Truthful Lies of my Childhood

Christmas is the highlight of every Wisconsin winter.  All the kids for weeks before buzz around like bumble bees in a field of clover, bursting at the seams with excitement.  Each and every one of them is trying to be good, or at least trying not to get caught at being bad.  BW, which stands for back when, or before Wal-mart, “The Season” started in the small towns a mere week or so before, while in the cities the department store conglomerates were criticized for rushing it by displaying beautiful pine trees laden with colorful lights and ornaments the Friday after Thanksgiving Day.  Then, too, there were Teddy Bears and dolls and a rocking horse and oodles of gaily wrapped presents under it.  Somewhere nearby, the proverbial “Holiday Hero” sat on his throne making promises that he could not keep to dreaming kids with great expectations of electric trains, BB Guns, tea party dishes and such.  Good Old Santa Claus, the red suited individual who has the power to disillusion the younger and to anger the older, was the subject of discussion at most supper tables.  I suppose, pound for pound, he is both the most loved and the most hated superhero ever to fly above our United States of America.
Kids compose letters which are better known as “I want”  and “gimmee” lists to the parents.  These are mailed, most of them without postage stamps on the envelope, to a place where mortal man has never ever set foot before and never ever will, i.e. the North Pole.  All of those explorers who claimed to have been there have lied, for none have reported seeing Mr. C, let alone an elf or a reindeer with a red nose that glows!  He owes the United States Post Office for postage due an astronomical amount which exceeds the national debt  of $71,000,000,000,000 by 31%.  Yet he has never been apprehended nor arrested nor have the charges even been filed against him, and so the bill has never been turned over to a collection agency.  Not even the interest amount has ever been paid!

Have you ever wondered why this fat man is fat?  That is a no-brainer, for it’s mothers, who on demand from their offspring, are forced to bake cookies, probably as some kind of a bribe.  A mounded plate of which, along with a glass of milk, are left on the fireplace mantle supposedly for the nourishment that is required to finish his appointed rounds.  And rounds is what he gets, averaging a net gain of 21 pounds per sleigh ride!   Then for him it is fasting, diet, and the treadmill, with Samantha, his wife, griping and yipping all year long, sounding like a kennel full of Chihuahuas.  By the time the next Christmas Eve rolls around, he is back to his jovial self, over-weight by a mere 75 pounds more than his cardiologist and he him-self would like him to be.  But be that as it may, according to the most recent survey including all age groups, 98.2% of both men and women proudly state that they, at one time or another, have loved him just as he is.  And believed in his powers.  And have heard sleigh bells and/or the prancing of hooves on their roof.  And have left milk and cookies for him.

And then there is the more beautiful side to the Christmas Season, the true reason for the season – the remembrance of the birth of the Christ Child.  There has been a lot of argument about the actual day or even the season or the year that the most significant event ever did occur.  To me, it matters little, but what is important is the fact that it did indeed happen.  As the Bible and history did record.  It is an undisputed fact: the birth, life, death, and resurrection of our Savior  Jesus Christ.

The Fairchild High School choirs yearly gave a winter theme concert on the last Friday before the Christmas Season break.  It was held in the gymnasium and was well attended, even more so than the Purple Dragon basketball games.  Much of the musical fare was the traditional one of snowmen and snowflakes, silver bells and sleigh bells, Christmas lights and mistletoe, and so on and so forth.  Almost all the singing in the early part of the program was filled with nostalgia as these renditions of the past brought forth an inner glow.  But the best was yet to come for the strains of Oh, Holy Night filled the air, and when you thought nothing could be better, the audience was asked to join in the singing of Silent Night, Holy Night.  A thunderous ovation of whistling, shouting, and clapping gave the approval of each and every one there.  It was truly a time to remember, and the best part was that it got better with each subsequent year.

At long last, Christmas Eve arrived.  This was the true pinnacle of the Season as town folk and country folk alike overcrowded the area churches to the bursting point.  There was songs of shepherds watching their flocks by night, of angels announcing “good news of great joy,” of a Virgin giving birth in a manger, of gifts of frankincense and gold and myrrh.  These were intermittently interjected with the recitals of small children.  Their antics were truly precious as they related “The Bethlehem Story,” quoting the pertaining passages in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, the Prophecies of Isaiah, Psalms, and elsewhere.   All this and more gave an inner peace and tranquility, strength for today and hope for tomorrow.  It was a time of smiling and handshaking, the renewing of friendships that had been neglected for too long.  There were well meant promises to try and do better in the days ahead, although in reality very few of them would be kept.  There was a lingering aura, a warm glow of laughter as they shouted “Merry Christmas” and “may God go with you” while the crowd slowly dispersed into the night.

My heart was racing with anticipation for we always opened our gifts after the services on Christmas Eve, but as usual we were one of the last families to leave.  At long last, we too headed into the cold of our snow filled world.  Enormous sized flakes began to float very slowly downward making it easy to catch them on my tongue.  There is nothing in the whole world that tastes like one: invigorating, nonfattening, and delicious.  I became completely engrossed in my new found sport, counting 41 “catches” during the short two block walk home, savoring each and every one of them.  All of the children at the church had been given a bag of goodies which consisted mostly of a couple of apples and an orange, along with a few various kinds of nuts and half of a handful of hard tack candy.  My sack was now wet from the snow, but I really didn’t care as my thoughts were on the small stack of packages underneath our tree, hoping my name was on at least one of them.  Maybe Santa had made an appearance and left me my wish, my only desire, a stuffed black Scottie Dog that I had seen on page 154 of the Sears catalogue.  The price was 19 cents, more than twice the amount I had saved in my piggy bank, but just maybe one of the elves at the North Pole had made one for me, or maybe, just maybe, Santa had a little bit of cash put back and had ordered the real thing for me direct from the warehouse in Chicago!

I ran as fast as I could slide the last short distance home and was the first to reach the front door.  I didn’t need a key for back then you had no need for one; in rural America honesty was prevalent and if you really needed something, you would ask for it, not permanently borrow it without permission.  I needed help opening the door as my mittens were wet and were having an awful time doing what my brain was telling them to do.  At long last, it swung open and in a flash I was in the living room, leaving a trail of snow behind.  It was worth the scolding that I received, for on one of the upper branches of our tree was my Blackie.  I was in heaven!

I can’t remember other gifts that I received, if any, for what else could a youngster want or need?  That night I had slept like a dream and dreamed as I slept.  We were a team indeed, that Blackie and me.  We spent that night doing what most other boys and their dogs do, things like fighting Indians in the Old Wild West, slaying dragons, finding golden treasures to give to our mother so that she could buy chocolate chips and other stuff to make cookies, rescuing those who needed to be rescued, and so on.

The morning came much too quickly for us, but the snow had stopped, the sun was out, and the prospects for the day seemed endless.  As I threw back the covers on my bed, I could smell the ham that Mom was baking in the oven of her woodburning cook stove.  Hurrying down the stair steps, I hardly glanced at the tree, but instead focused on getting to the breakfast table to fill up Blackie and myself before we set out on our daily adventures.  Good old Mom, she must have gotten up before dawn for there was freshly baked bread already sliced, and a quart jar of strawberry jam sitting alongside a bowl of freshly churned butter.  What more could a young lad ask for?  Blackie and I grabbed a couple of slices that Mom had already blessed with butter and jam, smiled our approval, then started to wolf them down.  Between and during bites I explained what I was going to do, and then Mother told me what I was going to do.  The grandfolks were going to drop by and my assistance was needed to help put things in order.  Things like setting the table and sweeping the floor – definitely not things any boy would like to be caught doing, but the tone in Mothers’ voice said that I would simply love to help her.  And so I did.

Family get-togethers are meaningless to a kid unless there are  uncles doing magic tricks, or aunts handing out a dime or two, or some distant cousin that wants to do what you want to do and wants to do what you say.  This one was going to be boring, for none of the above would be happening that day and so one must generate his own excitement.  But now things were different, for at long last I had a friend, a true friend; I had my Blackie!

I struggled through the formalities of the day.  I had set the table,  swept the floor, and managed to smile and be civil before, during, and after one of Mother’s best meals ever.  The ham was baked with pineapple, and there were mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes, and there were a half dozen different veggies, and cranberry sauce not from a can, and there were four different kinds of pie: pumpkin, mince meat, apple, and cherry!  I’ll bet that you can’t guess which of the pies was my favorite, and I can’t either, for I loved them all equally the same!  To me there is only one thing in this world better than pie, and that is potato pancakes!  But not for Christmas Day dinner…….

I had eaten so much that I was sluggish.  I sat down on the end of the couch that was nearest the tree, listening to my siblings whisp- ering back and forth about the attack on Pearl Harbor.  Yes, nearly three weeks ago those nasty sneaky Japanese had the audacity to strike without warning, sinking or crippling our battleships.  Luckily for us, our aircraft carriers were out on maneuvers.  Now the question that was being raised was, what can we do to help?  Finally Doris suggested, how about forming some kind of backyard army?  And so, the idea was soon put into action; the BYA came into existence, its goals and purposes would soon be established.  We would be ready for come what may, a deterrent to all aggressors!  My eyelids were getting heavy.  I soon drifted off, leaving the cold snow-covered tundra for the warm islands of adventure with Blackie, my fearless companion and protector.

I cannot recall Fireside Chats, news and encouragement that would compete with the loud noisy static, blaring out together from that 10” speaker in our nearly new Gibson radio.  It was definitely one of my mother’s most prized earthly possessions, a floor model she called “The Console.”  She kept the mahogany highly polished with a lemony ointment that she ordered from Mr. Eddy Killenspiel, an elderly gentleman that made monthly rounds selling Watkins products.  He was missing his left leg from the knee downwards, blown off by a grenade while serving his country in the trenches of France in 1917.  He was proud that he had served and prouder still of the long list of products that he represented to “better the community.”  He owned an elderly horse, a chestnut gelding given to him by the widow of a Major Duncan.  Eddy had served in the US Cavalry under the Major, who was now long deceased.  The Last Will and Testament had explicitly listed Private Killenspiel, who had heroically served under his command and who, according to the letter that accompanied the Purple Heart, which described  “his unselfish actions that did indeed save the Major from injury or even possible death,” as the recipient of 1500 pounds of horseflesh named Candy.  The will also listed an elderly four wheeled farm wagon as an afterthought gift, one that was greatly appreciated.  You could always tell when it was “Watkins Day,” for you could hear all three of them squeaking, creaking, and a-groaning from a mile off.  A canvas tarp covered his wares.

Our family would gather in the living room along with several of the neighbors at 8PM Central Standard Time at least once a month, usually on a Sunday, to hear our president, Mr. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, give us hope and assurance.  Things were recovering slowly but surely, foreign trade was up, the US dollar had stabilized, the job market and the overall outlook was gradually looking brighter.  He was indeed thankful for God’s help and direction the past six years, and thought that it would be appropriate this year of our Lord, 1939, to have not just one Thanksgiving observance, but two.  He was so enthused  and enraptured that he was proclaiming the fourth Thursday of that month, November 28th,  as an additional  “Thank God Holiday.”

Killenspiel had a nephew that played professional football for the Green Bay Packers, a linebacker, I believe, by the name of George “Nails” Nielson.  The Packer’s coach and general manager, upon hearing our president’s broadcast, called the spokesman for the Detroit Lions and asked the feasibility of having their match-up changed from the first Sunday in December to the new Holiday – same time, 1:30 PM kickoff; same place, East City Stadium in Green Bay.  An affirmative reply was received that evening, and the tradition of Thanksgiving Football was created.  When Eddy heard the sports news the next morning, he stopped at the Fairchild Grey-hound Bus Station and bought roundtrip tickets for his entire family, destination Green Bay and the BIG GAME!

Nails had three young boys and a pretty wife named Nellie whose maiden name was Thames, a fourth cousin to my mother.  She just happened to be nearly nine months pregnant and so Eddy thought it would be best if she were to stay at home near the family physician, Doctor W.W. Wilson, and he told her so. But she remained her usual self, headstrong and determined.  Woe be it to those who opposed her “wants to,” because she had her mind made up and come hell or high water or anything else, she was going to the game and that was the bottom line.  NO DISCUSSION!  When do we leave?  He went back to the bus station the next day and bought another ticket.

It was just 11 days until game day when Nails received a letter from his uncle, requesting him to purchase nine of the best seats in the stadium.  Also enclosed in the business-sized envelope were a couple of crisp new $20 bills, with pictures on them of our seventh president, Andrew Jackson.   Nails was surprised  –  pleasantly surprised, indeed!  Many times he had asked and pleaded for his family to come to a game and watch him play, and now, finally, it was about to happen.

He and 14 of his teammates were staying in a rundown three story for which a contract had been negotiated between the Packers’ liaison and Whalen Bridges, a sleazy landlord whose only scruples was the word itself found on page 986 of his Webster’s Dictionary.  While Nails walked the seven blocks to the ticket office at the stadium later that day, he practiced his begging voice.  The basement of the three story was mostly unused, and it was imperative that he be allowed squatters rights for his family there.  He was certain their funds would be completely exhausted if they would be forced to check into a hotel, even if a suite there was still available at this late hour.  Nails smiled as he suited up for the practice, his begging had been successful.  The tickets were on the 50 yard line, seventh row, a great bargain if he must say so himself.  And one couldn’t beat that price of $22.50, a paltry sum of $2.50 each.  And the kinfolk would have free lodging.  How he missed them…..

The Killenspiel Clan boarded the bus on Wednesday morning and arrived in what now is called “TitleTown, USA” some eight hours later.  According to the nameplate just under his portrait, the driver’s name was Llewyln Moltrin, safe, reliable, courteous.  It was quite a lengthy journey both in miles and duration, traveling mostly eastward on US 10, then turning north on Wisconsin 32.  This, as were most others in the Dairy State, was labeled a “milk run,” pun intended, and rightly so, for the Greyhound stopped at every tiny burg, hamlet, and even an occasional intersection with a state or county highway between here and there.  The driver had been instructed to pull over whenever he would spot a frantic wave where- ever it might be, as it could possibly mean additional revenue to the bus line, either in freight shipping or passenger fares.

The bottom line is that the trip was much too long for Nellie and her three young boys, all of whom became more and more restless with each passing mile.  Maybe her uncle by marriage was right.  Maybe she should have stayed at home and rested, but she grew more determined than ever to blot out that possibility and to disregard that sometimes stabbing pain in her lower back.  They started out by playing “I Spy” games, looking for horses and cows and sheep and whatever.  When that novelty wore off, the two oldest boys, six year old identical twins Harry and Larry, started counting telephone poles, competing with each other, trying to impress all the passengers with their mastery of numbers.  When at long last, they grew weary of looking out the windows, the sound and vibration of the diesel engine soon lulled almost everyone into “Sleepy Land.”

Nellie, too, started to drift just as the driver yelled out that they would have 20 minutes for lunch at the next scheduled stop, Stevens Point.  The clan had brought a dozen and a half peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches, and two quart jars filled with grape flavored Kool-Aid stowed away in an ancient picnic basket, made long ago by the Thunder Clan of the Chippewa Indians.  They dwelt in a hogan a mile north of Happy River Falls on County Road EE.

The bus station was indeed crowded.  This was a terminal where north-south passengers could transfer to go east or west, or vice versa.  Three other buses with their motors running were sitting along in front of the station/diner.  Llewyln eased in behind the building, and every passenger started a rapid exit as soon as the door of the bus swung open.  Mother nature was calling.  Almost everyone was trying to either get in or get out of the station at the same time.  Chaos ensued.  Only a US Marine sergeant could have restored order.  Lines were formed for the little boys’ and little girls’ rooms.  Many were waiting to sit down on the red leather swiveled bar stools that lined the counter.  Three waitresses with pink uniforms shouted additional requests at the pass-through window on whose well-worn shelf lay a dozen or so orders, mostly for shakes, burgers and fries.

When the announcement came to once again board the bus, most of the Nielsens and Killenspiels were still in line for the relief stations.  The second and last call for boarding came two minutes later, sending their group as well as several others scurrying for their seats on the bus.  Nellie was cranky and cantankerous, griping at the elderly driver.  Said that they didn’t have time for the comfort stop, let alone to consume their lunch.  Seeing they occupied the three rear seats, he reluctantly agreed to allow them to dine on their poor man’s caviar and French wine if they promised “to bus the bus before they leave the bus.”  His eyes twinkled after he said that – I truly believe he had used that one before.   Maybe to the slogan “safe, reliable, courteous” they should add “bad jokester?”
Back in Fairchild, my mother was pondering what she should fix for “The Second Turkey Day.”  Maybe she could get by with something simple, as last week she really outdid herself, preparing the biggest spread the family had enjoyed since before the Depression.  My  mother’s mother had been alerted that this could be the day as the same pains were developing that had developed those six times previously.  (I was child number seven).  Maybe we could have the get-together over at Gram’s house, it would sure make things easier.

Mother had heard the gossip concerning her cousin Nellie, how she had insisted on traveling when her time was so close, and worse yet, she was going to sit outside for three hours on a cold bleacher seat during inclement weather.  Those ball players were crazy, and her husband the worst of all.  He needed a brain implant as it was indeed obvious that he didn’t have one of his own.  How could he allow such a thing to happen?

Thanksgiving II dawned cold, spooky gray, dismal, and dreary.  The overcast was so low and thick that the only way even the old self-made weathermen could tell when dawn actually occurred was by consulting their watches and the Farmer’s Almanac.  WGB Radio in downtown Green Bay was predicting nasty conditions for game time, snow and plenty of it, driven by winds of 25 MPH and upward.  A true blizzard with accumulation of 20 inches or more.  Would the fans show up?  Would the game go on as scheduled?

Game time came and no sign of any wind or snow.  Optimism swept over the half filled stadium.  The Lions won the toss and on the opening kickoff return, their star right halfback Edmundson was nailed by Nails, causing a fumble.  Bedlam broke loose on the Packer side of the field; they had the ball on the Detroit 12 yard line.  At the same instant Nellie had a pain that said it won’t be long now and she announced it to all present by a blood curdling scream, soon to be swallowed up by the riotous mayhem all around her.  Midway into the first quarter the labor pains were five minutes apart and closing on zero, fast.  The Pack was ahead seven to zip.  The snow began falling, a token of large flakes began cascading down upon the bleachers and the playing field.  Nail’s kids started catching the lazier of the flakes on their tongues.  Eddy’s wife, Cora, while watching them remembered an incident from many, many years past when she and her ten year old brother were doing the same.  He had poked her jokingly in the ribs and giggling like a girl, said something like “I hope all the birds have migrated south!”

Lion’s ball, pass play.  Just as quarterback Jed Harlowe released the bomb, it was intercepted by a gust of wind that was so strong that the pigskin ended up in the bleachers one row behind Eddy Killenspiel.  Immediately it became a whiteout as the horizontal winds swirled and whirled the white stuff with abandon, chilling cheeks, numbing fingers and toes.  The storm grew relentless.  The labor pains grew stronger and more frequent.  Droves of people plunged off of the bleachers and en masse headed for the exits and the shelter of their automobiles.  Luckily, the kids were bundled with their winter’s best.  Nellie started to cry, which was a terrible mistake.  Her family crowded around her, trying to help shield her from the storm.  Mercifully, Nails appeared and led her and the rest of his tribe, slipping and stumbling, mostly forward.   He used the bottom row of bleachers as a guide, heading for Green Bay’s locker room now a hundred feet away.  The wind ceased for a short minute, enabling Nails to get the outer door open and his freezing herd inside.

The team’s physician, Dr. Oglesbee, was inside his office.  Nails and Nellie soon would be, too.  She clung to him, sobbing, the new tears running down her frozen face, almost forming icicles.  The good Doctor wagged his head in disbelief.  With the family outside his door, still shivering and praying, Nails Junior was born 10 minutes later.  He was the first baby to be born there at East City Stadium, and as far as I know, the only one.  Nails’ jersey, with the number 34 on it, was his first blanket.

I was born the next day, in Fairchild, at 2PM, in Grandma’s house.  My arrival had delayed and disrupted the festivities, postponing the consumption of the yesterday’s leftovers until after 6PM on that “We are so thankful Friday.”  Junior and I, what a team!  Never did hear if the Packers and the Lions ever finished that game

I am sitting in the chair in front of my computer, contemplating what topic that I should address for my next episode.  I had earlier this morning spent a few leisurely hours in my garden doing various necessary chores such as weeding and watering and harvesting.  One stupid chicken has frequented it also, relieving nearly all of my bounty of strawberries and now has started to peck holes in the nearly ripe tomatoes.  The entire brood of poultry belongs to my granddaughter, Joselyn, who claims them as pets.  As such, no one is allowed to torture or to perform any other physical abuse on them; they definitely cannot be eaten, heaven forbid, except by an occasional hawk or buzzard, raccoon or fox.  I have devised a plan, which I will extrapolate on at a later time, but for now I am thinking green beans.

This year, I have planted the pole variety of bean.  Fifty or sixty years ago, all the Emanuel clan knew was the Blue Lake Bush Green Bean.  I have already expounded to quite a length in previous stories on the picking techniques that were involved and the misery obtained to acquire the measly sum that was our “reward,” so I feel further elaboration is not needed here.

                                                                  
The trellis of sorts that I constructed was of concrete reinforcing mesh bought from the local lumberyard.  The #10 steel wire is factory tack-welded into 6” squares, or grids, that end up on a roll 60 inches wide X 50 feet long.  “Tee” posts are utilized at 10 to 15 ft intervals, and 20 ft lengths of re-bar are wired to the top of the posts.   The fox-wire, layman’s term for the wire mesh, is then secured to the re-bar.  After tilling the soil, bean seed is planted on both sides of the trellis.  This method limits the stooping and bending at picking time to a tolerable amount; personally, my back thanks me vehemently every morning as I pat it and say, “Well done, self!  Good idea!”

At exactly 8 o’clock today, I heard the green beans pleading and imploring me to take them out of the high temperature, high humidity that was there in the garden, both of which were already approaching 85, on the way for a daily high just short of the century mark.  They had no regards for their longevity, but were merely seeking immediate relief.  I know that you are questioning my sanity, for you, in all probability, do not know any other mortal who not only talks to plants, but also listens to them. . .and obeys their wishes and commands.  In just a few minutes, I had a plastic Wal-Mart bag filled to the overflowing as they literally jumped the promised destination    After giving them their just reward of a refreshing shower underneath the kitchen sink aerator, I reverently placed them into a gallon size freezer bag, then laid them to rest on the bottom frost covered shelf of the freezer.  As I closed the freezer door, I could hear their mumble jumble humble thanks as they in unison cried “AH, COMFY!”