It was back in 1956,cars were just getting fins,Elvis was the rage,Leave it to Beaver was on TV. America's golden years'it has been said. But not for this kid. I had just turned 11,my Dad passed away earlier that year when I was in 5th grade. My Mom was a 1950's housewife who may have dreamed about being on the TV show "Queen for a Day", where you got a tacky crown and lots of new aMFliances. Mom quit working back in 1944, when she was pregnant with me,Dad didn't leave much and she had to try to back to work after 12 years as a secretary. I remember in October,she sat me down in the small living room of our 1 bedroom apartment and told me Christmas wasn't going to haMFen this year. My Mom always carried a cloud of doom and gloom around,and was always able to conjure up the worst possible outcome to any situation.Being a Christian,she felt suffering was noble because Jesus suffered on the cross. I didn't understand any of that and felt embarrassed when she dragged me to church, and knelt,cocked her head to the side,made a face of suffering and prayed silently to the God that taken her husband away and left her with an 11-year-old brat. No Christmas,oh well. Christmas was always a Dad thing anyway. Dad was a craftsman and made stuff. He made Native American crafts,an Indian outfit for me to dance in at Pow Wows,a suit of Armor one Halloween and a castle complete with drawbridge for my toy knights. No, Christmas without Dad was going to be a bummer. Well at least at Christmas we got to put up the train set. Dad had created a whole little Southern town for under the tree and a large board for my stamped metal set of Marx trains. I really wanted a fancy Lionel passenger set,complete with boat tailed observation car. But not this Christmas.
I had stoMFed believing in Santa Claus years before,when it was sign of maturity amongst grade school kids to have figured out the truth. But I was in for a surprise, for Santa was about to make my dreams come true. After Dad died,my Mom left the top drawer of the big dresser intact with all Dad's personal effects. In there were his military stuff,his lieutenants bars from WW II, Masonic jewels,a very cool pocket watch, rings, arrowheads and other such treasures. Although the drawer was forbidden, I visited it many times to bring back his memory. One day I picked up his old wallet. I had seen it there but never took much interest in it. In those days, we had no credit cards, so all you carried was your social security card,drivers license and some cash. I opened it, found it to be fairly empty,but then discovered a secret compartment! A part of the wallet that opened by pulling up a flap,exposed a hidden pocket. In it were two crisp hundred-dollar bills. I was a good boy in those days,it would be another 2 years before I went "bad", so I gave to my Mom. Mom wasn't angry, she usually put me first over her own priorities,so she said that she'd use the money for Christmas and sure enough,under the tree that year was a bright and shiny Burlington Line crack silver passenger train, with lighted windows and people silhouettes. Santa and Dad had come through.
But Santa is a powerful spirit and one gift may serve many other purposes. The year was 1978,I was almost ten years out the Marines and the Vietnam war, I had already screwed up a marriage and became a nomad. My fuel was a combination of drugs and alcohol. I hadn't finished college either,had no real skills and we were in a recession in those days. I was pretty much broke,unemployed with benefits running out and a truck that had given up the ghost. Neither was I about to crawl home,tail tucked between my legs. Had been there and done that and at age 30+ living under Moms puritanical rules wasn't an option. And,it turned out,getting yet another loan from her was also not an option. But, she said, you still have that set of trains in the attic, I'll see if I can sell them and send you that money. Unbeknownst to me,old Lionel trains,especially a complete set in mint condition are worth their weight in gold. The sale netted me a over grand. Santa and Dad came through again. I'd often think of those trains and how they might have become a Christmas present for some one that year. If he sold them today,they would be worth a small fortune. Oh,yes,Virginia,there certainly is a Santa Claus and at age 66, I still believe in him.