By Ted Spreigl

Editor’s note: Ted Spreigl, co-owner of Tim & Tom’s Speedy Market in St. Anthony Park, wrote this fictional story for the Bugle about Christmas in the early 1950s. We hope you enjoy it!

The snow had settled onto the marcescent leaves of the oaks that lined College Park.

Murray had let out for Christmas vacation, leaving my friends and I to our own devices as we waited for the upcoming Tuesday —Christmas Day. The Holy Grail of our year.

Easter was for the ham and scalloped potatoes my mother would make every year like clockwork. Halloween was for the candy.

But Christmas was something else entirely.

We waited every year, anticipating what would await under that beautiful coniferous tree in the front parlor of our house on Grantham, its lights of differing hues sparkling like diamonds against the emerald greens of the tree.

Until that day though, we had no choice but to wait.

         This Christmas, I had taken a shine to a Tower Reflex camera in the Sear’s catalogue that had come out the prior month. I circled it in my mother’s copy and even ripped out the page from my friend Roger’s family catalogue and taped it to our bathroom mirror.

I so desperately wanted it, but my mother balked at the price tag. At $9.50, it was too steep a price for just me. What, she asked me, would my brother and sister get?

I dug my feet in, and we had several arguments, to the point that I was close to getting nothing at all. I could tell my mother was reaching her breaking point, my father tiring of hearing the arguments.

         The frigid air blew through the park, quiet if not for the howl of the wind and the distant honk of a car beyond the trees on Como. I scanned the horizon, where dunes of snowbanks dotted my vision.

Without warning, a frozen sphere of packed snow, fresh and dense, whistled past my ear. Another volley soon followed as I saw a figure clad in a heavy burgundy snowsuit flank to the right of my winter trench.

I was the lone soldier left on my side in the arctic war of childhood boredom and wonderment. I had no direction to go but down. I slid down the embankment behind me, a steep and icy path that, although coated with freshly fallen snow, was packed down to a sheen of light blue—the fading daylight reflecting the fireball hidden by thick and ethereal dust that filled the sky.

         I slid down at what felt like the speed of the fighter planes prominently featured in the posters pasted on my bedroom wall. It was a bumpy, slow and painful slide down one of nature’s glacial chutes.

Waiting for me at the bottom of the hill was my friend, Jimmy Callahan. Without even saying a word, he threw a snowball that hit me square in the chest.

“Gotcha, Axe,” Jimmy shouted.

I had lost the Battle of College Park, everyone on my team already taken out by snowballs from Jimmy’s team. It was not exactly the way I wanted to start my Christmas vacation.

         While the rest of our group splintered, with some going to each other’s houses and others choosing to stay in the park and build a snow fort that surely would never see completion, Jimmy and I decided to head down to Miller’s Pharmacy and get a few root beers with the savings from our piggy banks.

Upon walking into the pharmacy, there was no one in there besides Bear, a twenty something employee who towered over us. Jimmy and I grabbed some root beer bottles and after paying, sat down at the counter.

         The root beers were sweet and refreshing after a day of battling each other in the park. In that moment, we all felt like our parents, unwinding after doing yard work in the summer and drinking from those brown bottles that we were forbidden from taking from the icebox. The bell above the door rung as Jonas Erickson walked in, a kid in the grade below us. We didn’t know him well, but everyone knew his story.

         Jonas was born in November 1940. His mother and father had moved into St. Anthony Park shortly before his birth, just a few houses down from my family. They had settled down to raise Jonas when the attack on Pearl Harbor occurred.

Jonas’ dad enlisted in the army and was assigned to the Air Force. He flew many successful missions overseas until he was shot down over Germany shortly before Christmas 1942. I couldn’t have been more than five at the time, but I remember my mother getting together with others in the neighborhood and making hot dishes and meals for Jonas’ family. It was a strange and sad Christmas.

         Jonas seemed to just wander around the store. I fumbled around my pocket and pulled some more money I had and handed it to Bear. I called Jonas over and told him I’d buy him a root beer. Jonas was shy, but he kindly and quietly accepted.

         We sat and talked about the upcoming holiday and what we were looking forward to. I talked about the camera I had wanted, and Jimmy talked of racing cars he had seen in the same catalogue as my camera.

Jonas was silent, but he listened intently as we went on about all the gifts we wanted. We turned to him and asked what he wanted for Christmas.

         “For my mom to be happy and to just spend the day with her.”

Jonas’ words were succinct, wise beyond his years, and powerful. The answer hit us like a ton of bricks. Here we were talking about these toys and complaining about how our parents wouldn’t get it for us or couldn’t afford to give us something at the sacrifice of gifts for our siblings.

There was silence among the three of us.

Jonas apologized for bringing us down, but we quickly told him it was fine. In that moment, the camera I wanted didn’t seem to matter anymore, I just wanted to be with my family for holiday and give back to them.

         I ran across the street to Blomberg’s and with my remaining piggy bank savings purchased three fruitcakes, a popcorn tin, and some chocolate bars.

I raced back home, but first made a stop at my grandmother’s house over on Valentine. I sprinted up the steps and enthusiastically rung the doorbell, much to her annoyance.

Grandma opened the door, and I gave her a hug and a kiss and offered her the fruitcake. Whatever annoyance she had about my cacophony of doorbell blasts dissipated. She was overjoyed with the loaf she held in her hand, fruitcake being her favorite holiday tradition. With a hug and kiss and Merry Christmas, I headed back towards home.

         Before ascending the steps to my house, I went a few houses down and stopped at the Erickson’s house. Jonas’ mother answered the door and greeted me with a smile. I handed her the other fruitcake and wished her a Merry Christmas.

Jonas’ mother accepted the fruitcake with a thank you and in retrospect, some confusion as to why this boy who she had barely spoken to was gifting her a fruitcake. We exchanged Yuletide greetings, and I ran back down the steps, jumping off the last step with a childlike leap.

Christmas morning

On Christmas morning, my family gathered around the Christmas tree. I opened my gift, which turned out to be a magic 8-ball and some other knick knacks from the catalogue.

I watched with a smile as my siblings opened their gifts, wrapped in silver gleaming paper. They were giddy with the idea of a sugar rush as they saw their chocolate bars.

My mom and dad were happy with their treats, my mom having a slice of fruitcake with her coffee and my dad unwinding after work with handfuls of popcorn.

         That Christmas taught me that it will never be about the size or quantity of gifts under the tree, but rather the time spent with family and friends. You can receive the fanciest, most expensive gift in the world, but as the years go by, you won’t remember what you unwrapped, but who was with you on that day.

As I realized with Jonas that day in Miller’s, everything can be taken from you in an instant, and every passing Christmas might not look like the one prior.

Surrounding yourself with the peace, love and security of family and friends is the essence of Christmas. It is far more valuable than what was in the back section of a Sear’s catalogue.

As the sun set on that Christmas Day in 1951, snow began to fall ever so gently outside the window. My siblings and I ran to look out.

Across the street, Jonas and Jimmy were sliding down the hill, both their mothers looked on as they drank from their coffee cups, chatting and smiling as their boys laughed and played with the sled Jonas got for Christmas.