A Sea Isle Christmas Story

By Charles Town
Homework
It was always homework. That mind-numbing, time consuming brutal exercise that suffocated freedom and brought a screeching halt to the wheels of fun. This was a very crucial time. Christmas was two months away and important work had to be done
Not homework, but Christmas parade work. I had poked my nose and grew my ears into enough conversations between Mother and Dad to know that trouble was brewing and times could get desperate. Mother was the Christmas Parade Chairwoman and Dad was the Parade Marshal for the small but highly anticipated march through our little town that always began the holiday season and generated glorious cheers of delight from all the little and not so little children. They had successfully produced the exciting event for as long as I could remember, but this year disaster loomed. The old Santa Claus float had to be replaced. The float, like all Santa floats across the land, was the kingpin, the topper, the last and best thing about the parade. Somehow, during the year in storage, the trusty old float was ruined. The weather or vandals or some marauding non-believers, did the worst to it. They (we) had to start from scratch.
Where was I…stuck at the dining room table, scrawling spelling words five times each in not so neat columns, writing out in full the tortured text of catechism questions and answers, researching the imports of Argentina or some such exotic foreign country, and configuring mathematical solutions to word problems not even Einstein could compute. A fifth grader’s work was complicated and tedious, and Mother’s rules were inflexible: all homework had to be finished before any TV-time and, the real killer, no going out on school nights.
I had my strategy down, however. I would complete my homework quickly and neatly. That was the key word in the educational jargon of teachers and nuns – neatly. Every time a fella turned around, he were being graded for neatness. Five points off here, 10 points there, and of course the girls all seemed to have this natural gift for neatness and never got points off. It was a conspiracy I tell you…but…well, I digress.
With my homework done I would make the following case: Mother, my homework is done and I’ll give up TV tonight for the good of the town and go help Dad and his friends build that desperately needed Santa Claus float. It was weak I know, but Dad was sympathetic and would clearly be my ace in the hole.
Dad and I were of the same mind when it came to such trivial things as homework. We really had only one goal – we had to keep Mother happy. Dad’s patience was notoriously short but he always remained calm (underline calm) and understated in our family. When Mother insisted that he help out and hear our reading assignments he would employ the most marvelous technique, He would read the piece and stop at every fifth or maybe eight word (depending on his patience quota that night) and make us read that one word only. He was fast reader and my reading assignments on nights he heard them were all of two minutes, never more.
This night I needed his intercession. My altruistic argument for freedom would be bought by Mother if Dad could just point out how helpful I might be as a gopher for the men. That float had to be built in time to thrill all the children in town with the magic that was Santa and his eight reindeer appearing to wing their way down the street.
When my homework was complete…neatly, I put my plan into action. First I had to get Mother to check my work, (She was the gatekeeper to satisfactory homework.) and then I would make my pitch hoping Dad would chime in at the right time.
* * *
I still wonder to this day why it was so important to me to help with that float. Some after sunset freedom was always good, but, it could be better spent watching my big brother play high school basketball than working in a cold garage holding the trim end of a piece of lumber while it was sawed or getting more nails for them men who actually knew how to build a float. No doubt about it – my role was minor, but in my own mind this work was critical.
For one thing, I could report to my buddies at school the next day that, with my help the Santa float was coming along just fine and chances were good that we could complete the work on time. This served a dual purpose. I got some bragging time with the guys and that always incited some jealousy (more than one buddy wanted to know how he could volunteer – no way, you needed parents in charge here.) And, if I was canny enough, a couple of the babes would be strolling by and hear my report. They of course would swoon in admiration. If the second part of that lame strategy worked, I never knew it.
But perhaps the most important reason why the float was so critical to me was the sense of “family” that it represented. Without really planning ir or trying very hard to coordinate efforts in an over all scheme, my parent gave to my six brothers and sisters and me, the most amazing Christmases any child could ever hope to have. A blend of traditions and generosity, love and respect, and laughter and anticipation, made Christmas the most joyous imaginable. My contribution to the total family project, although I did not clearly sense it at the time, was participation.
* * *
I maneuvered through the homework check pretty well with only a small glitch in math, 40% of 80 widgets was 32, not 58 has I had calculated. Luckily all math, or arithmetic as it was known then, was written in pencil. A neat (there’s that neat thing again) erasure would correct this perfect assignment quickly. Two night before I had spelled “bureau” five times in ink: b-u-r-a-u-e. This very minor error caused great weeping and gnashing of teeth. Fifth grade at St. Joseph’s School, meant no more writing in pencil. This back-breaking requirement of “ink” eliminated all possibility of a neat erasure. The entire homework assignment – a page and a half of work completed with slavish labor and sweat, had to be done entirely over. That was Mother’s rule.
After making the correction and passing final inspection I said, “Mother, I was wondering.” It was not that I was nervous to speak to Mother. We all communicated pretty easily in our family and the give and take was relaxed and often jovial. Lots of laughter punctuated our conversations. But when you had to ask for something, particularly something you wanted badly, tension would constrict the vocal chords a little.
“Yes Charles, what were you wondering?” Ah! She was on to me. It must be that sixth sense they always say mothers have. But there was no impatience in her voice and I began to feel some confidence. And there was no percentage in not playing me hole card, so I notched my volume up a tad to make sure Dad would hear my plea.
“What time are you going over, Bud?” she asked Dad.
“”In about 15 minutes. We plan to work only a couple of hours tonight. We’ll be back by 9 or 9:30,” Dad answered. That was good…that was perfect. Dad came through. He knew in Mother’s mind every license had a caveat. If I was to be permitted to go out on a school night, well then it had to have an early return time. Nine thirty was perfect.
On the way up to the city garage, the site of the ambitious float project, I wanted to do some mutual congratulating , but we did not say a word about the way we teamed up on Mother. Somehow it would not be respectful to openly acknowledge any trickery we may have utilized. Besides, we both knew Mother was pretty much in on the game anyhow.
November passed quickly. I made it up to the garage once or twice a week and on weekends. A local businessman had donated a old, but working, cab-less truck on which the crew and I built an eight foot wide and twenty foot long frame out of metal and wood that would hold the eight plaster paris reindeer and the Santa sleigh, and of course, Santa. The driver’s seat was located just about in the center of the float. As a result a disembodied head appeared around where Comet and Cupid’s hooves were seeking purchase. This enabled the driver to see where he was going. We tried placing an open ended wrapped present box around his head, but it restricted his vision too much. If a parade viewer saw it, he would probably scratch his head then smile a bit, but the children never noticed.
The parade went off like clock work the first Saturday in December. Mother hired, and after the parade, fed five bands Included among the bands was a noted Philadelphia string band that always had an unusual affect on ex-Philadelphians who now called Sea Isle their homes, including my Mother. As the band played these, I think they called themselves Mummers, would drop all pretense of human dignity and leap uncontrollably into the street, pumping their arms up and down, prancing around in wide circles, possessed by some rhythmic demon that made them dance so fitfully. It was sure surprising to see, but you could tell they were enjoying themselves because they had big bodacious grins on their faces.
* * *
No sooner was the parade over when the family jumped into the next community Christmas project. My Dad was secretary/treasurer of the Sea Isle City Fire Department and every year the volunteer squad gave the children a present when they came to the firehouse the Saturday before Christmas for a visit with Santa. Dad was the chairman of the event and that meant buying the presents, getting them wrapped, finding a Santa Claus (years later when I came home one year from college for Christmas vacation, Dad drafted me to play the role.) and decorating the fire house with a tree and appropriate Santa throne. The really hard part was getting those 200 or so presents wrapped.
The family was put to the task. We all took turns, except the younger believers, and went up the our grandmother’s house where the present were shipped and tried to get a dozen or more wrapped per visit.
Well, on the night of the event, when my little brother came home from his visit with Santa, carrying his coveted present in hand, I took one look at its ragged creases and excess scotch tape and knew right off the bat that it was one of the ones I had wrapped. As Chris started to unwrap his treasure from Santa, I shouted, “Hey Chris, I’m pretty sure that’s one of the gifts I wrapped.” Chris looked up at me, a little confused, but more intent on discovering what prize he had earned for being good all year, and went back to unwrapping his gift. But, man, I got one almighty withering look from Mother – melted me right in my shoes.
I shrank away from the table, trying to think what in the world had I done that earned me that killer look from Mother. I thought helping out was a good thing. It took by big brother coming out to me in the living room, explaining to me that the gift was from Santa who, as Chris and all the little kiddies knew, lives at the North Pole. Why would someone from Sea Isle be wrapping Santa’s presents. Oh boy! Well, I thought, next year I’ll know better.
This part of the story does not end there though. On Christmas Eve a few nights later as I sat in the den watching TV, Dad came to the door and said to come along with him, we had a small job to do. We jumped into the car and headed off. We were going to his Mother’s house (MomMom) where all those presents were stored that had had to wrapped. He explained that every year he would run out of some gifts for a particular age group or have too many for another. For that reason he liked to keep an extra inventory, which he would include for next year. As a result he had 30 or 35 wrapped and tagged for age, gifts stored in MomMom’s attic. I could not figure why he was telling me this, other then … possibly… he was grooming me to take over some day. However, that was not the case as I was to find out in the next 15 minutes.
At MomMom’s house we went upstairs to the presents and Dad instructed me to gather up six or eight different age category presents, whatever I could hold and he did the same. We carried them back to the car and off we went again. I could not imagine our purpose.
A few minutes later we stopped at a house just a few blocks away from ours. I knew the house and the family who lived there. They had four children ranging in age up to maybe seven years old. Dad said gather the presents and lets go inside. We were met at the door by the Mother. The Father was no where to be seen. She said, “Oh Bud, I am so glad to see you.”
Inside was stark. The children were all in bed. A tree was up, but had few decorations on it. The Mother said she had just started trimming it. Under the tree was one lone present. The Mother explained that it was from an aunt, the eldest child’s godmother. That was all she had for Christmas morning. Dad instructed me to place the gifts I was carrying under the tree and he did the same. All the while the Mother was humble and very thankful. Her eyes moistened. My Dad was not a sentimental kind of guy, but he quietly said “Merry Christmas,” and we left.
In the car Dad said, “They had a rough year. At least now there will be a few presents for the kids to open on Christmas morning.” We sat in silence for the short ride home. I felt of two minds: unrelentingly sad for the Mother and her family and undeniably proud of a Dad who knew what Christmas was really all about.
(Town writes from Sea Isle City.)