Remembering the happiest week of the year

By Bill Fields

A plastic rocking horse was as close as I ever came to getting a pony for Christmas, which is not to say Santa Claus didn’t deliver.

He was as reliable as a birthday, whether we had spoken at Collins Department Store in Aberdeen, at a gathering in the Sunrise Theater for the children of Proctor-Silex workers, or somewhere in Sanford on an out-of-town trip. It didn’t matter if his weight was down or his beard was spotty or his footwear looked more like cheap galoshes than proper North Pole fashion.

I gave him a list, and he gave me a candy cane. But during the weeks leading up to Christmas, the anticipation was sweeter than any treat.

There was no internet in the 1960s, of course, no method where a world of toys and sporting goods was within a few swipes or keystrokes. But there was no shortage of ways for a kid to discover what was out there, what to pine for.

In the run-up to Christmas, the content of commercials on the Saturday morning cartoons shifted from breakfast to playtime, from Frosted Flakes to G.I. Joe. Other things we could see up close, too. I had read most of Great Quarterbacks of the NFL on a shelf in The Country Bookshop before I got it as a gift. I don’t think my parents ever grasped my fascination with a pair of genuine Wilson wristbands at Patch’s Tog Shop. I kept going back to the electronics aisle at the Western Auto, where a reel-to-reel tape recorder seemed like the neatest thing in the world. Stopping in a Sky City discount store while visiting relatives during the holidays offered a wide look at athletic gear, including individual golf clubs that were my start in the game.

No place, though, was better than Aberdeen 5 and 10, which had a back room called “Toyland” open during holiday season and was full of Tonka trucks, board games of every stripe and Daisy B-B guns — the kind of things for which the money from an allowance and doing chores would never be enough.

That well-stocked dime store was as close as it got to seeing the Sears Wish Book come to life. It was this annual catalog of What-Seemed-Like-Everything that, once it arrived on the heels of Halloween, I pored over until the pages were crinkled, favorite items circled in Magic Marker. His baseball days over, I knew Ted Williams from the Sears book as a pitchman for the company’s fishing and hunting equipment.

How smart Santa Claus must have been, given that he was likely relying on a folding map from a filling station not designed for a presbyopic old fellow. But in a town full of streets named for states up north, he always found mine, regardless if — for my family — it had been a year of college tuition, car repairs or a stove that unexpectedly went on the blink.

Santa’s visits were always comfortably complete. He never forgot to fill the red felt stockings with our green-glittered names, and there was a thrill in dumping out the contents to discover a 19-cent ballpoint pen, a few new marbles or a ChapStick. There would be bags of candy, fruit and nuts under the tree, more than we’d see the other 364 days of the year — Hershey’s Kisses and thin mints, navel oranges and tangerines, whole walnuts, pecans and Brazil nuts.

After a morning of savoring what Santa had brought — his presents were never wrapped — the afternoon was about sharing with the other kids in the neighborhood. It was the best kind of Show-and-Tell, as long as a Super Ball didn’t go down the storm drain or the Twister mat didn’t get torn during its maiden game. No toy ever quite lived up to its billing on TV or a catalog listing. Some came close, including the tape recorder that Santa splurged on. But if someone can tell me today how to make an Electric Football runner dart for a long gain instead of moving in a wobbly circle, I’m all ears.

A real football game, the Orange Bowl, signaled the sad end of the school break. As a new year started, though, we were fueled not only by citrus but a bit of magic that lasted longer than any toy. PS

Southern Pines native Bill Fields, who writes about golf and other things, moved north 30 years ago but hasn’t lost his accent.

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