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From the The Tenement Series of non-fiction essays by Harry Buschman
© by Harry Buschman
Christmas Story
I didn't believe in Santa Claus until I had children of my own.
Before they could
walk, children in the tenements of Brooklyn learned that Christmas presents
were bought and hidden during that magic month between
Thanksgiving and December 25th. There were places we were forbidden to go,
packages we were told to stay away from, and the Christmas tree, like a homeless
person wrapped in rags, lay bundled on the fire escape exposed to the snow and
rain.
Whispered conversations would evaporate into thin air and knowing glances would be exchanged when I entered the room. ("You know what I mean.") ("Don't let him see you.") ("I'll tell you later."). Hiding a child's presents in a railroad flat was an open invitation to his curiosity. All kids knew what they were getting for Christmas long before the happy day arrived. Many of them had already made plans to swap with their friends.
How can you conceal a sled or a bicycle from the eyes of a curious child in such tight quarters? There could be no surprises. The inevitable and unwelcome gifts of sturdy drop-seat underwear and knee-high socks required no concealment, we never bothered to look for them. We knew they'd show up on Christmas day like Planters Warts.
Christmas Eve
was the only night of the year I was permitted to sleep in my Aunt's bedroom
while the living room was prepared for the clumsy arrival of St. Nick. The noise
was deafening and trying to sleep was impossible. The family could be heard
across the hall, grunting, sweating and swearing as the tree was dragged in
from the fire escape leaving a trail of needles and snow through the kitchen,
dining room and across my mother and father's bedroom. Finally my father's fast
fading temper would explode with, "The Goddamn wheel don't fit -- Christ,
why can't they make a wheel that fits?!" Oh! .... how I longed to get up
and help him! How much simpler it would have been. I knew exactly how to put
the wheel on .... I had done it many times before and I only hoped he wouldn't
break the damn thing. I pleaded silently, "Read the instructions, Pa --
you've got to put the cotter pin in first .... it's right
there in the box!" I wanted to shout it out but I couldn't. I could only
hope he didn't break something and make a mess of Christmas morning.
When morning came
and peace had been restored, I would be summoned to come
and see what Santa had trudged up four flights of stairs with. With the sweet
innocent gift of deceit that all children master at a very young age, I would
pretend surprise with the flexible flyer or the "Erector Set" that
I had been playing with since discovering them behind the piano a month ago.
"Aren't you going to open these?" my mother would say. Not wanting
to look at the underwear and woolen socks, I would pretend deafness and put
that chore off as long as I could. Did she seriously think I believed Santa
made underwear and socks in his workshop? You left the labels on. Come on, Ma,
they were made in Camden, New Jersey, I wasn't born yesterday!
There was a certain smart-assed smugness in playing openly with the things I had to play with in secret before. ("Look how quickly he put the Erector Set together -- I told you he'd going to be an architect.") But it could never compare with the clandestine pleasure I got from playing with them in the dim light behind the piano. There was magic back there -- magic. The shadowy darkness hid the imperfections and made trucks look like trucks .... made trains look like trains. The nervous anticipation of being discovered in the act like a thief in Tiffany's caught in the blinding glare of the watchman's lantern only added to the excitement.
Like all children must, I eventually broke the news to my mother and father that there was no Santa Claus. I felt they were old enough to know that I knew. They had labored for years pretending and protecting me from the facts of life which were evident to me almost from the beginning. We had no chimney -- we didn't even have a roof .... Mrs. Erwin lived upstairs, and our windows were sealed shut with newspaper to protect us from the winter's chill from Halloween to Easter Sunday. He'd have to huff and puff up those four flights of stairs, wouldn't he Ma? -- with a sack of toys on his back for all the children in the world -- he'd never make it Ma.
Let me be a part of it Ma. Let me help -- I'd like to buy you and Pop something for Christmas too. I want to help with the tree, maybe next time, for once, we can get it to stand up straight. "The presents? I won't look at mine if you won't look at yours -- we got a deal?" Christmas meant a lot more to me after I convinced them there was no Santa Claus, I got to give as well as take, and when push comes to shove I think giving makes Christmas all the sweeter.
©Harry Buschman 1996
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