A Most Unlikely Christmas Movie

 

When friends bring up their favorite Christmas movies, I never name the ones they mention.

Not for me, It’s a Wonderful Life or A Christmas Carol or A Christmas Story, much as I like them all.

Return with me to the night before Christmas, 1955, the only time I ever spent out with my folks on Christmas Eve. Perhaps then you will understand.

I couldn’t have been more excited.

My folks and I were going to the new movie Ulysses starring Kirk Douglas; more famous these days as Michael Douglas’s father, or the father-in-law of Catherine Zeta-Jones.

I would have my parents to myself. My little brothers (much too small to go) were in the charge of grandparents. More remarkable, we would be eating out, a rare treat for the Stein family, where memories of the Great Depression forever justified frugality, stay-at-home meals, and the second-best of everything else.

I was nine-years-old.

But, of course, the real excitement would continue into the next day — Christmas Day — and all the presents I hoped might come my way. Things like electric trains, rocket ships, and other gifts beyond imagining.

No tree was planted in our two-flat because no religious connection to the day existed there; not Christianity or any other faith. Christmas was simply an occasion for the purpose of showering me (and my brothers) with presents within the limits of our family’s ever-present budget consciousness.

I was well past the belief Santa existed — I understood from whence the loot came: my dad’s departures paid for everything. His work was then vague to me, but his time away vivid to all of us. Milt Stein worked four different jobs in a typical week: his full-time position as a postal supervisor, part-time labor as a bookkeeper for my Uncle Sam’s business; dad’s own small cigarette lighter-repair enterprise which (with my mother’s help) became the object of his after-dinner attention, and one weekend day spent serving as a security guard at some factory or other in the Chicago area.

My Father During His Stint in the Army During WWII

My Father During His Stint in the Army During WWII

Being out with my father was always special. Sometimes, to spend a little more time with him, I’d walk from our place at 5724 N. Talman to the Lincoln and Washtenaw bus stop: the final destination of my father’s journey from work. I’d wait for him to come off the bus in search of an extra five-minutes togetherness walking back. I never felt desperate about this or lonely. Instead I acted without much thought to do what appealed. At nine I was no psychologist.

Once home dad put down the satchel he carried with him, took off his coat and hat, washed up, and sat down to dinner at the kitchen table with mom. I’d then shared him with mom and my brothers; and with the work he removed from the carryall soon after dinner. He laid out the cigarette lighters needing repair on the dining room table, the tools my mom used to fix the most difficult items, the protective tins and cardboard boxes in which he shipped these incendiary devices back to their owners, and the paper trail of invoices intended to produce a little more money for the family.

A rapid completion of the repairs might allow dad to watch TV. We then enjoyed time sitting close to one another on a living room sofa covered in a clear plastic couch-protector designed to make furniture last. I bathed in the warmth of my father’s presence and the glow of the 26″ Muntz TV, one of the few things my parents bought representing any sort of luxury: a behemoth for its time, the largest television screen then available.

Dad would go to bed around 10 PM, and was back up before 5:00 for his 7 AM clock-in at the giant postal facility on Canal Street downtown, repeating the cycle in-perpetuity.

My father survived a heart attack in November of 1958, then three years ahead of us. Some part of me never thought of him or life the same way thereafter. His cardiac nemesis caused me to cherish even more the time we might yet spend together, worried he might be snatched away. But this Christmas Eve would be special and his heart problems were unforeseen. An action movie awaited with swords and spears and bows and arrows and monsters and everything! The treat of restaurant food and the anticipation of the next day’s Christmas haul beckoned!

Ah, the best laid plans …

Ulysses1shWeb

Ulysses is the Roman name for Odysseus, the famous Greek hero who is credited with the idea of using a “Trojan Horse” to achieve the fall of Troy. The tale rendered by the movie is Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus’s difficult return from the Trojan War to his wife Penelope and his son Telemachus on the isle of Ithaca, his kingdom.

Well-fortified with a tasty spaghetti dinner at the restaurant, I readied myself for the movie’s action.

I thrilled at the Cyclops named Polyphemus who Odysseus and his men defeated, the Sirens, and all manner of trial and nemesis he encountered on the way back home. There, Penelope and Telemachus waited for him for 20 years in total — 10 while he fought at Troy and 10 more for his delayed return. Penelope had the additional job of fending off the advances of suitors who wanted her surpassing beauty (and Odysseus’s estate) for their own. The suitors, in fact, lived in Odysseus’s palace, eating his food, drinking his wine, and lusting after his wife, who fashioned excuses to make them wait. The suitors’ incivility is Homer’s comment on what happens when sons are raised without fathers. Their fathers, at Odysseus’s side, fought in the 10-year Trojan War. Some came back, some did not.

My stomach was rumbling a little by the time our hero, disguised as a beggar, revealed himself to his son and enlisted his help to defeat the unwanted, savage house guests. The actual carnage, when Odysseus and Telemachus killed every last man occupying his home, began as my belly full of pasta was turning South. I’ll spare you the gory details of both the final disposition of my meal and the suitors. Neither was pretty.

With My Father in the Albany Park Neighborhood of Chicago

With My Father in the Logan Square Neighborhood of Chicago

I made it to the movie’s end and back home before the inevitable catastrophe, kneeling at the bathroom’s porcelain alter, the most religious position I had assumed in connection with the holiday. The physical event sucked every bit of life out of me. I wished for nothing but to be carried to bed, tucked in, and allowed to sleep off my body’s betrayal.

Sleep I did, in a good enough state of health by morning to enjoy the Christmas gifts. I remember nothing of the presents themselves, only the night before, including the movie and the time with my folks. Christmas 1955 remains the single holiday of my youth, other than generic recollections of July 4th, that stands out in my memory.

As childhood went on I continued to take almost every chance possible to be with my father. Once a week, always on Sunday afternoon, his mother would come to our house and, at dinner’s end, I tagged along as dad drove her back to the apartment she shared with her sister, south of Riverview Park. I couldn’t pass up the dual summer treat of watching the Silver Flash roller coaster as we passed the amusement park on Western Avenue and having my father to myself for the 30-minute drive back home.

Whenever dad and I would take an elevated train ride after his heart attack, catching the Ravenswood rapid transit at its Western Avenue stop, we were never alone: his mortality took the ride with us. Walking up the stairs to the southbound platform, my father stopped at the first landing to take a breather, reaching into his pocket for a nitroglycerin tablet to make sure another cardiac arrest could be forestalled.

On Top of the World with My Dad

On Top of the World with My Dad

Many years passed before I realized that The Odyssey had a personal meaning for me: the homecoming of my father. No, dad never was mistaken for a warrior from Troy. He returned, instead, from whatever adventures he encountered on the road to making a living — a thing that the Great Depression ensured would define him.

Like Odysseus’s son Telemachus I waited for him and kept the faith, as did my mother and little brothers. We knew eventually he would come, if not as soon or as often as we liked. When I needed books for a research project or a book report, he gladly borrowed them from the Downtown library. He often brought a Planter’s Peanut bar with him, too, because he loved peanuts and thought I would. I never did come to like peanuts, but I can tell you I tried hard to enjoy them, as I tried fishing with a bamboo pole (and later with a rod and reel); enough to go out on several frigid Saturday mornings before dawn, bored out of my mind and short of sleep, to do the thing he loved and I hoped in vain to grow to love.

I couldn’t will myself into a fishy rapture, much as I wished to. Does effort alone ever generate passion? Not surprisingly, we both gave up on the project. Still, I am touched by the thought he wanted me to share the thing he enjoyed, even if, in the end, it wasn’t in me. Thankfully, we did share a love of baseball, something that bound us together until death finally took him at the considerable age of 88, almost 42 years after its foreshadowing in the 1958 heart attack.

Christmas for me means (as it does for so many) family and memories. And, very particularly for me, spending time with my dad, even if my stomach was upset, or we watched a very un-Christmas-like movie; or I waited for him on a street corner, or shivered on a lake early in the morning hoping to fall in love with his favorite hobby.

My memory of that long-ago Christmas Eve is now 61-years-old. But at least in my memory, my unsettled insides on December 24, 1955 didn’t make much difference.

In the end, all that mattered was that finally, like Telemachus, I was at home with my dad.

17 thoughts on “A Most Unlikely Christmas Movie

    • I’m fascinated by your posts I grew up on Talman and went to Jamieson-perhaps our paths crossed

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      • It might have happened, quite literally. The neighborhood has changed a bit since then, of course. When I think of the shops they are the old ones — Losby’s Drugstore, Lew (his principal employee), and Mr. Sharon’s candy store. thanks for reading and commenting, Janice.

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  1. What a beautiful story. Wishing you Merry Christmas and happy 2017, Dr. Gerry. (And a long Wonderful Life.)

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  2. A beautifully shared experience of a child’s needs. I didn’t really know my father, he suffered from ‘depression’ and was rarely present for me. I often watched other fathers and wondered what it would be like to have a ‘present’ father. Thank you for for this posting, it gave me insight into what I missed. Greetings of the Season!! Nigel

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  3. A beautiful memory to have and nice to hear that your dad lived to a ripe old age. I to wish I had nice memories of my father, oh well. My family now is pretty good and surprisingly my brothers and I get on very well dispite the fact that we are triggers for each other on a fairly regular basis, we manage to keep getting over it and stay together as a family. We all want the next generation to have better memories than we had and a concept of supportive extended family. Just 3 kids all children of one brother. We are working hard to stop the generational abuse with us and give the next as good a chance of turning our family legacy into something much brighter. I don’t celebrate Christmas or New Years but hope you are having a lovely time with your family. It was a scorcher here 37’c or 99’f in your terms.☀️😰

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    • Ninety-nine Fahrenheit sounds a bit much, even if our current conditions are fairly mild for this time of year (slightly above freezing). Your family’s decision to do better by the next generation is commendable. Be well, Claire.

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  4. Dr. Stein, thanks for sharing your enduring Christmas memory of your father. Christmas represents the best times spent with my family. My father never tired in making it the best possible Christmas for me and my four younger siblings: repainting the walls of our tiny one-bedroom bottom flat; polishing the wooden floorboards; putting down new linoleum on the kitchen floor; soaking and baking a leg of ham; and making garlic pork (a Guyanese-Portuguese tradition). While time hasn’t cured the wounds of his violent rum-fueled behavior, it opened the jalousies for a glimpse at the good things he did do for us.

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    • We humans are so complex. The good and the bad, the complexity of categorizing, the ambivalence we feel because the nature of others is mixed. I’m glad you have at least some good memories of your father and perhaps one day we will share some garlic pork together. I do love the Portuguese National Dish, which I’ve had several times. The name escapes me. Happy New Year, Rosaliene.

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  5. This was so beautiful and touching. Thank you for sharing. 🙂

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  6. That was an interesting and wonderful tribute to family and especially your dad. I envy you that childhood time alone with your dad. As one of nine children in a very small house there was a whole lot of togetherness and rarely a moment of alone time with a parent. I probably would have been uncomfortable to have spent any time alone with either of my parents. It would have been awkward!

    My dad also lived through the Great Depression and I am sure that, along with service in the South Pacific as a very young man, framed so much of the rest of his life. HIs Irish Catholic heritage assured us of Christmases wrapped in religion. My strongest memories are of attending Midnight Mass and being enthralled with the mystery of the whole thing (think Latin and incense). Santa Claus did come sometime after Midnight Mass and before my mother returned from the 7:00 am Mass (she couldn’t go to Midnight Mass since there were small children who didn’t yet go to Mass) and there were always a stack of gifts for each child. Granted, the gifts were small: crayons, new socks, a book, a board game and perhaps something “big” that came into the house via the Church network for assisting families who were strapped for cash. All good. It all seemed perfect to me and my brothers.

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    • A lovely childhood Christmas memory, JT. Perspective is everything. Compared to you (and my brothers) I got much more time with my dad. Some was a consequence of being first born, some because I sought the time. The incense thing would perhaps have captured me too, although I intuitively grasped the theodicy business pretty early. In any case, have a Happy New Year and thanks for your comment and loyal readership!

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  7. Oh, and YES! A piece on identity could be very interesting….

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