| Christmas In Rockingham Was a Wonderful Life Too, Jimmy Stewart Part 5B |
| The following is the conclusion of the most memorable Christmas ever at the McDonald house when I was a kid - Christmas of 1960. I hope you experience as much enjoyment reading about Christmas with the McDonald brothers as I did reminiscing and writing about Christmases past. Once again, please take time to write and share your memories with all your old friends and readers of Joel's website in cyberspace just what a "Wonderful Life" Christmas and all the other "Wonderful" times of the year were "growing up in Rockingham, North Carolina - a small textile town in the South in the ' 50s & ' 60s." The Christmas of 1960 was a crossroads in the life of the McDonald brothers, at least for Ken and me. I was in the seventh grade and ten days shy of my thirteenth birthday. I never heard it from Daddy's mouth but I am sure he was disappointed at the timing of my arrival into the world and the missed tax advantage. For every sweet, there is a sour. Having a birthday on January 4 made me older than most of my classmates. The wee bit of maturity advantage gave me self - confidence. The sour came when I asked about a birthday party. "Birthday party? Are you kidding? We have not even paid for your Christmas yet!" Mama would always bake me a chocolate cake though. Since I was Mama's first born, she told me that she was so miserable that she started jumping off the front porch in December! Someone had told her that this exercise would hasten delivery. I have always suspected that Pop encouraged this activity. The Scotchman in him could see the advantage of a December ' 47 birth over a January ' 48 birth. The roads that crossed in 1960 was the Road of Reality and the Road of Make-Believe. Down the Road of Reality one could find Disappointment Downs, Ignorance Inn, Whiners Way, Gripers Grocery, Losers Lounge, and Heartbreak Hotel. The Road of Reality was full of pity potholes while the storms of controversy always impair the clear vision of reasoning. Down the Road of Make-Believe one could find Superhero Super Slab, Wonderland Way, Cartoon Causeway, Easy Estates, Hero Haven, and Fairytale Freeway. The Road of Make-Believe was always a smooth cruise in the bright sunshine with not a cloud of worry in the sky. At the Childhood Crossroads, stood James McKnight, my next door neighbor and childhood idol. James was the son of our preacher Wade McKnight. James recruited Ken and me to do all the dirt work in turning the field beside the parsonage into a baseball diamond. He then conned us into chasing thousands of baseballs under the pretense of fly ball catching. James told us he could teach us to catch like Willie Mays and we believed him. He then laughed himself silly by throwing a curve neither one of us could hit. James had wavy jet black hair while Ken and I had straight brown hair that Daddy never let grow more than three quarters of an inch long. Daddy always had Ken, Gary, and me in Charles Gibson's barbershop located across the street from Archie's Red & White next to Flukie's ( Hawkins ) Shell Service every two weeks. James could have made commercials for Vitalis. He had a ducktail with not a hair out of place that would have made Elvis smile. James McKnight, my next door neighbor and childhood idol, was quite a ladies man. He told me how he stole kisses from the prettiest of girls using moves that I could only fantasize about making. James taught Ken and me how to smoke rabbit tobacco. I can still remember bending over his mother's stove ( she was not at home ) and taking a deep draw of the rolled brown paper bag stuffed with rabbit tobacco ( country weed ). The homemade cigarette flamed up and I set the bill of my New York Yankees baseball cap on fire. James McKnight, my next door neighbor and childhood idol, saved my life by jerking it off my head and slam dunking it into his mother's dishwater. James could also throw a swift hard punch. James' Golden Fight Rule was "He who throws the first punch wins!" He often proved the theory "A punch to the nose cures the runny mouth." Ken and I always had James' back and he always had ours. Several times Daddy and Reverend McKnight would be coming out the front door of our church and James, Ken, and I would be fighting for our lives either with the Frye boys or the Ussery brothers in the front yard at the bottom of the steps. I will never forget one incident when Reverend McKnight broke us up and made us shake hands. Everything was cool until Ken grabbed Billy Frye's hand with both of his hands and squeezed as tightly as a python squeezing a wild piglet. Oh, it was on again until Daddy stepped in. As a result, we had never received nor given a beating in the church yard like we received when we got home. I cannot say that we never fought at church again but I promise you that we never fought again in the front yard at the bottom of the church steps. A small footnote that I am compelled to add: the Usserys were actually cousins. Ken and I fought against the Ussery brothers but we also fought with the Ussery brothers at church and school. We were friends as well as foe. On the other hand, the Frye boys were our friends but we only fought against them not with them. The Ussery-Frye relationship proves the old adage, "blood is thicker than water." Although James McKnight, my next door neighbor and childhood idol, was not related, he was our blood brother. Every day Ken and I were either at his house or he was at ours. Our dads became best of friends. Daddy was Chairman of the Deacon Board and confided in Mr. McKnight and visa-versa. James was a good kid but he was just a little mischievous. James told Ken and me dirty jokes. James also told us of the message that the stand alone middle finger sent when exposed. James, a marble marvel, won all our marbles and taught us how to play poker at our expense. Some of the church members complained to the preacher about James' disruptive nature. James cut up in Sunday School class and passed notes in worship service. James talked in Sunday Training Union class and made funny faces in Evening Worship. On Wednesdays, he was late for Royal Ambassadors class and always had to go to the bathroom ten minutes before class ended never to return. The Preacher was always fielding complaints from his flock about the conduct of his son James. One Sunday morning probably after hearing one too many comments on James, Reverend McKnight made a tongue-in-cheek announcement from the pulpit about his only male child. "My son James is all boy. Many of you tell me that James is the class clown. I know that James is full of life. However, he has never been the talk of the congregation until I moved to McDonald Baptist and became next door neighbor to the Deacon Board Chairman. I can only conclude that James' behavior is a direct result of playing with the Deacon's children." That pulpit oratory drew chuckles and laughter from the congregation. By now, all adults were so accustomed to James that they expected the unexpected from James. However, it was the unexpected from James McKnight, my next door neighbor and childhood idol, that rocked the McDonald brothers' world forever. In early December, 1960, James tried to crumble one of the building blocks that my happy childhood foundation was built upon. James told Ken and me that Santa Claus was a hoax. James said that Santa was a figment of adult imagination. He stated that parents use this lie to keep their children from becoming habitual "Kids Gone Wild!" Mamas and Daddies anywhere, any day, any time always used the line, "If you do not straighten up, I am going to write Santa Claus and tell him not to bring you anything for Christmas!" That threat always worked. A kid could not gamble his future Christmas booty on the possibility of Mama writing Santa. Every child knew that Santa had a list that he always checked twice anyway. If Santa already had two strikes against you and received a "strike three" letter from your mama, then it was all over. "Strike three and you are out" of a Christmas from Santa. A kid had too much to lose not to comply. Although letters to Santa were usually only written in December, we McDonald brothers knew that the U.S. Post Office delivered mail all year long. After all, Daddy and Cousin Frank McDonald went to work every day all year long, strapped a forty pound bag on their backs, and delivered mail. Furthermore, the government guaranteed that "neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." With a government guarantee like that, there was no reason to believe that mail could not be delivered to Santa any month of the year. I am sure that Santa Claus received the Richmond County Journal at the North Pole. After all, Editor Neal Cadieu was kind enough to print "Letters To Santa" in the paper. Mama said that if you read it in the Journal it was true. Based on this fact alone, Ken and I knew James had to be lying about no Santa. However, I could not believe that James McKnight, my next door neighbor and childhood idol, was so confused about the truth. Where did James get this idea? I asked him to prove that Santa did not exist. He offered Ken and me the following detailed explanation. "Yesterday, I saw Daddy drive our car up to the back of the church. The trunk of his car was so full that he had to tie it down to keep it closed. I thought he had church supplies in his trunk. Boy was I surprised! Daddy pulled a bicycle out of the rear of the car and rolled it through the back door. He came out quickly, locked the door, and drove into our driveway. I just knew that Daddy would explain the bicycle at the supper table. It seemed that Mrs. Taylor had called because Mr. Taylor was down in his back in a lot of pain. Every time I tried to ask about the bicycle, Daddy would say, ' Don't interrupt, James.' Finally he said, ' Son, if you interrupt me one more time, I am going to tell your mama to write Santa and tell him not to bring you that black Columbia three speed English bicycle with the saddle-bag on the seat and the generated light on the handle bars. If you don't believe me, wait until you read your mother's letter in the Journal.' I wanted that bicycle so I just shut my mouth and finished supper. Daddy finished his supper, brushed his teeth, and left. Mama said he was going to see Mr. Taylor. The phone rang and I answered it. Grandma Coward wanted to speak to Mama. I knew this was my opportunity to sneak into the church. Grandma always keeps Mama on the telephone for an hour and Mr. Taylor lives halfway between Ledbetters and Roberdel. I grabbed Daddy's five cell flashlight and spare key and ran across the street. I looked everywhere and you will never guess what I found!" "What, James? What? What did you find?" The mystery of searching God's House after dark with a five cell flashlight on entrance made possible by the Preacher's borrowed-without-permission key was almost sacrilegious. Only James McKnight, my next door neighbor and childhood idol, could pull this caper off. The suspense was about to split our eyelids and make our jawbone ache as Ken and I stood in bug-eyed and jaw-dropped amazement. "What, James? What did you find? PLEASE tell us!" Yes, inquiring minds want to know! James who was always the happy-go-lucky, don't triple-dog-dare me, I'll worry about the consequences later type of guy, was about to give Ken and me the shock of our young lives. James' facial expressions and body language changed to those like a Supreme Court Justice about to render a society changing decision as he began to speak. "I unlocked the church library/janitorial supply room and found a black Columbia three speed English bicycle with a saddle bag on the seat and a generated light on the handlebars. Santa Claus is make-believe! Your Daddy buys your Christmas gifts and hides them. He probably wakes up in the middle of the night and sticks them under the Christmas tree. However, I am going to play along with Daddy. He is having more fun doing this scam than he does pretending to be the Tooth Fairy. He is having too much fun for me to spoil it." "James you are kidding. Aren't you? You just want to laugh at us like you always do when we try to hit your curve ball. We are not going to fall for that joke." James smiled, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a key. "Daddy and Mama just left for town. They are going to see Mr. Maske at Economy Auto. Mama wants a new Westinghouse stove for Christmas. She thinks something electrical is wrong with hers. I heard her tell Daddy that every time she turns it on, it smells like burning weeds or burning paper. Mama is afraid that it will catch on fire and burn the house down during the middle of the night. Let's go look at my new three speed," James said as he shook the church key in our faces. "We have plenty of time. It's only 10 AM. We've got nine hours before Christmas Eve service. We can eat as many Zero bars out of the fruit bags as we want." "No James," I said. "We have to go now. Daddy told us not to be late for lunch. Too many Zeros before lunch is not a good idea." Out the door we flew. I told Ken that James was lying and when we reached home we would ask Mama. Mama would tell the truth. If you can't believe your Mama , who can you believe? My twenty-four inch Schwinn bicycle with the luggage/passenger rack over the back fender, the six cell battery tank for the headlamp on the handlebars, and whitewall tires that Santa brought on December 25, 1956 could not get me home fast enough. At least, I thought Santa brought it to me. Now I was not sure if a green ' 60 four door Plymouth or a red sleigh delivered it. "Mama let me tell you what James told us. He said ..." "So you didn't fall for his trick? Mama asked. "You never went plundering in the church (plundering was an activity that I was not allowed to do versus exploring, an approved activity) ?" Mama concluded that James was just being James and he and his older sister Patsy were probably having a good laugh over our gullible antics. "Mama, James seemed so sincere. Why don't reindeer on our roof wake us up?" I questioned. "How can Santa slide down a dirty chimney and his white beard and red suit never show dirt? How does Santa get down a chimney with a sack full of toys if a fire is burning in the fireplace? Even more puzzling , how does he get in if the home has no fireplace at all? How can Santa go down every chimney in Rockingham not to mention the world between the later than usual bedtime hour and the earlier than usual hour you awake when it takes you eight hours to get to Daytona Beach and you only stop twice? How can Santa eat all that cake and drink all that milk without getting sick?" Ken and I had more questions about Santa we had never even thought about until now. Mama seemed to be frustrated by all our questions. "Boys, if you don't go to bed right now, Santa will not come tonight. Santa is a special angel. God is not happy if you do not believe in Santa Claus. Don't dare mention to your little brother Gary that you even thought Santa was make-believe (too late, Gary was in the next room listening to all of our discussion). Now go to bed!" Maybe James was right. Is there a Santa Claus? Early the next morning, I awoke to hear Elvis Pressley singing "You ain't nothing but a hound dog" in my living room. I suppose Mama was going to tell me that Elvis slid down the chimney, too. I slipped out of my bed and scooted to see the King of Rock & Roll. On the floor under our Christmas tree was Daddy playing an Elvis LP on a Zenith High Fidelity record player with detachable speakers in living stereo sound. Daddy told me that Santa had left me a record player. What a perfect gift for a boy only ten days shy of his thirteenth birthday; a teenager with his very own stereo record player, how cool I am! Still, the biggest surprise of Christmas of 1960 was yet to come. After eating Christmas breakfast, little Gary came running into the house shouting "Come outside and see what Zeke has in his mouth! Hurry! Hurry!" He was so excited! We all ran out to see what Zeke had. Zeke was our bulldog. His mama was a full-blooded boxer and his daddy was a full-blooded German Sheppard. Zeke carried the best characteristics of both breeds. Zeke was a combination of German Sheppard intelligence in a bulldog frame with the grit of a boxer and the smarts of a trained guard dog. That dog was a friend and playmate by day and a fearless guard dog by night. Daddy said if it walked on four legs, Zeke could whip it. Apparently, Zeke proved that logic for in his mouth that Christmas morning was a perfect ten point rack of antlers. Mama seized this opportunity to teach us a lesson. She told Gary, Ken, and me that Zeke might have Rudolph's antlers in his mouth. Mama reminded us that since we thought Santa Claus was make-believe, God let Zeke catch Rudolph to prove to us that he was real and at our house. How terrible we felt! This prospect drove us to tears. How could we be so foolish to think that Santa Claus was make-believe? This sad scenario was what the deacon's sons got for playing with the preacher's son. Why did it have to be Rudolph? "Mama are you sure it is Rudolph?" Ken asked. "It may not be Rudolph. It could be another reindeer since we did not find a red nose," Mama explained. By now, we were three miserable boys. "It may be a Richmond County deer and not a North Pole deer," Mama reasoned. She could tell we needed a dose of mercy and a ray of hope. Mama advised "Boys, if you promise to be nice, pray every night, and believe in Santa, God may answer your prayers and wishes." The year between December 25,1960 and December 25, 1961, Gary, Ken, and I were "extra nice." It was not until December 1,1961 that our fears and worries about Rudolph and his teammates were put to rest. You see every December 1, the McDonald family loaded up and went to town to see the Christmas lights and decorations. As we approached 223 East Washington Street, Gary, Ken, and I looked up on the roof of Hallum Furniture Store, saw Santa in his sleigh, saw Rudolph with his nose so red bright, and last but not least counted eight other tiny reindeer. Thank God! Zeke had caught a Richmond County deer. We never ever again from that day forward thought that Santa was make-believe. On December 25, 2005, Santa unloaded his sleigh at my home in Hope Mills. My three girls ages 23, 16, and 12 never questioned how he ended up in our house and unloaded under our tree even though our house does not have a chimney. They believe because I believe! I believe because of the Christmas of 1960, my most memorable Christmas ever at the McDonald house when I was a kid. The truth does not change. Only lies change. The truth I learned in 1960 was the same truth that Editor Francis Church of the New York Sun wrote in an editorial response to 8 year old Virginia O' Hanlon who asked the question, "Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?" Mr. Church's response written on September 21, 1897, concluded, "No Santa Claus? Thank God! He lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood." Yes, I remember those precious childhood memories of growing up in Rockingham, North Carolina - a small textile town in the South in the ' 50s & ' 60s. THE END |
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