Kevin Kling's Holiday Inn (2 page)

CHRISTMAS   

Christmas of my childhood takes place at my Dysart grandparents’ home. The house was alive with cousins and dogs. It was a lot of action for my grandmother, so she made a few rules to help ease the chaos. My grandfather’s office was a room for work, off-limits to us. We were allowed to enter for one reason: in the lower left-hand side of his rolltop desk, there were books. If we asked permission, we were allowed to go straight to the desk (“Do not touch
anything
”) and take out a book.

I moved slowly—this was forbidden territory. The desktop housed a Smith Corona typewriter, the photograph of Granddad receiving an award, a campaign card he mailed when he was running for county treasurer. On the walls were documents of graduations and an odd picture, one that I coveted: “His Station and Four Aces.” A group of dogs of various breeds are playing poker, and the bulldog gasps in horror, as he must decide whether to get off the train or play a sure-win hand. I imagined Granddad drawing inspiration from that art.

Then I’m off to his desk drawer, with the three books that would influence my thoughts throughout life. The first,
Curious George Goes to the Hospital,
was about a monkey who swallows a puzzle piece and is rushed to the emergency room. The information in that book got me through many long months of childhood hospital visits. It taught me to survive and stay curious, and it also gave me a lifelong desire to get a monkey.

Another was a Little Golden Book called
The Little Engine That Could,
about a small engine that agreed to pull a train over a hill when all the big engines said no. He kept repeating, “I think I can, I think I can” until he got to the top, and then yelled, “I thought I could, I thought I could!” as he raced down the other side. I would think of his example every time I ran a marathon or went on a date.

The third book, a Ukrainian folktale called
The Mitten,
was full of colorful pictures. It’s the story of a little boy who loses a mitten. One by one, forest creatures come upon it: a mouse, a frog, a fox, and finally, a bear. Each one crawls into the mitten for warmth, joining the others who came before. Finally, the boy returns and the animals scatter into the forest.

I loved that story. I did wonder how a mitten could hold a bear and a fox—it seemed impossible. But like the boy in the story, I was forever losing mittens. Because my left arm is much shorter than my right, I would simply tuck my arm into my sleeve. Our neighborhood was full of perfectly good left-handed mittens strewn about because I never wore them. I liked to imagine my lost mittens provided housing for all the animals between home and school. I read that book until the paper felt as soft as cloth. Like all good stories, it also had an element to it that I couldn’t put my finger on, a deeper level that I didn’t understand. But it made me feel good.

One year my parents decide to host Christmas. I’m fifteen years old, waking up in my twin bed. Big Daddy Roth Hot Rods and pictures of major league ball players adorn my room.

In the living room I faintly hear a Texaco Star Theater Christmas album playing, with Johnny Mathis, Nat King Cole, Patsy Cline, Doris Day singing Christmas songs.

Under the tree, boxes and boxes. What could there be? In the past I would wish for Matchbox or Hot Wheels cars, Tonka Trucks, Lincoln Logs, an Etch A Sketch, an Erector Set, hockey skates, a chemistry set, a crystal radio, GI Joes, Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots, a Chatty Cathy doll for my sister. Oh, and a piece of coal for my brother.

But I have put aside my childish ways and now hope “Santa” brings me a Visible V8 engine, a model of a real working car engine, oh, and Santa, don’t forget the glue this time. Also in my more mature self I wish for a nice dress for my sister. And something for my brother … socks.

We unwrap the presents, and I get the Visible V8 and glue. Then we wrap ourselves in coats and scarves and bundle off to church. Inside the church it always smells of hair tonic, perfume, and burning candles, clean bodies and cleansing souls. A list of names is etched on the wall of the sanctuary. When I was little, I asked my mother who they were. She said, “The men who died in the service.” I remember wondering if it was the first service or the second service.

The pastor has a habit of flailing a point long past its expiration date. The worst was the Sunday he read through the entire list of “begats” in Genesis.

I’ve been told there are actors who can read a phone book and make it interesting, but the pastor wasn’t one of them. His message was that Jesus was born of a line, as are we all, and one day we, too, will be part of the “begats.” I liked his point, especially that maybe I would be associated with my grandpa’s strong arms, my grandma’s love, my mom’s beauty, and my dad’s humor.

Luckily, every Christmas we attend the special early service provided by the youth group. In my teen years it features high school kids half-heartedly muddling through some scripture, maybe with a guitar as their weapon of defiance, a rendition of “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore” causing many dads to say, “That does it, what has happened to the sanctity of religion, from now on I’m sleeping in on Sundays.” Then the beaming youth pastor gets up to deliver the early service sermon. It’s his one big shot. He talks about Jesus “making the scene” at Bethlehem, calls Herod “the man” and says he wore “groovy threads.” He reads from his
Good News Bible,
taking a few liberties—the shortest verse becomes “Jesus was bummed.” As the youth pastor talks of Egypt, it’s pretty obvious he’s really talking about Vietnam, but he sticks to the “live by the sword” doctrine. Every once in a while, he glances over to the senior pastor, who lowers his eyebrows and shifts uncomfortably.

One year the combination of films like
Airport
and
The
Poseidon Adventure
with the newly popular Moog synthesizer inspires a program entitled “Disasters of the Bible.” It is clear from the outset that the youth pastor had no hand in this. Probably out of fear of becoming “the man,” he has let the students have their way. He sits to the side and folds his arms, as the head pastor gives him a worried look and folds his arms, as well.

The lights dim. The organist, a woman in her seventies, begins playing a selection from Grieg’s
Peer Gynt,
but to me, it’s the sunrise music from a Bugs Bunny cartoon. A student reads “The dawn of time” into a microphone.

“In the beginning there was paradise.

“But then came man … greed, avarice, lust.

“God provided us with a perfect world, but man couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

The organist leans into Bach.

“And God sayeth, ‘Don’t make me come down there.’ But did man listen?”

The chorus says, “NO!”

“THEN YE SHALL KNOW MY WRATH!”

A rumbling sound begins. At first, it feels like it’s coming from underneath us. Kids look under pews. Not there. The rumbling grows as Bach crescendos. Finally, the synthesizer is used to full effect as we are ushered through catastrophes of Biblical proportions.

The Great Flood:

“Ruth, my hand, take my hand,” yells a student.

And another wails, “I can’t reach!”

“Ruth … nooooo.”

Moses in the land of Egypt:

“Pharaoh, let my people go.”

“No.”

Sonic walls of high-pitched locusts.

“NO.”

Sounds of oozing blood.

“Okay, go.”

A wall of Red Sea, a bit similar to the Great Flood:

Chorus yells, “Noooooo.”

The Towering Inferno of Babel:

“She’s gonna blow!”

The walls of Jericho:

The organist is now caught in the moment, hammering the bass line to “Smoke on the Water,” her legs and arms flying like a marionette in an earthquake. Then a glowing cradle emerges to “Fanfare for the Common Man.”

“A new day dawns. Thank you and amen.”

By the end, our ears are bleeding. The farmers, motionless, have frozen looks of terror. The students, clearly pleased, hold hands and bow politely. The skinny farm kid on the synthesizer high-fives the organist. She grins, seems to have waited her whole life for this. The audience—I mean congregation—bursts into applause. Applause, in church.

Both the pastor and youth pastor seem surprised and displeased by the reaction. Christmas is clearly now in the hands of the masses. Not good.

We arrive home just as a 1962 Volkswagen Beetle pulls up in front of our house. It’s my mom’s sister and her family of five and a Chihuahua. They pile out of this Bug like it’s a clown car.

More relatives arrive. One uncle says, “Put ’er in the vise,” and gives me a knuckle-busting handshake. The aunts go straight to the kitchen, like something has already gone horribly wrong and they’ve arrived just in time.

Uncle Don, my dad’s brother, asks why we didn’t get a full-size tree this year. Dad says he likes this tree fine. His brother comments there are three things in life that can never be too big and leaves it at that. I’m guessing one is a tree.

I learn from Uncle Don that no matter what he has achieved in life, no matter what the world thinks of him, whenever Dad’s with my uncle, Don will always be second son from the bottom. I look over at my little brother and smile.

Uncle Johnny goes into the bathroom. He’s the uncle who is fun and funny on his farm, but everywhere else he is very nervous and unsure. Even his clothes look like they don’t want to be on him. Whenever he comes over to our house, he has to fix something.

Johnny is in the bathroom a long time. When Dad opens the door, he finds Uncle Johnny and a dismantled toilet.

Dad says, “Johnny, what are you doing? Somebody might need that.”

Johnny informs Dad the wax ring was going, in fact, was about to blow. He makes a noise like the synthesizer in the flood scene at church. He tells Dad he’ll have it fixed in a jiffy, if Dad brings him his spare ring.

Dad says, “A wax ring? Why would I have a wax ring?”

Johnny says, “In case this happens.”

Dad says he’s fresh out of wax rings, so Johnny asks where the nearest hardware store is.

Dad says they won’t be open on Christmas, but Johnny puts on his coat and says he’ll be right back.

Now the aunts are going full steam in the kitchen. One on the gravy, one on the potatoes. My mom is sitting out of the way, drinking coffee.

My sister’s new husband is in the mix, too, learning secrets no book would dare reveal. He’s in heaven and so are they. A man who cooks is as rare as a car that gets over ten miles to the gallon.

In the living room, the uncles are in full swing, as well, arguing Ford versus Chevy, electric shaver versus razor, gas versus charcoal, Tums versus Rolaids, Labs versus spaniels, boxers versus tidy whities.

My uncle tells Dad Ford stands for Found On Road Dead. Dad corrects him: No, he heard First On Race Day.

One uncle drinks from a coffee mug, smiles, and says, “Everything in moderation,” but it sounds like he emphasizes the “everything” part.

I love my uncles. They are eccentric but have good hearts, and like all good uncles, they teach me a lot. Usually they show me what not to do by doing it. Like the year Uncle Byron got the midlife perm. (Note to self: don’t do that.)

In the kitchen we hear laughter. Aunt Mary has told about Johnny’s condition with his circulation. On doctor’s orders, she has to tie his hands behind his back. She’s worried that tying up her husband six times a day makes her kinky. Mom says not unless she enjoys it, and as everyone laughs, Mary gets a worried look on her face.

Then Johnny comes back in with a wax ring. Says he ran into a guy in the parking lot of the hardware store who was putting a subfloor in his nephew’s basement. The guy happened to have a wax ring at his house, so my uncle traded him some rebar that he had in the back of the truck.

The toilet now repaired, and the wax ring dubbed a Christmas miracle, we say grace and dig into dinner.

Even now, I can look around that dining room table at those faces. My relatives. How, why? We are all so different. Everyone is pretty funny, and it’s a good bunch of people, but it’s pretty clear that our gene pool doesn’t have a deep end.

Mom walks out with a special treat, a country ham.

For Christmas dinner at my Grandmother Dysart’s house, we always had country ham. Country ham is preserved with salt. Pounds of salt, sugar, and pepper. It’s tightly packed with the spices, then wrapped in a cloth bag and hung in a ventilated place for months, years. Granddad had a special, seriously off-limits shed for hams out back of the house. A week before Christmas, Granddad would take a ham down from the rafters and cut off the thick mold that now enveloped it. Inside that horrible mass of rotting cloth, mold, and fat is the most delicious, salty treat, like a magic meat geode. Usually the ham is soaked for a day or two before cooking to try to pull some of the salt out. Grandma used 7-Up, but I’m not sure if this makes a noticeable difference. Country ham is not an acquired taste. You have to be born to it. It’s like other foods from cultures all around the globe, dishes that used various techniques for preserving food before refrigeration, lutefisk in Norway or sauerkraut in Germany or kimchee in Korea. They are flavors we don’t really need any more, but they remind us of how good we’ve got it. Flavors not for the timid.