Author: Ray

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The Days Before Christmas

As far back as I remember, we always had a pine tree for Christmas. About a week or so before Christmas, on a Saturday, my Dad would get out his tree cutting tools. They consisted of a small hatchet and a hand saw. Dad liked the saw because it didn’t make much noise!

Mom would get me bundled up in my winter clothes, hand knitted mittens and hat. Dad would let me carry the hatchet in spite of Mom’s protest! The hatchet blade was wrapped up with an old rag and tied, keeping me safe.
Off we would go down the old railroad tracks to a cart path crossroad (now Pinehurst Road). We would take the cart path into a pine grove of small trees. These pine trees were spreading into the pasture land of David Seager’s Farm.

Dad would select one a little taller than he could reach. He would send me in to trim the lowest branches with the hatchet. This was quite a task for a young kid.  Dad helped me those first few years. He would take his saw and, in short order, over the tree fell.

Now the task of dragging it home: Dad in front and me taking up the rear, trying to keep the tree from dragging along the ground, while still hanging onto my hatchet!
Finally we arrived home. I was pooped!
Oh no, we weren’t through. Dad had me gather up the bushel baskets stored in the barn. Into the back seat of the old Chevy they went. We now headed off to Pine Street.
About half way down Pine Street, we pulled over, across from the brick yard factory. We scrambled over the embankment, jumped over the brook and through the thick moss.

The moss-covered ground under the hemlock trees was ideal for Princess Pine to thrive. We would pick a basketful — how pretty those little tree-like plants were. A good crop of Trailing Ground Pine was also found growing through the Hemlock litter and moss.

With two full baskets, we headed back to the car. I would drag the lightest basket to the edge of the brook. Dad would carry it over the brook, up the bank, and into the Chevy. (I was back at the brook on my hands and knees having a cold drink, and boy was that water cold!)

Back home we unloaded the full baskets of greens. Dad got the round frames made of chicken wire down from the barn attic. They still had a few dried-up leftover greens from last year. I would clean them out and start weaving the Princess Pine into the frame.

I had watched Dad make these wreaths as long as I could remember. He would fix them up here and there where I messed up. During this time Dad was making a stand for the tree (no store-bought stand here!) Finally, late in the afternoon, we had three wreaths made and a tree ready for decorating.
Remember, this took place on a Saturday, so now what? Into the old Chevy and off to Sted’s. I, holding a five cent returnable bottle. Dad would get a bottle of Ballentine Ale and a cigar. I would exchange the bottle for a candy bar. After arriving home, the tree got dragged into the house to be decorated the next day.

Supper came and went. Now it was time for a few games of checkers. I, with a candy bar and a glass of milk. Dad, with a glass of ale and a cigar. As I look back, I lost most of the checkers games, but I won time with my Dad.

”The smells of Christmas are the smells of childhood” – Richard Paul Evans

by Ray Freden. The village of Seaview, Marshfield Ma.
P.S. I still have one Christmas tree ball from my first Christmas. It’s 85 years old!—- Now it’s 86! & now 87 !  And more—
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Holidays of the 40s

As the holidays neared, Mom and Dad would start preparing the food stuff and housecleaning. Our guests were Gram and Gramps, my mother’s parents. They were always welcome for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. That was okay with me because they were very generous.

As I was the only child for my first nine years, I had chores. Clean my room, clean the hall and stairs up to my room. Geezs, why? No one goes up there! Also, straighten up the porch. Well, I could see that — anyone that came into the house came through the porch. The summer table and chairs got stacked neatly, other stuff got taken to the barn. Skippy’s [my dog] bed and dishes got moved whether or not he liked it!

And then it was my chore to care for the chickens. We had 3 or 4 roosters, each for a holiday dinner. Turkeys — what are those? Yes, I knew wild turkeys were the traditional birds of Thanksgiving. But, where would you get a wild turkey? I never remember seeing one in the grocery store. I knew of a turkey farm in Duxbury — on occasion we drove by it. My mom said they were expensive. I had no idea what expensive was.

 Anyway, I took care of the chickens — about twelve hens and three or four roosters. During school years, it was tough to get up early enough to feed them, so Mom did my morning chores after she saw me off on the school bus. After school, I would lug a bucket of fresh water to them, a coffee can of mash, then a treat of cracked corn scratch. Boy, would they run for that! The roosters would get all puffed up and stomp around in circles, telling the hens where the food was! The hens cleaned that scratch feed up fast. There was little corn left for those dumb roosters!

About two weeks before a holiday, it was time to fatten up a rooster. Dad had a small cage he put in the chicken yard. He put a rooster in it. Now he got special treatment. Warm, wet, fattening-up mash, and a half can of corn twice a day. He was fed well and had limited exercise so he fattened up fast. Now he had a bad attitude — he would try to attack me when I fed him. Dad said he was mad and wanted out with his hens!

On the Saturday before the holiday, Dad would get his gear together to do the rooster in, pluck him and clean him. Oh yes, I watched. I knew where chicken came from — roosters too. Mom would take the naked bird, singe the fuzz off it and wash it up. Then it went into a cooler box on the porch. Dad would always have Mom weigh the bird. He would be disappointed if it didn’t weigh more than six pounds.

I remember so vividly my Dad carving that rooster, always saying, “What a great bird.” My favorite was a wing, but white meat smothered with gravy was equally accepted. There was never much left on that bird after a holiday meal, but enough for Mom’s soup or a chicken pie, both my favorites to this day.

Happy Holidays.
– Ray
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Box Tops

–> Wheaties were not my favorite cereal, but Jack Armstrong was my favorite radio person, “The All American Boy.” Oh how I wished I too could have been an All American Boy. Listening to his adventures made me feel like a different kid. However, after finishing a soggy bowl of Jack Armstrong’s Wheaties, “The All American Breakfast,” hardly made me feel like a different kid.

I remember, it was the summer of 1944, I was almost 10. Wheaties was offering two WW-2 war plane models for two box tops and a nickel. An offer I couldn’t resist, [but should have]. The first offered was the P-40 Flying Tiger, my favorite fighter. The other was a Japanese Zero, not a favorite! I really had to stuff down the first box of Wheaties. My dog Skippy never let on that there was more in that bowl than leftover milk and sugar.

Then there was a delay for the second box of Wheaties. Mom said I had Cheerioats to finish before they get stale! Oh no, another setback!

I finally got the second box of Wheaties, a nickel, and three pennies for a stamp.
Now, a three to four week wait for them to arrive — eternity for a 10 year old! The rest of school vacation passed, school started and no model planes!

The school bus let me off a few steps from our mailbox. I would run over, wing the lid down and only find no mail for me. More days passed, still an empty mailbox. Now I was pretty mad at Jack Armstrong! In fact, I was so mad I could have kicked the cat, only we didn’t have a cat!

Into the kitchen I went. I threw my lunch box onto the table, scattering the mail my Mom brought in earlier. There it was, a manila envelope with my name and address, and most important, P-40 and Zero stamped on front. A few seconds later, the contents were spread out in front of me. Where to start? Reading instructions was not something I was good at.

Mom convinced me to wait for Dad to help. After supper, Dad and I spread newspapers and an old sheet on the dining table. There would be hell-to-pay should anything spoil that table. Out came the two cardboard sheets. Each plane was printed in color. Dad picked up the instruction sheet and started reading. I had the P-40 sheet in my hands.    
“Come-on Dad,” I urged, “Let’s cut ’em out!”
Finally we got cutting. I was having a hard time cutting that cardboard. Oops, I cut a tab right off! Every tab was important to hold the parts together. We worked on those two models until past my bedtime.
The next night was glue together time.

The only glue we had was a bell shaped bottle with a rubber, pig-looking nose, with a slot for applying the glue [Le Pages glue]. A dab on this tab, then on that one, then a glob spurts all over the place! Glue all over my fingers. What a mess!

The instructions said to place a penny in the nose and glue it to the tabs. Well this smart kid of 10 thought two pennies would work better. Dad glued the recommended one penny in the Zero. What I thought was going to take a few hours took a week!

The next Saturday came. I was right on time having breakfast with the two finished planes sitting in front of me. My mind was flying with my P-40 Flying Tiger. I was going to dogfight with that Zero and blow him to smithereens!

Title, My P 40.
Title, Dads Zero.
 “Come-on-Dad, lets go and dog fight.”
We went out front where there were no trees. I faced into the wind as the instructions said, and threw my P-40 as hard as I could.
Up, up, up it went. It nearly stopped, then nosed straight down, crashing into the wet grass.
I ran to it, picked it up, shook it off, and set it on the front step. Now Dad’s trial flight.
Up, up, up the Zero went, nosed over, and glided softly down into the grass.
I was not happy. I went and picked up my P-40. It was soggy and soft! Dad said the Zero was getting soft too. The water from the wet grass had softened the cardboard and melted the glue!

Into the house I ran. I set my P-40 on the table, and Dad set the Zero down beside it. I looked up at Dad, my eyes full of tears. I broke into a cry as he held me. My dreams shattered — no dogfights, no blasting that Zero out of the sky!

Well, in a few days, I got over that disaster. I will never forget the sight of those two limp planes sitting on the kitchen table! Never again did I mail away for any other box top offer!
W. Ray Freden    Seaview/ Marshfield
Sad things happen—they do—
but we don’t need to live sad forever.
Mattle Stepanek.