Christmas memories of the past

[Donna_Lackey]

Someone who grew up near Kidd Springs Park, wrote this to the Dallas Morning News. Maybe you have an Oak Cliff memory or would like to leave a comment to the story at
http://oakcliffblog.dallasnews.com/arch ... as-by.html


Bob Crockett grew up on Winston Street in north Oak Cliff. Now living in Richardson, he shares here a memory of streetcars, downtown Dallas and preparing for Christmas 1942.

A Wartime Christmas
by Robert L. Crockett

The holiday spirit had finally taken hold of me, and about time, too, since it was the Saturday before Christmas.

School had been dismissed until after New Year. Carols were heard on the radio and Mother had begun to put out decorations, although the tree had not been purchased.

It was, I thought, an ideal day for selecting gifts and for the adventure of being downtown without schedule or supervision. The weather was nippy and gray - the better to show off colored lights - but without rain.

"Be sure to wear your jacket," Mother cautioned. "The one with the furry lining. It'll be cold walking to the streetcar stop."

"Have a heart. I'll be burnin' up."

"You can tie it around your waist when you're inside. Now do as I tell you."

Dad reinforced her edict with a sharp glance at me, then resumed his search for the burned out bulb in a pesky string of lights. In a moment he stopped and peeled a five-dollar bill from the folded currency he always carried in his pocket. Along with it he produced a few coins. "This should take care of your shopping, plus carfare." Hoping, no doubt, that I might not spend it all, he added. "There's not a thing that I need. Just remember to get your Mother something nice."

Agreeing yet knowing full well I would buy him a gift (and that indeed he expected one), I left the house on Winston Street, the money burning my corduroys.

Crossing the back yard, I scuffed through the remains of our "victory garden" which had produced onions, radishes, squash, tomatoes and beans the previous summer.

The garden and a hundred other things reminded us of the war in 1942. Not even Christmas could make it go away.

As I trudged through the quiet Kidd Springs neighborhood, I saw the blue service star hung in many windows and occasionally the gold one, which was sobering, even to a 12-year-old boy. That family, I thought, won't have a very merry Christmas.

Dad, who had served in World War I, was too old to be called up for this one, but he was intensely patriotic and supportive of the war effort. Everyone was. It was a cause which united the country as it would never again be in our lifetime.

No, you couldn't escape the war. There were shortages of everything - meat, coffee, sugar, even denim for a kid's blue jeans. Our games and toys had war themes. Popular songs glorified patriotism and wartime romances. And would Kate Smith ever stop belting out "God Bless America"?

Family cars were crippled by rationing of gasoline and tires. The previous night at the dinner table, Dad grumbled about our thinning tires, wondering if they would get us to Grandmother's for Christmas. Even as I walked that December morning, I tossed a large ball of tinfoil to be left at the collection center on Davis Street, (a Conoco service station) for eventual conversion into military essentials.

One more block and I reached the streetcar line at 7th Street. I saw the trolley two blocks away, rocking slightly as it came nearer. It arrived with clangs and hisses and I climbed aboard with nickel in hand. Could I hoodwink the conductor to save a few cents? It was worth a try. The motorman hesitated, trying to gauge whether I was really under 12 and eligible to ride for 3 cents. If he didn't buy it, I would have to pay 7. Giving me the benefit of the doubt, he put two pennies on my palm, closed the door and the car lurched forward. It was about one-third filled, partly with servicemen, but mostly with women and children bound for downtown stores, movies and restaurants.

That, after all, was where the action was. The suburbs consisted of homes, schools, churches, gas stations and grocery stores. But for white collar working, shopping and entertainment, you went downtown. And the streetcar was the easiest, most reliable away of getting there.

When the car stopped at Bishop, I spied the Astor Theater just up the block. According to the morning paper, they were showing a double feature: "Broadway," featuring George Raft and Pat O'Brien, and "Let's Get Tough" with the Bowery Boys.

Maybe I could catch these before Christmas.

I glanced at the placards above the streetcar windows. They advertised soft drinks, toothpaste, headache remedies, hair oil and chewing gum. Others were public service posters, generally war-related. ("A loose lip can sink a ship.") That one always made me wonder. What the heck could I say - and to whom - that would sink so much as a rowboat?

A momentary stop was made adjacent to the Burnett Field ballpark, where two tracks came together. Here I could count on the delicious smell of hot mustard from the tiny hamburger stand beside which the streetcar ran. Then we were on the bridge which vaulted the sluggish Trinity River and its levees.

At the edge of downtown we reached Ferris Plaza, where the car ground to a halt and the motorman called out, "Union Station." Here the servicemen hoisted duffle bags and walked toward the imposing white bulk of the railway station. I watched them with a mixture of envy and relief. Every adolescent boy wants to be older but, truth to tell, the prospect of having one's tail shot off had limited appeal.

I stepped off the car at Lamar Street to view the huge Christmas display in the window of Sanger's department store. Here bells played, lights twinkled, mechanical elves moved, and an equally mechanical Santa roared with laughter. For a long while I stared at these marvels, then ducked around the corner onto Elm Street and walked east to the large S. H. Kress store at Elm and Akard. Sure, I considered Woolworth's, but discriminating kids preferred Kress because there were more goods from which to choose.

I entered the store with the wonderful expectation that some of those glittering packages would, at least for a while, be mine. Over the speakers came the familiar voice of Bing Crosby singing "White Christmas." The deep, resonant crooning reached out to us: May your days be merry and bright...and may all your Christmases be white.

Somehow it epitomized the season. I was as mellow as the music and ready for gift buying. But where the heck was my Christmas list? I tried three pockets before finally locating it in my jacket.

Dad was first on the wrinkled, pencil-scrawled list. Probably he'd like something for fishing, but this was not the place for serious tackle, which would likely exceed my budget anyhow. I considered a set of dominoes - red with white dots - and should have bought it. Dad was a domino player from way back. However, it was a little out of my price range, so I settled on a comb and brush set, neatly fitted into a classy-looking box. I broke the five-dollar bill, pocketed the change and dropped the gift carefully into a large paper bag.

Next on the list was Mother. Trying to imagine what any female might want was tough. I considered clip-on earrings, a lacy handkerchief and a book of poetry before deciding on a large box of chocolate-covered cherries. After all, I'd have a good chance of eating some of them. Maybe most.

I peered at the list. My sister's name was next. Six years older than I, Sis was a Boogie-Woogie fan. More of a fanatic, my parents would say. Glen Miller's "Chattanooga Choo-Choo," which would be the first record ever to sell more than a million copies, was the obvious choice. I knew she didn't have it. Heck, I couldn't help knowing every record she owned. Half the people on the block must have known. I asked the clerk to double wrap it, and it was slipped carefully into the bag.

Because shopping was a tiresome business, I figured it was time for a break. Making my way to the long soda counter, I perched on a stool, the bag of treasures at my feet. "Cherry Coke," I told the soda jerk. "With a straw."

As I sipped, my eye wandered to the white porcelain water fountains near the end of the counter. There were two - one marked WHITE; the other, COLORED. For a moment I wondered what it would be like to drink from the "wrong" one. Wouldn't the water be just
the same? Maybe not. Then I dismissed the thought and again consulted my shopping list.

Aunt Stella was the next name. I had many aunts but exchanged gifts only with this one. Aunt Stella was unmarried, a school teacher, and lived with Grandmother and Granddad in a small town near the Oklahoma line. It would have been awkward to exclude her from the gift exchange, even if I had wanted to.

A brief search brought me to a display of cobalt blue bottles containing perfume. Well, cologne actually. Or toilet water or something supposedly fragrant. Women could always use stuff like that. Blue Waltz, the label said. Forty-nine cents and that included a glitzy box. It joined the other items in the now-bulging bag.

The next name belonged to the girl next door. A flaxen-haired beauty, Anita was basically just one of the playmates on the block. Still, there was something about her that I considered different. The feeling is inexplicable when you're 12, but it can be there all the same.

I considered buying her a heart-shaped compact, but that would have shot my whole cash balance. Besides, it was too mushy, especially since she wasn't expecting any gift from me. In the end I chose a box of what the clerk assured me was superior candy. The name was in Frenchy-looking script and I figured that might impress her. Actually, I don't think she ever mentioned it, and her family moved across town a few months later. A guy could get soured on the whole business of romance...

Only two names remained: Grandmother, for whom I got a book of Bible stories, and Grandad, whose gift was a cheap flashlight with batteries. Just the thing if he needed to check the hen house at night.

Officially the shopping was done. But there was still the matter of a gift to myself if enough money could be found. I inventoried my pocket and came up with 45 cents - more than enough for a lead soldier and a frozen malt at H. L. Green, a few blocks east.

Laden with bags and boxes, I headed up what Dallasites called "Theater Row," where war movies dominated. First, on the corner of Elm and Akard, sat the Queen, an ancient movie house which I never attended. (Even a kid had his standards). It was followed by the Telenews, showing almost exclusively newsreels, mostly war footage.

Next was the Capitol, then the Rialto. True to its name was the Palace, where movie-goers could enjoy upscale, first-run films. Between features, a fancy organ console rose from the floor, bathed in spotlights, and the audience was treated to several brassy numbers, including, in this season, Christmas carols, before organ and organist sank out of sight.

Here and there, squeezed between movie houses, small shops offered everything from hot dogs to jewelry, watches, ice cream, ready-to-wear, candies, shoes, magazines, tobaccos. I looked into each decorated window but resisted its temptations. As I dodged other shoppers crowding the sidewalk, trolleys rolled by, autos honked and Salvation Army warriors rang their handbells.

Three ornate theaters remained in the row - The Tower, the Melba and, most opulent, the Majestic, a one-time vaudeville house, new serving up first-run movies in high style.

I made mental notes of films I hoped to see before they moved on. Then, backtracking to H. L. Green, I made straight for the frozen malt counter. Nectar of the gods - 15 cents and worth it.

Handing the empty glass to the "malt man," I sauntered to the toy counters, snubbing the little kid stuff in favor of the section with realistic war items. Here were fighters and bombers the size of your palm; army tanks which, when wound, crawled on rubber tracks; small-scale PT boats; metal soldiers and sailors in action pose and battle dress.

It was a tough decision between a British commando in crawling position and a fighter plane with retractable landing gear and a propeller which spun furiously when flicked with one's finger. After checking my coins, I cast my lot with the commando, priced at a hefty 20 cents.

Time to start home.

Luckily, the wait for my streetcar on Commerce was brief. Here it came, "7th Street" displayed above the front window. I climbed aboard, paid my fare and found a seat to myself. Stowing the gifts beside me, I reflected on the fact that seven cents still rattled in my pocket - enough for a couple of jawbreakers at Miller's grocery and fruit stand at Davis and Van Buren.

I leaned back and looked around with complete contentment. Outside, the lamp posts were festive with holiday garlands and twinkling lights. Inside, nearly everyone carried packages, some in colorful gift wraps.

The commando was fished from a bag. I had him crawl over the seat, the window sill and the Christmas boxes. I imagined he had infiltrated the German lines and heaved a deadly hand grenade. Then another and another. And so the time passed until I stepped from the trolley in the familiar Oak Cliff neighborhood. I checked the large clock in the Conoco station. Almost 4. Any later and Mother would begin to worry, perhaps would dispatch Dad to wait in his faded Ford at the streetcar stop.

Detouring to old man Miller's for a moment, I hurried the last few blocks to our house, arriving to find that Dad had brought a tree from the local Safeway. Red and green lights already glowed along its branches.

"Put your stuff away and help us get the tinsel on."

A heavenly fragrance from the kitchen told me that Mother had baked a cake, thanks to some extra sugar rationing coupons from Aunt Stella who, because she seldom cooked, didn't need them.

The Christmas of '42 was coming in its fullness. I was ready. Let it come.

[Crystal_Gonzalez]

I LOVE THIS STORY!! Thank you for sharing