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Didn't Mean to Be Naughty
By
Jean Hebert
Chippewa
Falls
Author's
note:
My father-in-law, Thomas J. Hebert Sr., is now 88 years old and
living in Eagleton, north of Chippewa Falls. Here is a peak at Christmas
for a 6-year-old farm boy, 82 years ago.
It
was Christmas Eve 1925, and little Tommy Hebert just couldn't wait.
Curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he started snooping
around the house for his presents.
He even searched in the icehouse. That's where he found what he
thought was a toy pool table just like his best friend John's. Wow,
he was going to hit the jackpot this year.
Tommy was proud of the Christmas tree he and his father had cut
and hauled in from the woods. Tonight, after he and his sister,
Doris, were asleep, his mother would decorate the tree with strings
of popcorn, colored construction-paper chains and her prized glass
ornaments.
Because the farmhouse didn't have electricity, she would put candles
on the tree. That night Tommy went to bed with a serious case of
excitement and anticipation.
Christmas morning dawned bright and cold. Swirling wind blew snow
from the bare tree limbs as Tommy ran to the barn to help his dad
with morning chores.
All Tommy could think about was the pool table he would be getting
in a few hours. Once the milking was finished, the family members
put on their church clothes and set off for Christmas services.
Tommy had trouble listening to the Christmas message. He was preoccupied
with thoughts of the pool table he was going to unwrap in less than
an hour.
After church, Mother and Dad lit the candles on the Christmas tree
in the parlor. Tommy and his sister were delighted at the beauty
of the flickering candles.
The children crawled under the tree to check out the prettily wrapped
presents. While they were fooling around, they knocked over the
tree. Down it went with a swish, burning candles and all.
Tommy and Doris ran to the other side of the room with their eyes
bugging out and their hearts thumping in fear. Luckily, their dad
was able to put out the flames and set the tree back upright.
Even without lights on the Christmas tree, Tommy shivered with excitement.
He waited for his mother to hand him the large package he thought
contained his pool table.
But when his mother picked up the present, she handed it to his
father instead.
Tommy was disappointed beyond words. He had spent hours dreaming
of the fun he was going to have with his toy pool table, and now
his dreams were crushed. Tears came to his eyes.
Under the tree were a new dolly, a pretty new dress and some candy
for Doris. But there was only a shirt and some candy for Tommy.
He stood back with his head down.
'I'm sorry for snooping before Christmas, and I didn't mean to knock
over the tree. I'm sorry I was not listening in church today,' he
told Jesus silently. 'I didn't mean to be naughty on your birthday.'
Just then mother said, 'Tommy, I think this must belong to you.'
He looked up and saw his mother holding a new red scooter.
His heart leapt in his chest, and he let out a whoop. This was even
better than a toy pool table. He took the scooter and hugged it,
while his mother and dad grinned.
They didn't know what was going on in Tommy's mind, but they were
glad to have selected a gift that made their little boy so happy.
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Heavy
Christmas
By Cindy Sinz
Menomonie
I have
a lot of great memories of Christmas, but the memory that always
brings a smile to my face is the one I am submitting to your contest.
When we were growing up, our Christmas Eve routine consisted of
Santa and one of his elves coming to our house and handing out suckers
— they just happened to be the same ones that the local barber
handed out to kids when they were done getting their hair cut.
After Santa left, the seven of us kids would hop in the car and
dad would drive us around Elmwood to see all of the pretty Christmas
lights and decorations. During the time that we were gone viewing
all of the Christmas displays, Santa would make his delivery to
our house.
Mom would flip on the outside porch light when we left, and our
cue that we could return home is when she turned off the light.
This system worked just great until one year when it took longer
than normal for the light to be turned off.
That particular year we departed like we normally did — eight
people in one four-door sedan. It was always cozy, and Christmas
music was always playing on the car radio.
We made our way up and down Main Street and all of the other streets
that were so nicely decorated. Of course, the seven of us kids liked
to see the lights and decorations, but our main focus was that porch
light being turned off.
Every 15 minutes or so, the car would make a swing down Main Street
where we lived, but that darned porch light was still on. Because
my sister, Debbie, and I knew there wasn't a Santa Claus, Dad would
look at us wondering what was taking so long for 'Santa' to leave
our gifts.
We just shrugged our shoulders, and Dad kept driving. Because we
had covered most of the houses in the village of Elmwood, he decided
to drive us around Farm Hill to look at farms decorated for the
holiday season.
As you might have guessed, the seven kids in the car were not that
taken with going for a ride out of town when all they wanted to
do was go home and open their Christmas presents. While we were
taking our ride, a couple of the younger ones ended up falling asleep.
We got back to Elmwood and immediately drove up Main Street and
past our house. The porch light was still on!
Now Dad, my sister and I were beginning to wonder if something had
happened to Santa? Dad said we would make one more swing around
town, and if the light was still on, he would run in to see if Santa
needed some help.
Thank goodness, when we did return to Main Street, the porch light
was off! The younger ones woke up, and into the house we ran.
Dad, my sister and I all immediately looked at Mom to see if she
would indicate what took her so long this year? She managed to tell
us that they had gotten my brother a weightlifting set, and she
had to open the box and carry each weight individually from the
basement storage room up the stairs to the dining room where the
Christmas tree was located!
Poor Mom, she was exhausted from lugging the weight set up the basement
steps along with all of the other gifts for seven kids.
As the kids got older, we would let them in on what really happened
the Christmas Eve when it took so long for the outside porch light
to be turned off. We have told this story to our children and friends
over the years, and we always get a good laugh out of it.
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A
Fable of Christmas Past
By
Merlin Moore
Eau
Claire
During
World War II, I served at P.T. Boat Base 17 at Samar, Philippine
Islands. In that area it was difficult to find the perfect Christmas
gift for my girlfriend, Genevieve McAdam, back home in Augusta.
I shopped diligently at all of the exclusive department stores in
Tacloban and Olongapoo and came up with three possibilities: one,
a little bag of pretty stones and sea shells; two, a mini hula skirt
made by a local craftsman from a short piece of tightly curled hemp
rope; and three, an attractively framed photograph of a big, old
water buffalo standing knee-deep in the mud.
I knew that none of these three gifts would make my sweetie pie's
heart go pitter-pat even one time. So I went heavily into debt and
bought her a $25, lifetime subscription to Reader's Digest magazine.
To date, she has received 757 monthly issues at an average cost
to me of about three cents each. One current issue cost other folks
three bucks, so you might think that I made a pretty good investment.
Not necessarily so! Fact is, I think Reader's Digest still owes
me a bundle.
You see, to make the original purchase, I had to fork over nearly
a half month's pay. Quite frankly, that was many more centavos than
I intended to pay because I had no guarantee that I would ever get
a positive return on my investment. I have to admit that the memory
of that transaction still bothers me a little bit.
To smooth my conscience, I've been thinking a lot of late about
how I can whittle down that prodigious cost to a more reasonable
figure — say, to one cent per monthly issue!
Unfortunately, according to my figures, 1 will have to live to be
about 226 years of age and also stay married to my first wife for
more than 200 years. It's beginning to look like that just isn't
going to happen.
One possibility is Reader's Digest pays its readers $300 for an
amusing story. If I can convince them to pay me that much for this
touching anecdote, Gen, my wife of 59 years, and I can continue
to live the American Dream and then someday walk together hand in
hand into the sunset carrying our new large-print issue of the magazine.
After all, we've been loyal customers of theirs for 63 years and
never have complained to them even one time. Not every customer
can make that statement, I am sure. Anyway, I think it will be worth
a try.
Now, to be serious one moment: Thank you Lord for the 81 very merry
Christmases that I've spent in Samar and Wisconsin and Minnesota
and Texas, and for the wonderful, wonderful life I've lived in the
good old United States of America. I have been richly blessed.
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Home for Christmas
By Amy Johnson
Eau Claire
I remember the first year that I was away from home for Christmas.
I was a newlywed, a new teenager-turned adult, and my husband and I went to his parents' home for Christmas. His family lives on a farm, and a blizzard had filled the gravel lane up with snow.
Our Ford Impala got stuck in the first three feet. 'Let's make a dash for it!' he hooted with spirit.
So, we bolted up the lane with the wind in our faces and left the presents and suitcases in our car at the main road. As we pushed against the snow all around our legs, I could look into the house window and see the nice, warm people inside.
We burst in the door and hollered, 'Merry Christmas!' All of the welcoming faces of my new family greeted us.
There was a lot of hustle and bustle, with the little nieces and nephews joyously bouncing their happy energy through the house. They brought out all of 'Grandma's toys' from upstairs and concentrated on using them for what they were intended.
The warm smells of slow-cooking food came from the kitchen, and the living room was stuffed a little more fully than on my previous visits, with a Christmas tree, presents and people.
We ate and acted out a Nativity program about Baby Jesus. It was a lovely time. My new dad plowed out the gravel lane, and we got the car in for the night.
In the late evening, the nieces and nephews scuttled off to bed, and the adults snuck out to the kitchen to talk a little more, but after a big day, everyone started to fade into sleep. The house was quieting, and I began to feel homesick.
In the quiet of the night, I telephoned my folks back home and told them about the lovely time I'd had. Then I started to say that I wished I was there.
At that moment my mom gave me a great gift ... one that a newlywed daughter (who was starting to feel sorry for herself) could really use. She told me to 'buck up' and that they were my family now too.
And with a cheerful 'Good night,' she hung up the phone.
Thanks for giving me the gift of adulthood and sending me into a new chapter of life without blubbering and backsliding.
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Our Valentine's Saviors
By Amy Peer
Eau Claire
'We haven't served dinner here on a Tuesday for 500 years!' The bartender explained to Bryan as he and I were on our first Valentine's Day date night.
Studying abroad in England, we were in the middle of nowhere without means of transportation. The next closest buildings were the college/manor house we were staying in and a shelter for sheep.
Bryan was crushed that his perfect Valentine's Day chance to woo his new girlfriend appeared lost. We would have to eat the dry little crackers I bought in town because we had already missed the evening meal served in the refectory at the college.
'We'll take you into town,' one of the only two other people in the bar told us as he downed his pint. 'Just have one more drink with us here, and John and I will drive you into Grantham.'
I was nervous at the proposition. However, Bryan thought it was a splendid idea and accepted right away.
As we drove along in the tiny European car, we had some suggestions as to the place where they could drop us off. However, they insisted that we go to a Chinese restaurant that a friend of theirs owned: 'It is the best Chinese food in Grantham!'
There was a long line of impatient guests waiting to begin the Valentine's Day festivities when we got to the restaurant. However, our new friends led us to the front of the line and got us a table right away, before having another drink at the bar and leaving.
They were right. The food was delicious, in the way that majorly expensive food frequently is. I felt bad because the meal was going to cost Bryan more than $70!
A little sticker price-shocked, and unhappy that our new friends had chosen such a high-priced place, we turned down the demanding waiter every time he came over to ask if we wanted some wine, which was about every three minutes. We wondered why he was being so demanding.
We were stuffed by the end of the meal. When we finally got the waiter's attention, he told us that the check had been taken care of.
We were astonished. The men that had given us a ride into town and got us a table at what seemed to be one of the hottest restaurants in town had also bought our meal on our first Valentine's date.
Bryan immediately went to the bar to see if he could get in contact with our Valentine's Day donors, but the owner only knew their first names and nothing of an address. So, we were forced to leave a note at the bar for them for the next time they stopped by there.
In the note we thanked them for their generosity and promised to pass it on one day. We know that there will be a Valentine's Day, hopefully soon, when we will be able to fulfill that promise.
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Love the Second Time Around
By Jeff J. Geroux
Eau Claire
On New Year's Eve 2004, going into 2005, I reunited with my high school sweetheart, Sarah, after 12 years of being apart.
Sarah and I used to date back in high school in 1993. We split up because her parents were strict in letting her go out. We went our separate ways, but we never forgot each other.
Sarah stayed in the Chippewa Valley and got married in 1998. After I finished college, I moved to Chicago and got married in 2000.
In 2002, I moved back from Chicago to the Chippewa Valley due to the divorce of my first wife. I remained single.
On New Year's Eve 2004, a friend and I decided to go out to dinner and a movie. It was going on midnight, and my friend suggested we go out for a New Year's drink.
At first I said no because I was tired and I wanted to go home. My friend convinced me to go and just have one.
So, we went to The Mousetrap Tavern to have our one drink to ring in the new year. Lo and behold, my high school sweetheart, Sarah, was there. I recognized her and approached her and said, 'I know you,' and she said, 'Yes, you do.'
Sarah and I talked for a long time that night. She was in the process of divorcing her first husband. We exchanged phone numbers.
I called her about two weeks later and asked her out for a lunch date. She accepted. From there, I supported and helped her with her divorce because I went through the same thing. We went out on more dates and spent a lot of time together.
Sarah and I got married in July 2006, and we have a 1-year-old baby boy together. Just think if I decided to go home that night instead of going for the one drink.
This story touches many hearts and reminds me of the country song by Rascal Flatts, which was sung at our wedding, 'Bless the Broken Road That Lead Me Straight to You.'
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Our Christmas Gift
By Susan Singerhouse Samardzich
Eau Claire
It was 1963. Christmas was always a very busy, exciting time at our home.
Every year Mom and Dad worked hard to make it special. Mom sewed each of us four girls our special Christmas dresses, which usually consisted of a lot of layers and velvet. Dad always had that gleam in his eye, giving us all the anticipation of a wonderful year.
Each year we were given about $10 to spend on each other. That meant we all had to find the perfect gift for our siblings and parents. This was not an easy task as that equated to eight gifts: one each for Mom, Dad and our six sisters and brothers.
It was a gray day as we headed to Menomonie for our shopping spree. The air was filled with the anticipation of finding the perfect gift for each and everyone. My sisters' and brothers' ages ranged from 3 to 17.
I don't remember the store we were in, but I do recall that it had a marble stairway with a banister. I, the second youngest at 8, along with my brother, a whole year older, were to watch our beautiful little 3-year-old sister. Everyone was scurrying in awe of the 'big city' excitement.
As we were looking at toys with our baby sister, Mary, we noticed how docile and quiet she was. Her golden curls cascaded from her white fur bonnet onto her red coat.
We were shocked to see her face fade to a white that would not allow you to distinguish her face from her hair. Suddenly her beautiful green eyes were lifeless, and she melted to the floor like a leaf from an autumn tree.
The scene became really crazy then. Screaming, Dad ran and picked up our precious baby's lifeless body and ran to the street. Screaming again, Dad asked where a doctor was.
It was a surreal thing seeing him hold Mary's limp little body. Dad was always our rock, but the fear in his voice as he screamed for help on the sidewalk will always stay with me.
The next thing I remember is sitting at a restaurant with my sisters and brothers ordering lunch. The silence was so heavy you could have cut it with a knife. Mom and Dad were with Mary and we had no idea how she was. We all were so worried that the burgers grew cold as we sat silently at the table.
It was the best Christmas Eve ever when they brought our Mary home from the hospital. The doctors had given her a spinal tap and diagnosed 'quick pneumonia.'
The presents lay unopened under the tree, but we had gotten the greatest gift of all. Our Mary was home.
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The $2 Memory
By Wanda Hanson
Eau Claire
It was long ago, and I was 2 years old. The nation was in the midst of the Great Depression. Many families had seen their money, their savings, disappear. Banks had closed, and some would never open their doors again.
One evening before Christmas that year, my parents took me to see the decorations in town. After driving around to see lighted trees and all the colored bulbs on Main Street, we went to shop at the Farmer Store.
The Farmer Store was a two-storied building that sold everything from groceries to dry goods to hardware to furniture. In the center of the store, an area now was devoted to Christmas. All manner of toys and gifts available that year were on display.
The dolls on a shelf in the display caught my attention. One in particular was better than the rest of them.
Mother picked her off the shelf and let me hold her. She was soft and furry like a teddy bear, and she had a beautiful porcelain face and blue eyes. She seemed to be just for me.
I hugged her and held on tight, but Mother took her from me and put her back on the shelf. The price on the sales tag was $1.95.
Mother and I walked away. Dad didn't follow us.
On Christmas morning, I toddled down the stairs to see a decorated tree, and my mother and father waiting for me.
White candles stood tall in the bowls of silver clips that were attached to branches. Dad was lighting the candles, while Mother stood ready with a bucket of water in case of fire.
Nestled on the tree was the doll with the beautiful porcelain face.
Dad's wallet was empty now, but with only $2, he had celebrated Christmas. There was a tree with lighted candles. There was a very happy little girl. And 5 cents worth of Christmas candy made it even sweeter.
It is a memory worth much more than $2.
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Christmas Past
by Jim Furness
Prescott, Wisconsin
It was the Christmas of 1956. I was 11 years old, and two years earlier, my family had moved to northern Minnesota from Merrill, N.Y., a little town in the Northern Adirondacks where time seems to stand still.
My father's family was from Merrill; in fact, my grandmother was a Merrill. Their namesake founded the town way back when.
Somewhere along the line, my father, his brothers and all their cousins learned how to play instruments. They must have contracted the musical gene somewhere.
At any rate, while I was growing up back in New York, many was the night that I sat up in bed listening to Dad and the relatives laugh and play music downstairs. It's one of those childhood memories that still gives me warm fuzzies all these years later.
Naturally they formed a band and played all over the area. They did everything from old standards to square dances. Dad used to do the calling — a strange language to a kid. I never could quite figure out what a do-si-do was.
When we moved to Minnesota, that was the end of the band, and the end of those nights listening to laughter and music while lying in bed pretending to be asleep. We moved because Dad had been laid off his job.
The decision to move to Minnesota was a hard one on all of us. To my mother, it felt like we were moving to the end of the earth. But northern Minnesota was going through a boom with the taconite industry taking off, and so jobs were offered to a lot of folks in our area.
There was no bigger fan of Christmas than Dad. I remember my sister and myself trudging for miles up the side of a mountain in knee-deep snow one Christmas because Dad had found a tree there while he was hunting earlier in the fall, and we had to get it for our Christmas tree.
Dad was like a kid at Christmas, playing Santa and fooling my sister and me, delighting in our surprise when 'Santa' would bring us that special thing that we had asked for.
And so it was about 1956 that Mom had arranged a special surprise for Dad. My sister and I only learned about it on Christmas Eve as a large box was delivered to our house all wrapped in Christmas paper.
Normally we didn't open any presents on Christmas Eve, and yet Mom kept insisting that this mystery box be opened. Dad balked, holding to the tradition that we had to wait for Christmas morning. Yet Mom was insistent.
I had rarely seen Mom be so assertive. It just wasn't like her, and it was because of that insistence that she eventually won over my sister and me. So now it was Dad against the rest of us.
To break tradition and open a present ... it wasn't even labeled. Who was it for? Reluctantly Dad finally gave in and said we could open it. Mom insisted that Dad open it.
For Dad, the Holy Grail of guitars was a Martin D-28, and as it dawned on him that what he was unwrapping was exactly that, you could almost feel his heart stop.
That Christmas Eve the music returned to our house, and for the following hours as Dad played every Christmas song he ever knew, everything seemed to be exactly as it was supposed to be.
So whenever anyone asks, 'What was your favorite Christmas?' I'm immediately back in 1956 listening to Dad singing 'Winter Wonderland' with his brand-new Martin guitar.
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