Part 2 of Chapter 15

Part Two of a Two Part Christmas with Dad

I think it took Dad most of the year to pay for Christmas. To keep from disappointing us too much, he went all out. Even though everything we got was put on layaway, he ended up having to borrow money to get stuff out of layaway. For the life of me, I can’t remember the name of the finance company that kept Dad on the financial leash. It was a local outfit with a coastal name. I can’t remember.

I do remember that Dad paid that outfit monthly for most of his life. Sometimes weekly. Sometimes he had to borrow money from ‘em to pay ‘em. Nowadays they call it refinancing. Back then it was legalized loan sharking. And, Dad was the mark.

I don’t know if it’s fortunate or not, but Dad kept most financial details from us. I’m not even sure he told Mom about what he was doing. It would’ve been impossible to enjoy Christmas if we knew what all he was going through to make it happen.

But, I have no intention of dwelling on the morbid side of the holiday. I’ll keep that stuff planted somewhere deep in my cranial nether regions. Good place for ‘em. After all, we had some great gift-openings at the Hayter house… depending on which house we were in at the time. Christmas at two particular houses were my favorites.

A Christmas morning with Larry, Lynda and Susan (back row) Dennis, Mark and Jill. Then Li'l Al.

The house on Pinewood Street was where we had our best Christmas. I believe I hinted at that in one of the earlier chapters. It was the year Dennis and I asked for a bicycle… apiece. We didn’t want to share. There is no good way for two brothers to share one bike. Many have tried and all have failed miserably. Dartmouth University did a survey once. I believe I read it in “Science Digest.”

Of course Dennis and I had some doubts about the bicycle. There was no foregone conclusion that Dad was going to get us the two-wheelers. So, we had to ask for other stuff, too. It was 1957, the year the “Stallion 38” came out. You’re bound to be familiar with the Stallion. If you recall, it was a revolutionary toy six shooters. It was the first gun with real-looking bullets. Instead of inserting a roll of caps into the pullout breach of the weapon, you actually put a cap inside the shell of each of the six bullets. Then you inserted the bullets into the cylinder. Just like non-TV cowboys did. TV cowboys never had to load their pistols. They must’ve had miniature machine gun clips on each gun. But, I digress… again.

The Stallion 38, though the greatest known toy gun in the world, was still no match for a bicycle. The 38 was expensive for a toy gun, but not as expensive as a bike. Dennis and I figured if we unwrapped the 38s Christmas morning, we’d know that we didn’t get the bikes. No way could Dad afford both.

The toughest part about Christmas for us was the waiting. Nowadays, you have to wake kids up to tell ‘em it’s Christmas. Some even whine that they have to get out of bed. I’m not making this up. Back in “The Day” it was a whole different ball game. A different something.

We’d always go to bed early on Christmas Eve. (Not Mom and Dad. Just the kids. Work with me here.) Logic being that we’d fall asleep earlier and Christmas would come sooner. Horrible reasoning. Stupid, too. You see, on Christmas Eve night we could not go to sleep. We were way too anxious. You’d think we were in a Turkish prison waiting to be released the following morning. – Skip that. Bad Christmas analogy.

I don’t know how many times we’d yell from our beds down to Mom and Dad, “Is it Christmas, yet?” Probably only did it about three times, but seemed like a lot. Dad wouldn’t tolerate more than three yells of the same question.

When we headed to bed there were a moderate number of gifts under the tree. They were the ones that had already come out of layaway. And, they were the ones that no one could figure out. Weighing, shaking and measuring were no help in determining what they were. Mom was about the best gift wrapper on the planet. She didn’t worry so much about the beauty of the wrap as she did the camouflage effect. She could wrap a live, quacking duck and you’d think it was a croquet set. (A much better analogy. Just came to me.)

When we were finally allowed to race to the living room on that Christmas morning in ‘57, we found wall to wall gifts. Keep in mind seven kids, big boxes and the finance company. We were not allowed to tear through the stash. No, we sat around the tree and waited for Dad to hand out the gifts… way too slowly to hand out the gifts. Dennis and I got socks and jeans and shirts and underwear. We each got a big bag of plastic soldiers, and some other small toys. Finally we opened our Stallion 38s. It was joy tied tightly to morbidity. I may have made that word up.

Stallion 38s, the best handgun ever made… not counting the Fanner Fifty. The holster to the Fanner Fifty was as authentic as you can get. Paladin would’ve loved a Fanner Fifty holster, only they didn’t come in black. The Stallion 38 was a smaller revolver, with a less rugged black holster. Paladin would’ve laughed at it.

Point is, receipt of the Stallion 38s meant we weren’t getting bicycles. Maybe next year. Yeah, right. Though we showed no disappointment to Dad, we did give Mom some pathetic whines. No one had ever whined to Dad. I’m not sure one could survive a whine to Dad. Surely I’ve alluded to that.

Dennis and I tried to buck up. Not sure what that means, but I’ve heard it enough in reference to not crying. I kept thinking, hey, we got Stallion 38s! That’s nothing to sneeze at. And underwear? Did I mention the underwear?

After the smoke cleared, Dad tried to apply the last straw to our buckingupedness, by telling Dennis and me to gather up all the wrappings and take them to the garage. Our “Yes, sirs” were but a mask of respect.

We shoved all the wrapping paper into one of the bigger boxes. I think it was Jill’s play kitchen. And, together we pushed and shoved the box into the garage. It wasn’t heavy, just bulky. As we shoved the box, I couldn’t help but notice that Dad and Larry were following a little behind us. Made no sense. I was so gullible. When we opened the garage door, there they were. -- Two ponies! A white one and a black one. -- No, that’s not right. Two J.C. Higgins bicycles. One 24-incher and one 26-incher. It would be years later before I realized the measurements had to do with the wheel size. Figured it out on my own, too. It’s amazing how much of a difference two inches adds to the height of a bicycle seat. I could barely touch the pedals on Dennis’ bike.

The bikes were black with red trim. They had fenders, side-tanks, a chain guard and even baskets for the handlebars. PeeWee Herman thought he had a bicycle. Ours were so much more rugged-looking.

Now, it was time for the cry. Dennis didn’t cry, but I was really emoting the ol’ eye water. A few seconds after the awe began to wane, we both ran over and hugged Dad. Getting a bicycle is occasion enough for a Dad hug.

Dad told us that Larry and he were up most of the night putting the bikes together. No small task. I don’t know that I ever thanked Larry. Surely I did. Best gift I ever got. Dennis and I rode the wheels off our bikes. Not literally. I was in the second grade when I got “The Lone Wolf” and I was still riding it when I was in high school. Beg pardon? Oh, Lone Wolf. I needed a name for my bike and found a little decal “The Lone Wolf” in an old model car kit. Some kind of roadster. I slapped that sticker on, and that 24-inch Higgins was The Lone Wolf from then on. I’m just glad I didn’t run across a Catwoman decal. Good decals were hard to find back then.

Best Christmas ever. Dad even got Mom a record player. Our first. He even let Mom sign up for the Columbia Record Club. The records had been delivered before Christmas. Wanna know the truth? I think Mom had a hand in getting the player. I can’t see Dad joining a record club. If you joined the club you got the first six record albums for six cents. The ones after that cost about 200 percent over retail. It took two years and two house moves to get us out of that record club deal.

The best record album was Jonathan Winters. Dennis and I memorized each routine. We’ll still use a line or two in conversation. It’s a code between us. Mom also got Bob Newhart. Another hoot. Then there was Dwayne Eddie, Perry Como, Andy Williams and Patty Page. The four of them were not all that funny, but they were sure easy listening. Except for Dwayne Eddie. The man could grove. Speaking of which, we practically played the groves off those LPs. Not on Christmas Day, though.

I can’t imagine Mom ordering more than half dozen more albums before Dad killed the deal. Or tried to kill the deal. That Columbia outfit held on like grim death. But, they didn’t know who they were up against. When Dad set his mind to something… look out.

Obviously we had Christmas in other places. The one on Belmont was the site of the second best Christmas. That’s when Dennis and I got our BB guns. You give a kid a bicycle one year and a BB gun a couple of years, and you’ve launched a kid into pre-adulthood.

One thing the least weird about the Christmas on Belmont Street was that Dad got me two football helmets. One was hard plastic and the other faux leather with a cotton interior. The fauxness of this particular leather was cardboard. A red, dimpled cardboard.

When Dad noticed the “two-helmet mistake”, he told me to pick one of the helmets and give the other to Dennis. I really wanted the white, hard-plastic one. It looked more like the helmets of the day. So, I handed Dennis the red, fake leather-thing. I don’t see God could even fault me for that. Dennis said, “Great! Man! Thanks, Mark, for giving me the best one! This is just like what Red Grange wore!” He put that helmet on and acted like it was the greatest thing since Hostess Snowballs.

I was an idiot. How could I give Dennis the best helmet? Red Grange? Dennis went on to explain that Red Grange was the Galloping Ghost. Is that not a cool name? He was the greatest player ever.

I had no idea. I immediately told Dennis that I had made a mistake. I meant to keep the red helmet. He reluctantly let me make the switch. Two nights later, I left my helmet out all night… a dewy night. By morning it had disintegrated. That’s when Dennis did the “ninny-ninny noo noo” thing. What a con kid.

Christmas morning on the couch on Belmont. That's me in my cardboard Red Grange-like helmet. Whatta dope.

He did the same thing to me after the Christmas of ’59. Only it wasn’t helmets this time. It was Fanner-Fifty holsters. The holsters were a light cowhide. Real leather, this time! Beautiful. Perfect, in fact. However, Dennis had this wild idea to make him the fastest draw ever. He soaked the holster in Havoline HD 30. That’s the oil Dad used in the Biscayne. Dennis completely drenched his holster in the stuff. It turned into a soggy mess.

This put him in a bad way. No way was Dad going to replace an overly oiled holster. Or any holster for that matter. After about a five-second think, Dennis came up with an idea. He stood outside the kitchen window drawing his Fanner-Fifty. You’d think he was Wyatt Earp. I walked through the kitchen and saw him standing in the backyard doing his fast draw. So, I went to the bedroom and got my weapon and headed out to meet him.

I took one look at his holster and asked him what happened to it. He said that with a little oil he had managed to decrease the speed of his draw-time by 50 percent. Said something like that. So, we faced one another and sure enough… he beat me. Beat me again. Not that he didn’t always beat me, but this time he seemed even faster than usual. He was so fast that I asked him to put oil on my holster. He thought for a second and said, “No, Dad’s out of oil. But, I’ll tell you what. I’ll go ahead and change holsters with you. Let you be the fastest… at least until Dad gets more oil.” How can you not love a brother like that?

I strapped on Dennis’ soggy holster and sure enough I outdrew him every time. Of course, my Fanner Fifty was getting slippery and the left leg of my jeans was soaked in oil. But, boy, was I fast. Whatta deal.

The next day when I was in the garage, I noticed a half-full can of oil. I ran and told Dennis about it. Told him he’d better take advantage and oil up his holster while the oil was still there. He gave me his ol’ grin. It was the look of one-upmanship. I believe Webster even used Dennis’ name in his one-upmanship definition.

After that, Dennis went back to beating me to the draw. His holster never saw any Havoline 30 wt. And, his jeans never got oily. In defense of Dennis, I suppose if I had a little brother that stupid, I’d likely take advantage of him, too. Maybe. Anyway, I’d like to say that was the last time Dennis ever tricked me out of something good. I’d like to say that. And would… were it true.

Yes, I realize the Saga of Dennis and Mark only marginally relates to Dad. It was just something that was riding heavy on my mind. So, let me end this chapter by mentioning something directly related to Dad. Faris Hayter was the hardest guy in the world to shop for. Don’t get me wrong. The guy could’ve used a lot of stuff, but nothing we could afford. New tires, pickup truck liner, new brakes, table saw… We just couldn’t do it. Dennis and I would either get him a couple of packs of Mail Pouch Tobacco or a few cheap cigars. King Edward comes to mind. Or, was Edward a Prince? I can’t remember. We got him some socks once and some handkerchiefs another time or two. He also received a screwdriver and a cloth nail apron from us. And, he always seemed genuinely pleased to get whatever we got him. I guess that’s the way of Dads. Mom’s, too.

I don’t know what you’ve picked up on in this Christmas chapter, but there’s something that’s captured my mind in the telling. Christmas was so special to us because we seldom got gifts throughout the year. We got one gift on our birthday, but it was usually nothing grand. But, Christmas. That was one wild time. Most of the kids back then (all of the ones I knew) were always excited as all get out at the coming of Christmas. The thought of someone having to wake us up so we could unwrap our gifts? Well, that’s is laughable.

Dad always did his best to give us a memorable Christmas. It pleased him to make us happy. I think God is the same way… wanna know the truth.

Of course, the rule for measuring greatness of a Christmas, from the standpoint of a kid, has to do with the quality and quantity of gifts received. Dad obviously sacrificed a lot in an attempt to make us happy. The man wouldn’t have gone into hock every Christmas if he didn’t hate the thought of disappointing his kids. I don’t believe any of us fully appreciated what he went through to make Christmas happen for us. I know I didn’t. I guess that’s the way of kids. Some of us, anyway.