Butch Finds Out – and Learns a Lesson!!!

   I remember that day 70 years ago as if it happened yesterday. In December of 1955, I was 7 years old and had started second grade in the fall. I was looking forward to Christmas and had made a list of toys and other things that Santa could bring me. I had been trying to be good, behave my Mom and Dad, and not pester my 3-year old brother and 1-year old sister. A classmate had invited me over to spend the night, and in the morning his parents had fixed us pancakes for breakfast. We had gone back upstairs to a room to play a game against each other on a miniature pool table. I knew how to play because I had watched my Dad play pool at the Darlington Cigar Store many times.

   As we were playing, I asked my friend what he wanted for Christmas. He said he wanted a B-B gun, and I told him that’s what I wanted! “I hope Santa can bring me one. I know I will be careful with it,” I remarked. My classmate then replied, “Well, there is no such thing as Santa Claus. Your Mom and Dad are the ones who buy the presents.”

  For a few seconds, I stood there in disbelief. I had always wondered how Santa could come down our chimney, especially since all we had was a small fuel oil stove with a round pipe that went into the chimney inside the wall. And how did his reindeer land on our steeply sloped roof? But Santa was magical, so I believed he could do anything. I tried to act like I knew the truth about Santa, “Yes, I know . . . I was just kidding. I know Santa isn’t real.”

  When I returned home, I decided that since my parents had bought all of those toys and clothes for me in the past . . . that I would buy something for them for Christmas. One problem . . . I had no money. I should have saved all of those nickels that Dad had given me when I accompanied him to town each week. Candy bars, ice cream cones, baseball cards and cherry phosphate fountain drinks had been my downfall. But then it dawned on me . . . I could make them something!

   I decided that I would make Mom a beautiful wall decoration to hang up in the kitchen, so I headed out to the toolshed and looked around until I found some scraps of lumber. Dad wasn’t around, so I turned on the electric table saw and cut a piece of plywood about 10 inches square. I drew a silhouette of a rooster on the plywood, plugged in the jig saw, and tried to cut out the pattern. OOPS . . . broke off the cutting blade! The only alternative was to cut out the pattern with a hacksaw, which I accomplished after much effort. I then tried to sand off the jagged edges and splinters. I couldn’t find any paint, so I ran to the house and grabbed a box of crayons and began coloring my plywood rooster. When I was finally done, I examined my creation. It was a strange-looking rooster for sure. In fact, with the splinters sticking out from almost every side, it looked as if my rooster had been electrocuted. I hoped my Mom would like it.

   I tried to make a coat rack for Dad with a piece of 2×4 lumber and nails . . . something he could hang up in the barn when he milked the cows. However, the only nails I could find were too skinny to hold a heavy coat. I knew what I could do. On Christmas morning, I would get up early and milk the cows myself. Dad could stay in bed and get some extra sleep. That would be better than a present!

   Well, Christmas morning soon arrived. I awakened early, put on extra layers of clothes, and quietly headed down the hill to the barn. It was still dark out, but luckily all four cows headed to their stalls and I locked them in their stanchions. Got out the steel bucket and stool, and began milking. No luck. I did it the same way Dad had done it morning and night. Not one drop. After 30 minutes, I gave up. It was now light outside, and I could tell that the cows were getting restless. I ran back to the house, and shook Dad out of bed. He dressed and walked to the barn to finish what I had started.

   Later on, when Mom opened up her gift, she had a funny look on her face, “What is this?”

“It’s a rooster. You can hang it on the wall.” Mom smiled and gave me a hug.

   Well, that was a Christmas I will always remember. I found out there was no Santa, but I also found out that is better to give than to receive. Dad thanked me for helping him with the milking, and Mom hung that crazy-looking rooster on the kitchen wall. It stayed there during the following year, and then, before her next bridge club hosting evening, quietly disappeared into the rooster Twilight Zone. Thank goodness!

John “Butch” Dale is a retired teacher and County Sheriff. He has also been the librarian at Darlington the past 36 years, and is a well-known artist and author of local history.