I didn’t ask my dad about his childhood enough. Even though we talked about it for several hours in the months leading up to his death, I will always wish I’d asked more questions. I think that’s something many of us miss out on, learning as much as we can about our parents.
That said, I will always treasure the interviews I did with the old man after we learned his cancer was terminal two years ago this month. It’s also nice to have his voice on my digital recorder when I want to hear it.
We didn’t talk at length about his Christmases growing up, but they were better than I expected. He remembered getting decent presents, being around what was a large extended family and a traditional holiday meal. He also kept (and passed on) some great photos of him as a child enjoying deep snow drifts around the family’s home.
But his childhood was an incredibly short one. He was in and out (mostly in) trouble from age 11 to 29. His traditional Christmas was gone by his early teens, when he was locked behind bars in Hutchinson, Kansas, and Tehachapi, California, among several other institutions. Needless to say, Christmas isn’t really Christmas in the clink.
“The food in prison was awful, just awful,” Dad said. “When I was in Hutch, they had a farm and the kitchen, so they grew and made everything we ate there. But all of the meat was tough as hell, and I remember they cooked the eggs in a big drum and they were like rubber. You could bounce them off the ground. All the guys bought cookies and other things in the commissary to supplement the meals. You had to.”
The one exception, apparently, was on the holidays. At least if you played your cards right.
“We always had a good meal on Thanksgiving and Christmas,” Dad said. “Turkey, rolls, mashed potatoes and gravy, dessert, the good stuff. A buddy and I knew that when you were at the end of the line, they loaded you up, and you got a lot on those days anyway. So, we thought we’d be smart and go last. Well, we get up there and they were out of food. We ended up eating hot dogs on Christmas. I was so damn pissed and cussed out the guard. I didn’t even get in trouble for that because he knew he screwed up.”
Obviously, there were no gift exchanges in jail. It was like any of day, except the food. In other words, Dad didn’t really get a Christmas for 20 years. The more the years passed, the more I understood why he loved the season so much.
He also reveled in doing more for us than his parents could do for him. It wasn’t that he resented them at all. He appreciated that they did what they could. But he also wanted more for his kids. Even when we didn’t have much money, our parents went all-in on Christmas.
Some of my favorite memories of growing up are of hunting for the perfect Christmas tree in the middle of nowhere and cutting it down. A fake tree would never cut it. Other great memories include decorating our house, usually located in the middle of nowhere, with way too many lights every year.
And, as I’ve written, nothing will compare to my brother and I’s Christmases when we were kids. Whatever extra money Dad and Mom had went to us in the form of a full living room full of toys.
Ultimately, I learned quite a bit about my father through our Christmases. Once we had kids of our own, it made more sense. All those years, with all those presents and lights and special trips to the arcade (another holiday tradition growing up), Dad got to experience the Christmas he always wanted through his sons and grandchildren.