Ghosts of Christmas Past December 20, 2018

Copyright © 2018                               John F. Oyler 

December 20, 2018

Ghosts of Christmas Past

As we look forward to heading to Maui and spending Christmas with our children and grand-children, our thoughts return to memories of eight decades of “Christmas Past”. The common themes running through them are family, fellowship, and optimism about the future.

In 1938 the Oylers were living in their new home on Lafayette Street. My brother, Joe, was a one-year-old, too young to understand all the holiday fuss. As he matured in the next few years, it was rewarding for me to see Christmas through the eyes of a young child. This experience was repeated thirty-five years later with our children and, another thirty-five years after that, with our grand-children.

Memories of the holidays in the 1940s begin with a trip into the City on a Saturday morning with our mother, to see the decorated windows at the department stores and to visit Toyland in each of them. First Horne’s, then Gimbel’s, then Frank and Seder’s, and finally Kaufmann’s. Sandwiched in between were stops at the Five and Ten’s on Fifth Avenue. I especially remember a Marx electric train running the full length of a sales counter, negotiating a tight helix spiral to ascend four or five feet, retracing its route on a overhead track, and returning down a spiral to its starting point. Mother had to pry me away – I would have watched it for hours.

The Bridgeville Community Carol Festival was another special event, with choirs from each of the churches parading through “downtown” before meeting in front of the grade school where everyone joined in singing the old familiar songs. The climax each year was Dr. Pigossi coming out on the balcony of the school and belting out “Ave Maria”.

Christmas Eve services at Bethany Church were always memorable, even the year I was drafted to depict Balthasar in a “We Three Kings” pageant. I looked the part thanks to a fine costume, acted the part well as I paraded down the aisle to the altar, and then destroyed the illusion by trying to sing “Myrrh I bring, its bitter perfume, etc.” Once again Alma Weise’s evaluation of my musical talent turned out to be accurate.

Joe and I had a special Christmas Eve privilege – we were allowed to open presents that had arrived by mail. My father’s brother Joe and sister Ethel were surrogates; they served as the paternal grand-parents we never had. Their gifts were always thoughtful and appropriate. I was guaranteed a Zane Gray book, which immediately initiated a trip to my bedroom to devour it.

I have a nearly complete collection of all the books Zane Grey wrote. When I opened the first one that I pulled off the shelf, “The Heritage of the Desert”, I found it inscribed, “John F. Oyler, Dec. 25, 1941, E. C. O.”, a gift from Aunt Ethel when I was ten years old. 

Published in 1910, this was Grey’s first western novel, the tale of an “easterner” in the deserts of southeastern Utah. I am looking forward to reading it again and reliving his adventures among the Mormons, Navajos, and dastardly cattle rustlers.

Like all children we could never wait for Christmas morning to come. We would creep downstairs at the first sign of daylight, then wait patiently for our parents to awake and join us. Our tree always sat in the corner of the living room, by the stairs to the second floor, gaily decorated with ornaments from both of our parents’ families.

We never had a train under our Christmas tree. Like all model railroading buffs, we had a semi-permanent setup in the basement, a figure-eight platform our father had fabricated. My train, which still runs well, was of 1937 vintage. Originally it consisted of a locomotive, tender, dump car, lumber car, and caboose. These were all four-wheeled cars that made no effort to look authentic. 

In 1938 Lionel introduced a new line with cars that became to look like their full-size prototypes. We added a pea-green hopper car, complete with a pair of four-wheeled trucks at each end. Future years added crossing gates and a watchman’s shanty, just like the one Mr. Pennetti manned down at the railroad station.

Christmas afternoon was dedicated to visiting our friends in the neighborhood and admiring their trees. A favorite destination was the home of Amos and Gary Jones; their parents always set the neighborhood standard for tree and train layout. Another Mecca was Rothermunds’. Bob, Dick, and Ron were avid board gamers; it was fun to check out their newest acquisitions.

In those days lavish outdoor holiday decorations were uncommon in Bridgeville. Mt. Lebanon was an exception, especially at the mansions in Virginia Manor. We always saved one evening in Christmas week for driving there and admiring their magnificent displays.

One wonders if Christmas seventy years ago really was that special or if we have encouraged selective memory to erase all of its less-than-perfect aspects. It certainly seems to have been the “kinder, gentler era” that President George H. W. Bush remembered decades later.

I don’t think family ties are any weaker today than they were then, at least among the folks I know, but I can’t say the same regarding neighborhood relationships. I am fortunate to live in a nice neighborhood with fine neighbors, but there is nothing like the fellowship that we had on Lafayette Street in the 1940s. And I am confident that was typical for neighborhoods throughout Bridgeville in those days.

It is easy to blame this on our transient society today, with neighbors coming and going frequently at regular intervals. Nonetheless our relationship with the semi-permanent families who have been here for many years has never approached the extended-family feel we shared with our Lafayette Street neighbors.

It is ironic somehow that many of our sacred Christmas traditions are descended from pagan roots and the celebration of the winter solstice. Traditionally this was the time when our ancestors rejoiced that the sun had finally decided to turn around and let the days again grow longer. Cheer up, Spring will eventually come!

It certainly is appropriate that the eternal promise inherent in the birth of the Christ Child be celebrated at this same time of year. Regardless of one’s religious persuasion, the Christmas story is the ultimate expression of optimism. Through the Great Depression, World War II, and all the upheavals that have followed, we have always managed to find hope for the future each Christmas season. This year is no exception.