Christmas Magic



I am pretty sure my brother, Matt, believed in Santa
as he tore open his gift and my parents looked on (circa ~ 1966)

I have never believed in Santa. <sigh>.  Okay, I said it.  This is a dark secret of my childhood that I don't like to talk about.  I really have no memory of ever believing.  My mom tells me that on my second Christmas I crawled out of my crib before anyone else was up and opened most of the presents under the tree.  My vague recollection of this event isn't about the magic of Santa, but only of the pretty wrapping paper.  Our next door neighbor boy, Michael Wischnewski, told me there was no Santa Claus.  I was three, he was thirteen, and my mom was furious.  Nope...no memories for me of lying in bed on Christmas Eve, waiting in exhilaration for Santa as visions of sugar plums danced in my head. <sigh again>.



Wagner Christmas 1969
(notice Matt's gun holster)

That being said, I do remember trying really hard to believe as I was growing up and saw my friends experiencing the magic of Santa Claus.  I tried everything to convince myself that this fanciful man existed.  I watched "Miracle of 34th Street" over and over, wanting to be little Susan Walker and defend the existence of Kris Kringle.  And although I did get close to believing I believed, I am quite sure that it was not the same as the real thing.  But as with other tragedies we experience in life, I survived, and above it all; I still have great memories of Christmas' past.  And unlike Michael Wischnewski, this secret was safe with me.  No one had their childhood dreams squandered by my running of the mouth.  I just sat back in silence knowing the truth.



Christmas was a big deal at my house growing up.  My mom played Christmas songs from her vinyl record collection while cooking, cleaning, and tending to me and my brothers.  Her favorites included Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, and Andy Williams.  I still don't get why the Michael Bolten types have any right to carry tunes that were so eloquently crooned by their predecessors.  Any Christmas song recorded post the 1960's is nothing short of a shame in my book.  And with chronic reminders of a white Christmas and sleigh bells as background music, my brothers and I would spend countless hours leafing through the JC Penney catalog, expanding our Christmas list.  The Christmas edition would arrive in early fall and would be the center of many feuds regarding "whose turn" and "who is hiding the catalog...MOM!!!"  Those days are definitely a far cry from today's holiday on-line shopping adventures and Black Friday craziness.

My brothers, Matt and Mark, are just short of eleven months apart.  I arrived on the scene seventeen months after Mark.  In school we fell one year after each other.  As small children, we were as thick as thieves, but fought like cats and dogs.  I believe it is fair to say that I could hold my own, but had the benefit of being faster than Mark and quick to lock myself in the bathroom when trying to survive against Matt.  When we were around the 9 to11 year-old age span and our parents were convinced that we could fend for ourselves, we were allowed to stay home alone.  Mom and Dad would get dressed up and after church travel to neighboring LeMars to enjoy a quiet dinner together at Archie's Waeside.  Matt, Mark and I were a sneaky trio (ringleader = Matt...probably) and would get into all kinds of mischief on these nights of parental freedom.


Grandpa & Grandma Gib decorated the front of their house each year
with a life-size light up nativity


During the days leading up to Christmas on our "home alone" nights, our primary goal was to find our hidden Christmas gifts (obviously Michael Wischnewski had gotten a hold of my brothers too).  We tore up every cranny of the house until we found our treasured presents.  Although my mom was one step ahead of us as she immediately wrapped the presents before hiding them away, this tactic did not stop my brothers.  Mark had perfected the use of a butter knife in carefully releasing the scotch tape and opening the gift with no evidence of tampering post re-wrap.  We would play with our toys for hours until we knew it was time to cover our tracks.  One year the boys got matching John Deere mini motorized snowmobiles.  They were so thrilled after finding these treasures in early December that Mark made the fatal misstep of not counting his crime tools post-use of the butter knife technique.  On Christmas morning as Mark went into his game day theatrics of thrill and amazement of receiving such a fine gift; the butter knife fell out of his wrapped present before the snowmobile was revealed.  This confirmed my mom's suspicions which started with Matt asking the night before if he could take his new Detroit Lions football helmet to Grandma Doc's on Christmas Eve.  Since Matt had yet to open this gift and now Mark's gift produced a butter knife that was definitely not in the equation as she wrapped the present, her CSI skills of the 70's led her to believe foul play.  Gifts were locked in the cedar chest in years following and our late night pre-Christmas romps were over.

Our family tradition included Christmas Eve on the farm at Grandpa and Grandma Doc's and then Christmas Day at Grandma and Grandpa Gib's after opening our own gifts at home.  These were the days when you would receive as many homemade gifts as store bought ones.  It was common to sew, knit, bake, and draw homemade Christmas treasures.  My Grandma Gib sewed beautiful quilts for me that still are in my proud possession.  Grandma Doc always had grand ideas, but had a tendency to wait until the last minute until she executed on her plan.  On my third Christmas she made me my doll, Paper.  Paper (made out of cloth, but given the name from a 3 year-old imagination) came with yellow yarn hair, embroidered eyes, snap calico overalls, and hand sewn leather shoes.  In true Grandma nature, we could hear her in the den sewing the final stitches onto my treasured dolly as we all waited for dinner to be served and presents to be opened.  The next year she made me my dog, Sadie (an original name given by me after their farm dog).  I still have both of these favorite gifts in my possession; with a few patches added by Grandma over the years to preserve my stuffed friends.

Mom let us display our favorite stuffed animals for this pix.  Sadie sits in front of me.

Michael Wischnewski was the son of Bruno and Elfriede, immigrants from Germany and owners of our local jewelry store, Bruno's Jewelry.  Each year my brothers and I would patronize Bruno's as well as the corner dime store in selecting Christmas gifts for each other and pooling our money for our parents.  We would take turns going into the jewelry store to choose items deemed special and unique as the other two of our trio would wait their turn outside, promising not watch through the shop window.  Gifts included items such as piggy banks, thimbles, engraved spoons, and whatever trinkets Elfriede could find for us within our budget.  Bruno would watch from behind the glass display cases, not cracking a smile.  Gifts for mom included charms and dad, a coffee cup.  They were always wrapped by Elfriede in beautiful paper which I am sure added to the allure of wanting to buy our Christmas purchases there rather than the dime store.

One Saturday night in December before Christmas, we were greeted by Grandpa Gib as we walked home from church in the dark.  "I have a surprise for you," he told my brothers and me.  "Jump in the car."  After glancing at Dad for approval, we bustled into the back seat of his sedan.  Our pleas on hearing his surprise were given no more response then the smile that shown on his face.  He pulled into the dark alley next to the town co-op.  Grandpa worked at the co-op, so parking there did not come as a surprise, but the adventure that followed did.  Through a back door to the grain elevator, we followed our grandpa who led us through the dark passageways, flashlight in hand.  As we stepped on to the elevator shaft, Grandpa told us to hold on as we were lifted to heights we had never been.  My brothers and I kept looking at each other trying to figure out where this adventure was taking us until Matt solved the mystery.  "The star!  Grandpa is taking us to the star!!"  You see, atop the grain elevator shines the biggest, brightest star each Christmas season.  As children, we would gaze at this star in wonder as though it was the star of Bethlehem.  It shone high in the sky with a brilliancy befitting of Baby Jesus.

After stepping off the creaky elevator, Grandpa led us up a series of steps.  It felt incrediably dangerous at the time, but I am sure this was the analysis of a nine year old brain as my grandpa would not have put us in harm's way.  As we reached the top and climbed out into the fresh air, we saw the most brilliant sight...the star shining big and bright just inches from us.  Once we caught our breath and turned to see our little town from a height that soared high above the church steeple, I looked at my brothers and saw in their eyes a look of amazement and wonder.  Not a word was spoken as we gazed around us and took in the magic of our adventure.  I looked at my grandpa and saw him watching us with what appeared to be pure and uninhibited joy.  We did not find Santa Claus on top of the elevator that December night, but we did find the true meaning of Christmas in the shining star and in sharing a moment in time together.  In my lifetime I have experienced a magic of Christmas greater than any red suit or shiny nosed reindeer...the magic is in the blessing of the Nativity and in the love of a family.