| The Creative Expressionss of... Bill Vivrett |
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| Updated 12.24.04 |
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| THE CHRISTMAS OF '39 Page 3 of 9 Mom stood statue-rigid facing the sink, her back to the table. Her only movement was to draw both forearms with fists clinched up to her chest and back down again slowly, repeatedly. Jack knew she was quietly sobbing. What he could not sense was just who was she so mad at and why? Was it Dad? Was it the kids? Was it herself? Was it life? Or was it God? In semi-darkness he nimbly made a paper airplane from a Carson-May-Stern toy ad and sailed it towards the kitchen table. It landed gracefully beside Dad�s coffee cup. Dad turned his head ever so slightly but just enough for Jack to see the start of an approving smile. (There may have always been a special bond between father and first-born son that neither acknowledged). Dad went outside. That was his way. All Jack said aloud was, �I�m hungry.� That was the last thing she needed to hear--and yet it brought here out of her most recent darkness. Later that day the boys were busily stuffing the cracks in all walls with newspapers, under Jack�s supervision, giving attention to interior face boards around windows and doors just as Dad had told them. �No flying now,� Dad said. �Look at these scooters,� Jack exclaimed and from then on all three became much more interested in the toy ads than their task. �I need your guarantee you will deliver these toys before dark on the twenty-fourth. No later.� Cousin Margaret assertively jabbed at the young driver, who was enjoying the banter. Their first cousin was city-born, twenty-four, a graduate of Blewith High School and well on her way to becoming an independent young woman in every sense. The big, robust Irishman laughed. �Look, lady, I�ve got kids, too and I intend to spend Christmas Eve with them. So, you bet I�ll get down to Jefferson County on time. I can really move this delivery truck when I got to.� Mike Kelly was an Irish teamster from Salisbury Street on St. Louis� near north side. He knew his delivery routes and he knew about children at Christmas. He was a bit of a drinker, a bit of a story-stretcher, but totally committed to keeping his good job and not about to mess up for any reason. And Mike never got lost. Margaret was a seamstress; a good one. She had used every lunch hour in December to shop toy departments in bustling Wellston. Her net salary was ten dollars every week, so she paid for each toy as she selected it and her total expenditure came to $10.82; delivery included, to be delivered by truck on December 24 from Carson-Union-May Stern, Wellston branch. Margaret felt good. Everything was set. Now, she planned to ride to the country with Aunt Mary and Uncle Pat and enjoy Christmas Eve with Aunt Maggie�s kids, somewhere. �Why did you just keep having babies?� Margaret had asked the kids� mother only that summer, in one of many private moments. �They were our hope,� Mother replied simply. Nothing more was said. At their dinner of vegetable soup and corn brad, Mom announced, �I know what we must do.� She had been humming �What a friend we have in Jesus� all day and the silent rage seemed to have diminished her a bit more before it vanished. �Well, what is it, Mag, and we�ll do �er,� Dad quickly acceded. We�ll bring our desperation with us and lay it at the feet of Jesus and the First Baptist Church.� �This Depression drove our family to its knees and that�s where we should have been all along.� �Let�s hear some more ideas, Mag; it sounds like you�re on a roll,� their Dad responded, cheerfully, playing to five pairs of ears. |
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