In the late 1950s, I lived with my two younger brothers and mother a half-hour south of Nashville in Franklin, Tennessee. We were there for one full school year and a few weeks into the next.
Mom couldn't keep a job. We boys were sworn to secrecy about our financial situation to anyone, most especially should Miz Lena, my grandmother, Mom's mother, call and ask how we were doing. Mom just didn't want to go through the lectures anymore. The same went for Dad, although we rarely heard from him.
I'd just turned 11, and Christmas was right around the corner. We didn't have a Christmas tree, much less any presents. There was nothing merry about our life. Nothing to look forward to. The lonely and forgotten get lonelier and left out over the cold-weather holidays.
Our little rental house was smack dab in the center of town, right next to the post office. On December shopping days, I got out of the house and walked the bustling downtown's crowded sidewalks among families of well-dressed moms and dads and their children, carrying shopping bags of red and green wrapped presents. Those families glowed.
I felt like the color gray standing next to Technicolor. You're hardly noticeable. You're nothing and nobody. They walked past me like they didn't even see me. Like I was gray.
When you don't have much, all you think about is staying afloat. You try not to think about not having much. It's not easy to do when the shades are pulled down, the TV doesn't work and you're staring into an empty refrigerator.
As a young boy, dealing with some pretty harsh reality, I promised myself that when I became a man, I'd make sure that I was successful. I'd do right by those who needed some help. The gray ones.
The only thing good about being broke is that you appreciate everything more. Neighborhood housewife offerings of pie slices, hot chocolate, bowls of tomato soup and fried chicken were extremely appreciated. I concentrated on eating slowly, so as not to appear to be too hungry. Sometimes, I'd get a hug.
Just the slightest bit of compassion from another human being feels like a gift. No sled, BB gun or baseball glove measures up to a comforting hug and soft words of reassurance. For that moment of embrace, it feels like everything's gonna be all right.
As I write these words, it chokes me up, thinking back about that chapter in my life. It's tough, when you're so very young, to feel unloved and unnoticed. Man, that was some kind of sad. I didn't mean to, but I felt sorry for myself. All I could do was pray.
I knew pretty much all the kids in the neighborhood. Most of them were a little older than I, but I was the ringleader when it came to creating stuff to do.
Seems like I always had to sell them into going along with my proposed adventures or some of my get-rich-quick schemes. They were conservatives. You know how they can be.
Actually, I was more about creating adventures with the other kids. When it came to making money, I worked solo. I sold pet pigeons to the neighborhood kids, all-occasion cards door-to-door and ran errands for old people. I kept myself busy, but I always had time for an adventure.
Across the street from our house was a big brick Presbyterian church, the kind you see on the front of Christmas cards. It was a pale-red building with stained-glass, white trim and a black-shingled roof.
It was decorated with Christmas lights lined around the windows and beautifully appointed green wreaths hanging on each of the two big white doors at the entrance.
Presbyterians become a little more like Baptists when it gets close to Christmas. They start going to church more often. Through the holidays, there's something going on almost every night. A lot of meetings.
From my bedroom window I could see the different committees shuffle in and out. Even from a distance, they, too, glowed. Maybe those families shopping downtown were also Presbyterians. Who knew? Maybe all Presbyterians glow.
Crisp and cold nights carry sound like it's coming right out of a stereo speaker. I could just crack the window and hear the carolers rehearsing over at the church. They were pretty good, but they weren't Baptists.
Baptists are the best singers of the bunch. To be fair, Church of God and Methodists are pretty good too. I'm not sure if Catholics even sing.
Chuckles, a little black man who worked at the church, told me that the carolers sang to the neighborhood strictly for tips. He said that the money was given to poor families. A light bulb went on. I'm poor, and I can sing like a Baptist. I needed to recruit me some carolers. I could make some Christmas money.
There was a kid named Dexter, who lived three blocks south of my house. His family owned a small grocery store on the corner, and they lived upstairs. He was one of those kinds of kids who was always late to get anywhere.
All the kids liked him, mostly because he'd give them candy bars that he snuck out the back door of the store. I needed his recruiting power. He knew everybody. I talked him into giving a Goo Goo Cluster to anybody who signed up for caroling duty, and I'd give him a fair-share cut of the profits.
We had a pretty good turnout. Besides Dexter and myself, three or four little girls signed up, including a girl who was probably four or five years older than the rest of us. She had red hair. I'd never seen her before.
Two boys, one of them with his 8-year-old sister, showed up. His sister was cute but slowed us down. Plus, she only knew "Jingle Bells." No telling how many times we sang that song.
We gathered under the lamppost out in front of my house just before dark. Everyone but Dexter was there. We waited for him for a few minutes, then I made an executive-producer decision to get the show on the road. The bunch of us took off for the neighborhood. My dog, Prince, tagged along.
From the first house and throughout the early evening, we were a hit! Everybody opened their doors and, with big smiles, listened to our repertoire of Christmas songs. I think we sang three. Actually, four, if you count us singing "Jingle Bells" twice.
We were rolling in the dough. So much so, that by the third house, I announced to all the carolers that they too would each receive a percentage of our take. They were overjoyed.
The redheaded girl was in charge of holding onto the money. She convinced me that she was the oldest and most responsible one of us. It sounded reason- able. I think we made around $25 that night. That was big money.
All us kids stood around outside my house, waiting for the redheaded girl. She was going to go to a restaurant and get our money split up and come right back. That was the last we saw of her. Furthermore, we discovered that none of us knew who she was.
The next day, I went to Dexter's to ask him why he hadn't shown and to get the Goo Goo Clusters we owed our carolers. He told me he thought I'd said we'd begin tomorrow. He hadn't gotten around to getting the candy but would bring it with him when we met up that evening. He didn't know who the redheaded girl was, either.
Just before sundown, the kids all gathered under the lamppost. Once again, Dexter was a no-show. I broke the news to them about the way things were. All but three moaned and went home. It was down to me and another boy and the kid with his 8-year-old sister.
I could feel the bottom falling out.
Our second night's performance was a financial disaster. Since none of us could go out of the neighborhood, we had to hit the same houses again. The receptions weren't quite as welcoming as our first night. It could have been the "Jingle Bells" repeat. We made enough to cover the Goo Goo Clusters. Dexter never came through.
The third and final night was just me and Prince. I don't know what I was thinking. The last house I went to, after knocking on the door for a while, I peeked through the window. They were in there, kind of crouching down in their chairs, waiting for me to leave.
You know the show's over when the audience actually hides from you.
Prince and I walked back home feeling rejected. Feeling gray. To my delight and surprise, there was a big basket of Christmas goodies sitting on the front porch. The Presbyterian carolers had dropped it off. I'll never forget that night.
Have a very merry (and colorful) Christmas.
Bill StampsBill Stamps' books, "Miz Lena" and "Southern Folks," are available on Amazon. For signed copies, email bill_stamps@aol.com.