Christmas is, and at least for me has for several years, been a time when my mind is flooded with memories. As has become customary for me, I considered an assortment of subject matters for this, my Christmas story; my very special Christmas memory. Although there were several recollections to choose from, I have limited the all more than worthy possibilities to this one; just this one memory from a time when I was but six years old.
Grandma Maggie Barr, my mother’s mother, came to live with our family in 1950. My parents wanted to buy a house in California but couldn’t scrape up the down payment. A deal was struck with Grandma Barr and she would sell her house in Pineville, Missouri after which the proceeds from the sale would be used for the needed down payment.
In return for her contribution to the new house, Grandma Barr would come to live with our family. Her husband, Ernest Barr, a part-time barber in Pineville died in 1931 and Maggie lived alone. Grandma would remain with our family for many years to come. She was the cook, housekeeper and yes, babysitter.
The family’s time in California ended when my father received orders transferring him to Sandia Base in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I honestly don’t remember much about my early childhood years in California but, and why I can’t exactly explain, I do recall a great deal about the time spent in the house at 1019 Lester Drive in Albuquerque.
I started sixth grade at Hawthorne Elementary School. My best friend, Mac lived only a few houses away and the two of us met each morning at the corner before starting our walk to school. The mesa behind our homes was bare, save a narrow arroyo, a scar in the desert’s sand that divided the desert-like open field in two. Mac and I walked across that mesa and through that narrow arroyo each morning and every afternoon after the day’s ending school bell rang.
As children, it seemed like there was always something in that barren mesa that garnered our attention. Whether it was a Sand Digger lizard, a Blue Tailed lizard or a Horned Toad, it seemed like we almost always found ourselves running after some desert creature. If held by the tail, that Blue Tail’s appendage would detach itself from the body allowing the lizard to escape. For two six-year-old boys, that was pure magic. When, and if corralled, we examined the small creatures then released them.
I don’t now recall where Mac’s father worked but I do remember wishing that my father worked there as well. Mac often showed me new aggies, marbles fashioned from agate, which his father brought home from work. I always knew when Mac had new aggies, as one of the front pockets of his Levi jeans bulged from his new stash.
The first Christmas spent on Lester Drive was one that I, even now, clearly remember. My father left the house a week or so prior to Monday, December 25th and returned a few hours later with a beautiful green Christmas tree that rested atop the roof of his two-tone yellow and white 1955 Chevrolet. Not waiting for the car to come to a full stop, I burst through the doorway and even before the noise of that General Motors six-cylinder 235 cubic inch “Blue Flame” engine stopped I was untying the knots from the rope that secured that tree to the car’s roof.
Oh my, how I savored the aroma of that magnificent Douglas fir tree. That lush full-bodied tree was placed into the stand, the threaded fasteners were screwed into the trunk and a small portion of water was added to the base; all under the watchful eyes of my mother and Grandma Barr. What a sight! All that was required after straightening the fir was hanging the traditional ornaments, strings of lights and icicles. My mother and grandmother preferred a systematic approach to placing icicles on the tree but that really wasn’t my bailiwick. I advocated the more haphazard and free-flowing technique. Both methods came to the same end, a beautifully decorated Christmas tree.
The days passed slowly at school but on that last day of classes, that Friday before the holiday, Mac had a surprise for me. As we were saying “see ya,” while standing on the sidewalk in front of Mac’s house he reached into his pocket and pulled out four aggies. “Here, I have too many to fit in my pocket so you can have these.” “Gee, thanks a lot!” The words just blurted out of me and as Mac walked toward the front door he yelled, “Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas,” I called back to him.
Christmas Eve came and, as I lay on the carpeted floor near the tree, my eyes scanned the wide array of gifts wrapped in bright Christmas paper and topped with red, green or white bows. My mother seemed to revel in her ability to taunt me. “I don’t suppose Santa will come tonight. He probably still thinks you live in California.” “Come on,” I thought, Santa has elves that keep him informed about that kind of stuff.
I got up before everyone else Christmas morning and sat patiently beside the tree and all those presents. Eventually, and far too late to my way of thinking, my mother, father, older brother, Bill and Grandma Barr came into the living room.
My list of stuff I wanted was quite extensive that year but the one item I could not have lived without was a Davy Crockett Adventures game. The front of the box actually had a picture of Fess Parker who played Davy Crockett on the Walt Disney TV show. My mother worked at the local Ben Franklin Store and I had seen the box on a shelf there.
Well, I got my wish and either my mom or Santa came through. I remember that Mac and I played that game for months following the great day. I ripped the paper from other presents but the one I now remember the most was something wrapped in red tissue paper with a green bow. The gift was from Grandma Barr and, although I didn’t then understand what a special gift it was, I now understand her generosity.
Grandma Barr gave me seven silver dollars. Grandma lived on a meager Veteran’s Administration stipend and seven dollars was a lot of money to her. After all, she was still smarting from the chastising given to her by my father after she carelessly allowed my two caged chipmunks, Chip and Dale, to escape. Those two fury fugitives scampered about the house for a day or two until grandma finally corralled the rodent duo.
My grandmother, Maggie Barr, lived with our family for the next twenty-five years. She raised my brother, sister and she raised me. She cooked spaghetti red and fried bologna sandwiches and she told me when I had dirt behind my ears. Grandma Barr was born in San Antonio, Texas on November 11th, 1895. She died on the 17th day of August in the year 1980. She was buried in the Pineville cemetery.
When thinking about Christmases past, what is it that I remember? Well, I remember the colored icing covered cookies that were made in the shapes of Santa and trees. I think back and recall the trees that were decorated with bright colored lights and special ornaments. Of course, there were those colored tissue paper wrapped gifts that were ogled on cold winter days and dark quiet nights prior to their unveiling. However, most of all I remember the ones I loved and that last Christmas I spent with those who are no longer here; those to whom I can no longer say, “Merry Christmas.”
I hope you found that the time spent reading this old story was worth it, for I surely enjoyed every moment devoted to its composition. I hope this holiday season finds each of you, my friends, well and may you, each and every one of you, have a very special and “Merry Christmas.” Most of all, I ask that you keep in mind that this December 25th and the loved ones you share that special day with will someday be a Christmas memory; a very special one I pray.
Midwest Musings 