A TREE FOR CHRISTMAS
Al Koch
December 2021

It was a week before Christmas, and still they had no tree. The front rooms of the neighborhood all glistened with brightly decorated spruces and pines, but their parlor was dark. Trees were being sold for as little as seventy-five cents, but they simply did not have the money. Raising a family of six in 1947 on the salary of a payroll clerk allowed for the basics—food, housing, clothing—and little else.

Two years earlier, when his only sister, Barbara, had been just a few months old, they were supposed to have a Christmas tree. Then a serious bone disease in his sister’s right arm overshadowed any thought of anything so frivolous. When the last trip to the doctor’s office, a few days before Christmas signaled the little arm healed and free of infection, his mom pronounced this the best gift of all. And so that year they spent the morning at Mass and offered prayers of thanksgiving to the Christ-child. The young boy remembered the gifts of that Christmas as one fresh orange, one very red apple, and one store-bought present—the board game Monopoly, to be shared with two older brothers. He would have surrendered them all for one small evergreen tree.

That Christmas was the closest they had ever come to having a tree since the birth of his sister. All the family’s ornaments and the ones acquired when their grandmother died were packed in a large cardboard box, wrapped in tissue, and carefully stored in the closet of his parents’ bedroom. Only once is all the time since they had moved into their grandmother’s house had they untied the box, unwrapped the tissues, and carefully inspected each ornament.

That was last year, the first week of summer, and shortly after the family moved from their garage flat into grandma’s house on Oliver Street. The ornament box, along with other family belongings had been left in the front rooms by the movers. The heavy furniture and appliances were placed in their respective locations, but the smaller items were left for the family to sort and put away.

He remembers sitting on the bare, hardwood floor, scarcely daring to breathe; his mother cut the packing tape and opened the cardboard box to assess any possible damage. Almost reverently, she picked each ornament, smoothed back the tissue, and inspected each of the Christmas tree jewels. Over the years, each member of the family has acquired a special ornament for one reason or another. And one day, the mother thought, they would all be displayed on a tree.

Quietly, the young boy watched his mother’s handling of each ornament. Hers was a crystal globe encasing a sprig of pink garland surrounded by artificial flakes of snow. A small etching of a hand painted “Merry Christmas” bannered the outside of the glass sphere. It fastened to the tree by means of a small metal hook attached to a metallic loop and metal cap at the top of the ornament. His mom was always eager to tell how this keepsake had been a wedding gift so many years ago.

She told the story many times how on Christmas’ past, she’d placed her ornament on an outside branch of the tree so that it would catch the light each time she looked at it.  And although she hadn’t been able to display it for several years, she often spoke of the memories it  brought her each time she looked at it in the box.  With considerable care she re-wrapped it and replaced it in the carton.

The prized ornament of his oldest brother, Norman, was not round at all, but a glass peacock with multi-colored glazed feathers of green and blue. The end of the peacock had an opening for plumes and his brother filled it with some feathers saved from the only live turkey they had ever raised for Thanksgiving when they lived above a garage on Lincoln Avenue. Bent, frayed, and slightly chipped, he nevertheless looked to his feathered glass fowl with pride. The few times he was able to, Charlie, as his dad called him, always placed his peacock ornament in a deep green pocket on inside boughs of the tree where it would hang as if perched waiting for a companion to share the season.

The middle brother, Ronald, the one they called “Bunny,” had a bright red ornament the size of a grapefruit. Won at a grade school grab-bag party, Bunny always boasted how he had to find the strongest branch on the Christmas tree to support the weight of his giant sun-sized ornament.  And although he claimed that he treasured his ornament, his attachment must have waned considerably, for years later, during a hot July afternoon, while a seventh grader on summer vacation, bored with not having much to do, took his softball-sized prized ornament out of the box, and, once in the backyard, smashed it to smithereens with a baseball bat.

The little boy watched as his mother reached in the box for his ornament and began her inspection. His ornament was a small milk-glass globe with the word “PEACE” written in script around a center band of light blue glaze. It has been given to him by Sister Perpetua while he was in first grade at Sacred Heart School. He didn’t exactly know why, but suspicioned it was because his mom had washed and ironed altar linens for the church.

The newest addition to this treasured collection had been added the day his baby sister went home from the hospital. It was a fragile glass starburst of Bethlehem that was to be placed at the very top of the tree. It had been a going home gift from the nurses in Pediatrics’ at St. Catherine Hospital who cared for her while she fought the osteomyelitis that threatened the loss of her arm. Mom kept the card that came with the ornament. It read: “For a Christmas angel everyone loves.”

The youngest boy watched his mother carefully replace the cover on the ornament box and put it on top of another box of store-bought ornaments alongside two unopened boxes of tinsel and several sets of tree lights. She proceeded to put all these things on a shelf in the large front upstairs bedroom closet.

 “When are we going to get a tree for these ornaments and lights, Mom?” her youngest son asked.

 “Soon,” his mother answered, maybe we’ll be able to have a tree this Christmas.  We’ll just have to wait and see.”  Again, Christmas came, but no tree.

 As a six-year-old, he quietly longed for a tree, wished for a tree, needed a tree to make it Christmas, but knowing money was scarce, he kept these thoughts to himself. Wearing mended clothes and hand-me-downs from his older brother didn’t matter much—he accepted that, but how he ached for a tree—a real Christmas tree—the kind in the office building where his father worked at Standard Oil.

 The Personnel Department where his father worked was on the ground floor of the six-story Central States Bank Building at the corner of Indianapolis Boulevard and 119th Street. The boy saw the Christmas tree in the lobby when he had to go to the doctor’s office on the sixth floor. That tree was the tallest and greenest he had ever seen, and the lights of rainbows flicked and danced against the many ornaments. The tinsel shimmered with every movement of air. That was the kind of tree he wanted, the kind he dreamed about, and, at night during prayers, the kind he asked God for.

Throughout the year, suppertime began promptly at five o’clock. The little boy’s mother would faithfully have the table set and food ready to serve to her family a few minutes after the father came home from work. But during the Christmas season, supper was delayed a few minutes until the late afternoon episode of the Cinnamon Bear ended.  Crouching around the family’s Crosley radio in the parlor, the little boy and his brother, Bunny, listened intently to the exciting adventures of Jimmy and Judy Barton, traveling through Maybe Land as they tried to rescue the silver star from Crazy Quilt Dragon.

It was at supper the next evening, while the six of them savored the homemade potato soup and fish patties, that the miracle happened. His dad had just mentioned that the coming Sunday was the shortest day of the year and, starting Monday, the days would begin to get a little longer as the earth spun its way through winter toward spring.  Just as soon as he’d finished his mini-science lesson, his mom smiled and told them how she had managed to save seventy-five cents from some laundry she had taken in and how she thought they could use the money to buy a tree.  She handed her husband three silver quarters and added: “Albert’s really excited; he wants to go with you.”

Quickly, the boy (his dad called him Doc), and his father prepared to set out. It was bitterly cold that Friday night. Once outside and before they walked three doors away to the alley, the little boy pulled his navy-blue, knit-wool cap lower around his face, so it covered his forehead for added warmth. The knot tied by his mom in his flannel scarf snugged his neck and spilled out over the top of his heavy corduroy coat, which she had zipped up to its limit.   He pursed his lips to see if he could form a ring exhaling into the frigid night air.

The little boy walked quickly alongside his father as they made their way to the corner of 119th and Oliver before turning toward the tree lot. On the corner was a Miner-Dunn eatery. The few patrons seated at the counter had coffee cups in front of them.  Because Catholics observed meatless Fridays, diner business was not brisk like it was other days of the week. He used his father’s long topcoat as a windbreak and had to quick step in and out of iced boot prints with his galoshes to keep his balance. The metal fasteners on his boots clicked in rhythm to his walk.

 He didn’t like wearing galoshes, or “gunboats” as his brother Bunny called them when he donated them to his little brother, because each boot sported a couple of bicycle inner-tube patches where they had been repaired to keep out unwanted moisture.  But wearing them was the only way he was allowed to go with his dad for the tree, so it was a moot point.

The wind caused the boy’s father to turn up his topcoat’s collar and pull his ivy-league tweed cap tighter on his head. But it was his bare hands that caught the brunt of the cold night air. As a result, even though they were to walk more than six blocks, few words were exchanged as they trudged through the town’s business district.

One hundred and nineteenth may not sound like much of a name for a city’s main street, but the Founders of Whiting, Indiana were never poets. Located on a couple of square miles of real estate at the southernmost tip of Lake Michigan in northern Indiana, the compact little town was noted for its refinery and winds that whistled off the lake throughout the year. In summer, these winds were a natural air conditioner enjoyed by residents.  In winter, these same wind flows turned frigid and were the primary cause for the sales of alcohol spirits to skyrocket!             

Although it was nearly 6:30 in the evening, stores along 119th Street were ablaze with the lights and colors of the season, as merchants continued their extended holiday shopping hours.  Strung across the main street, from light pole to light pole were strings of illuminated Christmas decorations. There were various sized stars, candles, ornaments, and candy canes all aglow with colored bulbs.  Because the light poles were staggered on opposite sides of the street, the municipal yuletide decorations formed an overhead zigzag pattern the full length of the business district adding to the festive mood of the season. A crowning touch to the municipal and storefront decorations, a large pair of loudspeakers had been mounted atop the tall Central State Bank building.   These loudspeakers carried the Christmas sounds of hymns and traditional carols. Shoppers and townspeople could be seen singing along as they went about their business.

The two of them kept close to the buildings as added protection from the biting wind and numbing cold: his dad on the outside and the boy in between his father and the storefronts providing opportunity for him to scan every window and shop along the way.   The little guy looked at the display of items that shoppers were rapidly turning into brightly wrapped gifts. He didn’t dwell on these things, but their passing before his eyes added to the excitement of the task at hand.  To himself he hummed Jingle Bells, unconsciously blending with the music floating in the night air.

Some of the storefront walks had been cleared of snow and ice, but others remained packed with the original snowfall of three days ago. Shoppers jockeyed for the securest footing as they scurried back and forth, in and out of stores, balancing packages deftly against the elements and their bulky winter clothing.  Fortunately, the full complement of even shoppers was not yet in evidence on the street or in the stores as this hour, as a majority were obviously tending to suppertime duties.

The second grader and his father continued to walk toward the tree lot. They had already passed the Whiting News’s Agency, had crossed both Sheridan and LaPorte Avenues, and were fast approaching the little boy’s favorite store in the whole town—the Firestone store. As they walked, the boy noticed his dad looking at the men’s suits displayed in the windows of Lewin Wolf. They never broke stride, but the clothing caught his father’s eye.

Many times, during the year, as the boy along with his older brother, baby sister and mom had gone shopping at the A & P, they would pass by the Firestone store where its windows always showcased shining appliances, toys, and sporting goods. Often the proprietor, Mr. Price, or store manager, Jim Grass, would be adjusting a display and give a friendly greeting and wave as they’d pass by.  The boy’s mother would look, too, but rarely did she go inside.  There was money for food and other necessities, but even that depended in large part on her ability to manage what money she had.  To supplement the family’s income, she would often rent an upstairs bedroom and add that earnings to the budget.  On rare occasions, however, they would all get a little treat of gum or candy, but funds never quite seemed to stretch from one payday to the next.

The little guy looked in the decorated “Winter Wonderland” window of his favorite store and wondered to himself if their Christmas   tree would ever look like that or have so many presents placed under it. Surrounding the displayed tree were little houses illuminated with colored lights. A Lionel train circled the track around the tree, as Santa’s toy-laden sleigh and reindeer rode atop the flat car; and a Nativity scene with small figures nestled on a thick blanket of white cotton as a reminder of the First Christmas.

The little boy’s anticipation increased. He snugged his knitted hat down tighter to further warm his ears and muffle the sounds of the winter wind.  As his boots continued to click off his steps, almost keeping time with the sounds of “Here Comes Santa Claus,” emanating from the bank building’s roof top. The boy thought excitedly about the tree they were soon to buy imagining it in all its regal splendor.

In contrast, his father shivered. At six feet two inches tall and well under 190 pounds, it didn’t take long for him to get cold.  To the boy’s father, it was a stark, unforgiving cold night. The frigid December wind poked and pierced his topcoat like frozen needles. The concrete sidewalk resisted every stride, and he felt the rejection as each step brought painful cold to the muscles of his legs. The rubber overshoes he wore offered meager insulation from the frozen cement and remnants of a week-old snowfall. To add insult to injury he realized his coat pockets, saves for the coins, were empty. He’d left his gloves at home.

 The father never liked the cold and did not want to be out tonight. And most certainly he didn’t like the idea of trying to buy a Christmas tree with six bits. He had always dreamed of having enough money to buy what he wanted: nice clothes, a fine car, and even have a few bucks to put on the nose of a promising thoroughbred or two at the local betting parlor. But those dreams had withered a long time ago. Here he was, walking along the main street of his hometown with his youngest son—the dreamer, freezing to the bone with an empty wallet and seventy-five cents in his pocket, to buy a Christmas tree. He silently hoped the lot wouldn’t be crowded when they got there. He was going to buy the first tree available and rush back home.  He was so cold, and he felt ashamed that all he had to spend on a Christmas tree was three quarters of a dollar.

Dejectedly, he thought to himself, “We haven’t had a tree for a couple of years. Why do we need one this year? Why tonight?” As the father thought about the tree, he quietly fingered the three quarters in his pocket. He also thought about his family and Christmas. Most of all he thought about the little guy beside him.  The little kid believed in Santa Claus—he really believed that dreams come true. Knowing that, the father wondered how he would explain to his son the rag-tag tree he would have to buy with the small amount of change in his pocket. He continued to shiver.

Once across Central Avenue, the two of them began to walk more rapidly. A sudden, strong sharp gust of wind whipped through the A & P parking lot causing both to short-gasp and turn their backs to the wind and catch their breath. His bare hand grabbed his cap from flying off his head. Immediately he felt the stinging cold on his ungloved hand.

Securing his cap, he replaced his chilled hand into his topcoat’s pocket for warmth and protection. Looking at his son who had been silent nearly the entire time they’d been walking except for an occasional sing-along verse of familiar Christmas music emanating from the rooftop speakers, he caught his eye and smiled. His youngest smiled back.  He was really into Christmas.

In less than a half of block, they walked past both the Baran and Owen funeral homes, crossed Cleveland Avenue and were in front of the Whiting Castle preparing to cross Indianapolis Boulevard. Momentarily, they savored the aromas of grilled beef and onions. As they reached the curbing, the traffic signal turned green, and they quickly crossed the four lane throughfare. Rush hour traffic had diminished but in the dark early evening, one had to exercise additional caution, especially aware of icy patches scattered at random on the roadway. Once safely on the other side, the two of them walked past the IGA grocery store and the remaining block without hesitation, save for greetings and seasonal wishes extended by two passers-by to the boy’s father. Crossing at the corner of Atchison Avenue and 119th Street, the brightly lit  canopied entrance to the Illiana Hotel caught their eyes. As they neared the entrance to the tree lot, both noticed it had begun to snow.

Christmas trees were being sold on the southeast corner of 119th and Atchison Avenue, two doors east of Condes’ grocery. There were three or four strings of bare bulbs hanging from some posts along the perimeter of the corner lot to help illuminate the conifer merchandise.  Pete Condes, one of the owner’s sons managed the tree lot.  There was a barrel with a half-eager fire in the lot’s center that Pete used to keep himself warm between sales. Each tree carried a tag which identified the evergreen variety and listed the price.

`The back and sides of the lot were fenced so customers entered through a gateway on the Atchison Avenue side. The taller trees were propped against the fencing and the smaller ones had been placed in hastily made wood stands in clear view for the customer’s critical eye.

Pete separated the trees by variety and size.  Entering the lot, the curious, second grader read some of the tree tags: Scotch Pine, Balsam Fir, Spruce, Fraser Fir, Noble Fir. The collective aromas and scents given off by the trees added to the Christmas-like scene.

With flames dancing against the shadows, and light from the bare bulbs swayed by the night wind flickering on the branches of several dozen yet-to-be-sold evergreen trees, the little boy’s eyes widened as he and his father walked inside the coniferous corral carpeted with a multitude of small fir cones and thousands of discarded pine needles. The lone customer already there seemed more intent on passing time than selecting a tree. He showed a reluctance to stray from the warmth offered by the fire in the heated barrel.

The boy’s father and Pete had known one another for many years. His mom and dad had traded at Condes for several years prior to this youngest son’s birth.  Before moving into his late parent’s house on Oliver Street two year earlier, the father and his family lived in a garage flat less than a block from the Condes family grocery. 

Located in mid-block, between Lincoln and Atchison Avenues, on the south side of 119th Street, across the street from the bicycle shop, car dealer, and St. John the Baptist church, Condes’ grocery became the community oasis. Whether it was to buy milk, bread or sweet rolls after Sunday Mass, the daily newspapers, some freshly sliced-to-order cold-cuts for school and work lunches, or the basic staples for the family table, Condes was always available to serve neighborhood residents. Mr. and Mrs. Condes had three sons: Pete, Sam, and Chris.  Years later, the Condes’ boys would own and operate the family restaurant on Indianapolis Boulevard near Five Points intersection.

Condes’ grocery was a small, two-aisled, two-story building that featured the family living quarters upstairs. Once inside the grocery, a whole host of tempting aromas and eye-pleasing foodstuffs bid customers welcome. The ivory colored, stamped, embossed metal ceiling sported pull-chain lights and ceiling-mounted fans.  Together the lights and fans illuminated the interior and stirred the fragrances teasing palates to make patron’s mouth water each time they entered.

Always when you came in, you would see Pete at the far end of the store. He was a robust man of just under six feet tall, slightly balding, with clear blue eyes, and an almost round face that seemed to come equipped with a constant smile.  He would be standing behind the deli counter wearing his white store apron. Pencils for marking cold-cut packages filled the center pocket.  Before the door closed behind you, Pete would be extending a friendly greeting. When customer’s children accompanied their parents to Condes, Pete always reached into one of the cookie bins, and, after selecting one of several kinds, would ask the child to be good and offer them a cookie. Kids always took the cookie and nodded yes.

Pete greeted the boy and his father with his usual cheery “Merry Christmas!” Wearing a large red-plaid parka with the hood up around his face securely tied, he looked like a beardless Santa. He made some small talk about the weather, and then got down to business. “Came to get a tree I see,” he said, but before the little boy’s father could explain his situation, Pete was off toward the far corner of the lot to select a tree.

The boy’s father was reluctant to talk any louder because he did not want to call attention to himself or allow the stranger standing by the fire barrel to eavesdrop. In less than a minute Pete returned to the place where the father was waiting for him. The boy waited in the distance, allowing his dad and Pete to conduct business. The boy had turned away momentarily to look at the other trees on the lot and to watch the snowflakes as they fell into the fire barrel. By the time his eyes refocused, he saw Pete carrying the most beautiful tree he had ever seen—taller than his father, and bushier than the big tree in lobby where his dad worked. The tag turned slowly in the bare-bulb light. It read $3.00.

In a soft, quiet voice, the kind the little boy hadn’t heard his father use since his grandmother’s funeral, he explained that he had only seventy-five cents to spend.  The young boy watched his father closely. He thought he saw him draw back away from Pete ever so slightly, almost as if he were getting ready to turn and walk back home. As this slight movement caught the light in his father’s eyes, the boy had an uncomfortable feeling that his dad was about to cry. But before he could ask, move toward his father, do anything, Pete’s voice filled his ears.

“Look here,” Pete said, “I’ve been having a tough time selling this big tree here. Most folks want the smaller ones, so I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” The little boy’s eyes were riveted on Pete’s face, and he thought it was then that Pete winked at him. “You take this tree off my hands as a favor to me, you know, to help me out, and I’ll make it a Christmas Special for seventy-five cents.” Pete and his father shook hands slowly and Pete said something to his dad the boy couldn’t hear. Then Pete helped the father get a balanced grip on the tree and the two of them started for home.

For the young boy, the walk back home was magical! Christmas carols filled the air, huge white snowflakes had already completed their initial assignment of covering the sidewalks and streets, and now turned their attention to the hats and noses of shoppers and Christmas tree buyers. The harsh night wind had eased up considerably, and the lights of Christmas winked and blinked in between snowflakes. Even the recently cut evergreen gathered in its share of white crystals as the boy’s father carried it along. Enthusiastically, the second grader jubilantly stomped his “gunboats” heavily as he walked along, making “horse prints” in the new falling snow.

His Dad chose to remain on the south side of 119th Street for the walk back home because there were fewer curbs to cross, and the father was able to carry the tree more evenly when he didn’t have to be jostled by stepping up and down curbs. Once across the boulevard, past the corner Standard Oil gas station, foot traffic increased. By now, the evening’s crush of shoppers was out in force, searching for gifts that would make their Christmas complete. The little boy smiled as he watched shoppers dodge out of the path of his father carrying the tree. It was obvious who claimed the right-of-way. The boy’s father, unable to wave at friends and acquaintances and keep control of the tree, simply nodded a hello, and continued. Occasionally, the top of the tree would bob in the snow-covered sidewalk, leaving behind needle imprints alongside the boy’s gunboat snow stomping.

In the tranquility of the walk home, with the falling snow and the scent of fresh pine, the dreams in the head of the boy warmed him against the December cold. He quietly said his prayer of thanks. This was the first time he prayed without kneeling and hoped his walking prayer would be received.  In step with his dad, he lightly touched the needled boughs, so they barely snagged his woolen mittens.

Automobile traffic had also increased in volume, and coupled with the now heavily falling snow, was causing a minor traffic jam on 119th Street. Passing the Slovak Dom, the little guy noticed current showings at the Capitol Theater: Pirates of Monetary starring Rod Cameron, and an Abbot & Costello comedy, The Wistful Widow of Wagon Gap.  He had never been inside the Capitol theater but listened as his oldest brother, Norman (called Charlie by their dad) told about the cowboy and crime movies he saw there.

By fifth grade, he would be a regular Saturday patron at the Capitol Theater. In addition to the double feature, moviegoers would be feted with two cartoons, a good-guy, bad-guy serial, News of the Day, Coming Attractions, and a stage show giveaway in between feature films.  A kid could spend an entire afternoon for the price of a fourteen-cent ticket and several servings of junk food and soft drinks.

The Capitol Theater became the territorial domain of the town’s kids. Almost directly across the street, the Hoosier theater catered to the more mature, discriminating filmgoer. One might forego the adventure and action fare at the Capitol and choose to see the current holiday double feature at the Hoosier: The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer, starring Cary Grant and Shirley Temple, plus Miracle on 34th Street, starring John Payne, Maureen O’Hara, Edmund Gwenn, and Natalie Wood.

It was while the boy’s father was acknowledging the hello from a Ford owner’s horn that he almost rammed into two lady shoppers who were busy talking and carrying a full load of packages as they came out of Woolworth’s. The boy scolded himself for that near collision. He hadn’t been watching for passers-by.  His mind was on the Capitol theater.

The boy watched as the ladies ducked, dodged, and twisted out of the way of the tree’s bottom end. Somehow, without dropping any of their newly purchased treasures, they managed to regain their balance and composure. Both laughed nervously, said “Merry Christmas” to the boy and his father as he offered his apologies, and continued, talking through their laughter.  The guy in the Ford honked again, smiled through the raised window, waved, and drove on.

The boy’s dad used the near collision to pause and change hands holding the tree. He had done that periodically since leaving the tree lot to warm the hand exposed to the weather. He noticed that since the snow began, it seemed warmer. Nevertheless, he now held the tree with his right hand, while he warmed his left one in his topcoat pocket.  A few more blocks and he would change hands again. He noticed, too, that the dense boughs of the tree protected his bare hand from the direct onslaught of the night air, but it was still too cold for him. He was in a hurry to get home.

George Bailey may have liked his Hollywood-made main street in Bedford Falls, but with the snow falling heavily on 119th Street, as shoppers scurried to complete their gift lists, and with the city decorated in full seasonal splendor the week before Christmas, no city, town, or movie set ever looked more elegant.

Across Clark Street, past the corner Walgreen’s, the adjacent shoe store, Aronberg & Kissen Jewelers, and Seifer’s furniture, father, and son, separated by the branches of the verdant conifer, walked on. The boy’s father had decided to stop at the far end of J. J. Newberry’s 5 & 10 to switch hands for the final distance home.

The falling snow continued to accumulate and each time he stepped, his dad’s overshoes disappeared inside and under the frozen white fluff. Passing the display windows of the dime store, the little boy saw stacks of tinsel in the familiar red and green box with the cellophane window. Officially marked as ‘Christmas tree icicles,’ everyone called it tinsel.  It was available in either the short or long length and sold per box for 15 and 25 cents respectively.   Chuckling to himself, the boy remembered how his mom had paid only 25 cents for three boxes of long tinsel in Chicago during their bargain hunt the first week of January.

Each store window was filled with ornaments, wrapping paper, light strings, extra Christmas light bulbs, candles, candy canes, fake snow, ribbons, and figurines depicting both the religious and secular commemoration of the season.  Interspersed among these items were toys, games, yard goods, gadgets for the home, and wearing apparel for the entire family. Most of the communities’ residents, at one time or another during the year, scrutinized the smorgasbord of merchandise, opened their purses or wallets, and added to the city’s revenue.

While Father and youngest son were busy buying the tree, Mom and the other two boys were preparing things at home for their return. After washing the supper dishes and tidying up the kitchen, she instructed her oldest son to bring the ornament box from the upstairs bedroom closet, downstairs-- cautioning him to be very careful.  Bunny was assigned the task of finding the tree stand that had been stored somewhere in the basement. Their mom, in between tending to her two-year old daughter, had put a sheet on the floor for placement under the stand near the front windows where the tree would be displayed.

The Mom placed the ornament cartons out of harm’s way on the kitchen table while her two sons sorted and checked strings of Christmas lights. She smiled as watched the two off them trying to locate the burned-out bulb that was preventing the rest of the string to light. Two unopened boxes contained the bubble lights she purchased early in the year. As she placed those boxes on the table with the special ornaments, she recalled to herself how, early in January, a few days after the New Year, she had taken her youngest son and Bunny on the Shoreline bus to Chicago’s Loop for post-Christmas bargains. Although her primary mission was for reduced, well-made clothing for her family, she was always on the lookout for a ‘genuine’ bargain. One such stop at Wieboldts was a “clearance” table of Christmas decorations left over from the holiday.

In a rare display of non-budgeted spending, she bought two strings of bubble lights for $1.49 and some tinsel. Spending a dollar seventy-four on Christmas decorations was something of a financial milestone.  She purchased the lights to please her husband. For the past couple of Christmas’, the family heard the father tell how heat from the bulb made the colored liquid in tall glass stems bubble.  The tree displayed in the lobby of where he worked seemed ablaze with bubbling elegance.

With the light strings checked out and working, the tree stand in place on the sheeted floor, and the ornaments ready for placement, they awaited the return of the father and youngest son.  As they waited, the mom offered some words of counsel to her sons: “Please be satisfied with the tree they bought. Don’t say anything that will hurt their feelings. It’s cold and they’ve walked a long way.” Then she directed Ron to look out the window and see if they’re coming.  I’ll heat some water and make hot chocolate; they’ll be frozen when they get home.”

Bunny pushed aside the drapes to one side of the window and peered out into the darkness. He announced it was snowing like crazy and sticking; but didn’t see his dad or brother. Everything at home was ready. Bunny continued watching for their arrival.

Both father and son took extra caution navigating 119th Street’s unique double curb step as they crossed to Oliver Street.  The young boy looked up at his father and said, “Ya know dad, this is going to be a good Christmas.” His father glanced over and down at his youngest bobbing up and down and smiled.

“I think so too, Doc, I think so, too. One more thing,” his father reminded, “You be sure and say a prayer for Pete tonight before you go to sleep. Understand?”

“Understand,” the boy answered.

And the cold night wind hummed softly through the needled branches of the Christmas tree.

Walking down Oliver Street for home, the father firmed his grip on the tree with his left hand. His right was warmed in his coat pocket as he fingered the coins—three silver quarters.  He smiled. The little guy was right. It was going to be a good Christmas.