The following is the conclusion of the most memorable Christmas ever at the McDonald house when I was a kid - Christmas of 1960.  I hope you experience as much enjoyment reading about Christmas with the McDonald brothers as I did reminiscing and writing about Christmases past.  Once again, please take time to write and share your memories with all your old friends and readers of Joel's website in cyberspace just what a "Wonderful Life" Christmas and all the other "Wonderful" times of the year were "growing up in Rockingham, North Carolina - a small textile town in the South in the ' 50s & ' 60s."

 

 

 

The Christmas of 1960 was a crossroads in the life of the McDonald

brothers, at least for Ken and me.  I was in the seventh grade and ten days

shy of my thirteenth birthday.  I never heard it from  Daddy's mouth but I

am sure he was disappointed at the timing of my arrival into the world and

the missed tax advantage.  For every sweet, there is a sour.  Having a

birthday on January 4 made me older than most of my classmates.  The wee

bit of maturity advantage gave me self - confidence.  The sour came when I

asked about a birthday party.  "Birthday party?  Are you kidding?  We have

not even paid for your Christmas yet!"  Mama would always bake me a

chocolate cake though.  Since I was Mama's first born, she told me that she

was so miserable that she started jumping off the front porch in December! 

Someone had told her that this exercise would hasten delivery.  I have

always suspected that Pop encouraged this activity.  The Scotchman in him

could see the advantage of a December ' 47 birth over a January ' 48 birth.

 

The roads that crossed in 1960 was the Road of Reality and the Road of

Make-Believe.  Down the Road of Reality one could find Disappointment

Downs, Ignorance Inn, Whiners Way, Gripers Grocery, Losers Lounge, and

Heartbreak Hotel.  The Road of Reality was full of pity potholes while the

storms of controversy always impair the clear vision of reasoning.  Down the

Road of Make-Believe one could find Superhero Super Slab, Wonderland

Way, Cartoon Causeway, Easy Estates, Hero Haven, and Fairytale Freeway. 

The Road of Make-Believe was always a smooth cruise in the bright

sunshine with not a cloud of worry in the sky.  At the Childhood Crossroads,

stood James McKnight, my next door neighbor and childhood idol.  James

was the son of our preacher Wade McKnight.  James recruited Ken and me

to do all the dirt work in turning the field beside the parsonage into a

baseball diamond.  He then conned us into chasing thousands of baseballs

under the pretense of fly ball catching.  James told us he could teach us to

catch like Willie Mays and we believed him.  He then laughed himself silly by

throwing a curve neither one of us could hit.  James had wavy jet black hair

while Ken and I had straight brown hair that Daddy never let grow more

than three quarters of an inch long.  Daddy always had Ken, Gary, and me

in Charles Gibson's barbershop located across the street from Archie's Red

& White next to Flukie's ( Hawkins ) Shell Service every two weeks.  James

could have made commercials for Vitalis.  He had a ducktail with not a hair

out of place that would have made Elvis smile.  James McKnight, my next

door neighbor and childhood idol, was quite a ladies man.  He told me how

he stole kisses from the prettiest of girls using moves that I could only

fantasize about making.  James taught Ken and me how to smoke rabbit

tobacco.  I can still remember bending over his mother's stove ( she was not

at home ) and taking a deep draw of the rolled brown paper bag stuffed with

rabbit tobacco ( country weed ).  The homemade cigarette flamed up and I

set the bill of my New York Yankees baseball cap on fire.  James McKnight,

my next door neighbor and childhood idol, saved my life by jerking it off my

head and slam dunking it into his mother's dishwater.  James could also

throw a swift hard punch.  James' Golden Fight Rule was "He who throws

the first punch wins!"   He often proved the theory "A punch to the nose

cures the runny mouth."  Ken and I always had James' back and he always

had ours.  Several times Daddy and Reverend McKnight would be coming

out the front door of our church and James, Ken, and I would be fighting

for our lives either with the Frye boys or the Ussery brothers in the front

yard at the bottom of the steps.  I will never forget one incident when

Reverend McKnight broke us up and made us shake hands.  Everything was

cool until Ken grabbed Billy Frye's hand with both of his hands and

squeezed as tightly as a python squeezing a wild piglet.  Oh, it was on again

until Daddy stepped in.  As a result, we had never received nor given a

beating in the church yard like we received when we got home.  I cannot say

that we never fought at church again but I promise you that we never fought

again in the front yard at the bottom of the church steps.  A small footnote

that I am compelled to add: the Usserys were actually cousins.  Ken and I

fought against the Ussery brothers but we also fought with the Ussery

brothers at church and school.  We were friends as well as foe.  On the other

hand, the Frye boys were our friends but we only fought against them not

with them.  The Ussery-Frye relationship proves the old adage, "blood is

thicker than water."

 

Although James McKnight, my next door neighbor and childhood idol, was

not related, he was our blood brother.  Every day Ken and I were either at

his house or he was at ours.  Our dads became best of friends.  Daddy was

Chairman of the Deacon Board and confided in Mr. McKnight and

visa-versa.  James was a good kid but he was just a little mischievous.  James

told Ken and me dirty jokes.  James also told us of the message that the

stand alone middle finger sent when exposed.  James, a marble marvel, won

all our marbles and taught us how to play poker at our expense.  Some of the

church members complained to the preacher about James' disruptive

nature.  James cut up in Sunday School class and passed notes in worship

service.  James talked in Sunday Training Union class and made funny faces

in Evening Worship.  On Wednesdays, he was late for Royal Ambassadors

class and always had to go to the bathroom ten minutes before class ended

never to return.  The Preacher was always fielding complaints from his flock

about the conduct of his son James.  One Sunday morning probably after

hearing one too many comments on James,  Reverend McKnight made a

tongue-in-cheek announcement from the pulpit about his only male child. 

"My son James is all boy.  Many of you tell me that James is the class clown. 

I know that James is full of life.  However, he has never been the talk of the

congregation until I moved to McDonald Baptist and became next door

neighbor to the Deacon Board Chairman.  I can only conclude that James'

behavior is a direct result of playing with the Deacon's children."  That

pulpit oratory drew chuckles and laughter from the congregation.  By now,

all adults were so accustomed to James that they expected the unexpected

from James.  However, it was the unexpected from James McKnight, my

next door neighbor and childhood idol, that rocked the McDonald brothers'

world forever.

 

In early December, 1960, James tried to crumble one of the building blocks

that my happy childhood foundation was built upon.  James told Ken and

me that Santa Claus was a hoax.  James said that Santa was a figment of

adult imagination.  He stated that parents use this lie to keep their children

from becoming habitual "Kids Gone Wild!"  Mamas and Daddies anywhere,

any day, any time always used the line, "If you do not straighten up, I am

going to write Santa Claus and tell him not to bring you anything for

Christmas!"  That threat always worked.  A kid could not gamble his future

Christmas booty on the possibility of Mama writing Santa.  Every child knew

that Santa had a list that he always checked twice anyway.  If Santa already

had two strikes against you and received a "strike three" letter from your

mama, then it was all over.  "Strike three and you are out" of a Christmas

from Santa.  A kid had too much to lose not to comply.  Although letters to

Santa were usually only written in December, we McDonald brothers knew

that the U.S. Post Office delivered mail all year long.  After all, Daddy and

Cousin Frank McDonald went to work every day all year long, strapped a

forty pound bag on their backs, and delivered mail.  Furthermore, the

government guaranteed that "neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of

night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed

rounds."  With a government guarantee like that, there was no reason to

believe that mail could not be delivered to Santa any month of the year.  I

am sure that Santa Claus received the Richmond County Journal at the

North Pole.  After all, Editor Neal Cadieu was kind enough to print "Letters

To Santa" in the paper.  Mama said that if you read it in the Journal it was

true.  Based on this fact alone, Ken and I knew James had to be lying about

no Santa.  However, I could not believe that James McKnight, my next door

neighbor and childhood idol, was so confused about the truth.  Where did

James get this idea?  I asked him to prove that Santa did not exist.  He

offered Ken and me the following detailed explanation.

 

"Yesterday, I saw Daddy drive our car up to the back of the church.  The

trunk of his car was so full that he had to tie it down to keep it closed.  I

thought he had church supplies in his trunk.  Boy was I surprised!  Daddy

pulled a bicycle out of the rear of the car and rolled it through the back

door.  He came out quickly, locked the door, and drove into our driveway.  I

just knew that Daddy would explain the bicycle at the supper table.  It

seemed that Mrs. Taylor had called because Mr. Taylor was down in his back

in a lot of pain.  Every time I tried to ask about the bicycle, Daddy would say,

' Don't interrupt, James.'  Finally he said, ' Son, if you interrupt me one

more time, I am going to tell your mama to write Santa and tell him not to

bring you that black Columbia three speed English bicycle with the

saddle-bag on the seat and the generated light on the handle bars.  If you

don't believe me, wait until you read your mother's letter in the Journal.'  I

wanted that bicycle so I just shut my mouth and finished supper.  Daddy

finished his supper, brushed his teeth, and left.  Mama said he was going to

see Mr. Taylor.  The phone rang and I answered it.  Grandma Coward

wanted to speak to Mama.  I knew this was my opportunity to sneak into the

church.  Grandma always keeps Mama on the telephone for an hour and

Mr. Taylor lives halfway between Ledbetters and Roberdel.  I grabbed

Daddy's five cell flashlight and spare key and ran across the street.  I looked

everywhere and you will never guess what I found!"

 

"What, James?  What?  What did you find?"  The mystery of searching God's

House after dark with a five cell flashlight on entrance made possible by the

Preacher's borrowed-without-permission key was almost sacrilegious.  Only

James McKnight, my next door neighbor and childhood idol, could pull this

caper off.  The suspense was about to split our eyelids and make our

jawbone ache as Ken and I stood in bug-eyed and jaw-dropped amazement. 

"What, James?  What did you find?  PLEASE tell us!"  Yes, inquiring minds

want to know!

 

James who was always the happy-go-lucky, don't triple-dog-dare me, I'll

worry about the consequences later type of guy, was about to give Ken and

me the shock of our young lives.  James' facial expressions and body

language changed to those like a Supreme Court Justice about to render a

society changing decision as he began to speak.  "I unlocked the church

library/janitorial supply room and found a black Columbia three speed

English bicycle with a saddle bag on the seat and a generated light on the

handlebars.  Santa Claus is make-believe!  Your Daddy buys your Christmas

gifts and hides them.  He probably wakes up in the middle of the night and

sticks them under the Christmas tree.  However, I am going to play along

with Daddy.  He is having more fun doing this scam than he does pretending

to be the Tooth Fairy.  He is having too much fun for me to spoil it."

 

"James you are kidding.  Aren't you?  You just want to laugh at us like you

always do when we try to hit your curve ball.  We are not going to fall for

that joke."

 

James smiled, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a key.  "Daddy and

Mama just left for town.  They are going to see Mr. Maske at Economy Auto. 

Mama wants a new Westinghouse stove for Christmas.  She thinks

something electrical is wrong with hers.  I heard her tell Daddy that every

time she turns it on, it smells like burning weeds or burning paper.  Mama is

afraid that it will catch on fire and burn the house down during the middle

of the night.  Let's go look at my new three speed," James said as he shook

the church key in our faces.  "We have plenty of time.  It's only 10 AM. 

We've got nine hours before Christmas Eve service.  We can eat as many

Zero bars out of the fruit bags as we want."

 

"No James," I said. "We have to go now.  Daddy told us not to be late for

lunch.  Too many Zeros before lunch is not a good idea."

 

Out the door we flew.  I told Ken that James was lying and when we reached

home we would ask Mama.  Mama would tell the truth.  If you can't believe

your Mama , who can you believe?  My twenty-four inch Schwinn bicycle

with the luggage/passenger rack over the back fender, the six cell battery

tank for the headlamp on the handlebars, and whitewall tires that Santa

brought on December 25, 1956 could not get me home fast enough.  At least,

I thought Santa brought it to me.  Now I was not sure if a green ' 60 four

door Plymouth or a red sleigh delivered it.

 

"Mama let me tell you what James told us.  He said ..."

 

"So you didn't fall for his trick? Mama asked.  "You never went plundering

in the church (plundering was an activity that I was not allowed to do

versus exploring, an approved activity) ?"  Mama concluded that James was

just being James and he and his older sister Patsy were probably having a

good laugh over our gullible antics.

 

"Mama, James seemed so sincere.  Why don't reindeer on our roof wake us

up?" I questioned.  "How can Santa slide down a dirty chimney and his

white beard and red suit never show dirt?  How does Santa get down a

chimney with a sack full of toys if a fire is burning in the fireplace?  Even

more puzzling , how does he get in if the home has no fireplace at all?  How

can Santa go down every chimney in Rockingham not to mention the world

between the later than usual bedtime hour and the earlier than usual hour

you awake when it takes you eight hours to get to Daytona Beach and you

only stop twice?  How can Santa eat all that cake and drink all that milk

without getting sick?"  Ken and I had more questions about Santa we had

never even thought about until now.

 

Mama seemed to be frustrated by all our questions.  "Boys, if you don't go to

bed right now, Santa will not come tonight.  Santa is a special angel.  God is

not happy if you do not believe in Santa Claus.  Don't dare mention to your

little brother Gary that you even thought Santa was make-believe (too late,

Gary was in the next room listening to all of our discussion).  Now go to

bed!"  Maybe James was right.  Is there a Santa Claus?

 

Early the next morning, I awoke to hear Elvis Pressley singing "You ain't

nothing but a hound dog" in my living room.  I suppose Mama was going to

tell me that Elvis slid down the chimney, too.  I slipped out of my bed and

scooted to see the King of Rock & Roll.  On the floor under our Christmas

tree was Daddy playing an Elvis LP on a Zenith High Fidelity record player

with detachable speakers in living stereo sound.  Daddy told me that Santa

had left me a record player.  What a perfect gift for a boy only ten days shy of

his thirteenth birthday; a teenager with his very own stereo record player,

how cool I am!  Still, the biggest surprise of Christmas of 1960 was yet to

come.

 

After eating Christmas breakfast, little Gary came running into the house

shouting "Come outside and see what Zeke has in his mouth!  Hurry! 

Hurry!"  He was so excited!  We all ran out to see what Zeke had.  Zeke was

our bulldog.  His mama was a full-blooded boxer and his daddy was a

full-blooded German Sheppard.  Zeke carried the best characteristics of

both breeds.  Zeke was a combination of German Sheppard intelligence in a

bulldog frame with the grit of a boxer and the smarts of a trained guard dog. 

That dog was a friend and playmate by day and a fearless guard dog by

night.  Daddy said if it walked on four legs, Zeke could whip it.  Apparently,

Zeke proved that logic for in his mouth that Christmas morning was a

perfect ten point rack of antlers.

 

Mama seized this opportunity to teach us a lesson.  She told Gary, Ken, and

me that Zeke might have Rudolph's antlers in his mouth.  Mama reminded

us that since we thought Santa Claus was make-believe, God let Zeke catch

Rudolph to prove to us that he was real and at our house.  How terrible we

felt!  This prospect drove us to tears.  How could we be so foolish to think

that Santa Claus was make-believe?  This sad scenario was what the

deacon's sons got for playing with the preacher's son.  Why did it have to be

Rudolph?  "Mama are you sure it is Rudolph?" Ken asked.

 

"It may not be Rudolph.  It could be another reindeer since we did not find a

red nose," Mama explained.  By now, we were three miserable boys.  "It may

be a Richmond County deer and not a North Pole deer," Mama reasoned. 

She could tell we needed a dose of mercy and a ray of hope.  Mama advised

"Boys, if you promise to be nice,  pray every night, and believe in Santa, God

may answer your prayers and wishes."

 

The year between December 25,1960 and December 25, 1961, Gary, Ken,

and I were "extra nice."  It was not until December 1,1961 that our fears and

worries about Rudolph and his teammates were put to rest.  You see every

December 1, the McDonald family loaded up and went to town to see the

Christmas lights and decorations.  As we approached 223 East Washington

Street, Gary, Ken, and I looked up on the roof of Hallum Furniture Store,

saw Santa in his sleigh, saw Rudolph with his nose so red bright, and last

but not least counted eight other tiny reindeer.  Thank God!   Zeke had

caught a Richmond County deer.  We never ever again from that day

forward thought that Santa was make-believe.

 

On December 25, 2005, Santa unloaded his sleigh at my home in Hope Mills.

 My three girls ages 23, 16, and 12 never questioned how he ended up in our

house and unloaded under our tree even though our house does not have a

chimney.  They believe because I believe!  I believe because of the Christmas

of 1960, my most memorable Christmas ever at the McDonald house when I

was a kid.  The truth does not change.  Only lies change.  The truth I learned

in 1960 was the same truth that Editor Francis Church of the New York Sun

wrote in an editorial response to 8 year old Virginia O' Hanlon who asked

the question, "Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?"

 

Mr. Church's response written on September 21, 1897, concluded, "No Santa

Claus?  Thank God!  He lives and lives forever.  A thousand years from now,

Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad

the heart of childhood."  Yes, I remember those precious childhood

memories of growing up in Rockingham, North Carolina - a small textile

town in the South in the ' 50s & ' 60s.

 

                                 THE END