Coal For Christmas


My father grew up poor.  Not the kind of poor where he would walk through ten inches of snow barefoot or go from house to house asking for bread.  Just the kind of poor that would keep his father one step ahead of the rent collector. His parents provided the best they could, but, by his own admission, he was raised in the poverty that was common in rural America in the 1920’s.  My grandfather and my grandmother should be telling this story.  Instead, it came to me from my own dad and it was usually told to his four sons around the time it came to bundle up and go out, find and cut a Christmas tree. I heard this story more than once when it was cold and snowy in the 1950’s. In the years when my father was a child, the winters were probably much colder and the snow deeper.

It was Northeastern Pennsylvania. It was coal country and my grandfather was Irish.  Two generations went down into the mines. Down they would go, every day before dawn, only to resurface again long after the sun had set.  Because of some misguided decision on his part, my grandfather was demoted from mine foreman to a more obscure job somewhere else at the pit.  Later in life, he fell on even harder times and became depressed about his inability to keep his family, two boys and two girls, comfortable and warm.  It all came crashing down, literally, when their simple farmhouse burned to the foundation.  After seeing his family safely out, the only item my grandfather could salvage was a Hoover.  My father could describe in minute detail how he stood next to his dad and watched him physically shrink, slump and then become quiet.  He never broke the silence after that and died in a hospital while staring mutely at the walls.

But all this happened years after that special Christmas Eve that took place in my father’s boyhood.

It was in the early 1920’s.  The four children were asleep in the remote farmhouse my grandparents rented.  Sometime after mid-night, my father woke up to a silence that was unusual and worrisome.  It was too quiet.  There were no thoughts of Santa Claus in my father’s mind that night–the reality of their lives erased those kinds of dreams from his childhood hopes. There was no fireplace for Santa to slide down.

He pulled on a heavy shirt and pushed his cold feet into oversized cold shoes and went down stairs to the kitchen where he knew his parents would be sitting up and keeping warm beside the coal stove.  But the room was empty and the coal fire was burning low.  The single electric bulb, hanging from the ceiling, was on.  My father noticed the steam of his breath at each exhale.  He called out.  He heard nothing.  Shuffling over to the door, he cracked it open to a numbing flow of frigid outside air.  In the snow there were two sets of footprints leading down the steps and then behind the house.  He draped a heavier coat over his shoulders and began to follow the prints.  They led across a small pasture and through a gate.  From there the trail went up a low hill and faded from his sight.  He followed the trail.  Looking down at the footprints he noticed that they were slowly being covered by the wind driving the snow into the impressions.  A child’s fear swept over him.  Were the young kids being abandoned?  It was not an uncommon occurrence in the pre-Depression years of rural America.

In his young and innocent mind, he prayed that the hard times hadn’t become that hard. He knew their parental concerns and he knew he and his brother and sisters were loved.

He caught his fears before they had a chance to surface. His parents were on a midnight walk, that’s all.

At the top of the hill, he saw a faint light from a lantern coming from a hole near the side of the next slope.  He slowed his pace and went to the edge of the pit not knowing what he would see. He looked down.

He knew this pit from summertime games, but it was a place to be avoided in the winter. The walls were steep and it would be easy to slip in the snow and fall the dozen or so feet to an icy bottom. The children never went into the field with the pit after the autumn leaves fell.

He dropped to his knees and peered over the edge.

At the bottom of the small hole were his parents, picking fist-sized lumps of coal from a seam that was exposed on the hillside.  They had nearly filled a bucket with the chunks of black rock.  They looked up, quite surprised, and saw my father standing a few feet above them.  They looked back at each other with a sadness that was heart-breaking.  They certainly didn’t want to be caught doing this in front of one of the kids, not on Christmas Eve.  They stared at each other and then up at my dad.

“Boy,” my grandfather said, “The stove is empty.  Come on down and help us get a few more lumps, will ya?”

My father was helped down and after only a few minutes his hands were black from the coal.  The bucket was filled.  They helped each other out of the pit and walked back to the house together. My father and his father carried the bucket between them.

In a very short time the coal stove was warming up again.  My father sat up with his parents until they finished their coffee and the house was warmed a few degrees.  Dad kissed his mother and father and went upstairs to bed. He fell asleep, he always would say, with a smile on his face.

Twenty some years after the midnight trip to the coal-pit, my parents and my two older brothers moved to Owego, New York. I was born two years later, in 1947.

. . .

When I was a young boy, my father took me aside one Christmas Eve.  I had not been a very good boy that day, and I was afraid.  Neither of my parents, however, had mentioned “The Threat” that would be used to punish a child if you were naughty and not nice.

My fear left me. Father’s voice was warm and full of understanding.

“Pat,” he said, “If anyone tells you that you will get a lump of coal in your stocking if you’re not a good boy. Tell them, ‘I hope so,’ then wish them a Merry Christmas.”


The Clock On The Wall: A Play In Eight Acts

Act 1: Sitting at an IBM workbench.

I knew the call would come soon.  I was soldering diodes onto a computer chip.  The resin smoked.  The phone rang in my manager’s office.  Go home to your wife, he said, she called and said it’s time.  I pass by the electronic parts window.  A guy says to play with them a lot and soon.  They grow up fast he called after me.  I pace the waiting room thumbing old copies of Argosy.  Early ’70’s, fathers-to-be weren’t allowed in the Delivery Room, remember.  The doctor pushes through the door.  Erin is here, he says.  Then he leaves.  In a short time I’m standing in a hallway and looking at the bassinet the nurse had pushed to the glass window.  I look down.  A red face looks back at me.  Erin is swaddled tight like a pharoh’s wife.  I look and think about the future.  There is a clock on the wall of the white room.  I think about grabbing the hands and stopping time.  Off to call the family.

Act 2: An apartment in Scranton.

I’m working full-time as a teacher.  That will take care of the next thirty-five years of my life.  You crawl and get into everything your hands can grab.  I sip a glass of wine at dinner and look over at you in your high-chair, your head is down and your cheeks are sitting in the mashed potatoes and peas.  They stick to your face when we move you.  You look like you’re part vegetable.  Your hair is light, not blonde, not red…but somewhere in that mix.

Act 3: The white farmhouse on the hill.

You seem to fall asleep in the oddest places.  I placed you on a potty chair and go to get a cold beer (we’re having a family reunion).  I come back and you are slumped on the little seat with your head resting nicely on your shoulder.  Were you dreaming about long ago when you went out into the world wrapped in a Pamper?  Some years later, I play kickball with you on our lawn.  Your face gets red.  My heartbeat rises.  There is chill in the late afternoon.  Your shadow is long upon the grass.  I wonder about your life to come.

Act 4: On a visit to the grandparents.

It’s thumb numbing cold as we take you to the IBM golf course where people are sledding.  There is a small (I thought) rise in the snow about half way down.  I got it alone.  Testing.  I hit the bump. The toboggan and I are airborne.  Too many seconds later we crashed back to the packed snow. Toboggan goes here.  I go there.  My eye glasses go somewhere else entirely.  You rush forward yelling. Is Daddy going to do that again?  No, I said, wiping the ice from my glasses.

Act 5:  Scene 1–Many years later.

You are in Dickinson College.  You have made it your job to post the most recent Top Ten List from the Letterman Show.  You are the expert when discussing Car Talk to anyone.  We come to visit you and see you in a play staged by the Mermaid Players.  It’s a Lanford Wilson  drama. (It’s like sticking pins in my eyes, after all, when the last words of Act 1 is Oh My God, Oh My God you know it’ll be a rough road).  I’m having a hard time wondering how my quiet, shy daughter will project from the stage.  We take you to lunch on the afternoon of the performance.  You gently inform your dad that your character will be a victim of an attempted rape.  I’m sweating.  Will I storm the stage?

Act 5: Scene 2  Many more years later.

Now your living in Georgia and Germany and Arizona and Savannah and India and D.C. and Washington.  We visit you in Germany and you take us to Dachau.  We leave with heavy hearts.  We visit you in Arizona and you take us horseback riding in the desert.  We see you less and less as you see more and more of the world.  I think again of the white room and the hands of the clock.

Act 6: Drinking coffee in Tacoma (what an unusual thing to do).

I walk you down the path in a field near Orting, WA.  You’re marrying the man you love, Bob.  “Here, There and Everywhere” is playing from the box.  Your loved ones have gathered to witness the marriage.  There is a rainbow in the cloudy skies toward Rainer.  Only someone watching me closely will notice a tear run down my cheek.  My heart is bursting with happiness for you.  And, under your white smock, a tiny life is growing.

Act 7: The late night phone call.

We wait and read and wait again.  Your a nation away and in a hospital room, a delivery room (Is it white? Is there a clock?)  The call comes on January 9, 2013.  A boy!  The two of you take your time deciding on a name.  Finally: Elias Muir.  A good name that reflects many ideas and feelings. A month later, I look into my grandson’s eyes.  I’m in there somewhere.  His fingernail contains a bit of my DNA.  He sees me.  He doesn’t know me, yet, but he’s staring.  He falls asleep in the oddest places…like my lap…for nearly four hours during the Super Bowl.  When you take him, I barely make it to the bathroom.  I had no idea my bladder would hold off until the fourth quarter.

Act 8: The denouement.

We were in orbit around each other for years.  A long time ago, you grew up, just like the guy at IBM said (but he failed to tell me how really, really fast that time would pass).  You grew up and the little child I kicked the ball with found other planets to orbit.  That’s the way that life goes.  It goes on and on, unbroken.  When you looked at your son moments after he was born, I’m sure you kissed him.  I had to wait about an hour before I got to kiss you.  I never thought I’d be a grandfather, but here I am.  And I’m old now, there’s no other way around it.  It’s as it should be.  It’s as it has to be.  But, please, whatever the future holds for me, promise me you will look at him like I looked at you (you’ll have to picture that part), and watch over him like I watched over you.  And play with him.  Play hard with him, because the time will pass so much faster than you could possibly imagine.  The stage is set now for you, Bob and Elias.  Go out and play the scene well.

I’ll wait in the wings.

ErinAdksChild                  Elias 4th week (4)