band of men and women—the people who have no other place to go on Thanksgiving—they  were making sure that “the least among us”  would be not left on the side of the road.

Gus: 

Well, you are right.  That’s what I found last Thursday.  Stella had a crew of people here, and they were just finishing up.  And they were having a ball.  I cornered Stella and made her tell me what was going on. 

She said that they had served about 60 people that day.  She had arrived at 4:30a.m., and her helpers trailed in afterwards.  Most of them brought the food.  She did the cooking, and they all served the tables. 

I saw a few of the remaining guests lingering and sittin’ back with contentment.  Some were rough looking, in hoodies and Army-surplus jackets.  Old men, some women, and a few children, their hungers had been satisfied.   I helped carry out the trash, but most of the work was done.

I never did look in on the game.  I busted on back to the family, and they hardly knew I had been gone.

Pete:

The football game was a loser.  You didn’t miss anything.

Sam:

He actually got in on a lot.

Jake:

Mack and Bob, I would like to draw your attention to Gus’s story.

Are you sure there are no angels here in the Café? 

(Pause)  What about Walter, and Marjorie?   What about Stella?

Stella:

Be careful of what you’re talking about.  What about Stella?  Jake, are you plotting against me again.

Jake:

No, Stella.  No body is dissing you, this time.  We were talking about your good heart in helping other people.

Stella:

Well, I’m not unusual.  We are all connected, aren’t we.  When it matters, we help each other out.  We gather around.

It’s like my Daddy used to say,

“You can’t stop storms, but you can shovel your neighbor’s walk.”

(Pause)

The Reporter:

Like the song said there is a way to make the whole world right.

The North Side stories are rich mines of emotion.  Here Christmas memories gather around the lighting of candles, singing, playing wise men in bathrobes, holiday decorations, and one toy, usually not very expensive, that touches the heart.  Behind that gift there is always the personal touch that can make anything special.

There is a mission at the Old North Side Cafe every Christmas.  You feel it

when one of these old guys grabs your shoulder and says “Merry Christmas.” You hear it when their families gather and they pull out a Bible to read the Christmas story.  You see it when they take the time to play with little kids and put up decorations. You taste it in the pecan pies and chocolate fudge they just happen to have around.

Every year, the old guys go searching for those now distant feelings and the old memories that mark a bygone season. Christmas for them is now the journey—and not the journey’s end.  The men make the miracles happen for others, and that’s what sustains them.

You all probably do the same thing. 

As always, the old guys have the last word:

The Men:  (putting on Santa hats)

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!