An Unfinished Christmas (a memoir by Steve Orr)

I’m not certain which Christmas this was, but certainly no later than my first year in school. I seem to recall it was the Christmas before the First Grade, but the vagaries of memory prevent me from being sure. Still, imperfect memory or not, I recall much about that season. For example, I remember my mother taking my sister and me downtown so we could watch the parade the Saturday before Christmas. I have the clearest mental picture of getting out of the car and looking up to see my Dad happily waving to us from the third story window of his Chiropractic office near the corner of 7^th and Broadway. We felt so special to be able to watch everything from so far above everyone else. And, I remember the passing of Santa’s sleigh at some point, and the man himself pointing up at us, and waving, as we leaned as far out that window as adults would allow.

But, the most enduring memory of that season comes a couple days later. We went for our annual Christmas shopping night in downtown Paducah. My parents dressed us carefully (both for appearance and the weather), and put on their good clothes, as well. My Dad wore a tie; my Mother wore one of her nice dresses usually reserved for work (she was an operator at the phone company). This was a time, long gone now, when people dressed up when they went about in public. I’m not advocating for a return to those times; just commenting about how different it was from today. This was before Sears opened their two-block long (single story and L-shaped) store between 14^th and 16^th streets further up on Broadway. So, we had to go all the way downtown to do our shopping at the Paducah Dry Goods Store; four stories of merchandise that, today, would require an entire shopping mall to contain. It’s as if Linens ‘N Things, Best Buy, Toys R Us, Macy’s, Barnes and Noble, Payless Shoes, Victoria’s Secret, etc., were all merged into one store. I know; hard for us to imagine today. In those days, a town had to have a dry goods store for such things, or one had to drive to a town that did have one. Paducah was that town for about a 100 mile radius on the map.

Paducah Dry Goods was located at the corner of 4^th and Broadway, undoubtedly the coldest corner in Paducah. Because of the way Paducah was positioned against the confluence of the Ohio and Tennessee Rivers, both 4^th Street and Broadway brought cold air up from the rivers to chill us as we disembarked from the car (Dad, being a good Dad, dropped the three of us off at the store, parked the car a few blocks away, and then rejoined us somewhere inside the store.). My parents, being parents, forced us to endure shopping on each floor in turn; making our way with agonizing slowness toward all that really mattered: the fourth floor, location of toys and home of Santa’s red velvet throne.

The first time I saw the movie “A Christmas Story” (based on Jean Shepherd’s delightful semi-autobiographical stories), I was struck by how familiar it all seemed. And the more I watched the movie, the more I thought that. Finally, I realized the locations in the film looked exactly like those I grew up around. The school could easily be the one I attended as a child. Ralphie’s house was a great deal like some my relatives lived in: the yard walls and fences, the out buildings behind the houses, the streets, the neighborhoods, even the store in which Ralphie begged Santa for his BB gun (It was Paducah Dry Goods all over again!). The other thing that happened the first time I saw the film was that it triggered my memory of this particular Christmas. I clearly remember sitting on Santa’s lap and telling him something, though not what, and realizing that his beard was real. The beard convinced me he was the real thing (and I had always been a bit skeptical, even at that tender age). Eventually, after what seemed like ages, but was probably no longer than an hour –after all, we were small children—my parents bundled us up and moved us down four floors and to the front of the building. After that, things get a little hazy. I have a vibrant memory of my Mother holding my hand as the three of us stood on the curb waiting for my Dad to return with the car, to pick us up and drive us home. I remember waiting to the point that I was actually cold, so we must have been outside for longer than my Mother had expected.

My Dad never returned that night.

And, in my memory, that is the end; the three of us standing there, watching, waiting, wondering, and getting colder . . . an unfinished Christmas.

_______________________________


No, I’m not going to leave you hanging. The rest of this story is legend in my family; so I’ve heard it many, many times from parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. Everyone told it the same way, so I am fairly certain I have it right.

My Dad walked one block down 4^th Street to Jefferson. He crossed Jefferson and turned left, walking toward 5^th. He had parked the car on Jefferson just beyond the 5^th Street intersection. He recalled being a little concerned because there was someone walking directly behind him as he made his way along the sidewalk.

He never made it to the car.

The way Dad told it, he heard the rising and falling sing-song wail of an ambulance’s siren (they had sirens in those days instead of the blatting honking used today) coming from somewhere behind him. He did not feel the need to look back because, based on his hearing, he expected it to pass him soon. Besides, he was hurrying to his own car, first because it was cold, and second because he was concerned about the footsteps so close behind him.

The next thing my dad knew, he was face down on the sidewalk and could feel someone lying on top of him. And then, blackness.

And that was it … until the next day when he awoke to hear someone whistling. He opened his eyes and quickly realized he was in a hospital bed. While trying to sort out his disorientation, he realized the whistling had stopped. A man, who was mostly dressed and was knotting his tie, stepped into his view and said, “Oh, good! You’re awake. I’ll call the nurse.” I don’t know the particulars of the remainder of their conversation, only that he explained to Dad what had happened the night before. There had, indeed, been an ambulance, and as it proceeded along Jefferson and through the intersection at 4^th Street (on its way to Western Baptist Hospital … way, way out at 25^th and Broadway), it was struck by a car moving swiftly along 4^th Street that failed to yield to the sounds of the siren, sailing through the intersection at Jefferson.

As a result, the ambulance was driven up onto the sidewalk where it struck the man who was walking so closely behind my Dad, who then flattened my Dad onto the sidewalk. My dad was told he was very lucky the man had absorbed most of the impact from the ambulance, and that he formed a barrier between Dad and the bottom of the ambulance. Dad was told he undoubtedly would have been killed had the man not been right behind him when the ambulance struck. Dad lost his two front teeth. The mysterious man did not survive his encounter with the ambulance.

When he had finished filling Dad in on all these details, Dad asked the guy how he knew all of this. He said, “Oh, I was the guy in the back of the ambulance!”

For the rest of his life, every time the holidays rolled around, my Dad annoyingly sang “All I want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth.” And while we quickly grew tired of the song, we never tired of hearing the story of that Christmas when Dad left us standing at the curb in front of the Paducah Dry goods store; standing, waiting, getting a bit colder with each passing minute, expectantly watching for him to appear.