A Tree Falls in Brooklyn

The year I turned twelve, my sister Dorothy got married and my brother Andy entered the Army. That left my parents and me the only occupants of the family home that Christmas.

            “Can I decorate the tree all by myself this year?” I asked my parents.

            “You can’t put the tree up by yourself,” Mom said.

            “Daddy can put it in the tree stand, but I’ll do all the decorating. I’m old enough. I’ll be thirteen next year,” I said.

            They agreed and sat back to watch the proceedings.

            “Put the lights on first,” Daddy said.

            “I know that,” I answered, indignant at him for telling me how to do it. After all, I’ve helped with the decorations for years. 

            First I tested the bulbs. The old strands of lights wouldn’t work if they had just one defective bulb. I tested each in turn until all the lights gleamed with bright yellow, red, blue and green illumination. I carefully draped the lights from branch to branch, positioning each so no two of the same color would hang near each other.

            “Put some on the back,” Mom said.

            “The tree stands in a corner. No one can see the back,” I retorted, annoyed at their insistence on direction.

            I continued placing the multi-colored glass balls, green holly garlands and silver tinsel in artistic array, all on the front of the tree.

            “You really should put some on the back to make the weight more even,” Dad said.

            “Daddy,” I said exasperated and rolled my eyes to the ceiling.

            From then on, my parents remained quiet.

            I spread a white sheet under the tree and Mom arranged all the gaily-wrapped presents around it.

            Christmas morning, Dorothy, and her husband Artie, came to open presents with us before they went on to her in-laws for dinner.

            Mom made hot chocolate and placed a plate full of home-made cookies on the coffee table. Christmas music played on the radio and I sat on an ottoman next to my beautifully decorated tree to have my picture taken.

            Suddenly, to my horror, the tree crashed face first to the floor. I jumped up and ran to my bedroom, flung myself across the bed and let wracking, gut-wrenching sobs fill the air.

            Always my comforter and mentor, my sister followed. She sat next to me and let my cry out my frustration.

            “I’ve ruined Christmas,” I wailed.

            “No you haven’t. It was an accident, not your fault.”

            “Yes it is my fault. Both Mom and Dad told me to put some on the back and I wouldn’t listen,” I sputtered and a fresh supply of tears flowed unchecked.

            After she soothed my feelings, Dorothy coaxed me back to the living room where the tree now stood erect in the corner with lights and decorations circling the entire girth.

            I felt embarrassed, but Mom and Dad acted as if nothing had happened and Christmas continued as planned.

Snow Bound

Seeing TV videos of the recent snowstorms that shrouded much of the mid west and east coast, I recall some of my winter experiences on Long Island. One day when I left for work at 6:30 AM, light snow began to fall. Within the hour snow flurries turned into a full-fledged storm.

            By the time my shift ended at 3:00 PM the blizzard continued with no letup in sight until the following day. During the winter, I armed the trunk of my car with shovel, ice scrapper, broom and sleeping bag. I also had snow tires on my car so I felt confident I could make it home. After sweeping the windows clean and shoveling the snow away from the tires, I started my car and pulled out of the parking lot.

 I got as far as the driveway. I had to stop before proceeding into the street and that did me in. When I tried to drive forward, the tires spun in place. I backed up and forward again and this time the car shimmied sideways blocking the driveway. The more I tried to disengage the car from the snow, the deeper it got stuck. With my car firmly planted in place, no one could enter or leave the parking lot. I hiked back to the hospital and called George, the maintenance man. I explained the situation.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pull it out with my truck,” he said. “Stay inside where it’s warm. Have a cup of coffee while you wait and I’ll take care of everything.”

A half hour later, as I chatted with other stranded nurses, he returned to the break room and peered around the corner  with a sheepish look on his face.

“What happened?” I felt sudden fear.

Without answering, he pulled his arm from behind his back. His hand held a full rear bumper, a rope tied to its middle.

“Oh no!”

A big bear of a man, George had an amiable personality and quick wit. He couldn’t suppress the laugh that bubbled up and out.

“Your car’s okay. I towed it back to a parking space. I don’t think you can get out today. The roads are treacherous.”

Some of the evening shift nurses couldn’t get to work. Those that made it either walked or had chains on their tires. One nurse came on her cross country skis. The stranded day shift nurses offered to work a double shift. We were there for the night anyway but management said “no”. They didn’t want to pay overtime. So we chowed down in the cafeteria and watched TV in the day room. When night came, some slept in the lobby or on day room sofas and chairs. I knew of an empty private room and commandeered it before anyone else found it.

The following morning, my day off, I made it home without mishap but when I got to my house, I saw my driveway and walkway completely blocked with about three feet of snow. I parked my car in a nearby plowed lot, took my shovel from the trunk and dug my way home.

The Christmas Tree

Christmas 1932 and deep into the Great Depression, the family received “relief” through FDR’s recovery program, while Dad looked for work. The little money received each month bought bread and milk, paid rent and utilities, and sometimes left a few pennies for niceties. The budget did not include a Christmas tree. But two children yearned for Santa and presents, bells and decorations, and a Christmas tree. Dad reasoned that if he waited ‘til Christmas Eve to purchase a tree, he’d get a bargain.

            “The store keepers don’t want to get stuck with unsold trees and they’ll take anything to get rid of them,” he said.

                        After supper on Dec. 24, Mom got the children ready for bed.

“Where’s our Christmas tree?” Dorothy said.

 “Santa will bring it with the presents,” Mom answered.

The children scurried to their bedroom to get socks for Santa to fill.

“We don’t have a fireplace. Where can we put our socks and how’s Santa going to get in?” Sonny asked.

                        Dad said, “Put your socks on the window sill and we’ll leave the window unlocked. Santa will come in that way.”           

            The children used thumb tacks to attach their socks to the wooden window sill and after making sure they felt secure, scrambled to the bedroom, and to bed.

            After enlisting the assistance of Aunt Josie to stay with the children, Mom and Dad, bundled up in winter coats with scarves tied around their necks, went shopping for a tree. Their breath smoked from their mouths as they breathed in the frigid Brooklyn night air.

            They ambled along Seventh Ave., inspected each grove of pines cut and stacked upright against hastily constructed supports made from thin wood slats and rope. Dad haggled with each proprietor.

“A dollar? For this? I’ll give you a quarter. No? C’mon Ann, let’s move on.” Stamping her feet on the icy pavement, Mom rubbed her hands together against the cold and pleaded.

“We’re not going to get a dollar tree for a quarter. Let’s buy a tree we can afford and go home. I’m cold.”

            The twenty-five cent budget didn’t get them much of a tree even though they waited ‘til Christmas Eve and the shopkeepers’ signs proclaimed “reduced to sell”. A skinny pole of a trunk with scraggly branches sagging out at odd angles leaving gaping bare spots in the asymmetrical tree caught Dad’s eye.

            “How much?” he asked. The merchant looked Mom and Dad up and down, saw their threadbare clothes and anxious faces. “Seventy-five cents,” he answered.

            “I’ll give you a quarter,” Dad retorted. The merchant shook his head. “I won’t take less than fifty cents.”  Mom begged Dad with her eyes. After more haggling they agreed on 35 cents.

            “Okay. We’ll take it but can I have some of these loose branches lying around on the ground?” Dad asked.

            “Sure, help yourself. They’ll just be carted away and burned anyway.” The merchant collected his two nickles and a quarter from Dad and nodded his approval.

            Dad tucked a few of the plumper loose branches under his arm and Mom and Dad carried the scrawny tree home. With his manual drill, Dad bored small holes into the tree trunk it spots where it looked barest. He used his pocket knife to whittle the ends of the branches into points. After dipping them in mucilage glue, he screwed the pointed ends into the drill holes fastening the branches to the tree trunk with thin wire. When he finished, the tree had magically filled out.             Mom carefully placed each glass ornament and decorated the finished tree with crinkly silver tinsel saved from year to year in a brown paper bag.

            They filled each child’s sock with an orange, two walnuts, three wrapped hard candies and a small toy from Woolworth’s five & dime store. Each child got two more presents, clothes made from hand-me-downs given the family by relatives. Mom’s excellent sewing skills camouflaged the worn and patched areas to make the clothes appear new. She carefully wrapped each present in Christmas paper saved from previous years, and lovingly arranged each present beneath the tree.

            When Mom completed decorating, she stood back to survey the finished display.

            “It looks as nice as a three dollar tree.” Mom said. “It will make the children so happy in the morning.” The children neither knew nor cared what their parents did to make their Christmas happy. They just enjoyed the day.

A Date That Will Live in Infamy

I don’t remember the bombing of Pearl Harbor that brought the United States into the Second World War. Since it happened on December 7, 1941, my thoughts, at age six, circled around the upcoming Christmas festivities and Santa’s visit. I didn’t take notice of something that happened so far away from our apartment in Brooklyn, New York.

            I do remember the aftermath of Pearl Harbor. I picked up on the anxiety of the adults around me as they spoke in hushed tones. The Christmas season felt subdued that year as young men rushed to war.

            Soon after the attack on Pearl Harbor, as I rummaged in my parents’ room, I found a baby doll in a small crib, hidden behind their bedroom door. I’m not sure what I looked for but I remember the surprise I felt at this discovery. Mama caught me standing in confused awe and shooed me out.

            “Mama, is that for me? Where did it come from?”

            “Santa brought it early because he has so many children to visit on Christmas Eve that he makes some deliveries beforehand and asks the parents to keep them hidden until Christmas.”

            “Well now that I’ve seen it, can I play with it?”

            “No, Santa would get angry with me if I let you play with your Christmas gifts too early.”

Days later, I had an opportunity to look again at my baby doll and crib but it had disappeared. I searched in all the hiding places I thought Mama would use but couldn’t find it. So I waited and received my secreted gift on Christmas morning. Although I suspected that my parents had lied and that Santa didn’t exist, I preferred to pretend that I still believed. In my heart I knew the truth. Christmas 1941 ended my faith in Santa.

It became my date that lives in infamy.