By Jim Dickson
I love the Christmas season, I always have, and unless something bad happens, like finding that Santa Claus is not real, I always will. I was lucky enough to have spent my childhood in a small town among a close and loving family and friends in the late 1940s and 1950s.
The war was behind us, and the future looked bright and unlimited. If you moved the location of the movie “A Christmas Story” from Indiana to New Mexico, I would be one of the characters in the movie, even down to the famous “You’ll shoot your eye out” Red Ryder BB gun, but more about that later.
Christmas at our house was always a big deal. It officially started when we all piled into my dad’s 1947 Pontiac and headed to the Christmas tree lot to find just the right Christmas tree. Mr. Bevell who operated a fruit and vegetable stand, went up into the mountains of New Mexico and cut a truck load of fresh fir trees to sell. Artificial trees then were made of shiney aluminum that looked more like TV antennas than trees.
I still remember the smell of the fresh cut fir trees. My dad’s budget for a tree was no more than $5, and if he could get a good one for $3, he went home a happy guy. The average wage in 1950 was about $300 a month, so saving $2 was important. My dad had a pretty good job with the railroad, so he may have made a little more than that, but my mother was a stay-at-home housewife who had her hands full raising kids, so money was not plentiful.
When we arrived home with the tree, the box of Christmas decorations came out and the annual battle about who got to put what on the tree began. My dad was always in charge of plugging in the colored lights to see which bulbs were burned out, because if one was out, the whole string was out. Once he got the strings of lights all working, my brother, who was tall, started at the top and placed them around the tree.
My sister, who was careful and patient, placed the glass balls and other homemade decorations on the tree. She also carefully hung each separate piece of tinsel, as opposed to me who, if I had the chance, would grab handfuls and throw them at the tree. Needless to say, much to my chagrin, my job was to stay out of the way and cause as little trouble as possible.
Other than Christmas morning, the best day of all was when the annual Christmas package from my grandmother arrived via parcel post. It was always a cornucopia of wonderful stuff. There was something for everyone – knitted caps and socks, homemade candy, cookies, oranges, games, puzzles, small toys like Pick-up Sticks, Lincoln Logs, Crayolas and tops. There was an annual Christmas book that had stories, songs, pages to color, and always had an illustrated story of the first Christmas.
Best of all was when she included stories that she wrote herself about growing up in the wilds of West Texas in the 1870s and 1880s. Her father was an itinerant Presbyterian minister who traveled in a wagon with his family around West Texas holding services in small towns and ranches. It was a land of untamed Indians, outlaws and tough cattle ranchers, so she had some great stories to tell. I wish I knew what happened to them.
Susan and I had some lean times starting out when Christmas was pretty meager, but with hard work and lots of luck, successive Christmases got better. But rich or poor, I have always had the love of my family and friends so Christmas has always been a special time.
Much to my joy, the Red Ryder BB gun that I wanted when I was a kid, and never got, showed up under my tree about 20 years ago. Whoever said “Santa never forgets” was sure right, although I suspect Susan may have helped him a little.
Born, raised and educated in the Southwest, Jim Dickson served in the U.S. Navy Reserve in Vietnam before a 35-year business career. Retired to St. Helena Island, Dickson and his wife are fiscally conservative, socially moderate and active in Republican politics, though they may not always agree with Republicans. Having lived around the country and traveled around the world, Dickson believes that the United States truly is the land of opportunity.
