December 1960 was a somber time for my family. The health of my paternal grandfather, who had been bedridden for three years after a massive stroke in late summer of 1957, was rapidly deteriorating. He remained at home for all that time. There was no long-term care facility anywhere nearby. It was 1960, after all, a time which didn’t provide many medical care options and resources for rural stroke victims. My grandmother faithfully cared for him, along with help from my father and from the rest of us as we were able. I was eleven, and my sister was fifteen. Fortunately, we lived next door, with a path through a small field separating our houses.
On December 21, it became apparent that Pa Smith was in the final hours of his life. My sister and I were at home, watching “Cheyenne” on TV and taking care of our three-year-old brother while our parents sat vigil beside my grandfather’s bed. Later that evening we received a call from our parents letting us know my grandfather had slipped away to glory.
How tragic for all of us to experience our beloved grandfather’s death. And how does a family celebrate Christmas at a time like that, especially with three children? Now the Southern tradition, especially at that time, was for a person to die on Day 1. Day 2 was for casseroles and desserts being brought by the house by church members and by friends and family from parts unknown. On Day 3, or maybe Day 4, was the funeral, ready or not. No time to organize anything. Just do the funeral, no matter what.
“No matter what” meant that at that precise time, my grandmother became seriously ill passing a kidney stone. She had cared for my grandfather for three years. It was obvious she was exhausted. Her body seemed to shut down after he died. She came to stay with us so we could take care of her. The weather was bitterly cold, and for the first time, my brother had a severe attack of bronchial asthma. Everyone was in a frenzy. Someone in the family stayed home with my grandmother because she was unable to attend the funeral. Remember, this was the South. The funeral date was set. My mother’s sister kept my brother at her house. The funeral took place as ordained by the Nonsensical Society of Southern Customs and Rituals. (I made that up.)
On Christmas morning, we tried to make the most of our holiday. Cheer wasn’t really in the picture, but Santa did make a stop at our house.
His oddest delivery ever appeared for me under the tree on Christmas morning among other small gifts—two pinball machines. Now I do not remember asking Santa to bring me pinball machines, so I suspected who had whispered those gift requests in his ear.
One of the pinball games was called “Excalibur.” The design was strictly small pinballs, a basic spring ball launcher, and a flipper. No bells and whistles, just keep up with your points as King Arthur searches for his famed sword Excalibur. The other game, however, was a tabletop wonder with full-volume dings, two flippers, a spring-loaded ball launcher, bumpers. lights, and an automatic score board, all powered by a bonanza of D batteries.
On the day after Christmas, The Preacher stopped by to visit with us and check in on my grandmother. After a while, I heard unmistakable noises in the living room. I peeked in to see for myself what was happening: Daddy and The Preacher were playing pinball! I heard the bells and dings as the large silver balls were flipped and re-flipped, hitting and scoring points as Daddy and The Preacher pushed the flippers, propelling the balls against the bumpers. They were having the time of their lives. My suspicions were confirmed.
I quietly laughed. Daddy was the kid who’d asked Santa for pinball games for Christmas. And after all the sadness he had been through with my grandparents, I was delighted to see him laughing and enjoying my Christmas gift.
Merry Christmas in heaven, Daddy! You were a wonderful father!