Christmas 1944

       More Letters From Paradise
           Christmas 1944
Why am I writing about Christmas when there are palm trees outside my window? It is because a writer should write about what he knows. And, this is something I know and remember.

           Christmas 1944
It is December 1944, and I was eight years old. My sister was four. My father was in the Army somewhere in Europe, fighting the Nazis. My mother was teaching school in a nearby town, and rode the bus each way. She received a monthly allotment check from my father.Her  brother Tom, was in England flying for the R.A.F. Her other brother Sam was in the Navy, and because of a bad leg, was stationed in the States. My grandfather was on the Draft Board. All up and down our street there were banners with stars on them. One star for each man in service. There were gold stars for those who had been killed.

Our house was typical of those in the neighborhood. Four rooms and an outhouse. There was also a basement with a  coal furnace.

We were invited to my mother's parents for Christmas. We were also to see my two aunts and  my two girl cousins. A sad Christmas to begin with, what with all the men absent.

We were to ride the bus to the grandparent's house. Busses and trains at that time were always crowded. The bus company had added aisle seats. Folding chairs that came from an aisle seat, filled the center of the bus.

I remember that we didn't stay all that long. There seemed to have been some kind of argument. I never knew what it was all about. Anyway, crying, my mother scooped up my sister and we left the housee. And we     walked in the snow to the bus stop.

Arriving home late that night we were greeted by a dark silent house. Once inside, we could see our breath. The coal furnace was cold. My mother and I broke up crates for kindling.Newspaper supplied the flame, and when the fire was going well,a few lumps of coal were placed on top. It took quite some time before we were able to remove our coats and the house became warm.

There was nothing in the ice box for Christmas dinner,except for a bottle of milk, a block of margarine, and a few eggs.
My mother had anticipated that we would enjoy a good meal at her parents. So far, things weren't looking so good. Even if she had enough ration points to buy some meat, the butcher shop was closed, as it was Christmas eve.

But then our next door neighbor came to our  rescue, for our Christmas dinner. He was a coon hunter,and he skinned a coon he had   killed.The carcass of that raccoon became our Christmas dinner. My mother had always been an excellent cook, and so we ate well, I think.

My father didn't have a very merry Christmas that year either. He told me later that they were retreating from the Germans during the "Battle of the Bulge." Everything, including Christmas boxes were thrown out from their trucks as they made their escape.

And now years later, when I went with my friend Ellis, coon hunting,I often recalled that Christmas dinner. Funny thing though,  I have never again eaten raccoon.

         Aloha
         Grant