CONFESSIONS OF A SOUTHERN FATHER

Stephen Harris

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The Southern Voice

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3 min read

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Jul 10, 2024

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CHAPTER FOUR

CHRISTMAS TIME!

One hasn’t properly lived until you’ve done the two days before Christmas hustle. The wonderful Layaway plan you started in October for your children’s toys can make the calendar assume Mach one.

Better Half and I could never quite scrape together the required nickels, dimes, and dollars it took each week to avoid our late date with destiny.

And nothing is as fearful as being a parent standing in line at the back of the store. We shuffled forward, with others peeking toward the magical window staffed by overworked and underpaid, haggard-faced employees. Prayers would be whispered that we had enough cash to pay the remaining balance, and the toys we so carefully selected in October would be there.

The feeling of jubilation erupts when the debt is settled and the toys appear. Our smiles are short-lived as we notice the tension and worry on the other faces. Better Half and I always exchanged understanding glances, hoping everyone’s fate would be well. We added to it a dash of guilt because we had a special advantage: the Navy Wave and the old Marine.

The unlikely pair, my father, tall, raw-bone weather-beaten cattleman and Iwo Jima Marine, matched perfectly with my barely five-foot, nothing tiny Southern eccentric mother.

The special relationship between my parents and the girls came from mutual understanding and trust. It was sheer payback for every grief I’d caused them during my childhood.

Mounds of paper cluttered the floor as the man who demanded all children should be seen and not heard looked on. He now gleefully helped my girls unwrap toys that made ear-shattering noises. His trademark sliding smirk caught me as he narrowed one eye while loading the batteries into place.

Under his tutelage, I received many swift boots in my rear because of his perpetual quest for his son to become a man. Now, this old leather-skinned cattleman sat on the floor helping the girls make mooing, pig grunts, rooster calls, and all the other barnyard sounds un-abashedly. In the transition from father to grandfather, this old Marine was visited by the Saint of Silly and was sprinkled with pixie dust. The sly movement of his hand missed my wondering eye. As the next toy took the decibel level to a jet engine at takeoff, I realized he’d removed his hearing aids.

Mama sat clapping her hands and laughing at his childish actions as if this was normal for the toughest man in the world.

“Oh, I forgot,” she suddenly said springing from the couch quicker than a cat just shocked by electricity. “There’s one more toy in the car.” Minutes later as my oldest tore yards of red wrapping paper away I understood why Mama saved it for last. I’d have taken this torture tool straight to the garbage or doused it with gasoline and tossed on a match.

As the old Marine gave the oldest instructions, my head hung low. If you’ve never been a captive inside a home as a child pushes a toy filled with colored plastic balls, then a lesson in patience and love has been missed. Mama cut her azure eyes in my direction as I tried to remember what misdeed in my childhood demanded this type of retribution.

(As a side note, that toy disappeared a week later. Mama promptly bought the girls another one.)

Looking back now I’m sure the C.I.A. has a warehouse full of these toys. They surely have proved to be much more effective on a terrorist than water boarding.

“Now E…d,” Mama said, making my father’s name sound three yards long. “Why don’t you show the girls how you can stand on your head.”

Daddy smirked at me; he’d tried to teach me this particular feat, but I failed, and he proceeded to assume the position. He looked twenty years old again as his long back arched and toes pointed toward the ceiling in perfect gymnastic fashion.

“Can you teach me, Grandpa?” my oldest asked down on all fours, staring into his upside-down face. Daddy reversed his position perfectly just for show.

“I tried to teach your daddy,” he growled, highlighting my failure, “but he couldn’t figure it out. I’ll bet you’ll get it the first time!” And much to my pleasure and embarrassment, she did. (I am a mouse, hear me squeak).