Rich's Christmas

Rich’s Christmas Letter

Ten years ago I invited several friends to write about an early Christmas event. There were fewer interested parties than I had envisioned, so the project I had in mind fell apart. However, My friend Rich was one of the responders and I have kept it in my files. Christmas 2021 is quick upon us, and since Rich is now a victim of Parkinson’s disease and can’t do this for himself, I am posting it on vocal.media so that it may be shared with his family and friends. His story is in the form of a letter to his children.

Merry Christmas, Rich!

A Christmas Letter to Lisa and Epistle to Paul

Christmas 2011

Dear Lisa and Paul,

Do you remember the time when you were getting boisterous on Christmas Eve at Patti and Bobby’s house and I said that you had better calm down or you’d get coal in your stocking on Christmas morning? Instead of being chastened you got this strange confused look on your faces and said “What’s coal?” I was shocked. I just couldn’t believe someone didn’t know what coal was. So I explained that coal was this black rock that you could burn. You thought for a minute, got this knowing look on your faces indicating that you believed I was teasing, and then walked away saying over your shoulders “Yah Daddy”. I was dumbfounded because I obviously wasn’t teasing. It is obvious now isn’t it?

I was left to sputter after you saying vainly “NO! It’s this black rock and it burns. Really!” I never did make my point or convince you that night –or perhaps ever- but you guys did calm down. Or perhaps I was just too much in a state of befuddlement to notice any excess noise. Whatever, I think I should write to you periodically and tell you about things I remember from my past. Even if I remember imperfectly, at least I’ll be on record with my version of the past. And since this letter started with a past Christmas I will continue this theme starting with the earliest Christmas I can remember anything about.

Earliest memories are tricky. Are they your memories or do you “remember” things because you have been told about them? The best way to decide if a memory is truly yours is to see if they contain things that are so personal and unimportant, i.e. boring, that no one would have knowledge of it or bothered to have mentioned it to you. My earliest Christmas memories took place in my Uncle Larry’s house. He was always called Unk by my cousin Bobby and me. Bobby was several years older than me and was the first child of my Uncle Sam and Aunt Florence, my mother’s sister. It was probably Christmas of 1942 and we were living at Unk’s house. I would have been 3 years 8 months old, unless it was 1941, which would have made me one year younger. I do have independent memories of living there but no sense of time sequence.

Christmas came and everyone was gathered around the Christmas tree opening presents. It was exciting and finally I was given a gift to open. I’m sure it wasn’t the first gift I had gotten but everyone seemed excited about this particular gift. When I opened it I found clothes - a child’s size soldier’s suit. I was less than impressed and was quoted as saying, “That is not something nice. Can’t eat that!” All the adults laughed. It was the last phrase making it a child’s perspective and not just a rude comment that allowed it into family lore. Somehow, though the story was frequently repeated my mother, without ever specifically saying so, made clear to me that you have to be thankful for the thought behind a gift even when the gift itself may disappoint. Not always an easy thing to do.

Fast forward. I’m 15 or 16. For his birthday my cousin Bobby had gotten a 21cal rifle. Though older than me, he took me hunting for squirrels in a local woods called Hutton Park and for woodchucks on various farms. The latter involved asking for the farmer’s permission. This permission was generally easy to get since woodchuck holes destroy the fields and are dangerous to livestock.

Hunting squirrels in Hutton Park was a different matter. Permission wasn’t requested. It was a large area of estates with few houses and no overall owner. It never occurred to us that there was anybody from whom we could have asked permission. It was simply “the woods”.

Shooting squirrels in the park was not an uncommon happening nor was a call to the police complaining of such activity. This was demonstrated when Bobby and I had to run like the wind and spend a long half hour laying on the ground behind a large fallen tree watching one of West Orange’s finest waiting to see if we had left the area. We wanted the squirrel Bobby had shot. It was a simpler time. No SWAT team was called. No terror alert. The police car finally left and after a decent interval we picked up our game and went home.

I’d spent a good deal of time at the Boy Scout camp shooting range so I was familiar with a 21 and safety procedures. However, judging from the look of alarm on Bobby’s face when I inadvertently pointed the barrel in his direction while moving from prone to standing position, there may have been a gap between theory and practice. No, don’t worry. This is a Christmas story not a story about how I shot my cousin. Funny thing is that now that I am writing about it I realize that Bobby never mentioned it. He must have read the look of alarm and embarrassment on my face and thought “point made and taken”

I wanted a 21 of my own. It would be expensive and I was willing to wait for Christmas. My parents were not interested. As I recall my mother’s bottom line response was, “What, are you crazy”. Nevertheless, I persisted. So did my parents. If you remember the Jean Shepherd movie “A Christmas Story” then you know how my summer went, compounded by the fact that we were discussing a real gun and not a bb gun. All reasonable arguments were discounted, including the one that should have carried the day; “Aunt Florence, your sister, let Bobby have a gun”. See Mother’s response above. How could two sisters be so different?

Christmas finally got here and the family holiday rotation process had us celebrating Christmas day at Aunt Florence and Uncle Sam’s house. By this time I had a sister Kathleen and Bobby had a brother Tommy. I don’t specifically remember who the other guests were that Christmas but it’s probable that Uncle Sam’s parents, sister, and brother-in-law were there.

Present were piled under and around the tree spread out because of the train that circled the tree. It would be impolite to pick up and examine any package. After all we were gathered to celebrate family not for anything as crass as to get our hoped-for loot. Packages could not be touched or felt but we could look, as long as we did so discreetly and made no comments or guesses. By the rules made up by the Marquis de Sade the gift exchange took place after we had eaten the meal – which meal had not yet even been cooked.

The wait was made longer and more painful as a result of my careful but discreet reconnoitering which had uncovered a particularly interesting present bearing my name. This present was long, three to four feet, wide at one end and narrow at the other. I could only be -miracle of miracles- a rifle. How had this come about?

I had no doubt that everyone in the family knew what I wanted. Would my Aunt and Uncle actually ignore my parents’ wishes? Could they not know what my parents’ views were? Were my parents’ summer/fall statements on the issue simply a ploy aimed at not spoiling the surprise? Had my aunt and uncle simply changed my parents’ view? Was this to be the beginning of a monumental family rift? Who cares, as long as I get my rifle?

What followed was one of the longest slowest Christmas diners ever recorded. The dining room had to be straightened up. And the dishes washed. Finally we were gathered in the living room and the gift exchange began. Round and round it went. One at a time: followed by comments, oohs and ahs, and sometimes a passing around as if there were items being given as gifts that none of us had ever seen before. It took all my self control not to blurt out “Tommy, could you please pass me my damn rifle”.

Finally, the great moment came. With surprisingly little ceremony I was handed my rifle. It was surprisingly light and unbalanced with no heft in the center. Very carefully I pulled away the paper from the narrow end. It came to a point. Did it have a bayonet? No. My brand new umbrella did not have a bayonet. In retrospect, that was probably a good thing. My face froze in what I hoped was a smile, as my disappointment was replaced with my memory of that Christmas gift of years ago and the concomitant lesson flashed through my mind.

“Oh! An umbrella. I was wondering what it could be. I don’t have one. Thank you!!” Pass it around in case someone there had never seen an umbrella. Don’t know if I pulled it off but I hope I did. The thought behind the gift was good. I never did get a rifle until several years later a different Uncle Sam lent me one. I don’t think the thought behind that rifle was as good as the thought behind my umbrella.

Merry Christmas!

Love,

Daddy, aka Richard J. McCloskey