When we were kids, Holidays were a real big deal. They usually involved exotic eating, for one thing, and we almost always got out of school. This combination of events is the Ultimate Parlay for anybody under twelve and not a few long past it. The first Kid Holiday of the year, as everybody knows, is Valentine’s Day, recognized as such by children everywhere as well as the American Confectionary Association. (For those of you tempted to remind us that New Year’s Day is January First and therefore the first chronological holiday, we are talking about kids here. For kids, New Year’s Day is an appendage to Christmas and therefore the last holiday of the year.)
Although everybody likes the candy—with the possible exception of those hot little cinnamon hearts—most kids are a little nervous about Valentine’s Day. When the valentine cards are passed around at school, what if that little red-haired girl you’ve had your eye on doesn’t give you one? And what if she does? These card swaps can be a problem. What if you give all yours out to likely candidates and then you get one from a Surprise Girl? You have no cards left and you feel like an idiot. Do you keep a stash of extra valentine cards in your pocket for emergencies? They get all bent up in there. What if Surprise Girl looks like Marilyn Monroe? What kind of moron gives Marilyn Monroe a squashed up valentine’s card? Right. I’m sure she’ll be looking you up real soon.
When we were in third grade, Sister Mary Albert decided it would be a good idea to swap gifts on Valentine’s Day. Cheap gifts—maybe a dollar, tops. Hey, you could get good stuff for a dollar back then. You could get a ton of Topp’s baseball cards. Anyway, everybody in class brought in their little gifts except for Peter Blanchette. Peter brought in a big one in a giant cardboard box. The thing was massive enough to fit the population of Upper Volta in there. Blanchette’s box sat up in front of the room for two days and everyone naturally hoped that when the moment came they would be the lucky recipient of the enormous treasure.
On Valentine’s Day, cards were swapped, wee gifts were opened and everybody sat down for the Grand Finale. The big box was won by Daniel Hennessy, who was instantly envied and despised by everyone. Hennessy ripped the thing open in no time while the class held its collective breath. What’s this? Another box inside the big one? Whoa, good joke there, Peter! Now let’s get down to business. Of course, you know the rest. There were boxes inside boxes inside boxes. It went on in perpetuity, we kids’ first exposure to a sly con we would see repeated often enough in our expansive lifetimes. If Danny Hennessy was a little disappointed in the tiny trinket he wound up with, well, that was a small price to pay for a laugh riot for the rest of us. “Hey Danny, wanna swap gifts?” Marked for life was poor Daniel Hennessy, forevermore referred to as the kid with the big empty box. Thank God he was a male.
Saint Patrick’s Day
In addition to Valentine’s Day, February also gave us Abraham Lincoln’s Birthday on the 12th and George Washington’s on the 22nd. These wonderful remembrances of true national heroes have since been consolidated into one event by unfeeling bastards who felt the nation was tripping over too many holidays. Us kids could never remember which was which, anyway. We were all waiting for “The wearin’ of the Green”—St. Patrick’s Day on March 17. When you’re an Irish kid attending St. Patrick’s School in St. Patrick’s Parish in a state half-Irish, it’s a natural. Admittedly though, to us, St. Patrick’s Day seemed like a big excuse for adults to take the day off and drink massive amounts of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey. The food payoff was corned beef and cabbage, not an epicurean delight likely to elicit The Hosanna Chorus from a bunch of kids. We did like the parades, of course, especially that one in New York where they painted the green line down Fifth Avenue. Sometimes, they even had raucous local block parties on South Union Street, presided over by sloshed—but merry—personnel. These things lasted past dark and nobody ever heard of a designated driver. Fortunately for all concerned, most of them lived within stumbling distance.
In April, we got Easter. Even though it was mostly for girls, everybody liked Easter because if you were one of those foolish people who had given up something like candy for Lent, you could now resume munching. Oh, and Jesus rose from the dead, of course--that was a big deal, even if it was a million years ago. The big stores on Essex Street liked Easter because everybody got new clothes whether, as in my case, they wanted them or not. There was also a popular song about the Easter Parade, though none of us ever saw one. Now and then, one of our friends got colored baby chicks at Easter but they never got them twice. The smaller kids got the extra rewards of participation in an array of Easter egg hunts while the rest of us helpfully advised them they couldn’t find their dicks in the dark.
In May, there was Mother’s Day, of course. Mother’s Day was a big deal. That was the day we got to thank the moms for putting up with our crap all year long by getting them an unimaginable collection of useless gifts which they would never throw away because we, their little darlings, bought them. I think every mother out there must have had a gigantic mother’s day drawer full of chinchilla aprons, crocheted chocolate satchels and tissue box photo covers. Say what you will about inattention to Father’s Day, but at least the moms bought practical gifts for the kids to dole out to Dad.
May 30 was always Memorial Day until the dumb government decided it needed to be on a Monday. They’d change the Fourth of July to a Monday if they thought they could get away with it. Anyway, everybody got solemn on Memorial Day and grown men were known to cry. Parades abounded, flags were everywhere and old men told scary war stories to their grandchildren. On Memorial Day, our whole family went to visit my Grandfather’s grave at the cemetery. We weren’t alone. The place always looked like Grand Central Station on Memorial Day. You could smell the flowers the minute you got out of the car. Then, the family went home and talked about Grandpa. We kids learned more about him in one day than we discovered all the rest of the year. Someone would inevitably look at me, his namesake, and say “Your Grandfather will never be dead as long as you’re around.” Gee. That’s a lot of responsibility to lay on a little kid. Makes you feel like you gotta Keep On Truckin’. So far, so good, Grandpa.
The Fourth Of July
For kids, the Fourth of July means one thing. Fireworks. And the more, the merrier. When I was little more than a tot, fireworks were the ultimate bittersweet moment. The noise was terrifying but the explosion in the sky was extraordinary. When I got a little older, I worried about those sparks descending into the crowd. My mother, who was always right, assured me they would never hurt anybody. Then one night Mr. Local Newsman came on the radio and told everybody about a nearby calamity in which remnants of fireworks burned several spectators below. I looked at my mother. My mother looked at me. “Well, ALMOST never,” she said.
In September, we got Labor Day. This was the high point of the year for the labor unions, the American Federation of Labor (AFL) and the Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO). Like many other New England cities, Lawrence was a textile mill town, everyone belonged to one or another of the unions, if not both. According to our parents and granparents, the unions were the salvation of the working man, the only things that protected the little man from corporate overreach. Then, one day, they didn’t. In the early 1950s, the millowners packed up their wool and boogied off to North Carolina, where they didn’t have to mess with unions. The mill towns shriveled up, vast forests of empty red brick buildings lying dormant. My grandmother, a weaver at the famous Wood Mill, trudged home from work one day with a mournful expression on her face. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she said. My sister, Alice, came over and looked at me. “Does this mean we have to move?” she whispered worriedly. This soul-scarring experience never left Alice, in later life leading to severe psychological difficulties which caused her to become a Republican.
I’m Dreaming Of A White Christmas
Not expecting one, just dreaming about it. The snow adds a certain charm, an icing on the perfect cake. When we discussed this requirement with my Grandmother, she always said, “Don’t worry about the snow—I’ll take care of it.” And sure enough—when the time came, so did the snow, even when none was predicted. One minute the sun would be out, we’d be playing tag football in the street. Then, all of a sudden, snow. “What the hell….?” the other kids would wonder. “It’s my Grandmother,” I explained.
Nan had Christmas all figured out. On December 1—not a day earlier or later--the candles came out, all of them red, one for each window, and we had a lot of windows. Us kids told her no one could actually see the ones in the back rooms so she might spare herself the trouble. Nan scoffed at this. “Well, I can see them,” she said, and that seemed like a reasonable answer to us. My Mother, of course, was not allowed to put her downstairs candles out any earlier or later than my Grandmother. Why, Ma? “Your Grandmother says it has to be simultaneous,” she said. “You want me to argue with somebody who can make snow?”
Alice and I used to beg our parents to go to Midnight Mass every year, thus eliminating the necessity to go the next day. Once, they relented and took us. It was beautiful. The church was decorated like a winter palace, The choir was in full throat and the music was magnificent. What little of it I remembered. “You fell asleep three times,” Alice complained. “They’re never going to take us any more.”
Christmas, of courses, loses much of its charm when Santa is discovered to be Dad. While I had figured all this out in due time, Alice, two years younger, was still a believer. One Christmas Eve, I was explaining to her the impossibility of Santa’s task while she tried to sleep and thus avoid Claus’ wrath. Santa, as everyone knows, hates being discovered plying his trade. Alice had faithfully put out the jolly old saint’s cookies and milk and I was in the middle of asking her how the guy could eat everything that was left out for him without collapsing. Suddenly, there was an odd noise which seemed to emanate from, of all places, our roof. My sister was not one bit surprised. “That’s HIM!” she cried. “That’s Santa! You better get in bed quick!” I stood up, looked around, sped to my room and dived for the covers. I knew there was no Santa, of course, but how else do you get a noise on the roof? I mean, there’s no sense in taking chances.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
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