Santa Claus was only one of the characters in the regular group of customers at my father’s tavern. This was a secret, however, that was kept from me. I knew him as Lemoyne Doucette, a house painter and a Frenchman of large girth and a robust laugh. His father had worked winters as a lumberjack in the northwoods and in one of the many sawmills in town during the summers. The lumbering boom had long since gone bust, and so Lemoyne had inherited little more from his father than a boyish sense of humor as well as a taste for good brandy. Absent any children of his own, Lemoyne took a special liking to us kids and became for us one of the favorites among the adoptive “aunts and uncles” who frequented my father’s place of business. 

Lemoyne had possession of a red Santa outfit, complete with shiny black boots and a large black belt that wrapped round his middle. The cuffs on the sleeves and the pant legs of his costume (lovingly crafted by his wife, Shirley) were made of white rabbit’s fur, and his facial features were mostly hidden behind a realistic long hair wig and beard – all curly and white, of course!

Every Christmas Eve, Santa would visit us where we lived in the apartment above the tavern, which closed earlier in the day for the Holiday. On that particular Christmas Eve in 1959, I anxiously awaited the arrival of Santa Claus with my mother and my 4 siblings. I was a month short of my fifth birthday and my older brother and sister had made me particularly aware that Santa always arrived at 8:00pm. We all watched the clock as carefully as a cat considers a mouse, ready to pounce at the precisely appropriate moment. We did not possess cat-like discipline, however, and so this intense scrutiny of the clock was attended by raucous outbursts and arguments about whom among us was the most worthy to receive the blessings of St. Nick.

Beneath the annual Christmas tree were presents wrapped lovingly by our mother. These most always included a new pair of shoes and just about our entire new wardrobe for the coming year. The boys (eventually five of us) would find a couple pairs of jeans and few shirts, while the girls (three total, in time) would be gifted a new dress and a couple of new outfits as well. Each item would be wrapped separately, which extended the joy for each of us in peeling back the festive paper to discover the gift inside. 

These presents under the tree were not to be opened until after Santa Claus had paid his visit, and it was the gifts from him that created within each of us the greatest sense of anguished anticipation. From Santa we could each expect a few small items and a singularly impressive present picked exclusively for us. Charlie might get a new pair of hockey skates for use on the neighborhood rink. Trudy would perhaps get the bicycle she had requested. In letters carefully crafted in advance of Christmas, each of us had presented a very short list of exorbitant and impractical gifts which we knew were almost sinful for their sheer lack of utility. “Toys” they were, but we knew these more extravagant gifts – unlike the clothing and school supplies and such that were tendered – represented true wealth to be prized and possessed. 

On the outside of each wrapped present he distributed was the name of the child for whom it was intended, written there by an elf or perhaps Mrs. Claus herself. The paper was identical to that which wrapped the presents under the tree, and the handwriting was always similar in perfection to my own mother’s, which she always claimed was taught to her by “Sister Hildegard and a ruler across the knuckles.” The paper, however, never stayed on the package long enough for any of us to submit it to a forensic examination that might have spoiled the ruse.

The common conception that Santa entered a home via the chimney proved to be difficult to maintain in our circumstance. Our “chimney,” after all, was much too small to accommodate anything like a grand entrance for Santa Claus. I knew this because my mother had shown me the narrow metal piping rising from the back of the space heater located in the front room. The exhaust piping rose a few feet before making a hard right-angle bend toward the exit hole cut in the wall of the apartment. It would have been difficult for the fat old man to pass through the narrow pipe. And negotiate the turn? Impossible! Besides, if he were able to somehow pass through the piping it would be only to find himself captured within the metal walls of the furnace. “What then?” my mother had asked, pointing to the flames that roared behind the clear glass front of the furnace. “He would certainly burn to a crisp before we could get him out, and the presents would burn as well.”

The prospect of watching through the glass front of the furnace at the cremation of Santa was not altogether prohibitive to the 5 year old mind. After all, I’d never seen anything like that before and welcomed any new experience that promised to combine both drama and pyrotechnics. But the thought of watching anxiously awaited presents consumed by flames was simply too painful to contemplate.

And so Santa would arrive in more pedestrian fashion at the front door after parking the reindeer outside, always in the alleyway that passed between our building and the next. Here, it was unfortunately not possible to ever see the reindeer from the few windows we had, even though we always took turns pressing cheek and nose to the one window on that side of the building in a failed attempt to catch a glimpse of Rudolph and the rest.

The magic of Christmas may have been dampened for us if we in fact understood how this annual visit truly came about. My father would close the tavern at 6:00pm and carefully sneak up the front stairs in numerous trips with all the gifts to be distributed. These would be left on the enclosed landing just outside the front door. Meanwhile, Lemoyne would be dressing in costume in the bar while practicing and assuming all the eccentricities and the mirth of the blessed St. Nick. Lastly, my father and Santa would enjoy a beer and a shot of brandy before parting ways, my father to arrive via the back door mere minutes before we would hear the knock and the “Ho! Ho! Ho!” at the front announcing the arrival of Santa Claus.

On Christmas Eve of 1959, something went awry. 8:00 came, and neither Santa nor my father were anywhere to be seen. With each minute that passed, our anxiety and excitement increased exponentially. Was Santa not coming this year? And who among us had been sufficiently delinquent to bear responsibility for that? And where was Dad? If Santa were to arrive, it just wouldn’t be right for Dad to not be there. Who would pass out the presents as Santa handed them off if Dad wasn’t there to perform this ritual?

There was a buzz of seemingly a million such questions that circulated among us kids as the minutes ticked on. Most of these questions were ultimately directed toward my mother. She was not only smart, after all, but she could be counted on to referee the many arguments that now arose between my brothers and sisters and myself as we wrestled to avoid taking personal responsibility for this Christmas gone bad.

As the minutes ticked further past 8:00, my mother started to show signs of real concern as well, which caused us all to become even more confrontational with one another in our heightening state of excitement and dread. Mother had a clearer understanding of things than did any of us children. Her own agitation grew more pronounced as she considered that the aforementioned singular beer-and-a- brandy had perhaps been set aside in a more sweeping consumption of Christmas spirits.

As the time drew longer Mother eyed the presents we had under the tree, which included not only the usual offerings from our parents but also those that were gifted to us by our grandparents and others including our numerous aunts and uncles.

“I’m sure Santa is on his way,” Mother promised. “But let’s each open just one of the presents under the tree while we wait, ok?”

There wasn’t any answer – at least not vocally – as all seven kids rushed the tree to lay hands on the number one choice of gift to open as determined in earlier reconnaissance inspections of the offerings under the decorated evergreen. I don’t remember what any of the others received that night because I was totally immersed in the joy of peeling back the wrapping paper on my own present from my grandfather to expose the new six-shooter cap gun, holster, and red paper rolls of “ammo” that were contained inside.

“Oh, mom, look at this!” I screamed in delight, not even pausing to look her way as I readied the gun for use. I hadn’t yet fired off the first round, however, when we all stopped dead in our tracks at the sound of the back door opening. Dad’s heavy feet could now be heard approaching in the hallway, and the raucous joy that had just filled the room suddenly turned to grave concern as we each arrived at the same conclusion: Dad’s gonna’ be really pissed off when he finds out Santa Claus had blown us off this Christmas.

The joy I had experienced mere moments before now gave way to a near terror, and tears began to well up in my eyes as I prepared to beg forgiveness from Dad. Surely it was my entire fault that Santa was a no-show. He must certainly have found out about the window I had broken on the shed across the alley the previous summer. The window had shattered as a consequence of learning the distance to which I could throw a stone while also determining the need to match distance with accuracy. I had said nothing when it happened, but my conscience had since been burdened with my culpability in this act and I could not now compound the dishonesty by failing to acknowledge it was my fault that Santa hadn’t come this year.

A quick look about at my brothers and sisters showed each of them with very concerned looks on their faces. They apparently understood my dilemma, and also knew that Dad was likely to bend me over the kitchen stool and give me the strap across the backside upon learning of my costly deviance that now threatened to ruin our Christmas. What I could not have known was that these were not loving looks of empathetic concern I saw upon my siblings’ faces. Instead, each of my brothers and sisters were considering their own personal transgressions from the previous year that had most surely caused Santa to abandon us this Christmas, and each of them were as sure of the punishment that awaited them upon being discovered as was I.

“Merry Christmas!” Dad said as he strode into the front room where we were all gathered. His voice was noticeably a bit too loud, and I’m certain Mom also detected the little stutter on the M and the slurring of the S’s that indicated perhaps a little too much Christmas cheer.

“Where have you been?” asked mother, and there was a note of anger in her voice as the words were forcibly spoken in a clipped whisper. “Do you know we’ve been waiting over twenty…”

She was interrupted mid-sentence by a knock at the front door. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

“Santa!” was the universal scream that reverberated throughout the room as we kids scrambled for the door. Santa stood in the doorway with the first of many potato gunny sacks full of presents he would retrieve from the front porch. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, his nose and cheeks flushed red, his eyes trying to focus as if dreaming wildly and with a look of uncertainty that his feet could be trusted to carry him forward into the room.

As Santa took the first step into the room, he lunged sideways and slammed the wall, performed a half-pirouette, and then fell into the easy chair that awaited him. Ed and I looked at one another in excitement, wondering which of the presents was so heavy as to cause Santa himself to stagger and stumble under its weight. What could it be?

“Aw, fer Pete’s sake!” Mom said, looking first at Santa and then back at Dad.

“Got to talking, is all… politics… and just a wee bit of Korbel for good measure!” Dad said gleefully by way of a coded explanation to my mother, extending his arm clumsily to hold his thumb and forefinger apart a couple inches. He then raised the index finger vertically in front of his mouth. “Now Shhhhhh”

He stood grinning, even as it suddenly occurred to me that I needed to put my cap pistol away so that my younger brother Ed would not claim it for his own in all the excitement to come. I bolted past Dad to get to my bedroom in the rear of the house.

“Whoa there, boy!” Dad said, as he tried to step aside in an exaggerated movement but instead stumbled into my path. I tripped over his shoe and fell headlong into the doorway leading into the back hallway where the bedrooms lay.

“Crack!”

It’s been over fifty years that have passed, but I can still remember the sound of my outstretched arm virtually exploding as it made contact with the corner of the doorway frame. I had raised it to protect my head, and it had sacrificed itself without prejudice, suffering fractures in both the upper and lower arm bones.

I tried not to cry, yet couldn’t help myself as the whimper turned into a wail with tears flowing.

“Oh, Shush! come on now!” Dad said, with just a hint of disgust in his voice. “Don’t be a wimp. Shake it off. You gotta’ be able to take a lil’…”

He stopped in mid sentence and his face grew ashen. I had quickly picked myself up off the floor and had turned toward him. His eyes immediately fixed upon the sight of my left arm, and he noticed before I did that it now lay in a few additional directions than was common.

“Oh, God,” he said. “Mother, come here.”

My Mother quickly strode from where she was helping Santa get situated and oriented, surrounded by the other kids.

As she approached, I could see by the changing look on her face that this was no time for monkey business, and I quit crying. Fear now gripped me instead.

“Is it broke?” Dad asked.

“Just what do you think?” she asked, angrily snapping off the consonants.

Suddenly, I wanted – no, I needed - a hug from my Mom, and I was relieved to see her arms reach out to me. But just as suddenly, I saw her arms withdraw as though she now found me repulsive.

“Get me a blanket,” she said, seizing control of the situation. “Make it two of ‘em. It’s cold outside, and you better get him to the hospital. He sure ain’t gonna’ get a jacket on over that arm.” Dad shuffled into the master bedroom to retrieve the quilt off the bed and another wool blanket from the closet. Mom squatted in front of me and gently held me at arms length as she looked into my eyes. “Are you alright?” she asked, lifting one hand to brush my hair back.

Truth be told, I suddenly felt cold and clammy, and my head was spinning. 

“I’m ok,” I said, trying to be brave even as I collapsed into tears.

“You’ll be alright, son. I promise” said my Dad, who now stood beside me with his arms full of blankets.

I now knew this was serious, for I could not recall my father ever addressing me in such a caring and reassuring fashion. He always seemed to talk at us kids, not to us. He otherwise just generally ignored us altogether. We had learned to prefer the latter if only because he rarely addressed us with anything other than anger or annoyance when talking at us directly.

But this was different.

“Here,” he said, handing the blankets over to my mother. “Get him ready and I’ll warm up the car. Maybe use the one blanket to wrap tightly and pin the arm against his chest as best you can. Just don’t hurt him.”

He was gone, then, and my mother wrapped me tightly at first with the wool blanket, careful to first encourage me to place my broken arm as comfortably as possible against my chest before wrapping the blanket over it while leaving my right arm exposed. Satisfied that this blanket would stay in place and stabilize the broken arm, she then put the quilt loosely over my shoulders and bundled that around me as well.

“You’ll be fine,” she said, kissing me on the forehead as my tears washed over my fears.

“But it hurts, Mom,” I whimpered, trying to stay brave. Big tears flowed down my cheeks beyond my control. “And I’m really scared, mom.”

My father had reentered the room from behind me, and Mom now looked past me toward him with tears welling in her eyes.

“It’s all going to be alright,” he said quietly, speaking to her as much as to me.

“Listen, son. You think you can walk all right to the car? Or do you need me to carry you?”

“I can walk,” I said, even as I knew I would have found comfort in being carried in my father’s arms. I was pleased that he picked me up anyway before we reached the back door, concerned that I should not suffer the staircase going downstairs on my own.

Once he placed me inside the car, Dad made certain I was as comfortable as I could be given the circumstances before taking his place behind the wheel. He then put the car in gear and eased gently into the accelerator. I took special comfort just in being beside him in the front seat, which was usually reserved for my Mom or my older sister or brother. It was also strange, yet pleasing, to find myself alone with my father, for this was a new experience. To have him now focused so intently upon my comfort only added to the warmth I felt within, despite the pain that threatened to overwhelm me. Even through this pain, I somehow enjoyed a new sense of importance in myself that was so clearly unique yet seemed so natural. And for the first time, I also felt a special bond between me and my father. He had four other children, after all, and the family was still growing so that there would soon be five and ultimately seven other children besides me. It had always therefore been difficult to be set apart from the crowd in terms of gaining my father’s attention and, besides, displays of love and affection were my mother’s domain, whereas Dad always seemed to be doing well to just tolerate us when we were in his presence. The difference of being at the center of his care and attention was therefore not lost on me this Christmas Eve.

The trip along the streets of Eau Claire was almost surreal for the lack of traffic we encountered. Everyone was apparently where they needed to be with their family, and it was still an hour or so before they would venture forth for Midnight Mass or other religious services. A few flakes of snow fell to freshen the landscape, and the chill air had a sting to it that the car’s heater was only now beginning to arrest and overcome.

Every so often, Dad would place his right hand on my knee and ask if I was ok. The touch felt foreign and yet welcome, and I would only nod yes in response.

I apparently fell asleep in surrender to the physical shock that overcame me, but I awoke upon being startled to hear my father curse out loud.

“Oh, shit!” he said, and I looked out the windshield to see what had stirred his ire. My father knew that we were within three blocks of Sacred Heart Hospital, and yet the passenger train straddling the crossing in front of us presented plenty of indication that we were undoubtedly several minutes away from making it to the emergency room. The “400” of the Milwaukee Road was taking on what few passengers were to be transported on Christmas Eve, along with provisions that were being loaded roadside in front of us. It looked to be a lonesome scene to me, nothing else. But it certainly caused my father great concern.

“I’m so sorry, Jeff,” he said, his hand once again placed gently upon my knee as punctuation. “We should have gone the long way, but I never guessed the train would be here – not on Christmas Eve, fer chrissakes!”

And then, before I could say anything, he promised we would get to the hospital very shortly, even if he had to get out and demand that they move the train.

I drifted to sleep once again, and awoke in bright lights outside the emergency room. My father was reaching inside from the passenger side door and carefully lifted me in his arms. He then hurried through the door.

“Please!” he said. “Please help me. My son has a broken arm here.”

I laid my head upon his shoulder, and remember nothing more of my introduction to Sacred Heart. My memory of the moment, however, is most vividly etched in my mind for the strangely child-like plaintiveness in my father’s voice as he sought help for me.

It was ether they used to sedate me for the surgery that followed. I know this not because I remember anything of the procedure, but rather because the few times I’ve subsequently smelled ether it has caused me to recall the taste in my mouth and the nausea and the headache that were my first indication during that episode that time had passed without my involvement. I next awoke on the morning of the 25th of December – Christmas Day – and I found myself in a hospital bed not sure if I was alive or dead. Confounding the problem in orienting myself was the presence of a nun in full habit who was attempting to spoon feed me some cold oatmeal.

“Goodt!” she declared in a German accent. “You are awake now. Try eating some of this. It’s goodt for you. It will help you get better and you need to get something in your stomach.”

It was the first contact I had ever had with a nun and I was impressed with the wimple that framed her face and the winged white cap that would seemingly allow her head to fly away on its own if so ordered. Surely I had died, I figured. Now all that was left was to determine if this was heaven or hell.

She spooned another taste of cold and congealed oatmeal between my lips, confirming for me that this must be hell.

“Here!” she said. “Take just one more bite and I will awaken your father.”

My head was growing increasingly clearer, and I now heard a snort that came from the direction of the foot of the bed. It was Dad, sound asleep in a chair, his hair wildly a mess and his feet propped up on the bed’s footboard. The soles of his shoes framed for me his grizzled look of exhaustion while he snored loudly through a wide-open mouth.

This was not heaven or hell. I was indeed still alive, I reasoned to myself - quite nicely for a five year old. After all, I knew full well that Dad would not follow me nor anyone else through the gates of hell without putting up a fight that most surely would have awakened me. And I also suspected that heaven would never have allowed him to slip through the gates all hung over and looking the way he did now as he sucked air loudly and expelled it through flopping cheeks and lips.

“Ray!” the nun said softly, almost in a whisper, in an attempt to arouse him from his slumber.

I raised my right hand to touch her arm. “Please let him sleep.” I asked, not anxious to disturb the somewhat strange sense of peace that I felt, both for him and for myself.

She looked at me with curiosity, surprised that I was apparently not anxious to seek comfort from my father who was the only other person in the room. “If that’s what you want,” she said. “We’ll just let him sleep.”

“Now, here” she continued, prying apart my lips with a spoon to gain my cooperation. “Take just another spoonful of oatmeal. It will be goodt for you.”

I opened my mouth to take the full spoonful she offered.

“Very Goodt!” she said, smiling for the first time. “Oh, and Merry Christmas to you, young man!”

I looked again at my father as he shifted slightly in his chair to resume snoring in a different key.

“Yes,” I said. “And Merry Christmas to you!”