MARGARET'S CHRISTMAS SCARE

Margaret’s Christmas Scare


My mother was not a “fraidy cat”, but she did not like being startled. She had this little hoot she made when something surprised her. It could have been a spider, a snake or, in Florida in her later years, one of those wretched roaches that seem to be in the cleanest of homes. And hers was always spotless.

But this time it was caused by something else.

Stuffed animals have always had a special place in my heart. I don’t remember needing one to sleep with me as a child, but even today, at 61 years, I have to fight the urge to buy stuffed “critters” to give to others or to keep for myself. My parents picked up on this early. Now, I wonder if this was passed on to me by my Mother or Dad, because there was always a stuffed animal under our tree for one of my Christmas gifts.

My favorite one was a chimpanzee, and I became the parent of a new Zippy every couple of Christmases. (I suppose it was good training for caring for our four little primates later.) Zippy’s body was hairy and cuddly and his hands and face were made of rubber, very realistic and lifelike to see.

I have tried to imagine how it happened. Now, as I look back, I think one of my brothers, or even my Dad, must have set up the ambush. I know I was not responsible. But there, stuck in a door, about people height, was a hand, reaching out for my mother as she came through the hall.

“Whoooooo!!” she hooted as she jumped back and her heart raced. And try as she could, only the culprit ever knew who had set the trap, but we all laughed for many years over Margaret’s Christmas Scare.

Mommy Sanders’ Sugar Cookies

My mother’s mother, Grandma Sanders was known in our home as Mommy. She lived in Glen Fork, West Virginia next door to the church where I began my relationship with Jesus when I was six years old. The thing I remember most about her house was the guitar that hung on the wall in the bedroom. As I would secretly and quietly strum the strings, I wondered how it was possible that those notes could ever make a song. But Mommy’s life was certainly one that brought melody to the many lives she touched.

As I recall, she couldn’t read and once, when I brought a canned soda from Uncle Tal’s store, she scolded me for bringing in a can of beer. “Pop”, until around that time, had only come in bottles and she didn’t know what was printed on the can. I was only in elementary school and assured her that it was a Pepsi Cola and Uncle Tal would never let me have beer. I actually doubt if he sold it anyway. Though she couldn’t read, she knew lots of Bible that she got by being in church every time the doors were opened. She even shouted in church every now and then.


Every year, it seemed, Mommy would decide to come to Bluefield with us “for a whole month.” But after a week, she was ready to go home. She had so many things to tend to back home and Aunt Ollie and the others in Glen Fork really couldn’t cover for her. (Surely it wasn’t because there were four noisy boys in the house at Bluefield.)

But while she was there, she always baked Sugar Cookies for us. Well, they were called Sugar Cookies, but they really weren’t that sweet. They tasted good, though, and no one else made them like her. She would put them in the pantry covered with a dish towel and we could slip in there and get them when we had what my Mother called “a sweet tooth.”

I don’t remember if Mommy was ever with us on Christmas itself, but I still remember Mommy Sander’s Sugar Cookies.

The Football Outfit

I wonder if every boy got at least one “Football Outfit” for Christmas. The helmet was not recommended for real play and the shoulder pads were a tad deficient, but putting on that jersey and those pants was the next best thing to winning the NFL Championship. I was a Colts fan back then, and of course, there was no Superbowl.

I loved making great moves with that ball tucked safely under my arm and smashing through the line to make those game winning touchdowns.

In reality, I was plowing into the back of the couch, but I don’t remember having a flag thrown on me by my Mother or Dad. I suppose they were content to give up the furniture for my imaginary success.

Sometimes, I took my game outside. This allowed me to have a passing game as well. But I had to improvise since that usually involves two people and I mostly played alone. Being much slower than Superman (or a cartoon character like Bugs Bunny), it was rather difficult to be the quarterback and the receiver, but I was creative and had an excellent imagination.

I would take the ball from an imaginary center, fade back and throw a high arching pass that allowed me to run under it and catch it most of the time. My inconsistent throws made it a challenge to work my way down the field without running out of downs. Most of the time, though, I brought the stadium crowd to their feet to cheer for my amazing game-winning touchdowns.

Just a child’s imagination and a Football outfit. Great memories!!

THE COOLEST TOY EVER MADE

It was the coolest toy ever and way before its time. It was kind of like a “nerf” mobile ground to air rocket launcher, but “nerfs” would not be invented for many years. The missiles would not pass safety standards today, but they were not loaded with explosives. The problem would be that they were hard plastic with a rubber tip. They were fired by pounding a rubber bulb that was attached with a rubber hose to the rocket mount. The burst of air would “ignite” the rocket causing it to fly toward the target.

The target was a ping pong ball floating on a column of air from a fan powered with batteries. The sighting system was made of mirrors that allowed you to look through the end of the launcher and would let you target the floating ball by moving the launcher up and down with a knob and gear mechanism. It was so sophisticated and yet was made of materials that were inexpensive. I’ve never seen another one like it.

I had learned to hit the target consistently by mid-afternoon on Christmas, but there was an unforeseen vulnerability when you were on the floor and there were older brothers nearby playing with other toys.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the attack came. In military terminology (they love to describe things with acrostics), I was overwhelmed by a T.O.M.M.Y. - Take Out Mobile Missile Yahoo. Across the launcher and over my back, we crashed to the ground. I began to cry for reinforcements (with lots of tears). Mother and Dad saved the day with skillful hands and some Elmer’s glue.

I don’t know whatever happened to that fabulous toy, but I will never forget that Christmas of 1956.

Just What I Always Wanted ! !

To this day, my brother Bob and my sister-in-law Sharon may deny that they told Bobby to be excited when he opened the Christmas present, no matter what it was. As parents, we probably all do this because we don’t want people to be disappointed in the reaction they see to a gift given in love.

Grandpa and Grandma Jewell realized that they had failed to put batteries into the toy car they had purchased for their oldest grandson, Bobby, Jr. Someone suggested that they just have them ready to give to him when he opened his gift, but Grandma decided to wrap them separately and he would have two presents to open.

Unfortunately, for some reason, Bobby decided to open the wrong present first. I’m sure he must have been puzzled at the sight, but he had been taught well.

“Batteries, batteries, just what I’ve always wanted, batteries!!” he screamed as he danced around the room. His joy seemed real. Maybe his parents never gave him batteries.

I wonder!!

FAMINE IN BETHLEHEM

Reggie and I were born 6 years apart, so I was always the little kid brother. That continued even after we were grown and when in comparison to him, I was no longer “little.”

Though born to the same parents, we didn’t look much alike, but his imprint was strong upon my life. I liked the cars he liked, the clothes he wore, and we enjoyed the same kind of humor. I was blessed by God with an above average intellect, but Reggie was far superior to me in that area. But in size, my weight began to surpass his when I was in junior high school.

One Christmas memory I think about with a warm smile, involves Reggie and me, his “little” brother. He had recently graduated from high school and I was in the seventh grade.

Our church in New York always had a children’s play at Christmas. Though, written from a different perspective each year, it always included the basic presentation of the Christmas story. One year I was a priest, waiting for the coming of the Messiah, and to this day, I remember that I sang an old hymn, “Day is Dying in the West.” I’m sure this is one of those classics you sing each year (if you have ever heard of it)! The words are powerful, though. The chorus says, “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of hosts. Heaven and earth are full of Thee, Heaven and earth are praising Thee, O Lord, Most High!”

But this particular year, I was a shepherd. You know, the way we picture poor shepherds, wearing burlap sacks with holes cut in them for our heads and arms. I was rather large compared to the other shepherds. Their sacks were loose fitting with little arms sticking out. Mine wasn’t too small, but was filled rather well.

I’m sure I didn’t appreciate Reggie’s comment then, though I have had many laughs about it down through the years. He looked at us and said wryly, “It looks like there has been a famine in Bethlehem.” Then after a pause, he finished, “And Sammy caused it!”

“If only….” – A Christmas memory

Tonight, something triggered a Christmas memory that makes me feel ashamed after 51 years. Oh, I can, and do, forgive myself. My experience tells me that a 4th grader doesn’t understand the feelings of others, nor is he concerned if he is guilty of crushing the spirit of someone who has disappointed him. A surprise to me is that I immediately remembered the boy’s name and can picture him in my mind even after all these years.

It was the last day before Christmas vacation and we had drawn names for a gift exchange in class at Cumberland Heights Elementary at the base of East River Mountain in Bluefield, West Virginia. My parents were not well off financially, but I had brought a nice present to be given to a classmate. I don’t remember what it was, but I will always remember the gift that was given to me by Denny Bowman. I now realize that he was giving all his family could afford to give. They were poor. We all saw that, even as 10 year olds. I guess it was his clothes, his shoes, and other things about him that clued us in. We just knew he was poor, but it was unspoken.

When I opened my gift along with the others, it was a monogrammed handkerchief, but it didn’t even have a “J” on it. It had a “B”. I was crushed, not because of the monogram, but because “it was a handkerchief.” In my disappointment, I became angry and I cried. Our teacher did her best to step in to minimize my disappointment, as well as, to ease his pain. I don’t even remember how the incident ended. We just went home after school to begin our Christmas holidays.

It’s amazing how our feelings can return after half a century! However, now I am not angry, but ashamed. If I were only able to go back and relive that day with the insight of a lifetime of experience, but sadly, that can not be.

I haven’t thought of that day in all these years, but I truly hope the memory of that day has disappeared from Denny’s mind forever.

PHILIP SAID WHAT?

It was a beautiful afternoon, springtime in North Florida, when I noticed out the kitchen window that Philip was playing with a bat. Even as a young child he was enthralled by sports and sports equipment, but this time, he was dangerously close to his sister, Kara. I was afraid that we were looking at a knot on the head, if not stitches. Perhaps he would wound himself, but more likely, it would be her. His youth, 4 years or so, had not given him the skill to handle a very big bat.


My immediate response was to get the bat out of his hand. I commissioned older brother, Paul, standing nearer the back door than I, to diffuse the situation by taking the bat away. I never thought about the fact that an 11 year old would not be so gentle or kind in removing the weapon, but would, in fact, use his superior size and strength to snatch it away without explanation.

That’s exactly what he did and Philip was obviously not pleased. In his anger I saw him kick an empty box repeatedly and I heard him saying the worst word in his vocabulary. He would need to be disciplined by me, but I first had to get control of my laughter. He knew it was a word we had told him not to say. My 4 year old was cursing as he continually kicked the box. It was an awful word and we had corrected him before, but in his anger, he just had to say it – not once, but several times. “Pooty, pooty, pooty!!”