The Orphans' Nine Commandments by Holman William Roger;

Author:Holman, William Roger;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: TCU Press
Published: 2007-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

10

The fall season of 1935 is planted in my mind with colors. Halloween used half of my black crayon and some orange. Thanksgiving blew my black entirely. The other crayons became nubbins as we colored feathered turkeys, pilgrims in black cloaks and hats, and corn stalks. The waxy aroma of Crayolas filled the air as we ringed Miss Specht’s classroom with our handiwork. A Thanksgiving dinner of turkey and dressing completed the holiday with a lip-smacking, belly-busting finale.

Within a few weeks, Bessie turned up the boiler and laid out our winter clothes.

Snow blanketed our playground.

Leroy and I thrived on snowball fights and rode cardboard sleds down the hill to school. Classes let out, and with the holidays only days away, Bessie led a Wednesday chapel choir in “Silent Night.” The festive spirit of Christmas set in. Leroy and I hoped Santa would know our wishes and dreams and that we would merit his attention.

As the great day approached, Bessie hung up her paddle and took on a lighthearted air. Dressed in a white uniform and sporting a red bow in her hair, she strolled down the halls like a fairy godmother. She hummed snatches of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” mainly emphasizing, “You’d better watch out, You’d better not cry,” as she bestowed a tap of love on one boy’s cheek, blessed a young girl with kind words, soothed another child’s tears, anointed another with a morning kiss, and hugged all the rest. She was the maestro of warm feelings, tuning her urchins up for the big day.

My classmates came down with Santa Claus fever, an illness which Bessie’s castor oil couldn’t cure. Our older brothers warned Leroy and me, “The old man in red is a lotta bull.”

But Bessie gave us more mature advice. “Don’t listen to those Doubting Thomases. There are many Santas. They represent the spirit of giving. Many generous people donate money, clothing, and food to the home.”

Leroy and I ignored the naysayers. We became true believers, if not in our preacher, then in Santa. Leroy sneaked the Great Wish Book from the office and carted it to the basement. The marvelous catalog of Sears Roebuck, a couple of inches thick with over a thousand illustrated pages, let us shop our eyes out.

Leroy flipped to the section on toys. Our mouths watered over red wagons, ball-bearing scooters, Silver Flyer roller skates, giant metal Erector kits, Lionel electric trains, Gilbert chemistry sets, and a Buck Rogers Flashing Disintegrator Gun. We drooled over the impossible: an Elgin Bluebird balloon-tired bicycle with head and tail lights and a genuine speedometer. For one glorious month, those catalog pages held all our earthly dreams.

“I got dibs on the Erector set,” Leroy said. “You bamboozled Neal out of his Mickey Mouse watch. You can’t have everything.”

“Don’t care. I wanna build a skyscraper.”

Bessie told us to pencil out our want lists. “Boys, times are hard. Don’t ask for more than one gift.”

Leroy dashed off his letter while I sat in the corner and wrote Santa a personal plea: “My name’s Will Rogers.

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