A Christmas Story

A Christmas Story

My father belonged to what many historians refer to as “The Greatest Generation.” But he was just a man, flawed by design and heroic by circumstance, as were all his friends and contemporaries. They drank too much, gambled, some were racist, and most were misogynistic in harmony with societal mores at the time. What makes them seem greater than the rest of us may be the simple fact that being human did not stop my father and his close friends from being thankful. My dad was raised during the Great Depression, spent four years fighting Nazis and Fascists. He helped saved the world from a horrible fate, literally. He saw misery, injustice, horrific violence, and poverty up close and personal and rose above it to become a good family man and successful in business during the 1950’s and until he retired in the 1990’s.

He and his friends were charitable men. They donated to many specific causes through their churches and other organizations. Dad never felt that God, the world, or his parents owed him anything. By simply living through what he did, he felt that he had already received any gift that he had coming. He felt grateful. As a matter of fact, he never believed that his contribution to society was enough to make things even for his joy in life. And, that’s what this little story is all about.

Gambling may have been his biggest vice, though drinking came in a close second. He loved playing poker and shooting craps whether at a table in the Riviera night club with the neon glow of Las Vegas surrounding him or in a back alley off the strip in Newport, Kentucky, with a small .32 caliber pistol in his right-side coat pocket in case he won enough money to tempt some local mugger. Later in life he became a racehorse owner. He never lost a penny he couldn’t afford to lose, and we never went without any material items because of his habits. That was his rule, and to the best of my knowledge, he never broke it. But somewhere in the back of his mind, my grandma had instilled an almost puritanical regard for his habits as sins and a sin always needed to be attached to an act of contrition. That kernel of guilt, which I think was shared by his Depression Era pals, gave rise to a ritual that most people in our hometown know nothing about, but some remain thankful for to this very day.

Along with his friends, D.A. Keimer, Jim Pegram, Joe Hunter, Bill Wheeler, and a few others, they began a ritual during my childhood that lasted, well, for decades. Every winter they held all-night poker games. They were going to play poker anyway. They enjoyed the camaraderie, the adrenaline, and the atmosphere of gambling—blue clouds of cigar smoke overhanging felt tables in someone’s dimly lit backroom that echoed with rowdy talk and laughter. I suspect, given the way my father dragged himself home after these nights, that a river of whiskey may also have been flowing through the scene. Anyway, as I said, during my early childhood a seed of charity began to grow during these games and blossomed into a way to share with the community that supported their livelihoods and provided them a home.

For every hand dealt during the evening, whoever ran the game collected a percentage of every single pot before it was claimed by the winner. In a time when money had more value, they often collected hundreds of dollars before the night was over. The money was then taken to a local grocer, and, after some bargaining, many baskets were filled with holiday food—turkeys, hams, fruit, cakes, pies, fresh vegetables, dressing, dinner rolls, candy and toys for the kids, coffee, tea, and whatever else might make for a good Christmas. Sometimes a Christmas tree would find its way in the mix.

After ascertaining the number of baskets their money generated, they created a list of families they knew who were unable to afford a Christmas celebration, people whose color didn’t matter, decent people down on their luck due to sickness or lay-offs or simply bad circumstances. Before sunrise on Christmas morning when the sky was barely turning into an ash-gray color, my father and one of his buddies loaded all the baskets into a vehicle. I don’t know how many baskets, but I’m guessing somewhere between fifty and a hundred each year and drove them around our town to every address on their list. They rushed a basket to the porch, knocked on the door, and drove away before the knock was answered. No one ever knew who left that gift, and I never heard any of them ever brag about participating, or even admitting, that they had been part of those deliveries in any way shape or form. In that way, there was never any awkwardness, no embarrassment on the part of the people who received the baskets, no bragging rights from those who contributed. The effort never claimed any religious sponsorship and no card was left with the basket other than a simple note that read Merry Christmas.

I have a specific reason for relating this before Christmas in the year 2022. It has nothing to do with the fact that, as I grew up, I felt an overwhelming pride in my father and these other men for their generosity, kindness, empathy, and humility. They all taught me by example to be a better human as an adult. It has nothing to do with making these men heroes, they were already heroes to me. I just wanted to share an observation with you that seems to apply more than ever in our world today.

 See, I went on one of these excursions with my father and Mr. Keimer one Christmas somewhere in the 1950’s. Ostensibly, my father wanted to provide me with a teaching moment by letting me see what he felt would one day be my responsibility in his stead, a continuation of communal charity. His heart was in the right place. My childish heart was not. Life is meant for giving. Getting something in return on occasion, other than self-satisfaction, is just an occasional lucky by-product, not something you earn or are owed.

It took many years and many events, both brilliant and horrific, in many places for me to finally understand his point. As a child, I could only cry and scream because I thought these guys were giving my presents away. I threw a tantrum of epic proportions even for a pre-pubescent spoiled white kid. I disappointed my father that morning, I’m sure, one of many times that occurred in our volatile relationship. Maybe that’s a natural thing with sons. We all disappoint our fathers who all want us to be better people than them. Very few of us achieve that. Possibly, a certain epiphany came to my father having very little to do with my selfishness personally. Maybe my reaction had been a typical human reaction, one that most people had the decency in those days to keep in the shadows and bury through self-conscious discipline for the good of the society in which they lived. A child can often remind an adult of humanity’s failings as well as achievements. I don’t know the answer to my speculation. One isn’t necessary to benefit from the story I’m telling you.

The issue is not whether humans behave selfishly or altruistically because we all do both.  There has always been self-sacrifice and self-satisfaction ingrained in human behavior. But I have read what the Gospels, the Dharma, and the Surah Al-Baqara have to say about charity. If you’re just a simple old fellow like me who worships nothing, you can still appreciate those sacred writings are all consistent on one point.  Buddhism, Christianity, and Islam are equal when explaining our responsibility to each other. Regardless of what or who I do or don’t worship, the altruistic qualities that make me a decent human being like charity, empathy, and kindness are not inherent. They must be learned, and we must all consciously practice them. If we don’t exercise discipline in these abilities, they will soon atrophy, and the skills required for us to live together in harmony will disappear.

I’m going to be thinking a lot about my father and his friends this Christmas, and then spend the rest of the year trying to put those thoughts into tangible action. I don’t have the money they had, and I don’t play cards. So, I’ll have to figure out more creative approaches within my physical and economic realities. But isn’t thinking creatively just another thing that makes us human?

Happy Holidays!!