BS: Nostalgic story - add your own

Subject: RE: BS: Nostalgic story - add your own
From: Morticia
Date: 12 Dec 01 - 02:44 PM

Thanks a bunch guys, I'm now blubbing like a fool into my keyboard.

You have me remembering David who was just about the Christmassiest ( I know it's not a word, but it should be) person I ever met.He never really grew up and all that joie de vivre and ebullience would come bubbling out at this time of year. We would make of fun of how excited he got but it was fun to be around him.

When our children were small, he loved to make the season as perfect for them as he could. He had a set of bells and he would climb out on the roof or up to the next flat above ( dependant on where we were living) and I would tell the kids to listen for Santa, while he shook the living daylights out of those bells and ho, ho, ho-ed for all he was worth. They would be at the window with their eyes as round as golf balls and shiny as stars and almost sick with excitement and joy.They never could understand why they only heard, rather than saw the great man but it was good enough for them.

One year we were living in a house with a tiny attic window and sure enough, up David clambered, all 6'4" of him and somehow managed to get enough of him through the window to hang clear of the roof and make sure the kids could hear.Unfortunately, he hadn't thought through getting back in.....

"Mummy", said my eldest," I heard Santa saying a bad word!" Mummy by this time was in tears of hysterical laughter and in no shape whatsoever to go rescue the errant 'Santa', who was up there another hour before I could get the kids to bed and unwedge him.He was, by this time, very cold, more than a little bruised and somewhat cross. It didn't stop him from carefully putting boot prints on the fireplace, teeth marks in the carrots and writing a thank you note for the sherry and mince pies though.

We'll miss you David.I hope there is Christmas wherever you are.

Subject: RE: BS: Nostalgic story - add your own
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 12 Dec 01 - 01:16 PM

My grandfather was a quietly dignified old man whose favorite pastime was sitting on his front porch smoking his pipe, nodding at folks who would pass by on the sidewalk. He was fond of a cold Falls City beer, but he was careful not to let any of the Grandkids see him drinking one. I remember surprising him in the kitchen, watching him walk into the parlor and fumble aimlessly with the clock on the wall, as I glanced into the sink to see a just-opened Falls City hidden there. He had been a railroad man on the L&N, and he was scrupulous about time, always fiddling with clocks or adjusting the stop watch he kept on a chain in his pocket.

One Christmas time, we came to visit, and there in the parlor was the thinnest, shortest Christmas tree I have ever seen, sitting on a table in the parlor. Grampaw had bought it at a bargain price at the lot, and my cousin Cindy had attempted to decorate it. Several ornaments hung from the branches. Rather, the weight of them pulled the skimpy branches down to the table-top, where they rested. She had used tinsel in a vain attempt to simulate fullness, but her efforts had only made the tree seem more sad and vulnerable. It was a sort of relief when the tree survived the season, and the parlor table was empty again.

But Grampaw didn't see any reason to throw away a tree which was already decorated, and so he put it on a shelf in the corner of the shed. From this dark corner it would re-emerge each Christmas season, and after having the cobwebs and dust knocked off it, would once again adorn the parlor table. To the touch, it had a quality of rigid endurance only seen in Egyptian mummies, and in truth it represented little fire hazard, because after several years it attained a substance akin to petrified wood. We grandkids had endless fun kidding him about it, while he continued to ignore our good-natured taunts, and the resurrection of the tree became an integral part of our Christmas ritual.

The old man caught the flu in 1970. It progressed quickly, as it often does in the elderly, and he was at last taken to the hospital. On the brink of dying, one morning he arose before first light and put on his clothes. He made it to the front door before he was apprehended and returned to his room. My Mom said he wanted to die at home, but I have always suspected he was thinking of one last cold Falls City.

Subject: RE: BS: Nostalgic story - add your own
From: Deckman
Date: 12 Dec 01 - 11:47 AM

Thanks for the story KAT ... I needed that. Bob

Subject: RE: BS: Nostalgic story - add your own
From: Sorcha
Date: 12 Dec 01 - 11:44 AM

Actually, when I was little, we had an information operator like that.......I remember calling to ask her how to make a chocolate cake...........I might have been 8, but no more than that.

Subject: RE: BS: Nostalgic story - add your own
From: Gypsy
Date: 12 Dec 01 - 11:12 AM

I love that story, first saw it in Guideposts. Thanks for posting it today.

Subject: Nostalgic story - add your own
From: katlaughing
Date: 12 Dec 01 - 10:44 AM

Thought you all might enjoy this:

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well, the polished old case fastened to the wall and the shiny receiver on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother would talk to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonder- ful device lived an amazing person and her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know. "Information Please" could supply any- body's number and the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in- a-bottle came one day while my mother was visit- ing a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement. I whacked my finger with hammer. The pain was terrible but, there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give me sympathy.

I walked around the house sucking my throbbing fin- ger,finally arriving at the stairway, The telephone!

Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and held it to my ear. "Information Please" I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Infor- mation."

"I hurt my finger!" I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.

"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.

"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.

"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.

"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with a hammer and it hurts."

"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could!. "Then chip off a piece of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.

After that, I called "Information Please" for ev- erything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She help- ed me with my math. She told me that my pet chip- munk, which I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called "Information Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual thing grownups say to soothe a child. But, I was incon- solable.

I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, you must remember that there are other worlds to sing in."

Somehow, I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please".

"Information," said the now familiar voice. "How do you spell fix?'" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home and somehow I never thought of trying the tall, new shiny phone that sat on the table in the hall.

As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy!

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half-an-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then, without thinking about what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please."

Miraculously, I heard the small clear voice I knew so well. "Information."

I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must be healed by now."

I laughed, "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?"

"I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls."

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.

"Please do," she said. "Just ask for Sally."

Three months later I was back in Seattle. A dif- ferent voice answered, "Information." I asked for Sally.

"Are you a friend?" she said.

"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she aid. "Sally had been working part time in the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago." Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Are you Paul?"

"Yes".

"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you.

The note said, "Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean."

I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.