All My Christmases
I’m an old guy, and I’m incredibly fortunate to have experienced nearly seven decades of Christmases. Some of them have been in distant locales like Ames, Iowa; Buffalo, Atlanta and Washington, D.C. Some have been in not-so-distant places like Los Angeles, San Francisco and Phoenix. And one of them was overseas — that incredible Christmas we spent in London a quarter-century ago. Great times and great memories, indeed.
But most of my Christmas and holiday memories have been made right here in Fresno. I was born and grew up here, so my earliest Christmas memories revolve around our home on Arthur Avenue near Fresno High and Hamilton Junior High and Fremont Elementary. Yes, my parents wisely bought a home after World War Two that was so close to those three schools that their younger son (that would be me) was able to walk to classes all through high school. (Yes, that also meant Mom and Dad didn’t have to pony up any money — of which there was always a shortage — for a car for me. But that’s another story for another time. Or not.)
I truly enjoyed growing up in our neighborhood. There were enough kids around to play baseball with during much of the year and football the rest. Our neighborhood had been built in the 1920’s, so our place was already 30 years old when I was born. Our Spanish adobe had about 900 square feet, which included two bedrooms, a bath, a living room and a kitchen. Yes, it was small, but the other homes on Arthur weren’t much bigger, so I never suffered “house envy” when I’d visit the neighbors.
Our house was on a corner lot, and we had five giant sycamore trees on the lawn strips. Every fall, those big trees shed their millions and millions of leaves (at least, it seemed that many), and it was up to my older brother and me (and, later, when he moved out, just me) to rake those leaves into giant piles on the street and dispose of them in the time-honored way: We lit them on fire and gleefully watched as flames devoured all those old, dry leaves. I know, I know — that sent all kinds of pollution into the air back then — but please understand, none of us knew anything about pollution, and doctors hadn’t started warning people and entire cities about it, so burning was legal. Everyone did it in Fresno. And there was nothing better, back then, than smelling that sweet scent of burning leaves on chilly autumn afternoons or evenings.
And one of the other “great things” about burning autumn leaves in Fresno was that you knew Thanksgiving was on the way — and after that, the Really Big Event — Christmas. Oh, how I loved that time between Thanksgiving and Christmas! For a kid growing up in Fresno back then, it was, simply magic. The arrival of the holidays always seemed to put everyone in a better mood, no matter what their circumstances. And, of course, the holidays brought with them all those glorious sights and sounds that just dazzled this Young Kid.
Back in the ’50s and early ’60s — before everyone decided they wanted to live and shop way Up North, beyond Shaw Avenue — downtown Fresno was vibrant and exciting, and never more so than at Christmas. All those great downtown stores of my childhood — Wards, Roos/Atkins, Penneys, Harry Coffees, Walter Smith, Berkeley’s, Gottschalks — all of them put up incredibly colorful Christmas displays in their windows. Downtown’s version of Main Street — Fulton — was spanned by holly and wreaths. When night fell, Fulton lit up, and shoppers came out. Yes, it’s hard to believe that now, because of downtown’s decay and neglect — but Fulton was a desirable destination when I was growing up, and I loved walking that street.
But there was more — oh, so much more — in Fresno during the holidays. Manchester Center way out at Shields and Blackstone gussied itself up, as did that newcomer “elite” shopping center, Fig Garden Village at Palm and Shaw. Yes, they were the retail alternatives in Fresno — but not nearly as popular as Fulton still was. But when it came to Christmas lights, Fulton took a back seat — as did the two shopping centers — to our world-famous (and justifiably so) Christmas Tree Lane. This was a fantastic two-mile stretch of Van Ness Boulevard between Shields and Shaw that showcased the finest of Our Town’s “old money” — great big old homes built decades earlier by families who had either “made it” or had it handed to them.
Either way, it was Fresno’s finest neighborhood, and to their credit, those “moneyed” folks “gave something back” to Our Town each Christmas. They put up thousands and thousands of colorful Christmas lights — lights stretching to the tops of their gigantic front-yard trees and over the top of Van Ness. Christmas Tree Lane became a “destination” for Fresnans no matter where they lived. Every night, there would be miles of cars, inching their way along Van Ness to take in that beautiful scene. I can’t remember how old I was when my parents first drove me through Christmas Tree Lane, but I can remember how utterly dazzled I was by all those lights. That was more than 60 years ago, and I’m still dazzled, today. Yes, Christmas Tree Lane continues to burn brightly these cold December nights before Christmas, and I’ve driven through it — boy and man — perhaps two dozen times over the decades. It never ceases to satisfy.
Some of our neighbors on Arthur put up Christmas lights on their homes or front-yard bushes, and one year — I can’t remember how old I was — I decided to get into the game, as well. So I walked to the five-and-dime store at Fruit and McKinley and bought one of those GE light sets. It must have cost at least a dollar — maybe two. Oh, I was proud of that set! I meticulously unwrapped it and lovingly placed every one of those 25 lights on the big bush next to our front door. I got an extension cord and plugged those lights into our porch light. I’d planned this all out so meticulously that I could turn on the lights — from inside our house!
Yes, that was exciting, and trust me, those lights looked great on that big bush — until the week before Christmas, when thugs unscrewed some of those brightly burning bulbs and smashed them onto our front walkway. To this day, I have no idea what prompted — or prompts — anyone to harm something that’s so obviously designed to provide joy and happiness to others. But while I was discouraged, I was not to be stopped. The next year — and every year after that for more than a half-century, I’ve put up Christmas lights outside whatever house I’ve lived in. And most of those years, those lights went “up high” so that thugs could not steal the joy they are designed to bring.
Christmas back then also meant the TV networks programmed hugely entertaining holiday shows hosted by truly great talents. It became our family habit to watch Christmas shows hosted by Hope and Crosby and Andy Williams and Perry Como. And, of course, Our Town’s radio stations got into the holiday mix as well, playing loads of Christmas tunes and even playing some special Christmas jingles. I was always a radio “nerd” — still am, thank you — so I’d have a transistor against my ear wherever I went. Weekdays, I’d listen to KYNO and KMAK — rock radio stations engaged in a gigantic ratings battle that — I kid you not — became widely known — legendary, even — throughout the radio industry.
But on weekends, I was done with that bubble-gum radio stuff. Weekends were different — and so was NBC Radio’s legendary “Monitor,” which I could tune into not just on our own KMJ Radio but on such radio powerhouses as KNBC (later, KNBR) in San Francisco, KFI in Los Angeles, KOGO in San Diego, KOA in Denver and KOB in Albuquerque. I loved “Monitor” — which was a weekend-long magazine-style broadcast featuring big-name hosts — and never more so than at Christmas. That’s when “Monitor” transformed itself into “Holiday Monitor,” complete with Christmas music and jingles and features and holiday-themed, big-time sounding commercials.
One of my most memorable Christmas Eves involves “Monitor.” I had stayed home alone when Mom and Dad attended my Grandma’s annual Christmas party in 1966, which happened to be on a Saturday night. (Don’t ask how I know the particular year — I just do, trust me.) So there I was, listening to “Monitor” when one of the network announcers said, “This is NBC — the Night Before Christmas.” Holy cow! The National Broadcasting Company’s initials, fitting perfectly into the “Night Before Christmas”! It was the first and only time in my life that I ever heard an NBC announcer say that, but, as you can tell, it rather impressed me.
Like every family, we had Christmas traditions. But until I was in kindergarten, one of those traditions did not involve decorating an indoor tree. I have a wonderful black-and-white photo of me, in front of a blown-up plastic Santa. There’s no date on that picture, unfortunately, but I appear to be about 3 or perhaps 4.
Fast-forward to 1955, when I was in Miss Saulie’s kindergarten class at Fremont. Christmas was approaching, and I knew we would not be getting a tree. I was pretty fearless way back then, so I asked Miss Saulie if I could take our class tree home on the last day before Christmas break. She said yes, so I dragged that Douglas fir the three or four blocks between Fremont and home. We decorated that baby, and it was the first tree I remember us having. But not the last — we always put up Christmas trees after that.
One of our traditions that I loved most was the Christmas Day gigantic meal we’d host in our little house. Every Christmas morning as far back as I can remember, Mom got up ridiculously early to cook up a storm. By the time I woke up and jumped out of bed to open presents, she’d been up for hours, and the house was already smelling like turkey or ham, with all the fixings and more. It took her half a day to make that meal. By late morning, Dad and I would drive through downtown, over the Monterey Street Bridge and into Germantown to pick up my grandmas and Uncle Jerry. They were always guests at both our Christmas meal and one my mom made at Thanksgiving.
The grandmas were stern Old World types, because, for one thing, they’d actually come from the stern Old World. Both were refugees from Volga Russia. They’d come over in the early 1900’s with their husbands and established lives southwest of downtown in what became known as “Rooshian Town.” They lived in old, small houses, and kept their yards immaculate. I remember seeing, as a kid, those German-Russians sweeping the leaves off their lawns and from the street gutter in front of their homes — not with rakes — but with brooms. I never forgot that, and to this day, I sweep the gutter in front of my house with a broom.
Our Christmas Day feasts were something to behold. We’d put the “leaf” in the table in our living room and be able to seat eight or nine people, if necessary. We’d eat and eat and eat. Too much food. Probably not good for you. But it was wonderful. Afterward, Uncle Jerry and I would go outside and play catch with a football.
Unfortunately, there aren’t many pictures of those gatherings. But for some reason, I have black-and-white photos of our Christmas feast in 1957 I know the year because by that time, the photo printers had started putting them on the sides of their prints. And there we are, gathered around our table (yes, I’m the little guy at the back) — all of us except Mom, who took those pictures. We had an extra guest that year — my older brother had invited his then-girlfriend — whose name, I think, was Jacky — and they looked for all the world like they were in love. Maybe they were — but they never got married.
And for the record, there’s another picture from that gathering — a photo of Jacky and me in front of the little tree we had that Christmas. I was in the second grade that year — and, no, I have no memory of that Christmas gathering. But it’s nice to see that I was there
Our weather in Fresno at Christmastime back then was different than it is now. It usually was foggy and cold — which I grew to believe was the way Christmases ought to be. But in recent years, as our climate has changed around these parts, Christmases are more often warm and sunny. Somehow, that seems wrong to me. I’d really like Christmas to be snowy, but that’s nearly impossible here in Central California. Truth to tell, though I’ve lived all over the United States, I’ve had only one snowy Christmas — in Buffalo. That one was special, though the snow quickly became monotonous. We left Buffalo and came back to California after only six or seven months — during which we had somehow endured at least five or six blizzards.
As much as I love Christmas, I’ve always been lousy at giving Christmas gifts. I learned how to be lousy at that very early on. The first gift I ever bought Mom was a dishrag — yes, a dishrag — that I purchased for perhaps a quarter at that five-and-dime at McKinley and Fruit. I was so proud of it when I wrapped it up, and so embarrassed when Mom opened it Christmas morning. I guess I was 5 or 6 at the time — but I’ve never forgotten that first gift. At the same time, I can’t remember any of the gifts that I received under our trees when I was growing up. I’m sure they were nice — as nice as they could be, considering our family’s limited resources — but they’ve escaped my memory.
What has never escaped my memory is the feeling that Christmas is that “time out” part of the year when — no matter what’s happened in the preceding 11 months — we can put it all aside, if only for a short time. I’ve always enjoyed the “run-up” to Christmas — those last 10 days or so when every radio station’s playing holiday music, when the TV nets pump out those holiday specials and when, it’s seemed to me, neighborhood Christmas lights burn their brightest and cheeriest. And then — much too soon — it’s all over, and by Christmas afternoon, I start feeling a bit of a letdown.
But that “letdown” is easily overwhelmed by what’s preceded it — those grand days and nights before Christmas when — at least in my mind — the whole world is slowing down, taking a breath, and starting to focus on that one day a year when, perhaps, we can turn into the people we’ve always wanted to be.
Yes, I’m an old guy now, and I’ve experienced lots of Christmases. But it was those early ones here in Fresno that gave me that indescribably wonderful feeling about how good the holidays can be. And thank goodness, all these decades later, I’ve never gotten over that. Merry Christmas, all!