One
Christmastime, when I was about eight years old, my mother took all three of us
kids, and my cousin, Nicky, who had just immigrated from Ireland, in her old Studebaker, for a ride to
visit her then-boss, Frank and his wife, Elaine. Frank and Elaine lived in a
very fancy house in Burlington, a suburb of Boston, and we enjoyed a very
pleasant visit at their house until it was time to start home. There was a lot of snow on the ground
and in banks up to a foot high everywhere. All the houses had incredible light displays in the windows
and around the doors and lawns, which we found fascinating. Mama drove slowly so we could look at
it.
Back then, especially in Charlestown, you might catch a
glimpse of the lights on someone’s Christmas tree through their parlor window,
and most people would put an electric candle or two in the window, but it was
nothing as elaborate as these houses had.
And even by today’s standards, where some houses look like they should
be on the Las Vegas strip, the decorations were mostly light trimming on trees
or in the windows. But like I
said, it was elaborate compared to what we were used to and we were really enjoyed
looking at the displays.
Meandering around the suburban neighboroods in the freezing
cold had got us lost. Mama didn’t
know Burlington, didn’t have a map, and nobody remembered how to get back
toward Frank and Elaine’s house in order to find the way home. It was dark, the temperature was in the
single digits, and Donna and I were freezing in our tights and dresses, with
fancy patent-leather shoes, instead of boots. Charlie never a wore a hat on the coldest of days, and had neither hat nor gloves. Nicky was in a similar situation, and Mama was in fancy clothes as well.
Then the car engine died and refused to start. Daddy would get Mama old cars that he
would let her drive into the ground, and once they died, he would just get
another one. She never had a new
car, and she was often stuck by the side of the road with these old
clunkers. This time, we were not only stuck
with a broken-down car, we were lost.
We started walking to try and retrace our way back, but the cold was so
bad, that we were all crying.
Charlie was literally screaming, while holding his ears with his hands,
and Nicky tried to help by carrying Donna and me, but we proved too heavy, so
we trudged along until finally, Mama decided to ring a doorbell to ask for
help.
A man answered the door and we were welcomed in by his
family, given blankets, and made to sit near their warm fire. They gave us hot drinks and helped us
to get comfortable. As the feeling
returned to our extremities and we had a chance to look around, Donna and I
whispered to each other, about how there were absolutely no Christmas
decorations or a tree in their house, and Charlie chimed in with, “They’re
Jewish!” We couldn’t fathom how
they could live without Santa Claus, a tree at Christmas, the load of toys, and
of course, the inevitable worn-out old manger that we brought out every year
for the Baby Jesus.
The adults phoned Frank, who came and picked us up in his
car, and left us with a Christmas memory I shall never forget. The kindness and generosity of those
folks in Burlington made a huge impression on me, and mirrored exactly what the
spirit of Christmas was all about.
