A High Tech Christmas

1963 marked more than a subtle shift in my attitude and desires surrounding Christmas. I was a teenager FINALLY. It had been a tumultuous year for everyone. The President of The United States had been assassinated and an entire nation had watched it unfold before their eyes on television. We were unaware, for the most part, that there had been an end of innocence as well. This would unfold over the next several years. My personal innocence was pretty well over too. Puberty and sexual curiosity were blooming. Certainly Santa Claus was in my rear view mirror. No more wish lists of toys. I had formally announced that I was no longer to be called Bobby. My grandparents were spared from calling me Bob out of deference to their affection and age but everyone else was put on notice. Everything was going to be different.

There was no vacuum created just because toys were “out”. I sure was not willing to settle for socks, underwear and sweaters for presents. No sir. The world of high technology had provided a whole new focus for this teenager. I desperately wanted a set of walkie-talkies…and not the Buck Rogers kid toy that had been around for years either. My heart was set on two channel, citizen band, high powered two way radios that would allow me to have field communications with my pals no matter where our adventures might lead us. Just the thought of having it made me feel like Dick Tracy. Closest thing to a 2-Way Wrist Radio that a kid could ever have! Just think of the juvenile delinquents that we could avoid and crimes that we could expose with walkie-talkies! My list of Christmas bounty also included a portable tape recorder. No would-be secret agent could be without a Craig Miniature Tape Recorder. Covert recording of adults would reveal the answers to the many secrets hidden from the younger generation. We could make records of our thoughts and inspirations. The possibilities were limitless. I also wanted Beatle music. The first album, Meet The Beatles, had not made it to the markets and devout fans would have to wait until January. There were still those single 45’s on my list though. Who could live without “I Want To Hold Your Hand”, “She Loves You”, or “From Me To You”? I ask you. Really! So there it was, a Christmas without little kid junk…strictly teenaged material on request.

Christmas Eve was no longer celebrated at my grandparent’s home on Swisher Avenue in Danville. They spent longer winters in Florida now. Mom and Dad drove Daddy Baum’s Chrysler Imperial down to Hillsboro Beach while my grandparents flew. They were actually there when President Kennedy was killed. I had been staying with my friend, Scott Golden and just across the ravine from my great pal Mark Faulkner. Anyway, they were back on November 24 and a month later we would spend our first Christmas Eve without my dear grandparents. All of the presents were under our own stylish (and controversial) aluminum tree. It was a pretty nice display of gifts. Nothing like the mounds that existed with the larger extended family in previous years…but not bad! We had a nice dinner and went into the Sun Room like three grown up people might to begin unwrapping the year’s bounty.

Sure enough, my dreams had been fulfilled! Dad was the owner of a John Deere dealership and had obtained two extremely powerful Motorola CB, two channel, walkie-talkies that were strong enough for farmers to communicate with each other and families while at work. Wow! There was also the portable tape recorder and Beatle records along with some model cars to put together, the game Risk and, of course, clothes, underwear and socks (Geez). It was hard not to act as excited as a little kid but I was a teenager now. I expressed my sincere thanks as Bob Jones and excused myself to go call my buddy Steve Magin to make the big announcement. We had a tradition of calling each other on Christmas Eve. The phone rang and Steve answered. He asked the annual question, “What’d ya get?” I told him that he wouldn’t believe it. I got the walkie-talkies and the tape recorder. We were going to be in business. His excitement matched mine. REALLY hard not to burst with joy and anticipation.

I took the walkie-talkies to our Jones family Christmas gathering the next day in DeLand at Bondurant Place to share with my cousins. We sure had a lot of fun talking from the basement to the upstairs bedrooms and all around the farm outside. The rest of the holiday was spent exploring the world of two way private communication with Steve Magin and Gary Cox. Steve would take one of the units back to his house and we could talk under the sheets and blankets from way down the street after lights-out without our parents ever knowing what we were cooking up. Little did we know that our conversations were now privy to the ears of a ham radio operator on Commercial Street…on the OTHER SIDE OF TOWN. It wasn’t until a few days later that we heard the guy actually talking on his big time radio to someone in China or somewhere. Steve and I were talking to each other about important stuff when all of a sudden the guy said, “Hold on a minute. I can’t hear you. Those damn kids are interfering with the transmission.” DAMN KIDS? We were damn kids were we? Well he had been snooping where he shouldn’t have been snooping. We had just as much right on the airwaves as he did. A minor radio war ensued from that point forward. The guy on Commercial Street became another of those adult public enemies along with Steve-the-grouch and Tars Janitars, among others, who had a mission of making our lives difficult. No matter. We would overcome. Endless hours of entertainment would only be enhanced by this person.

Life had changed. The Beatles blared from my Dad’s stereo system and conversations began to focus on the mystery of girls. High tech had taken over. We used the portable tape recorder to secretly record my parent’s cocktail parties, baited conversations with unknowing friends and made a historic taped session of a day in Duckville. Sorry, no explanation for readers there. Some things just can’t be made public. There are still too many adults listening in.

The Christmas Boxes

I really love Christmas. There is nothing else in the calendar that makes me so happy. My head and heart are full of stories that are rich with traditions, family and friends. It is difficult to imagine that there is anyone who has been blessed any more than I. There has always been abundant love easily accessed for me. Despite my failings and shortcomings most of the people in my life have hung in there and supported me. I am so thankful.

One of the warm Christmas memories that I have comes from 1992. I had been living in the mountains of North Carolina near Brevard for almost two years and had just moved into an A Frame home near Lake Toxaway. My good friend, Michael Sessom, had been staying with me. He was quite a spiritual teacher and guide. The move took place in November and it was obvious that the house would lend itself nicely to holiday decorations. Michael called it a Christmas House. The steep two story ceiling would accommodate a huge tree but buying one that tall would be impossible. Friends of mine from Madison County, Steve Magin and Boone and Kathy McFalls came to the rescue. They chopped down a gigantic pine and hauled it down to the house for Thanksgiving. A wood frame had to be constructed just to hold it. Hours of planning, building, pulling and yanking finally resulted in success. The living room was filled with the magnificent tree. Michael spend days putting balls and ornaments on it. He made dozens of “God Eyes” and other things to hang. It took lots and lots of lights as well. The finished Christmas tree was impressive to say the least but the few presents underneath looked a bit paltry. This led Michael to make a decision that would change the way that I would look at presents for the rest of my life.

We were admiring the tree after work at Bridgeway Treatment Center one chilly December night. Michael was disappointed in the emptiness underneath and made a terrific suggestion. “Let’s wrap up the moving boxes like Christmas presents.” He said. “You take half of the boxes and I will take the other half. Then we will write a Christmas memory and put it in the box. On Christmas Eve we can open them and share our memories.” I agreed and we went about the job for the next several days. The big, gaily wrapped boxes looked stunning around the tree. It was perfect. The Christmas Eve opening was actually moved to the day before. I was headed up to Illinois to be with my daughters. There was never a more emotional or deeply moving present exchange that I can remember. Each box contained such joy and happiness. Some of the memories had sadnesses but all of them reflected the great riches and love that we had experienced in our lives. The meaning of Christmas went far beyond the material things that year and has traveled with me ever since.

We are all loved more than we will ever know. Merry, Merry Christmas to you!

A Puppy for Christmas

Bobby Jones & Santa 1957

There is nothing that can compare to the joy felt by a child when receiving a dog for Christmas. More elaborate and bigger gifts might be forgotten in a relatively short time but a puppy from Santa will always be remembered. My own experience was 53 years ago but is as vivid in my mind as if it happened last year.

It was December, 1957 and I had been campaigning for a dog since summer. The crusade was relentless. “Every boy needs a dog. “ I finally heard Mother say to my Dad. “He seems to want one so badly. I’m just sure he would take care of it.” Dad retorted that he knew better than that. “You and I are going to end up taking it out and feeding it.” "The answer is NO!" My heart sank. I knew that I would be a good master. Visions of Lassie and Jeff streamed through my brain. How tough could it be to take care of a dog? It was after Thanksgiving and the only recourse seemed to be going to Meis Brothers Department Store and asking for the intervention of Santa Claus. I would not have stooped to visiting Santa if it wasn't an emergency. Most of my friends were pretty sure that he did not exist. But it was sure worth a try. Mom made me get all dressed up and took me to the lap of my last hope. The plea of a lonely little boy seemed to be too much for my Mom. It looked like she had a tear in her eye when I completed my poignant begging. SUCCESS! It was all up to her and good ole Santa now.  Dad was no match for both of them.

The Christmas season was busy with family gatherings and school plays. No verbal mention was made again of my fondest wish. After all, I did not want to nix the deal with SC. There were longing sighs and lonely looks that should have transmitted my desperation but you never know how parents might interpret such things. Christmas Eve arrived. We always got to open one present prior to going over to my grandparents house. I was pretty sure what my gift was going to be. What a disappointment when there was no animal sized box with holes in it around the tree. I got a ping pong ball burp gun.  Geez.  How would Santa know to deliver a puppy to the home of relatives? Surely there was a mistake…some mixup with another kid down the block or something. We went to my grandparents house and there was no wriggling sack or whimpering crate. No way in the world would Santa take a dog to my Aunt Helen's home in DeLand, Illinois. That was never happening. So I began to settle into the bleak resolve that Santa did not exist and that my parents had hearts of stone.

Dinner time came and I had no appetite. My grandmother had prepared a feast for the families. Every favorite was displayed on good china. Goodies were overflowing the table. I couldn’t have cared less. My grandmother noticed and asked “What' wrong, Robby?" (She was the only one allowed to call me Robby).  I mumbled something but was interrupted by the back doorbell. It was tradition that only adults answered the door so when my grandmother told me to answer it I was dumbstruck. Dad said “You heard Noie, get the door.” I hopped up , ran to the door and opened it hard. There, standing in all of his glory, was Santa Claus himself. He asked if I was Bobby Jones. I stammered a "yes" and he went on to say that he had missed one of my presents and just made the discovery on his sleigh. He knelt down and opened his red bag. It was wiggling...and there before my very eyes was a little black puppy. I hugged Santa as hard as I could and scooped up my little pal. There he was…My pride and joy. Everything else became a blur for the next 24 hours. I named him Penny and he was by my side, in my bed and nipping at my feet at all times. There was never a better present and never again was there a doubt in my mind about the existence of Santa Claus. For the rest of my life. Really.

The Christmas Fire

The Christmas Tree was very important to my family.  We had a longstanding tradition of finding the perfect tree back in the 1950's.  Of course almost everyone else was involved in the same quest.  Tree lots were combed from as early as the weekend after Thanksgiving.  Long needles, short needles, spruce and balsam were all considered.  The decision was made after lengthy discussions about which would hold the needles the longest and which best represented Christmas past.  The chosen tree was then hauled over to my uncle's Chrysler dealership to join the ones found by his family and by my grandparents.  Uncle Smitty loaded up his car painting system with snow fluff and we lightly flocked all three trees.

The arrival of the tree, usually tied and wrapped securely to the top of our Chrysler, was a moment of triumph for my Dad.  There it was.  Christmas splendor in our own house.  Decorations with special family significance, a cotton tree skirt, bubble and tinkle multicolor lights all were draped on the tree while eggnog and fudge were consumed by the fireplace.  Then, in 1960, something controversial happened.  Mother discovered the magnificent and elegant Aluminum Christmas Tree (complete with rotating color wheel).

I was never quite sure why my father relented to the interloping fake that began to grace our "sun room" that Christmas.  He gave it the most disturbing looks and glances.  Not quite a scowl but something akin to disgust.  Mom was oblivious.  She found the best tree money could buy at Marshall Fields in Chicago.  It could only be decorated with certain ornaments.  They were all red and very fashionable.  No lights were necessary.  The color wheel took care of that.  One moment it was green, then red, then blue and then a strange yellow gold.  All of the traditional stuff was packed away in deference to the new.  I had raely seen my mother so proud and happy.  It was certainly a decorator tree to show off to all of the family, friends and neighbors.

There developed a kind of tension between the tree and Dad over the next few years.  It was 1964 when all hell broke loose.   My buddy Steve and I were goofing around in the basement rec room.  The unhappiness that Dad was experiencing over the tree proved to be too much for Mom.  She gave way to his pleas and watched in horror as he brought down all of the old decorations and began to drape them on the aluminum tree.  The thing got loaded down with everything but popcorn garland.  She sat in a chair with a cocktail in defeat.  Dad's masterpiece was crowned by the cotton skirt.  Presents were crammed under the branches until the inevitable happened.  One spark from a light strand, through the aluminum, down the trunk and POOF.  All Steve and I heard was stomping and pounding.  By the time that we got upstairs the sun room was going up in flames and Dad was trying to put it out with his hands.  Quick thinking from two 14 year olds saved the day.  We formed a bucket brigade and put out the fire before the fire department got there.  We were instant heroes.  Dad and Mom went to the hospital to treat his burned hands.  I was trusted to be left alone and spend the night at my friend Gary's.

The aluminum tree melted that year and was never replaced.  No more fake trees for us.  It was back to flocked ones.  We moved to a bigger home the next year.  Dad spent many hours admiring his traditional tree.  Mom did get all new fancy ornaments anyway.  Everyone was happy.  Steve and I still like to put out all kinds of fires (usually, but not always, metaphorical).

A Christmas Memory

Bondurant Place, DeLand, Illinois

Christmas, for me, is among other things a time of fond remembering. Some of my most vivid memories are of the late 1950s and early 1960s celebrations at the country home of the Trenchards, my uncle and aunt, in Deland, Illinois. In the middle of the endless Central Illinois farmland sat Bondurant Place. Named for Uncle Wendell's grandfather, it was nestled among hundreds of trees with a winding driveway. Truly a festive gathering place for my granddad, his nine children and their families.

I remember waking up early to see what Santa brought to our house at 18 West Winter in Danville. Mom and Dad were in their robes and we opened presents and hugged and laughed. It was hard to get me away without taking a favorite something to go on the road to Deland. But by the time we got to Champaign on two lane, snow packed roads, I was anticipating the event at Bondurant Place!

Wendell Trenchard and Bobby Jones

Uncle Wendell would be HO! HO! HOing at a door wrapped with an image of Santa! Aunt Helen would gleefully shriek at our arrival almost as if she didn’t know we were coming. "They're Here! They're Here!" they would exclaim. We were always the first to arrive...except that cousin Joan, her husband Taylor and the boys had spent the night...and had Christmas Eve together. The oldest son, Bon, would be down at the trains in the basement. I was so excited I could burst. People would start coming almost in order! Granddad and his companion Mavie were next, then Aunt Beulah, and then everyone else almost at once and then.....Aunt Nellie, Uncle Lester, Irene and Sarah! Always last...always anticipated with joy! Everyone received the happy "They're Here!" greeting. The smells of turkey and goodies filled the house. The cousins and cousins played and played mostly downstairs. There was no need for lots of toys...but there were plenty of them. We just delighted in each other. We shot each other with Ack Ack Guns, played with the best model train set in the world, looked for spooks in the coal bin, explored the unknown....Every now and then one of the parents or uncles or aunts ventured down for a minute. They knew that we were OK but just wanted to share in the fun! My older cousins could only resist for awhile. We usually got them involved without much struggle!

Grand Dad Jones and some of his brood

Then came the call! Dinner was ready. All of the adults sat at the big table and the younger members at the children’s table. As people moved or died you graduated to the adult table. I never made it. The littlest kids sat in the adjacent sun room next to the kitchen and the older kids sat at the table in the hallway. Everyone hushed and Uncle Wendell called for order. Aunt Nellie said the blessing. Then we got in to the feast. What a feast it always was! Turkey, dressing (traditional and oyster), cranberries, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, fancy butter....place cards at every seat made by Aunt Cil....Oh Boy! When the main course was done we got to have special frozen Santa ice cream made just for us and Hickory Nut Cake (We all LOVE Hickory Nut Cake).

There was short a play time while we waited for the next tradition. In a few minutes we would all line up according to age and put our hands on the right shoulder in front of us. Sarah was always in front of me. Granddad Jones was first and held the long strand of Jingle Bells. Uncle Wendell would fire up his lights and movie camera. Then we marched through the house singing "Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle All The Way". Opening presents took forever! Someone would play Santa and bring a present one at a time. The relative would open it and we would all go "Oooh and Ahhh". Then the next one.

FINALLY...we could go and play again! It was back to the basement. Uncle Lester would fall asleep on the couch. The Moms would clean up and the other Dads would play gin rummy. This would be story time in by the fireplace in the basement. I would start with the most horrible ghost story that I had learned that year. Usually Strawn, Penn, Danny, or Debbie would sit on my lap. The room would hush. Terror would fill the room!

Helen Trenchard and Mary Timmons

Now the call would come again! Aunt Helen would have made a special bag of goodies and leftovers for each family. It was time to go home. Sometimes I wanted to cry...but usually I was eager to get home to tell my buddies about "what I got". I could never relate to them that "what I got" at Bondurant Place was more important and more fun than anything that came in a beautifully wrapped box. It was dark and there was snow hanging on every branch. I fell asleep in the back seat of our Chrysler. Happy Family....Happy Christmas