I tried to name the most unforgettable Christmas ever at the McDonald house

when I was a kid; realistically, I could not pick a clear winner.  Instead, I have

narrowed my list down to the final four.  I plan to present them in a series of

five postings ( posting # 1 is an introduction and each of the final four most

memorable Christmases past appear in its own posting).  The true story below

is  posting # 2 in a series of five and a continuation of the story of series # 1. 

I encourage and challenge each of you to share your memories with all of your

old friends and readers of Joel's website at joel@rockinghamremembered.com

about just what "a Wonderful Life" Christmas was "growing up in

Rockingham, North Carolina - a small textile town in the South in the ' 50s & ' 60s."

 

 

 

I can remember the Christmas morning in 1956 Ken (RHS ' 68), Gary ( RHS ' 71),

and I ( RHS ' 66) awoke to find two Schwinn bicycles and one tricycle under our

tree.  All three bikes were red and white ( Santa knew I was going to be a

Wolfpacker before I did) and all three were keyed to different skill levels of

riding.  Santa brought Gary, the youngest at age three, the tricycle.  He brought

Ken, the middle child at the age of six, a bicycle with training wheels.  The only

experience Ken ever had on a bicycle was sitting on the seat of my old bicycle,

holding onto my waist as the McDonald boys traveled two on a bike built for one.

 Last but not least, Santa brought yours truly, age eight, a twenty - four inch

Schwinn with a big headlight.  A large tank located between the seat and the

handlebars held six batteries that provided power for my headlamp.  It was a

fancy bicycle with wide whitewall tires and a passenger / luggage rack over the

back fender.  I could sit Gary on the rack and Ken on the seat and travel three on

a bike built for one if necessary.  I could not wait to ride my bike; apparently,

neither could Ken wait.  He pulled his bicycle over to the opposite diagonal

corner of the living room, hopped on his bike and began to pedal.  " Ken, stop! 

You are going to hit  the Christmas tree!" I shouted.

 

"Whoa!  Whoa!"   Ken screamed as he zeroed in on the Christmas tree.  Having

never ridden anything other than a pony, my six year old brother had no other

solution to stop his runaway bicycle.  Too late ...  Our pretty Christmas tree came

down like the Twin Towers.  Nearly every thin red, blue, green, and silver globe

on the tree shattered when the tree hit our hardwood living room floor.  Daddy was

not a happy camper.  Thanks to Ken, I will always remember the Christmas of ' 56;

yes, those precious childhood memories of growing up in Rockingham, North Carolina

- a small textile town in the South in the ' 50s & ' 60s.

 

to be continued ...