Praise for
Once Upon A Christmas
Oscar Wilde wrote, “Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.” If this is so, Richard Smith’s anthology of his Christmas-themed prose represents a personal diary that he graciously shares with us.
Alternating and blending reality and fantasy, Smith’s tales of Christmas weave a sentimental tapestry of times gone by, of people, places, and events that forged his life experiences and nurtured his imaginary realm. Through his stories we can relate vicariously and meld our own experiences with the author’s wit, wisdom, and powers of observation.
This work is a delightful mosaic of holiday musings that will attract the reader like a moth to a porch light. Christmas is not just a time, but a frame of mind built from the bricks of personal memories and imaginary fantasies. This book provides the mortar.
—John Gendron, Mesa, Arizona
We love Christmas, and one of the things we love most is our Christmas story from Dick Smith. About the first of December, we start watching out our window to see Dick riding on his bicycle to deliver our story. We never know what to expect. Some years, the story will be humorous, sometimes sentimental, and then there are those that contain a bit of both. All are equally enjoyed, and we are looking forward to reading them all again in Once Upon A Christmas.
—Loren and Judy Hanson, Bradenton, Florida
On our book shelf is a red notebook. The title, “Christmas Stories. Dick Smith.” Inside are twenty-two stories dating from the first we received in 1994, each a Christmas gift from the author. We all have our stories. Dick has shared many of his so that we can find ourselves in them. Fun, clever, surprising, thoughtful, touching stories. Oh, yes, with a bit of the Blarney.
—Elaine Lohr, Madison, Wisconsin
Dick’s Christmas stories, often set in small-town America, much like his own home town, are charming, funny, and thought-provoking, filled with people like those I’ve known. His gift for telling a good story has been the gift he has given to friends, family, and neighbors every Christmas for twenty-five years. I have looked forward to reading his stories, wondering what he will come up with this year. Now lucky readers everywhere can enjoy this holiday treat.
—Vivian Powless, Edina, Minnesota
Engrossing, enticing, sometimes poignant, and frequently hilarious, this accomplished author and skilled storyteller’s collection of Christmas narratives is sure to entertain and captivate. In fact, perhaps as a bonus, it may restore a delicious faded memory from the reader’s past, as it did for me. Of special interest, the introductions to his stories provide a glimpse of how the characters, plot, and setting of each were chosen. By way of a medley of reminiscences, imaginative fiction, and shrewd observations, it is a marvelous trip. This author’s Christmas gift is very certain to leave you wishing for more and one that can be enjoyed again and again any time of the year.
—Marie Bone, Bradenton, Florida
One of the first people we met shortly after we moved into our Florida condominium community was the author Richard Smith. Little did we know at the time that he would provide one of the most anticipated events at the start of each holiday season, his annual Christmas story.
Over time, his stories became legendary in our community as he spun his eclectic tales, many grounded in his personal experiences, others purely fictional but just as captivating. We could hardly wait to open the brown 8.5 x 11 inch envelope we found in our screen door early each December to see what he had conjured up for that year.
As you will see as you read this book, his stories never fail to stir the emotions or tickle the funny bone, and in some cases both.
—Jack and Darlene Wymer, Bradenton, Florida
Perico Bay Club residents for twenty-eight years
Christmas Eve has always been the calm before the storm that is Christmas day. One of my favorite family traditions is Christmas Eve story time. We gather as a family around a cozy fire to read aloud the annual story written by my grandfather, Dr. Richard J. Smith.
The stories are rich with Wisconsin history, embracing life’s twists and turns and a poem sprinkled in here and there. Reading the story is a wonderful way to feel close as a family, even if we can’t geographically be together during the holidays. By the end of the story, we have all laughed and shed a few tears.
—Katie Larson, Plymouth, Minnesota
Once Upon a Christmas:
A Collection of Short Stories
by Richard J. Smith, Ph.D.
© Copyright 2016 Richard J. Smith, Ph.D.
ISBN 978-1-63393-376-7
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
Published by
210 60th Street
Virginia Beach, VA 23451
800-435-4811
www.koehlerbooks.com
Dedication
To all who love and live the spirt of Christmas
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
PA BUYS A TAVERN
SENT TO SCHOOL
CHRISTMAS IS COMING AND SO ARE WE
A CHRISTMAS SECRET
A LITTLE CHRISTMAS MAGIC
GRANDFATHER LIU’S CHRISTMAS GIFT
CHRISTMAS LIGHT
THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS VACATION
BIRDS FLY OVER THE RAINBOW
I BEGIN MY CAREER
THE CHRISTMAS TRUCE OF 2017
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Introduction
INTRODUCTIONS TO BOOKS are written to prepare readers for what they are getting into. They also introduce authors to their readers. So, as we used to say in my home town in northern Wisconsin, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
At this sitting, I am eighty-six years old and have been writing seriously since the third grade when I won the contest for the best Christmas poem in my class. I still remember that poem and Sister Germaine asking me to come to the front of the room and read it to those who lost the contest.
Three wise men saw it from afar,
A large and shiny Christmas star.
They rode their camels fast as they were able
And came upon a humble stable.
Inside was a family with a baby boy,
But the wise men didn’t bring a toy.
They brought gifts fit for a king,
And they could hear the angels sing.
Because the baby was Jesus, the king of them all.
And he still is with us, winter, spring, summer and fall.
And every Christmas we kneel and pray.
And that’s why we have Christmas day.
The rest of the class read their poems too, but, in my humble opinion, none came close to mine.
Since then I have written college textbooks, instructional materials for classroom use, and articles for professional journals. About a year ago, I came out of retirement and wrote Life After Eighty, a personal perspective of preparing for old age.
Now I have written this book of Christmas stories and the accompanying comments. When you finish reading them, you will know me much better, and hopefully, you will have been cheerfully entertained or inspired.
When I write a story, I do so without an outline. I begin with a character, an event, or a setting and let the “map” unfold as I travel. The journey is always enjoyable, and somehow, I arrive at a destination. After many years of writing college textbooks and articles for professional journals, I find letting my pen go where it will makes me feel much like a professional g
olfer must feel playing nine holes just for the fun of it.
Writing poetry is also a spontaneous adventure for me. The words and the “music” fill my head and find exit through the movement of my hand holding a pen. Sometimes what appears on the paper is pretty good. And sometimes, well, I always write with a wastebasket by my side.
Writing extemporaneously as I do has a shortcoming: titles elude me. I cannot begin with a title as I am not sure just where I am going, and affixing a title to where I have been always seems to shortchange the scenery along the way. Editors I have been guided by through the years were always short on praise for the titles I concocted.
Among some of the characters upon which my concoctions are founded are students who hold a place dear to me. I spent nearly sixty years of my life in schools, either as a student or as a teacher. I know firsthand that some teachers are life preservers for kids who are drowning or caught up in a current carrying them into rough water. I also know that schools don’t work for all kids and that some people are more in control of their lives than others.
When I retired in 1990 after thirty-eight years as a classroom teacher, a public school administrator, and a professor of education, our country was still adjusting to the integration of schools and was just beginning to develop curricula for diversity in education. Twenty-six years later, we are still at it.
One story in this collection explores that topic head-on, drawing upon my experiences as a teacher of remedial reading. I learned while teaching these kids that they all come to school from different home environments and with different motivations and capabilities for learning to read. In another of my reveries, I Begin My Career, I draw from my first year of my first teaching position. I hope you will enjoy the read as much as I enjoy the memory.
Birds Fly Over the Rainbow, another musing based on distant memory, is also based upon good that I have seen in classrooms. The story is fiction, but it is real to me. Birds Fly Over is, at its root, a story of hope. In almost every school there is a teacher who gets beneath the wings of her students and helps them fly over rainbows.
I invite you to ride along with me in pursuit of these Christmas stories. Should you tire of the chase, you have my permission to leave these pages. But I hope you will not, for readers never know when an ending may redeem a beginning or a middle.
For starters, let’s see if together we can perform a little Christmas magic. Like the magician who relies on your willingness to accept illusion as reality and the hypnotist who takes you to a different level of consciousness, I will attempt to transport you to a different realm. And also like the magician and the hypnotist, I will require your complete attention and cooperation. If you agree to these terms, we are ready to depart.
The present is receding from your consciousness. Reality is being suspended. From reality to fantasy, from fact to fiction, from here to there. Logic and reason are being trumped by trickery and fakery. Don’t resist. Don’t hold back. Follow my words. You are embarking on a Christmas tide.
Listen to my voice. Believe what you hear. Do not struggle as you sense your transformation occurring. You are now drifting to years long past. Breathe deeply. Release your tension. Let yourself drift. Feel the breezes of time loosening your moorings. Let yourself sail with me to earlier times—see yourself as a young adult—now a teenager with energy, stamina, no grey hair. Farther back. A little farther still. Whoa! Far enough.
Close your eyes and rest for a minute. Your journey is complete. When you open your eyes, you will see yourself as … A Child Again!
But alas, even children must not be boldly lied to, so I start with an admission: I admit to embellishing some of the events and even adding a few that didn’t really happen. With some exceptions, the actual details of our lives are not as interesting to others as we imagine them to be. So I “pinched” the truth here and there to add a little color
I hope my musings stir some of your own memories or provoke some thoughts or elicit some smiles and frowns and perhaps conjure a laugh or a tear. I hope you will come to know more about yourself through my journeys, imagined and real.
So let’s get on with it, but before you do, let me wish you a very Merry Christmas. Here’s a poem I wrote to put you in the mood. I call it The Words of Christmas:
Speak softly, for it is Christmas and your words
Should fall as snowflakes to the ground.
Speak words that comfort, for it is Christmas, and
Your words should dress the wounds of those in pain.
Listen patiently to the sorrows of others, for
It is Christmas and those who sorrow need your ear.
Offer forgiveness to your offenders at Christmas,
For Christmas is a time to give the gift of peace.
Open your ears and mind to the beliefs of others at
Christmas, for an open mind is the doorway to understanding.
Avoid bold assertions at Christmas, for strident
Speech is displeasing to the ear and disquieting to the soul.
Invite the reticent to speak, for it is Christmas
And they too have words worth hearing.
Find and give the joy and love of Christmas with tongue and ear
For words are who we are and how we pray.
Pa Buys a Tavern
PA DIED AT the age of ninety-seven, seven years later than he thought he would.
He and Ma were the same age, had been together since they were teenagers, and always figured they would go out together. Ma died at ninety, and he wanted to go along. “I don’t know why I’m hangin’ around so long,” he told me once when we were drinking a beer together.
I’ll say this about Ma and Pa, they had a high regard for the proper celebration of Christmas. And even when times were tough, they saw to it that I got my new flannel shirts, corduroy pants, and plaid mackinaw. Christmases were always cold in Wisconsin. I got toys and other stuff, too, but they were different every year. I don’t remember all of the gifts I received, but I do remember when Pa bought a tavern.
Pa was passed over for a foreman opening at the mill because he didn’t have a high school education, so he decided to go into business for himself. Against Ma’s wishes he bought a tavern.
“You’ll drink up all the profits,” Ma predicted (with some reason, because Pa could toss ’em down with the best of them).
The tavern Pa bought was a dump that hadn’t turned a profit since the days when area farmers came to town Saturday nights to shop and lumberjacks came in from the woods to get drunk and fight. When preachers complained that Saturday night shopping kept their flock away from Sunday church, the merchants stayed open Friday nights instead.
That’s what started the Friday night tavern fish fry; food merchants wanted to appease the hunger of Roman Catholic shoppers who were not permitted to eat meat on Fridays. After he opened the tavern, Pa said he was glad the church never came down on drinking Menominee Silver Cream Beer with a fish fry.
I don’t think Pa had any money for a down payment on the place. My hunch is the bank would have financed Jack the Ripper if he’d promise to give up his murdering ways, fix the place up, and make a mortgage payment now and then, which was more than the previous owner did.
When Ma asked what we were going to do with such a big place, Pa explained he had big plans. He wanted to put in some booths and that we’d be living in the quarters upstairs. Old-timers claimed the upstairs rooms once housed a “stable of fillies for the lumberjacks to ride when they came to town to shop on Saturday nights.” I couldn’t imagine how horses got up and down those rickety back steps until I figured out that the lumberjacks must have carried them.
“But the upstairs is too big for us,” Ma protested.
“Not with Grandpa here,” Pa explained again. “With Grandma gone and us with all this room, there’s no use for Grandpa to live alone in the old farm house. We can rent that out or sell it.”
I could see Ma wasn’t about to dance her Irish jig to celebrate th
e news, but she didn’t argue because she knew my grandpa was probably already upstairs unpacking.
Pa called the place Smitty’s Bar, and he turned out to be a good business man. There was an unwritten rule for bartenders in those days that “the house” always bought the third drink; buy two, get one on the house. However, if you accepted the third drink, you had to buy another and include one for the bartender. The bartender never bought the last drink unless it was closing time.
Every tavern goer and every bartender knew the rules.
Pa bent the rules a little. Sometimes he bought the second drink, sometimes the first, sometimes the fourth and fifth. He kept our stools filled with customers not wanting to leave in case Pa bought the next round, like slot machine players always thinking the next spin will trigger a payout. Moreover, Pa had Ma come in from the kitchen at different times with free cheese and sausage and rye bread. And sometimes she brought in pickled pigs feet or pickled hard-boiled eggs. Customers hung around because they never knew when Ma would make her entrance, and nobody wanted to miss the free lunch.
Since Grandpa didn’t have much work to do, he and I spent a lot of time together. It was he who set me free of the notion that lumberjacks carried horses up and down the back steps. Grandpa could have taught Masters and Johnson a thing or two about sex. He also taught me how to make a slingshot from a forked tree branch and bicycle inner-tube strips.
“We’ll get us some rats,” he told me. Rats were a constant in the cellars and alleys all over town and especially around anyplace that sold food.
Our tavern was only a couple of hundred yards from the Menominee River. Freighters plying the Great Lakes regularly sailed from Lake Michigan into Green Bay and then up the Menominee River, where they unloaded huge piles of coal and took away huge loads of sugar beets.
Folklore had it that rats came off those freighters, swam across the river, and joined earlier immigrant relatives in our cellars and alleys. Anyone who could pick off a swimming rat with a slingshot became somewhat of a hero, and many claimed they had stopped the invading hordes by the dozens and even the hundreds.
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