Years and days blend like ingredients in a cake. Who knows when something happened in the 1950s? To our grandchildren, it’s like prehistoric times, when dinosaurs roamed Cape May County.
There was a time when black-and-white television was the way children were entertained. There was “The Mickey Mouse Club” after school, Saturday morning cartoon shows, and Western shows featuring cowboys and Indians. Among those Westerns was Hopalong Cassidy. Like Johnny Cash, who wore only black, so did Hopalong. Lest there be any mistake of his goodness and intentions, Hopalong rode Topper, a white horse.
The TV star first appeared in 1949. There was a Hopalong Cassidy watch. Its selling feature was Hopalong’s hand, holding a pistol, which clicked up and down instead of a second hand.
That wristwatch was something that Benny wanted in the worst way. He would forgo any other Christmas gift if only Santa would bring him a Hopalong watch. He even added his desire to his bedtime prayer: “Oh, and Jesus, please, if you have time to talk to Santa, would you please ask him to get one of his wristwatches for me this Christmas? Amen.”
Benny would then hop into bed, pull up the covers, and imagine himself riding alongside Hopalong on a white horse like Topper. Together, the imaginary duo rode off into Dreamland.
Christmas morning came. Benny raced down the stairs to find a beautiful Christmas tree with mountains of presents, big ones, medium-sized ones and tiny ones.
Bedazzled by all the wonderful presents, Benny launched into “Job One” of opening all of them. Colorful wrapping paper soon covered the living room. There were all sorts of toys and puzzles, and in all the excitement, Benny forgot that one asked-for gift he had asked for every night. That’s how boys are; they are easily distracted.
Christmas Day needed more hours because relatives were coming. Grandmom and Grandpop were coming for dinner. There would be fun and stories, eggnog and cookies, turkey and all the trimmings, and much more.
There were piles of paper, and soon Dad ordered that all the mess be cleared from the living room so the family could find a place to sit.
One tiny box, wrapped in blue-and-gold paper, went unopened behind the tree’s base. Since it was by the base of the tree it was easily missed.
As it always is, Christmas was over, seemingly in a heartbeat. Before anyone knew it, New Year’s Day dawned, and with it, the Christmas tree was gone, and all its decorations were boxed and stowed in the attic.
Ah, the attic is a place for things cherished and oft forgotten, sometimes for years.
Benny wondered, at times, if Jesus had ever gotten in touch with Santa about that Hopalong watch. But there was homework to be done, 4-H club meetings and the hustle of boyhood.
As with those cake ingredients, time blended, and years passed. Benny found himself a young man heading off to the Navy. Before leaving for boot camp, he went into the attic one last time. There he saw, in a moment, his boyhood in boxes: Smokey, his cherished stuffed bear, still wearing the same dungarees and smile he had when Benny was 5; the beloved Lionel electric trains that he played with for hours on end; a fleet of plastic model cars he’d asssembled, and over in the corner there were all those Christmas decorations he helped Mom store after Dad passed away.
He went over to the box of tree decorations, fire trucks, angels, funny little elves and the skirt that covered the bottom of the tree all those years ago.
Memories flooded his mind. Benny’s eye caught sight of a small box wrapped in blue-and-gold paper, its tape yellowed by time. He reached down and picked it up. He read the gift tag: “To Benny Love from Mom and Dad.”
“Jesus really did get hold of Santa,” Benny thought.
Tears started to roll down his face as he tore open the paper and opened the precious box. There was Hopalong Cassidy, wearing his black outfit. Benny picked that precious gift out of its box. He gently wound the stem, and Hopalong’s pistol started to wave up and down as he imagined it would so many years ago.
Benny clasped the watch, its strap too small to fit his wrist, and tucked it into his pocket. Finally, the unopened box revealed its treasure many years later.
Editor’s note: Al Campbell, the Herald’s managing editor emeritus, writes from Court House.
