OCR Text |
Show Volume III, Issue IV THE OGDEN VALLEY NEWS Page 3 December 15, 2000 Christmas for Earl By Tom Davenport It just didn’t seem like the day before Christmas. Was it the weather? The cold, dull-gray sky left no doubt winter had come. But there was no snow to whitewash the dead grass, decaying leaves or broken tree limbs everywhere. Maybe I was getting too old. At the adult age of fourteen, I had no more fantasies about Santa Claus, and hadn’t for years. But I did believe in Christmas. For my family, there was nothing missing that season. We had followed all the holiday hullabaloo, including the heavily ornamented Christmas tree, traditional fruitcake and Sunday school class caroling, and had applauded my high school’s annual best-Christmasplay-ever. But as my best friend Lyle and I took a late afternoon walk, kicking cans into the mud while a soft fog settled around us, I couldn’t see any sparkle to this Christmas. Was I actually too old? Or was it the lack of snow? Perhaps December 25, 1962 would have passed like all the other Christmases if it hadn’t been for a garbage truck and a lonely 45-year-old bachelor. Earl was the best thing that ever happened to my friends and me. He lived alone in a treasure house of tropical fish, racing magazines, games and oil paints. Perhaps it was the unused father in him that prompted Earl to let us use his place as a clubhouse, even when he was gone. Yet somehow he made us feel as if we had adopted him. Earl had a face which, according to the owner himself, “could stop a bull elephant’s charge.” The crater-pocked visage (he said it was the result of an icepick street fight) was only emphasized by brown, chipped teeth. Earl was tall and bony and sported a scruffy chin beard. Under an old beret he hid hair that was always in a state of suspended indecision-somewhere between crewcut and uncut. Earl’s clothes had a moldy, musty odor and his shirt (better said, the shirt) was an autobiography, revealing his hobbies, occupation and last month’s diet. With no family and, especially, no children of his own, Earl had no use for Christmas. Besides, he often told us bluntly (never bitterly), he didn’t believe in Christ. So why celebrate His birthday? As Lyle and I walked along that afternoon, our talk was mostly about Earl. We knew he’d go to a friend’s house for Christmas Eve, but also knew Earl wouldn’t do a thing to make December 25 a different day. It wasn’t long before we’d reached the sidewalk’s end and saw ahead, through the fog, the figure of a man tossing leftover Christmas trees into a truck parked in the supermarket’s dirt lot. An idea struck us both. Even though we ran, we reached the truck just as the driver was pulling away from the curb. “Hey, mister!” I called to get his attention. “Can we have one of your trees?” We want to give it to a friend.” He turned, looked at us for a moment, then answered; “Sure, take one.” We grabbed the nearest tree—small, a bit misshapen, but it was green and fragrant. “Thanks!” I yelled, as the truck lurched away. “What time is it?” I asked Lyle. “Five o’clock,” he replied. Earl would be gone, leaving the house unlatched, as always, in case we dropped in. It didn’t take long to drag the tree to his house, which was open and empty. After a small struggle, Lyle and I finally placed it in the corner of Earl’s living room and stood back to gaze on it. “Tom, what are we going to put on the tree?” Lyle said, with a discouraged look on his face. “Don’t worry,” I answered. “A couple of months ago I was helping Earl put some stuff in the attic. We found a box full of Christmas decorations that the Bartons had left when they moved. I bet they’re still up there.” They were. But the two strings of lights and small assortment of ornaments sent us hurrying home for more. I returned with an old star and some scratched and dented silver balls, since replaced in our home by newer ones. Lyle brought more globes, an assortment of plastic reindeer and angels, a slightly matted string of tinsel and some icicles. Soon it was finished. Excitedly we turned off the lights and switched on the tree. The room was filled with the soft, glowing magic of Christmas, accented by the pine needles’ rich fragrance. We both stood silently. Lyle broke the silence, “What about presents?” he asked. “The stores are all closed. What can we get him? I thought for a moment. “Why don’t we go around the neighborhood and see if they can donate something for Earl?” I suggested. So we did. The Claytons gave us some oranges, and a package of hard candy. The Hogans donated a loaf of banana bread. Mr. Hall had a carton of .22 shells he gave up. Mom offered a fruitcake and some frosted Christmas cookies. After the Johns added a box of cherry chocolates, we busied ourselves wrapping the offerings and putting them under the tree. Taking a sock from one of Earl’s drawers, we filled it with food and, since he had no fireplace, taped it to the arm of his couch. It was finished. The tree was misshapen and the decorations old and shoddy, yet it has to be the most beautiful tree I had seen then, or since! It was late, and time to go. I took one last look to memorize the sight, trying to imagine the look of Earl’s face when he saw it. Then we left through the front door, shutting it tightly behind us. As I stepped out into the darkness, a gentle moistness caressed my face. “Look, Tom, it’s snowing!” Lyle exclaimed. Sure enough, it was. Large, heavy flakes were falling through the moonlit fog. It had just begun, only a light fluff covered the ground. Lyle ran and jumped in front of me, whooping for joy. “Yahoo!” he cried. “Christmas has come at last.” And it had. As I gazed into the tumbling whiteness, I was filled with a strange, warm, inner peace that for years I had associated with Christmas. I guess I wasn’t getting too old. Or was it the snow? |