Elves’ Bells

Memories are odd little things. While certainly burnished with time, they are no less valid touchstones that help us know where we have been. The very earliest ones come in mini snippets; flashes really. They seem almost like drunken points in time. Mine almost always have that wavy overlay that they sometimes have in old movies.

So many of my earliest memories revolve around Christmas. On the whole they are happy memories and for that I am very grateful. Amazing when you consider I’m not a rose-colored glasses type of person.

The earliest memories can’t be placed with an age. Who knew age? Time meant nothing back then. The world happened, time passed, and you went along for the ride. I can judge where some events happened based on my relative size to the world around me. Most memories, I think, come after the age of four. Mainly because that is when it all starts to ramp up in your life. It is also around that time you begin to be told you are a “big boy” and therefore need to give up most of the stuff that made life great. Like being carried.

Those were the days!

Walking too slow? Carried!

Too short to see? Carried!

Steps? Carried!

Puddles? Carried!

Special event? Carried!

I always liked it when my father carried me. He was a hard working devoted Dad who worked incredibly hard without complaint just to provide for his family. They don’t make them like that anymore. Because he was self-employed he pressed himself to the limit never allowing any rest until the job was done. This meant time with Dad was extra special because it was sometimes rare.

Dad often smelled of hard work, motor oil and metal. If, at a young age, you made a derogatory statement that you found the smell offensive or “yucky” you’d be immediately and firmly corrected by my Mother who would make it clear what you perceived was the smell of hard work and money and that every creature comfort you know is a result of that aroma. You quickly learn to like it or at least never mention it again.

I ended up in the former camp. It was Dad’s smell so I liked it. I still have a canvas bag of his tools that holds some semblance of that smell and it is treasured.

When I was so small that I could still be carried, there were really no malls, as we know them today. There was one regional mall that had several major department stores but it was basically a strip mall when compared to the complexes of today. One thing they did have back then that hasn’t changed is that they decorated them to the hilt for Christmas.

Because Mom didn’t drive, Christmas shopping had to wait until Dad wasn’t working and could take her to the shops. Santa was still real and not questioned so the shopping was even hidden from me at that time.

On one particular night way back when I remember one of those trips.

I clearly recall that when I was a tiny tot, I was quite the stylish chap. My Mom made sure of it. She bought special liquid that she’d put in my hair that would dry hard and crunchy. She said it would “train” my hair to part where she decided was best. I was a three year old with product. My shoes were always “Buster Brown” brand, his face next to his dog’s on the insole, and they always had a buckle. My winter coat was a thing of beauty. It was black and white wool hound’s-tooth. Belted, of course, it had large black buttons and a wide black fur collar. No hat, as I recall. Dad always wore wool watch caps but only when I was much older do I remember wearing them as well. They probably would have ruined my crunchy training hair. No gloves either. It was always mittens or nothing.

That night I was combed and dressed and put in the back of the station wagon. There were no car seats or seat belts in those days. I was of course expected to entertain myself. The grownups did their talking and I watched the smoke my breath made, rustling the fur around my collar. Yellow orangey street lights whizzed by through the fogged up windows and occasionally I was told to pay more attention as we passed a house that had been decorated for the season.

Radio Christmas music was only played beginning on Christmas Eve night and Christmas Day back then, so the radio was tuned to the news. I was safe and happy and as the engine warmed up the car’s heater was blasting just fine so I was in no hurry to get to the stores. But get there we did. We parked in on the end with Montgomery Ward. The façade had Christmas lights but that was not what I was there for.

As Mom left to shop, Dad and me stood in the frozen night air and without any words spoken I was hoisted into my father’s arms. His warmth and oily metal smell mixed with the smell of wool and cold and are burned into my brain as the smell of “winter”. The lights twinkled and echoing around me were the sound of carols rolling through the night air.

As Mom disappeared into Montgomery Ward, Dad turned me around to show me that on the other side of the mall was the thing that they had wanted to show me. On the roof of Bamberger’s Department store was a Christmas delight of sight and sound illuminated with large smoking spotlights.

On small scaffolding hung a series of bells. Around it, several mechanical elves each holding a hammer moved and twirled among several piles of wrapped presents, which I suppose they were “making” on the spot. Several others stood by the bells and struck each one to play out the carols that I had been hearing. I could feel my Dad tighten his grip and steady me as I squirmed and giggled with delight. He laughed too when he saw and my reaction. I pointed at the extravaganza and laughed out , “They are playing the bells!”.

I don’t know how long we stood there. I don’t know what carols played exactly or how many we listened to. But I will never forget that night.