Christmas Smash: Writing Assignment #6

This time my sister Carol assigned me and Christy to write about visitors to our family's home in Kellogg on Christmas Day.


I can't figure out how Christmas Day used to seem to last so long. How did we get up, open gifts, eat Hungarian coffee cake, clean up the gift wrap, send me and Dad out to dispose of the wrapping paper, stop at Dick and Floyd's for coffee, and still have time for a stream of visitors to drop in and have some Christmas cheer.

No, not Christmas cheer in our home. Dad called a drink a smash. He offered friends a Christmas smash.

I think what my memory has done is take all the visitors we had over the years and remembered them as happening year after year.

But, every Christmas the first morning visitor was the same. Just as we were getting all settled down from gifts and coffee and coffee cake, the aluminum storm door would rattle with a ten o'clock knock and one of my favorite voices would laugh, and while shaking Dad's hand, say, "God Damn It, Pert. Merry Christmas you fat old son of a bitch. Jesus Christ you look like shit. Guess Santa didn't bring you any good looks again this year!"

Dad: "Jesus Christ, come in and shut your God Damned trap and sit your ass down. What do ya wanna drink, you asshole?"

I loved Christmas morning in Kellogg. The spirit of God Damn you Merry Gentlemen was heart warming.

It was Mike Turner and his wife June. Mike was the Silver Valley Bogey Bread man and one of the friendliest guys and best bullshitters in the county. Dad and Mike were on the same bowling team and Mike's wife June kept score and was a wicked bowler herself. June's claim to local, and national, fame was being the mother of Denny Crum, the Hall of Fame Louisville Cardinal head basketball coach, a fact she rarely mentioned.

Mike and June loved to pay Christmas visits and we must have been early on their route.

Mike was a Lucky Lager man and after he wished Dad Merry Christmas he always said, "I'd like a goddamned beer, Pert. You got anything 'cept that shittin' Heidelberg."

Dad: "You'll drink what I give ya, you old bastard. Here." He handed Mike a Heidelberg and turned to June and said, "Now that I've got your miserable son of a bitch of a husband taken care of, what would you like my dear? How 'bout a Tom and Jerry?"

He knew she wanted one and he proudly went to the kitchen to fix one, Mike nipping at his heels.

And so the day was under way. Jerry Turnbow's family came by. Margaret and Woody Gallaher. The Robinsons. Donnie and Rosie Rinaldi. It was a fairly steady stream. Later in the afternoon when we figured we could go, we went up to Ed and Carol Whitley's for a Christmas smash.

Looking back, I'm heartened by the informality of it all. From behind the bar at the Sunshine Inn, Dad must have told friends to come visit, but most who came didn't need an invitation. Among people Mom and Dad knew, you just went out and visited people on Christmas.

At some point that tradition of visiting others peetered out. Kids got older. Families stayed closer to home. The Bunker Hill closed. People moved. Others just got older, lost the urge to get out on Christmas morning. Dad quit working at the Sunshine Inn. A social change occurred.

This Christmas, I doubt we'll have many, if any, visitors. Dad is dead. My sisters and I talk about resurrecting the Tom and Jerry batter. I suppose we should half the recipe. Mike Turner is dead. So is Woody Gallaher. The Turnbows don't live in Kellogg. Neither do the Robinsons. Jack, the Robinson's father and two of the kids, are dead. Maybe my friend Ed will drop by before he goes to Worley to play slots.

But we don't drink anymore.

And what's Christmas without a smash?