Wise Men and Other Stories

by Mike O'Mary

  I can hear the kid next door now:

  “Mom! Some big, fat Santa in a dirty sweat suit just hung himself.”

  Fortunately, his mother will be there to comfort him: “That’s not Santa, stupid. That’s Mr. O’Mary. Now get back in here and practice your Nintendo.”

  This year, I have a new problem: something has been eating the lights I put around the bushes. My daughter thinks it’s a rabid raccoon. The neighbor kid thinks it’s an alien that eats electricity. I think it’s the new guy who lives in the condo down the street. He used to work as a geek in the carnival. When the carnival came to our town last summer, he said, “This is it. I’m home!” Ever since then, decorative lights have been disappearing.

  Tonight, I’m going to stand guard, and it occurs to me that this may be how I go out: defending the Christmas decorations from a light bulb-eating carnival freak. But more likely, you’ll be able hear the neighbor kid yelling, “Mom, some big, fat Santa in camouflage pants is being eaten by a rabid raccoon!”

  And his mom will say, “That’s not Santa. That’s Mr. O’Mary—and my, doesn’t his house look festive!”

  John’s Thanksgiving

  My best friend, John, will probably be mad at me for telling this story. But it’s such a great Thanksgiving story, I can’t resist. Forgive me, John.

  This happened many years ago, during John’s first year of college. He had gone East from Idaho in order to attend a prestigious university. And now that his first school vacation—the Thanksgiving holiday—was at hand, he had decided to remain out East rather than travel back to Idaho to be with his family. He had some friends at school, but most of them had gone home for the holidays.

  So come Thanksgiving Day, John woke up in a deserted dormitory building. That in itself would be enough to depress many people. Waking up alone on Thanksgiving Day. But he got up, got dressed, and was doing fine. Until he called home to talk to his family members, all of whom were congregated at his parents’ home for a big turkey feast.

  One by one, John talked to everybody at his parents’ house.

  “They were all having a great time,” said John. “I could imagine them sitting in the house warmed by the wood stove... the Salmon River and the Sawtooth Mountains off in the distance... the perfect Thanksgiving Day setting. And there I was, talking on a pay phone in an empty dormitory 2,000 miles away.”

  I envisioned John talking to his mother who, of course, missed him terribly and wished he had come home for Thanksgiving. John’s older brother, often the aloof intellectual, had come home for Thanksgiving, and he, too, said that he would miss John at the dinner table. Then John talked to a steady procession of aunts, uncles, and family friends. All were having a good time—and all told John he should have come home.

  All the while, John could hear the sounds of the holidays in the background. The nonstop hubbub of multiple conversations taking place simultaneously. The excited rise in pitch whenever another guest or relative arrived. The collective exclamation when the turkey was removed from the oven.

  Finally, John talked to his father who had just returned from the traditional Thanksgiving Day pheasant hunt. His father probably said something to him like, “Missed you on the shoot, boy.”

  John got through the phone conversation, got himself dressed in jacket and tie, and bravely went out for his turkey dinner at a nice restaurant near the university. But between the phone call and sitting alone at the restaurant, he found himself getting very depressed.

  Fortunately, just a couple of tables away, there was an elderly couple. They were also having dinner alone. They saw John sitting by himself and invited him to join them for Thanksgiving dinner.

  Unfortunately, John declined.

  “That was so stupid,” he says now. “There I was, all alone at Thanksgiving, missing my parents, and there was this nice couple—probably with a kid in college somewhere who couldn’t be with them for the holidays—and they were nice enough to invite me to have dinner with them. And I was too stupid to accept.”

  After that, John was so self-conscious that he rushed through his turkey dinner. He even skipped dessert so he could get out of the restaurant as quickly as possible. Instead, he stopped on the way back to his dormitory and bought a frozen pumpkin pie and a quart of Cool Whip.

  When he got back to his room, he scarfed down all of the pie and whipped cream in less than ten minutes. When he was finished, he was so bloated, tired, and emotionally exhausted that he practically passed out in his bed—empty pie pan at his side—and slept through the rest of Thanksgiving Day.

  “It was the worst Thanksgiving I ever had,” he says. But don’t feel too sorry for John. He gets lots of sympathy from anybody who will listen to his grim holiday tale. My wife and I, for example, were so moved by this tale of pathos, that we made a special Thanksgiving dinner for him when he visited last year—and it was only October. He won’t fess up, but I’m sure he’s parlayed his story into similar sympathy meals many times over.

  But the real bright spot of this story is, of course, the nice elderly couple. They tried to do the right thing. And even though it didn’t work out that time, they are to be lauded.

  It takes courage to reach across the gulf that separates one human being from another. We revel in our individuality, but there are times—and Thanksgiving is one such time—when we should be with other people to celebrate the things we have in common: occasional loneliness, yes; but also compassion, humor, an appreciation of beauty, and a once-a-year hankering for hot turkey and cold cranberry sauce.

  So the next time somebody asks you to join them for dinner, think seriously about accepting. And if you are doing the asking—and if you happen to be asking a self-conscious young college student from Idaho—please persist.

  The Best Meals

  What was the best meal you ever had? The topic comes up every year at Thanksgiving at our place. After we’ve consumed another meal seemingly beyond compare, I invite friends and relatives to draw comparisons.

  The best meals don’t necessarily hinge on the food. Some meals are special because you earn them. In July 1987, after two days of strenuous hiking in the Sawtooth Mountains with my friend, John, I ended up at the Rember Ranch in Stanley, Idaho, where Betty Rember made a sourdough pancake dinner that I will never forget.

  Some meals are special because of the company. In August 1974, I went camping with three buddies from my old neighborhood. We were only 18, but the way we talked about the “good old days,” you would have thought we were in our eighties. That weekend, we feasted on catfish filets, fresh-baked bread, and bean soup that had simmered for 24 hours—all courtesy of Tom Mudd’s grandfather, who packed a meal for us when he learned all we were taking was hot dogs and RC Cola.

  But the best meal I ever had was in November 1983 in Genoa, Illinois. A group of friends and I drove from Galesburg to Rockford to see Eric Clapton in concert. Afterwards, it was too late to drive all the way home, so one of our party, Rick Foote, directed us to his grandparents’ house in Genoa.

  It was a modest home even by Genoa standards, and we arrived unannounced well after midnight. But Rick’s grandparents welcomed us with open arms and made beds for each of us.

  The next morning, my friends and I got up at dawn thinking we should leave before we wore out our welcome. But Rick’s grandmother beat us to the punch. The kitchen table was already set, and she served up bacon, eggs, pancakes, syrup, sausage, homemade biscuits, gravy, hash browns, toast, butter, jam, coffee, milk, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. It was a feast fit for kings, let alone bumbling college students.

  It was obvious that Rick’s grandparents were not wealthy people, yet they held nothing back. It was only after we repeatedly insisted that we couldn’t eat another bite that Rick’s grandmother finally sat down to rest.

  I’ve never forgotten that meal. I realized at the time that it was being prepared out of a grandmother’s unwavering love for her grandson. I just happened to be in the right place at the right t
ime to share in it.

  I think of that meal every year at Thanksgiving because I learned that the key ingredient to the best meals is not something you find in a cookbook or a recipe. No, the key ingredient comes from somewhere else. It comes from the heart of the person preparing the meal.

  When the chef brings unwavering love to the table, every meal is a feast.

  Christmas at the Carl Sandburg Mall

  December 1977. Galesburg, Illinois. I wasn’t doing very well in college. The academic affairs committee suggested that I take some time off. At first I declined their offer, but they politely informed me that if I didn’t take some time off voluntarily, they would make the decision for me. All of a sudden, a little time off didn’t sound so bad. I soon found myself looking for a job at the Carl Sandburg Mall, out near the freeway bypass on the north edge of town.

  The Carl Sandburg Mall. What would he say if he were alive today? (The fog comes/on little cat feet./It sits looking over the Carl Sandburg Mall/shudders in revulsion/and then moves on.)

  I applied at nearly every store in the Carl Sandburg Mall before Jim Jurinak, the manager at the Shoe Inn, a division of the giant Shoe Corporation of America, called me in for an interview. “You could manage your own store if you catch on quick,” he told me. I told him I was interested—my career options were limited at the time—and he hired me on the spot.

  Selling shoes is not the worst job in the world. Especially at Christmas. People are buying gifts. They pick out a style, tell you a size, and if you have it in stock, they buy it.

  The unpleasant part was that the Shoe Corporation of America insisted that a certain percentage of each employee’s sales be in accessories—shoe polish, socks, purses, etc. Apparently, shoe companies make more money on polish and socks and purses than they do on shoes—which makes you wonder why they don’t dispense with the shoes altogether and just open up a sock and polish store.

  Anyway, it turned out that I was not very good at selling polish and socks and purses. My career in shoe sales was soon in jeopardy. Eventually, Ted, the district sales manager from Peoria, came up to evaluate my performance for himself.

  He visited on a busy Saturday morning. Jim Jurinak and Ted went out to a bench in the Carl Sandburg Mall to talk. Things got busy. I kept waiting for the two ace salesmen to come in and help, but they never left their bench. I ended up waiting on all the customers. Later, when Ted left and Jim Jurinak returned to the store, I asked him why they hadn’t come in to help me.

  “We wanted to see how you would handle a rush,” said Jim Jurinak.

  “How did I do?” I asked.

  “Well,” said Jim, “some people just aren’t cut out for the shoe game.”

  It can now be told that I never actually had any interest in the shoe game or in managing my own shoe store. But I couldn’t quite tell Jim Jurinak that back then. I wish I could have. It would have saved us both a lot of trouble. Instead, I expressed my heartfelt desire to succeed at shoe sales (at least until I could get back in school), and Jim Jurinak had pity: he agreed to teach me the intricacies of the shoe game.

  I held that job for almost a year. During that time, I watched Jim Jurinak closely. I also learned the lingo: “Six pack of tube socks with those sneakers, Ma’am?” and “Need any mink oil today?” and “We have a lovely macramé purse to go with those sandals.” Along the way, I also shared Jim Jurinak’s humiliation every time he tried to demonstrate the proper way to sell accessories—only to be turned down.

  I eventually went back to school, but I’ve often thought of opening a shoe store as a retreat for people who could use a lesson in humility. Imagine your favorite corrupt politician trudging back to the storeroom with a stack of shoe boxes after blowing another sale. Or a sharp-dressed televangelist groveling at your sweaty feet, praying for a pair of Odor Eaters. Or a self-indulgent pop star answering to the district manager for not selling enough suede cleaner. A lot of people would benefit from a little humility, and there’s nothing more humbling than trying to peddle mink oil at the Carl Sandburg Mall at Christmas.

  The Christmas Program

  My daughter’s day care center was to have a Christmas program the Friday afternoon before Christmas. All of the little kids, ages two through four, would gather on stage in the center’s gymnasium to sing Christmas carols for us proud parents.

  In the weeks leading up to the program, my wife and I got a pretty good inkling of what songs were to be sung that day. Our daughter rehearsed constantly, and although she was sometimes off-key and occasionally skewered the lyrics, she put us more in the holiday spirit than any Bing Crosby album could have.

  My wife and I both made plans to attend the program that afternoon. We are fortunate in that we both work for employers who understand the importance of such events. We are also fortunate in that we live in a small town and could each be at the day care center ten minutes after leaving work.

  Unfortunately, the afternoon of the program, a rather wet, icy snow was falling. It wasn’t too bad, but it was enough to turn my ten minute drive into twenty. By the time I finally got to the day care center, every parking space was taken. I parked a couple of blocks away and ran through the falling snow to the gymnasium.

  Fortunately, my wife was already there and had saved a seat for me. A short while later, the kids came out. Their faces lit up with smiles as they looked around the gymnasium and saw their parents and grandparents.

  Then they went into the program, which consisted of “Jingle Bells,” “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” “Oh Christmas Tree” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” I took a few pictures during the program, but then I noticed that about a dozen other parents were taking photos and shooting video. I have nothing against video cameras or photographs, but we sometimes spend so much time and energy trying to capture the moment on film, that we forget to enjoy the moment itself. So after a while, I put my camera down and just listened to my daughter and the rest of the kids sing. Nothing compares to the singing voices of four-year-olds. It was a peaceful interlude to the hectic holiday season.

  After the program, the kids marched off the same way they had entered—single file, one class room at a time—then we met back in their rooms for cookies and juice and a visit from Santa. It was quite a big time for the kids—and for the adults.

  When all was done, my wife had to go back to work, so I took my daughter with me to go home. I also took my daughter’s bag full of “stuff”—her blanket, her teddy bear, and various holiday arts and crafts she had constructed in class throughout the holiday season. I had my hands full, but we bundled up for the hike to the car and headed out into what had now become a blinding snow storm. It was a long cold two blocks to the car, but we knew once we got there, we would be able to head straight for the warmth of home.

  At least that was the plan—until we got to the car and discovered my keys were missing. I searched every pocket quickly and somewhat frantically (I was standing outside in a blowing, wet snow with a cold little girl at my side), but to no avail. Then I remembered that I had jogged the two blocks to the school. My keys must have fallen out of my coat pocket along the way.

  So there we were in the blowing snow. We couldn’t get in the car because I had locked the doors. I could have walked home had I been by myself (the cold, wet snow and wind hitting my face would have been suitable penance for losing my keys), but this was no weather for a four-year-old. Besides, we would not have been able to get into the house once we got there—when I lost the car keys, I also lost the house keys.

  I took a quick look in the immediate vicinity of the car hoping to find the keys on the ground, but no such luck. So I picked up my now whimpering daughter and hiked the two blocks back to the school, all the while watching the ground for keys. Unfortunately, in the hour since I had jogged from my car to the gym, about three inches of snow had fallen. No keys were to be found.

  Back at the school, I searched my daughter’s classroom and looked around in the gym. Still no keys
. They were outside, buried somewhere in the ever-deepening snow. There was nothing to do but to wait until my wife got off work and could come pick us up.

  I made a call to my wife to let her know what had happened. It would take her a while to drive back across town in the snow storm, so my daughter and I went to sit by the front door to wait the twenty or thirty minutes it would probably take.

  It has taken me a long time to get to this point, but it’s that little chunk of time—that twenty or thirty minutes—that I really wanted to tell you about.

  You see, I had looked forward to my daughter’s Christmas program, hoping and expecting that it would be something special—and it was special—how could it not be? I know enough to realize that most things only happen once in a lifetime, and this would be the only time my four-year-old daughter would sing Christmas carols at a day care center with twenty other four-year-olds. But up to that point, it had been a little too rushed and a little too hectic—too many flash bulbs flashing and video cameras whirring. It wasn’t until I lost my keys and my day was forcibly brought to a screeching halt that I got this reprieve…this quiet moment in which I found myself sitting cross-legged on the floor by the front door of the school, spending a few moments with my daughter.

  We talked about school and snow and Christmas, and when we were done talking, I got a bonus: my daughter gave me an encore performance of her Christmas program. If there is anything more beautiful than a choir of four-year-old voices, it’s a four-year-old singing a capella.