Christmas surprises remain seared in memory
He was always standing outside a busy restaurant on the main drag through North Hollywood, Calif., a veritable Christmas icon strumming his guitar and singing songs. He wore a cowboy hat and blue jeans with a big brass belt buckle. His blind eyes were covered with dark glasses. He would stand there, in between the restaurant and a run-down bar, with no light penetrating his eyes. A lonely old man looking for some kind of magic at Christmas. Every Thursday evening, I would see him there, from the beginning of Advent until Christmas Eve, singing his songs of love with a tin cup taped to the bottom of his guitar. Was he really blind? Nobody seemed to know, but his eyes looked empty, as the eyes of some blind people do. Did he make any money out there on those chilly California evenings? Was it worth his effort, year after year, standing with his back to the wall of that restaurant and singing his Christmas carols? There were evenings, after choir practice, when some of us would walk past him on the sidewalk leading to the restaurant. We would slip past quietly, so as not to disturb him, not to draw his attention to our meager presence. Because we were mere believers, and he was our suffering prophet. We were his audience; he was our everlasting proclaimer. Do you remember how it was when you were young, and every mysterious figure who came along at Christmastime became a savior? I remember a relative, a cousin perhaps, who would come to my grandmother's little house on Christmas Day. He shook all over from something that happened to him during World War II. He was slight of build, an accountant by trade, who returned from duty with shell shock. At least that's what they called it then. The official prognosis was: no cure. Each year he would bring everyone a gift. One, addressed to Master Clark, was a bar of soap in a light blue crocheted shell. I looked at him, and he smiled at me, saying, "It's a scrubber soap.'' "Thank you,'' I said, and stuffed it into my pocket. I used it all that winter until the diminished bar of soap wouldn't stay in the shell. Across the alley and two houses east lived one of my favorite paper route customers. I was a slow-moving fellow who took every opportunity to stop and chat with people along my route. I would start at 4:30 p.m. and wrap up the route at Mrs. Schmolke's house about 5:45. She would always invite me in, and I would sit in a straight-backed chair next to the door. The snow would melt from my boots onto the newspaper mat she had set for me. We would talk so long that by the time I got home, I knew what the Schmolkes were having for dinner and how it was being cooked. One Christmas, when I was about 8 years old, Mrs. Schmolke baked a chocolate cake for me. It said, "Merry Christmas, Clark'' on the frosting. That was a special gift, because sugar and sweet things were still hard to find after the war, even if a family had the money to buy them. I thanked her, grabbed the cake with both hands and stumbled through the snow, across the alley and up our driveway. I burst through the door hollering, "Look what I got! Mrs. Schmolke gave me cake. Look what I got!'' We ate well that evening. Those are the real Christmas events in my life. The little vignettes sear into my mind the kindness, generosity or inspiration I received. I remember a woman who had been hiding in her house, shades drawn, dark curtains closed, since the death of her son in World War II. One Christmas, there was a card with my name on it and a new pocketknife on top. It sat on a shelf beside the door. I looked up after seeing it, and she was peering through the curtain at the back door, smiling at me. "Thank you,'' I said. She drew the curtain back and was gone. I never saw her again. Also on my paper route was a mentally challenged man who lived with his sister. His name was Keith, and he would rattle the key in the lock when I came to collect 20 cents for the paper delivery. Then he would talk to me in a special language that I grew to understand after a couple of years. One Christmas, he handed me a ribbon and said, "Christmas. Christmas.'' He marched around the room like royalty. I remember these people at Christmastime because they surprised me with joy. Now I know that Christmas is for all of us who struggle to understand, who pray for celebration and who cherish our families. For some, it is a lonely holy day, so make it a day to surprise someone with joy. Clark D. Morphew December 11, 1999