Christmas is the greatest time of the year. In 1938 my parents moved us (Mom, Dad, Gerald, and me) from Allen to a town called Centrahoma. There I met Letha Mae. It was there I started paying attention to Christmas. But like some other materialistic folk my age over there, I was really concerned with the season for Christmas gifts. Santa Claus became a big mysterious person of interest.

Meanwhile my new best friend (and favorite squeeze) Letha Mae and I had unraveled quite a few mysteries surrounding God, the creation of earth, the origin of the species, preachers and more importantly, Santa Claus. In the matter of Mr. Claus, Letha and I had happily accepted his existence and gleefully accepted his annual gifts. But then the 3 ^rd grade came along and Santa heresy broke out. Roy Byrd raised the question, but the dispute was quickly put to rest (at least for me) when Letha corrected Roy. She said, “Not only is Santa real, but I know who he is!” Pressed as to his identity, she said it is my daddy.

Her dad was a skinny little old bald-headed man who was something of a “bah-humbug” sort. My trying to imagine Billy Moore, this skinny old grocer as being the real Santa was difficult, but I went for it. My wise and older brother Gerald seemed dubious at best with this news but let it ride. I suppose Letha’s Santa story was as good as anything else I had on file about the jolly old St Nick.

They say the truth will come out and eventually Santa’s ID came out. The years faded one into another sort of fast. My family made a move to Stonewall in 1944. My large family of seven advanced to having Christmas trees with lights and even better presents. Prosperity I suppose. Christmas reigned supreme over the years and remained the highlight of my life. Well, somewhere it started to taper off. It is called a coming of age, I suppose. Or growing up.

The time came when I received my draft notice. Like all the boys I had grown up with, I knew there was a draft. I sort of knew (I guess) that the day was coming but this turn of events in my life startled me. But to make a long story short, I soon found myself in the US Navy. I was an Electronics Technician on a lonesome Aircraft Carrier. But the first three Navy Christmas’s I went home to Stonewall. Yes, to the bosom of my family. But as time had passed, home did not seem the same and my last Christmas in the Navy found me on the East Coast in Brooklyn. The last two times I had taken Christmas leave I had really not found things to be so wonderful as I thought they should be. Worse, the guys who had remained on duty reported that they had enjoyed a wonderful Christmas.

Yes, while I was at home in Stonewall trying to fit myself into things, the boys on ship had had a wonderful time. The ship was tied up in Chelsey, Massachusetts. The church in town knew of our ship and made it a project. Came down and brought presents, invited the whole crew to their Church’s Christmas celebration. They treated the crew to a great meal, and some made new girlfriends there. It was all they talked about. A local radio station played dedicated Christmas music for them and even sent a DJ down to call on the crew. Wow! I thought, I should have just stayed on my ship.

By the Christmas of 1957, my tour was about up. Now my ship was in Brooklyn. I will just skip my leave this year I thought. Our ship’s cook and about 30 of us would man the USS Johnnie Hutchins DE-360. I asked our cook what he was fixing for us. The old overweight aproned Alabaman detailed how he was having Turkey and Ham. “I will start cooking 3 or 4 days early. Pies and all sorts of treats. Christmas is my favorite time of year and I will cook you boys up some food you’ll never forget.”

Boy was I excited. I thought, “Christmas overlooking the beautiful skyline of New York City. New Year’s Eve in Times Square!” I had a lot of hopes and Christmas spirit and had no hesitation in sharing my wonderful expectations about Christmas in New York City. On Christmas Day I would call my family in Stonewall and they would all envy me as I played the envy card and shared my wonderful fortune.

I had the midnight to 4:00 AM gangway watch Christmas Eve. It was cold and the old Hudson River looked dark and foreboding. Even the New York skyline looked darker than normal. A radio station played Christmas songs all night. One of my duties was to wake up our Alabama cook so I sent the messenger of the watch down to his stateroom to do just that. It was time to get this special Christmas going. I was even more excited than ever. The cook. How I loved this guy!

The Messenger of the Watch returned. He could not have looked more distraught than if he had found the cook dead. Or if he were about to tell me that we were under enemy attack or the ship was sinking or something. “He’s drunk!” The little guy from Tennessee was beside himself. “He’s on a crying drunk.” My mind is racing. I am wondering about the turkey and ham and all those wonderful things to eat—what is going to happen now?

I will just cut to the chase. There was no Christmas dinner nor breakfast either. The cook remained drunk and crying in his quarters all day. It takes a while for an Alabama “Crying Drunk” to get finished. Our two “cooks assistants” or mess cooks as we called them set out some cold rolls and coffee for breakfast. We had bologna sandwiches for Christmas Dinner. I sneaked off and rode the subway to Manhattan for my Christmas supper. Everything was shut down but one hamburger joint. Afterwards I went back to the ship and sulked. I did not call home either.

This year I am glad to be at home here in Allen waiting for my family to come be at home with me and my dear wife. I’m remembering that Jesus is the reason for the season. Christmas is the most joyous time of the year. Pat is even now downtown at Eric’s buying our turkey. And I’ve never known her to go on a crying Christmas drunk so I’m looking forward to a Merry Christmas Indeed. I wish the same for each of you.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.com