Friendly ghosts of Christmas past ~ December 7, 1989

David Heiller

My Favorite Christmas

Danny and I were getting frustrated. Christmas Day, 1963, was fast approaching, and we had rattled every box under the tree. We had rummaged through Mom’s closet, stepping on her shoes, lifting her skirts and coats, climbing up to the shelf. We were following our own Christmas tradition of trying to find out what Mom had bought us. And we had struck out.

Usually we unearthed something, a chemistry set, a pair of skates new socks or mittens. One mid-December we found a six-foot toboggan behind the cellar door. It was a painful discovery because we couldn’t use it for the next two weeks, and had to act surprised. On Christmas morning, my sister Jeanne peered at us and stated firmly, “You knew it was there, didn’t you?”

“No way,” we said, trying to save face. It didn’t wash with Jeanne. What a miserable way to get a great present. We loved it.

But we drew a blank in 1963. That Christmas Eve, we tossed in our beds, Danny and I, long after we should have been asleep. Glenn was home from college, and he was helping Mom carry presents into the living room. Danny crawled out of his bed, and stuck his head out from the curtain on our doorway, into the hall.

Glenn spotted him, and gave a quick slap on his cheek, like you might swat your four-year-old on the butt. You didn’t mess with Glenn on Christmas Eve. Danny went crying back to bed, but the crying ended quickly. Super Hiding by Mom! Short Temper by Glenn! We both knew The Present must be a good one. We fell asleep instantly.

David and his sister Lynette Christmas of 1957.

Lynette woke us up the next morning, stomping her foot outside our bedroom. I had to crawl over Glenn to get out the door. Danny was ahead of me. The house was dark, except for the flicker of light in front of the oil-burner in the hallway.

Lynette laughed and led us into the living room. We plugged in the Christmas tree lights, and saw The Present whose dignity Glenn had protected the night before, the size of a large shoe box. I looked at the tag and started shaking. Danny pounded on the wall to wake up Grandma and the girls upstairs. Mom’s bedroom light came on, and soon we heard the sisters creaking down, Grandma at their heels.

Mom said it was Danny’s turn to hand out the presents. How could she remember that from year to year? He doled them out: to Sharon, who was home from her job in Minneapolis, to Glenn, to Kathy, Mary, Jeanne, himself, Lynette, Mom, Grandma, me. The room was filled with people in pajamas and robes, all talking, ripping open wrapping paper, trying on new shirts, sweaters, shoes, hefting a model Corvette Sting-Ray, smelling Mennen Aftershave, saying Thank Yous real and imagined.

The Package was marked “David and Danny,” in Mom’s handwriting. We opened it together. Inside was a pair of Ray Guns.

I do not know what David and
Danny's ray gun looked like.

Wow. Black shiny plastic that smelled new, with a body like a gun and a yellow top that flared out like a mushroom. The top unscrewed to hold two D-cell batteries, included. Pull the trigger, and the light went on. But no ordinary plain white light, but a deadly Ray. That was the neatest part; in the head were four triangles of different colors. You turned the top and the light would shine a different color: red, green, blue, or yellow. High-Tech, 1963.

We squared off in that early December morning light. The sun was coming up, but we could still deal out justice of red, green, blue or yellow. Danny shot Glenn first. That night we took them to bed with us. We blasted the walls, the closet, the Venetian blinds, the dart board, Glenn, and each other. We played tag with their rainbow beams. No more Wet Washcloth Tag, Glenn’s favorite game. It was Ray Gun Season.

I think those Ray Guns were my favorite Christmas present, ever. What would I pay for them now? Money would be no object. But they were something that money couldn’t buy now. Favorite Christmas memories are like that.