|
Back to regular view � Print this page Christmas is what you make it December 25, 2007 By David McGrath Christmas had become a tin ornament. Hollow. Once, it had been magical, but that was before my older sister took me into the linen closet and spilled the beans about Santa Claus. She wasn't interested in truth as much as in revenge for my breaking her Easy Bake Oven. I never fully recovered from the revelation, although gifts like Remco's Johnny Reb Cannon and hockey skates helped maintain its practical importance. Entering my teens, I grew bored with toys. Grownups didn't know what to get, so they me gave cash, which I salted away for cigarettes or Playboys. Christmas carols and shopping and Dinah Shore TV specials gave me a headache. All of which helped explain my rejuvenated anticipation for Christmas the year Patrick came home. Pat was the coolest of my five brothers. People think I say that only because he was missing, gone off to war on the other end of the earth. But he was unique. While the others notched out predictable sibling roles - big brother Charlie, too bossy, little brother Kevin, too whiny - Pat was a fearless, one man show. We'd sit on the curb for hours, watching him hit stones with a plastic bat while he gave detailed play-by-play of the Sox vs. Yankees in the radio voice of legendary Bob Elson. And one evening at supper, we were appalled when our father was tense after a problem day at the tile company, and Pat asked Kevin to pass the horseradish, in his best impression of Dad's gravelly voice. When he persisted, imitating our father questioning us about school, Dad tried in vain to mask his laugh with a cough, and we all broke up. The summer Pat returned from basic training, he seemed a stranger with his buzz cut and starched uniform. But then, he stripped his shirt, lit up a Marlboro, sat on the front step and told stories of his army buddies: Rob from Minneapolis, Vinny from San Diego and "Tiger," with the thick Chicago twang, who beat everybody at arm wrestling at the USO. After Pat's flight to Saigon, Vietnam, our house seemed darker, quieter, except for days when the red and blue airmail envelopes arrived. Pat's letters were nearly as fun as his front porch stories. Except for the one that came in October, in which he disclosed that Tiger was killed in a helicopter crash. On the following Christmas Eve, it snowed, and Pat's plane from San Francisco was late. At last, around 10:30 p.m., he ducked under the door: taller, thinner and not as tan as after basic training. He shook my hand but didn't ask about school or even the Blackhawks. Quiet seeped into the room. Nancy, the youngest at 4, was the only one talking. We watched her open presents, and we watched Pat watch her. He looked out of place in his dress uniform and shiny black shoes. He kept standing up and sitting down. Mom finally asked how it felt to be home. "Shrunken," he said. We laughed in relief but got quiet again when he did not smile. Finally, he walked to the hall closet, opened the door, reached for his coat. "What are you doing?" said Mom. "I'm going to see if I can find Tiger's folks' house," he said softly. Mom did not reply. Nancy was cooing to her new doll. I stared at the floor, peeked at Pat tugging and straightening his sleeves. "I'll take you." It was Dad's gruff voice, sounding like music to me. "Do you have an address?" "Yeah," Pat nodded. "I've got it somewhere, Pop," and he patted his coat and pants pockets. "I think it's in my duffel," he said. He made a Sherlock Holmes brow. "I'll get it," said Kevin, dashing up the stairs. "I'm coming with," said Charlie. "Let me put everything in the fridge," said Mom, "and we can all go." We scrambled for our coats. We lowered the curtains halfway. We blew out Christmas candles. I ran to shut off Perry Como on the hi-fi, but Dad said to leave him on. Pat lofted Nancy onto his shoulders, and we headed out into the lightly falling snow. It felt like the moment in Wizard of Oz when everything turned Technicolor. It made me realize that Christmas spirit had never really been absent because it's up to you and your family to create it. And though it happened long ago, Christmas today still holds meaning because of our soldiers - those who make it home and the others who remain forever in our hearts. Former Oak Forest resident David McGrath recently completed his second book, "The Vocation," a memoir on growing up in Chicago in the 1960s. Affiliates: RogerEbert.com | SearchChicago - Autos | SearchChicago - Homes | SearchChicago - Jobs | NeighborhoodCircle.com | Centerstage |