Memories Of A Family Christmas There Was A Lot Missing During The Holidays Of 1943, But The Most Important Element - A Family’s Love - Was In Boundless Supply

The year 1943 was one of those good news-bad news years. The good news was that the Great Depression was over. The bad news was that it took World War II to end it. The good news was that my dad had finally gotten a good job in Spokane and a nice house to live in with reasonable rent. The bad news? It was in Dogtown.

Dogtown was the part of Spokane located east of Market Street, south of Francis and north of what is now Esmeralda Golf Course. Mom always complained that here we were living on the wrong side of the tracks, and if those darned Japanese bombed the railroad, they would for sure hit our house.

At that time, the largest employer in north Spokane was the Great Northern Railroad and that is where my dad worked. We could see the trains from our front porch and they constantly delighted us kids. Low rent district it was, but Dogtown was home to some of the finest people we have known in Spokane; some have been lifelong friends.

All of this is background to the fact that Christmas 1943 was going to be the biggest day in my life. Sure I had been around for four other Christmases, but this was the first one I could really remember.

It was cold that Christmas Eve morning and I shivered as I tried to warm myself by the cook stove. My front was warm, but my back was cold because the flap on my long underwear was open and a cold draft rushed in. I could see the silver leaves on the window that the frost had sculpted, and the Andrews Sisters were signing “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” on the radio.

Mom told us that Santa would come to our house that night if we were good. I tried my hardest to be good all day. The day dragged on endlessly.

Finally my brother John and I could see my dad coming across the field toward our house and I knew that it wouldn’t be that much longer until Santa would arrive. It had been a tradition in our family for countless years that on Christmas Eve the family went to confession and while we were there, Santa Claus popped into our house.

We had to eat dinner before we could go to confession, but I was too excited to eat. I knew it was part of the ritual, so I fidgeted nervously by my plate and waited. At long last, my dad said “Let’s go kids,” and excitedly I got my coat and boots and raced to the door.

During the war, gas was rationed and our family was allowed to buy only 6 gallons of gas a month. Consequently, we walked almost everywhere, while the car rested contentedly in the garage.

It was night as we stepped out of the door into the cold air; our breath made small puffs of steam as we breathed. It was beautiful that night. The moonlight sparkled playfully off the snow, which crunched noisily under our feet as we walked. We turned toward Hillyard and walked past Eileen Holmes house. She had been my best friend during the past summer and had taught me how to ride a bicycle. She bravely rescued me when my pants got caught in the chain and I sobbed by the side of the road.

We reached the railroad yards and crossed them. The mighty steam engines were lined up and belching clouds of smoke and steam like great black dragons in a row. How I loved those steam engines, still do. We walked through Hillyard and headed up Queen Avenue toward the church. St. Patrick’s loomed in the distance, its impressive spires pointing heavenward.

Inside I was awed by the hushed silence and the candles that twinkled in the front of the church. To the left in the front were some pine boughs and in the middle were small statues of Mary and Joseph patiently waiting for the baby Jesus. I was so taken in by it all, that when my dad told me God was living there, I was positive that heaven looked just like this. St. Pat’s still feels like home to me, but the church looks a lot smaller and the spires aren’t all that high anymore.

As my dad went to confession (I was too young to go myself), I sat in the front of the church and looked around and smelled the incense; I’ll never forget those Christmas Eve church smells. After my dad was finished, I could hardly contain my excitement as we started for home. My dad said that he thought Santa had already been to our house, so we walked even faster.

My little legs went as fast as they could, but they were no match for my dad. When he unfurled those long legs and kicked it into high gear, nobody but nobody could keep up, so he put me on his shoulders and my brother John ran alongside puffing little clouds of frozen breath. I kept looking anxiously at the moon because my dad told me that sometimes, if you really looked close, you could see Santa and his sleigh flying to another house. I tried so hard to see him and once I thought for sure that I did.

We burst through the front door and mere mortal words cannot describe the incredible sight we saw. The tree twinkled with what seemed to be a thousand lights and beneath it were what appeared to be an endless mound of presents. I shall never forget the sheer joy of it, and all the while my parents watched with pride beaming from their faces.

The memory of the events of that night is indelibly imprinted in my mind, and I often drive by that house to rekindle some of the magic of that first Christmas, but alas, time goes on. The house looks so small now, not as I remember it. Johnnie Ahler’s store where I bought penny candy is no longer there. Even Eileen Holmes’ house is gone. I have no idea what happened to Eileen, but I’d love to find out.

The saddest thing of all is that my beloved trains are gone. It is as though some evil giant ripped out the heart of Hillyard and left a long brown scar where the trains had been.

As the years have passed, I often think of that night, especially during this time of year. The Great Depression had left my parents almost penniless, and I don’t think that they spent more than $5 total on us three kids. I’m not sure exactly what we got that year but in other years we received little molded plastic cowboys and paper mache santas with suckers in them. Small, inexpensive toys, but much-cherished.

And we never felt disappointed. The lesson that the Christmas of 1943 taught me was this: You can have Christmas without a lot of things, but the one thing that is absolutely essential is family.

Without family there is no Christmas.

MEMO: Vince Gerber, 58, is a Spokane Valley resident. The retired linen supply driver and church deacon is the father of 12 children.