THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, December 4, 1994 TAG: 9412020219
SECTION: PORTSMOUTH CURRENTS PAGE: 06 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Joseph Banks
LENGTH: Medium: 78 lines
The talk of toys turned to tears.
Three of us standing there, talking with a 71-year-old about his antique toy collection.
A Buddy L ice wagon. An 1840 magic lantern. Fire engines. Milk wagons. Trolleys. Trains. Model T's . . . Altogether, hundreds of toys.
On previous occasions, in the midst of a beer, he'd leave the bar to run out to his car to retrieve his most recent acquisition and, like a proud father, cuddle it in his hands and arms while offering as much detail about it as his audience would allow.
I should have left good enough alone that night. I shouldn't have asked him how his toy collection got started.
For that was when water welled in his eyes.
Christmas of 1929 is a holiday that Kenny Sharp will never forget.
That year, as a 6-year-old living in a children's home, there was no toy for Kenny.
He promised himself that day, that some day he would have all the toys he wanted.
Christmas at the Banks house guaranteed dozens of new toys. Christmas at the Banks house was the holiday of the year.
The living room hardly was large enough for the 13 of us, let alone the Christmas tree, the presents from Santa as well as the gifts for our parents.
Eleven children, quietly, eagerly awaiting their names to be called. Chris, the youngest, would be first to step forward to see what Santa had brought. John, the oldest, would be last. The routine would be repeated three or four more times.
Often, I would learn what Santa had brought me by watching Bill, who's a year younger, open his gift. When Bill received a stuffed dog, I received a stuffed donkey. If Bill got cowboy boots, I, too, got a pair. When Bill received a watch, I received a Timex.
Only once, though, did Bill and I receive identical presents. Matching purple spider bikes. Banana seats. High-rise handle bars. Our first non-hand-me-down bicycles.
Each year, it was somebody's big Christmas. The year in which one or two of us received an extraordinarily large present. The year in which one or two of us was the envy of the siblings.
The Year of the Bicycles was our - Bill's and mine - big Christmas.
There was silence at the bar as Kenny finished his story about the Christmas that wasn't.
Then the four of us discussed how we might turn Kenny's bad into a good. How we might turn Kenny's recall of the unhappy Christmas of '29 into a memory of a happy Christmas of '94 for someone.
We conspired to organize a toy drive for Portsmouth children.
In the end, however, it was decided that there already are enough toy drives being sponsored locally.
In the end, we decided we didn't want to be taking from Santa to give to Saint Nick.
I keep flashing back to Christmases past, when my parents had barely paid off the debts from the preceding Christmas before the next one was just around the corner.
I keep flashing ahead, thinking of those laid-off shipyard employees whose children are at risk of no toys three weeks from today.
I keep flashing back to Christmases past, when I might not have received exactly the toy I wished for, but I always received something.
I keep flashing ahead to those former employees of London Fog whose houses Santa might not have on his list this Christmas.
I keep flashing back to Kenny, and to his Christmas of '29 when he received nothing.
I keep flashing ahead to those households in which, despite employment, financial circumstances preclude a visit by Saint Nick.
In the end, I can only hope that my contribution to a local bar's toy drive, somehow, someway, will increase the likelihood that 65 years from now, in the year 2059, someone will be telling a tale of a Christmas that was, rather than a tale of the Christmas that wasn't. by CNB