One special Christmas will always linger in my memory as the time I learned a secret about my dad. Until then, I had never thought of him as being vulnerable to anything. I knew he was loving, patriotic, honest, hard-working, absolutely trustworthy and proud, but one particular Christmas morning showed me a side of him he seldom revealed.
It started with my dog Buttons, an obstreperous Dalmatian who never obeyed anybody but Dad, at least most of the time. While Dalmatians are purportedly one-man dogs, Buttons loved everybody but obeyed no one, until he experienced what seemed to be magic from his canine point of view. Originally bred as coach-dogs (dogs that ran alongside the horses in horse-and-carriage days) it was bred into their nature to love horses. Since we had no horses, Buttons had apparently settled on cows as his best friends and took to racing around the pasture with two young calves. His energy level outpaced that of the calves and Dad tried to break him of the habit. One hot summer day when the chase was especially rowdy and Buttons had totally ignored his shouts, Dad grabbed a nearby stick and threw it in his direction. The stick caught Buttons between his front legs and he went tumbling, head over tail, convinced that Dad had magical powers. He became, in that moment, exclusively obedient to Dad.
Whether it was awe, respect or fear that kept him meek and obedient under Dad’s eye, it lasted for several years until, one December day, temptation became too strong and Buttons gave in to a murderous impulse and attacked a hen that was nesting in the aisle of the little barn where the cows were milked twice a day. Dad entered the barn with his milk pail just as Buttons had cornered the hen behind the ladder to the hayloft. The dog ignored Dad’s shouts and the hen’s life was in real peril until Dad dropped the pail and kicked at the dog to get his attention. A hayfork was leaning against the ladder and ended up piercing Dad’s heavy boot from laces to sole, including the foot inside it.
We had a long-standing Christmas morning ritual that, while unwritten and unspoken, was strictly adhered to every year when we were children. Nobody was to go downstairs to see what Santa had left under the tree until everyone was out of bed, robed and slippered, Dad had turned on the lights of the living room and the tree lights, and Mother had started coffee brewing. Only then were we allowed to view the magic of the filled stockings and piles of toys and other gifts and treats that Santa had delivered during the night. Mother and Dad sipped their coffee as we unloaded the overstuffed stockings and investigated the surprises in our personal little piles under the tree.
All the presents that we had wrapped to give to each other, the many gifts from our parents, and those sent by friends and relatives had been piled on and around the big upright piano. Each year, Dad read aloud the label of each gift and presented it to the person for whom it was intended. He made this process maddeningly slow and, at the same time, more significant, and we waited until all the packages had been distributed before opening any of them. On that one Christmas morning, though, Dad was still using crutches and unable to perform that ritual, so my older sister Dorothy took over the task and Dad watched from his big recliner. As I look back, I realize that it must have been disappointing – even frustrating – for him to be unable to perform that traditional task.
Dorothy’s agenda was apparently to get the presents handed around as quickly as possible so that we could find out what was inside the bright wrappings. Dad became strangely silent and I sneaked a peek at him, amazed to see his eyes glittering with tears. It was some years before I understood what that little tradition meant to him. To our dad, it had symbolized his role as the true Santa of our family – he had provided the means for those wonderful Christmases that meant so much to his family. The unexpected tears betrayed his disappointment at being unable to perform that simple ritual that was, no doubt, more important to him than to us at the time.