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Nostalgia December 2016

Agelessly Yours

Four-Cent Toys and Other Joys

By Karen White-Walker

The only one with the true Christmas spirit was our sweet little Beth, a mere “baby” at three years old. From underneath the blanket that had swaddled us from the cold, she held out in her chubby little hand, her once-hot hard boiled egg, one of five that Mom had given each one of us to keep our hands warm. “Here Santa, for you.”

I’m not one to hold a grudge, especially at this blessed Christmas time of the year, but I’ve never really forgiven Urban Renewal for many years ago plowing into our town like the notorious Jesse James gang, bulldozing down the quaint, picturesque, brick buildings, “killing” hundreds of jobs, and making our city look like a war zone. Hey, those aren’t my words, but those of a national news commentator who came into town, took one look around and said, “It sure looks like a war zone around here.”

Before the demolition our bustling Main Street was home to many five and dime stores — Grants, Woolworths, Kresge, Newberry’s, the upscale Williams Brothers, and my all-time favorite, the Carl Company. Never mind that that store always had a peculiar, putrid smell and as kids, my brother, three sisters, and I would dash in, squeal out “PU!,” plug our noses, and race to the back of the store and there, before our bulging eyes would be the most delicious, unbelievable sight! Tiny toys, gadgets and figurines, all spread out on long tables.

“You may each pick out one thing,” instructed both Mom and Dad.

“Just one,” reiterated Dad. “I’m not made of money, ya know. There’s no Rockefeller in our
family tree.”

“But Dad,” we all cried, “those are only the four-cent tables!”

“Hey kiddos, you do the adding — five kids getting one thing a piece at four cents each, is what?”

“20 cents?” spoke up little Michael who really showed an aptitude for math.

“Make that a whopping 20 cents, Mike. In our house, on Daddy’s budget, that’s big bucks, son.”

Dad was always giving us kids pop math quizzes like he was preparing one of us to become a mathematician, or something.

“And kids,” warned Mom but with a wink, “don’t go flaunting your treasures in front of your less fortunate friends whose parents can’t afford such extravagance.”

Even back then Mom always used big words with us, even when we were in diapers. It’s like she was preparing one of us to become a writer, or something.    

“Remember my little darlings; you must always remain grateful and humble.”

Grateful and humble? Dear God, did she expect one of us to become a nun or priest? Heaven help us!

Looking back there was one Christmas season, one magical night that mirrored a Norman Rockwell painting before the Main Street massacre — those S.O.Bs.

It had to have been a Friday, yep, Dad’s payday when he and Mom loaded us five kids onto our big sled and pulled us all the way into town. Many years later they both didn’t have the strength to pull out the cotton in an aspirin bottle, but back then….oh, how young and vibrant they were!

It was snowing but there wasn’t any cold, biting wind, so everything was still and quiet until….until we hit Main Street. Crowds of shoppers were darting in and out of the stores, but many lingered outside to listen to the Christmas music that had been piped out onto the street. And there on the corner of Market Street and Main, was the most magnificent sight ever — the real Santa Claus, waving to passers-by and stooping over in spite of his aching back because you could hear him say “Ouch, ouch,” as he lifted up five little kids, one by one, from their sled, and asked, “And what do you want Santa to bring you, little girl?”

The overwhelming thrill of Santa patting my head and talking to me made the words stick to my tonsils like the snowflakes had clung to my eyelashes.

But my brazen sister, Mary Paula had no trouble speaking up. “Santa, I want every single 4-cent thing on those back tables in that Carl Company!”

And just when it looked like she was going to be reprimanded by our parents, she quickly added, even though I knew she was totally lying, “So I can give them to the other less fortunate children. Or,” and this is where she was telling the absolute truth, “I can resell them for five cents a piece.”

The only one with the true Christmas spirit was our sweet little Beth, a mere “baby” at three years old. From underneath the blanket that had swaddled us from the cold, she held out in her chubby little hand, her once-hot hard boiled egg, one of five that Mom had given each one of us to keep our hands warm. “Here Santa, for you.”

A loving, selfless gesture that seemed to warm Santa’s heart more than his hands and it came from a baby. And a baby is what the world received on Christmas Day. It’s our Heavenly Father’s gift to us, so every day should feel like Christmas, but then life’s trials and tears and those darn bulldozers get in the way!

 

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