The presence, and the presents, of the past
I聽was 鈥� at long last 鈥� dusting my bookshelves the other day when I came across a particularly crusty volume: 鈥淭he Tales of Poe.鈥� An inscription read, 鈥淭o Robert, From Mom and Dad, 12/25/65.鈥澛�
Holding that tome, I was suddenly awash in nostalgia. The book鈥檚 cover became a window into the Christmas of my 11th year.
There I was, racing through the streets of Jersey City, New Jersey, rushing headlong toward the holidays. There was more snow then, which meant more snowball fights. We battled from opposite sides of the street 鈥� me, Steve, Jimmy, Sal, Rupert, Charlie, Dwayne, Vito, Tommy, Bobby, Vinnie 鈥� until our hands were raw with cold and a sympathetic parent emerged with paper cups of hot chocolate to soothe the ache and stoke our energy.
There was no mall. There was no internet, no cellphones, no hand-held games. Without these things to imprison us indoors in solitary confinement, we took our pleasure outside. I don鈥檛 recall us ever walking; we ran everywhere, because there was so much to run to.
You could have a small store then and make a go of it. Many did, and we knew all of them by name: Mr. Riley鈥檚 candy store, Patsy鈥檚 butcher shop, Vic鈥檚 deli, Mike鈥檚 pharmacy, Schoner鈥檚 bakery, Perlman鈥檚 hardware.聽
Anonymity was impossible. There were always eyes on us, limiting the mischief we could do: 鈥淵ou slam that door again and I鈥檒l call your father!鈥�
Christmastide decorated this urban landscape in a magical way. Shop windows exploded with light. And more lights were strung across Jackson Avenue, the green and red bulbs as big as baseballs. Fulton Theater 鈥� an in-town movie house with one screen! 鈥� was ablaze with dancing lights of its own, racing around the marquee: 鈥淪anta Clause Conquers the Martians.鈥� Seventy-five cents!聽
It was the pinnacle of the baby boom. There were armies of children everywhere. We ran in packs, dashing around in our black rubber boots with those troublesome metal clips, the younger kids stuffed into wool snowsuits. I recall my mother trying to buy me a pair of gloves at Tolstoy鈥檚 Men鈥檚 Shop, unwilling 鈥� or unable 鈥� to pay what he was asking.聽
Looking down at my skinny, red, chapped, frozen mitts, Mr. Tolstoy finally took out his own gloves and proffered them. 鈥淲ould 25 cents be too much?鈥� he asked my mom.聽
I kept those gloves for years. They wore like iron.
Artificial Christmas tree? Perish the thought. My father struck a deal at the tree lot and muscled the thing up two flights of stairs, stationing the stump in a pan of water.聽
We laid the decorations on thick while Bing Crosby crooned in the background: 鈥淗ave yourself a merry little Christmas ...鈥� Tinsel, popcorn garlands, real glass ornaments, a star on top. The tree buckled under the weight, but it held.
On Christmas morning my siblings and I were up at 5. The tree was now barricaded with gift packages. Robot Commando, G.I. Joe, an Aurora model racing-car set, a miniature tape recorder, a Barbie for my sister, and doodad after doodad. My dad made a meager salary, and my mom didn鈥檛 work. How on earth did they swing it? It must have been love.
And then, buried deep, a small package for me. It was the only thing that wasn鈥檛 a toy. While my brother and sister squealed with delight over their gleanings, I cracked open 鈥淭he Tales of Poe鈥� and started to read.聽
At that moment the hubbub of Christmas receded, and I felt a sort of embrace, this gesture of a book from parents who themselves weren鈥檛 readers but who clearly wanted to encourage the practice in their eldest child.
Today it is my only remnant of that Christmas past. That, and the memory of a joyous, and largely vanished, world.
