CHRISTMAS ON THE TUNDRA
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.
