Revisiting the Park: Holidays


A McGilvra Elementary Christmas activity was to exchange handmade cards after drawing names. We usually had a play to perform in the southeast corner of the school, and the day before Christmas, a movie was shown via the oversized 16 mm projector, which had subtitles due to the lack of sound.  At home, the radio featured Christmas shows, and we crowded around to listen to the greats, like Bing Crosby. We listened to Jerry Colonna, Jack Kirkwood, Fred Allen, and Jack Benny for comedy.  

When I lost my dad in the war, as did so many others, Christmas changed significantly for all families. In those days, kids would play games as if in a dream, setting up toy soldiers made of compressed cardboard, mimicking the adult war around us. It somehow soothed the distress of our world. In WWII, it was impossible to find many toys, let alone afford any. Some kids were lucky enough to have cap guns, but caps were scarce since it was still the Depression.

An event was held in the park to determine who had the best-decorated house. One family had a display of a lighted Santa, sleigh, and reindeer that covered the entire length of their home. Of course, during the war years, this was done at dusk because of the blackouts.

Despite all that was happening in the world around us, we tried our best to make the war invisible, although losing loved ones was not easy. If there is a time of year when one misses a loved one the most, it's Christmas. Our community showed admirable resilience and determination in keeping the war at bay. 

Our childhood games in the woods were a source of pure joy.  Word spread that the dime store (now Cookin') had some caps. So, with cash in hand, we bought a box of Red Dot caps, five rolls in all, for 5 cents: One Box Per Customer.  We used to climb fir trees and slide down the yielding branches to the ground. The kid covered with the most pitch had the best time. The woods were great for games of all kinds.

We played games to busy the mind and body, sometimes even in winter. The best activity by far was the anticipation of Santa arriving in Madison Park. Yes, as busy as he was, he found time for us in our little community. He sat on a big, decorated chair on the tennis courts where a long line of kids waited with lists in hand, somehow knowing Santa would be hard-pressed to find most of the toys he hoped for. The Madison Park merchants handed out candy canes and other treats, fostering community and togetherness.

In the 50s, especially around the holidays, we would have a few beers at the local bars in Madison Park. It seemed appropriate to hit the Wai Mai afterward, then, around 3 a.m., the Black and Tan, then the 605, followed by the Ebony Club. As the sun rose and we headed east, we sometimes found ourselves at Bird Land at 22nd and Madison, where I once sat right in front of Ray Charles as he played some old favorites.

The Attic opened around 9 a.m. and beckoned us to enjoy a pan-fried steak and a yellow onion. Mac McCart, the owner at the time, would cook this combo for us after we purchased the ingredients from the Village Foods next door. It was proper to have a couple of cold beers then because it was still part of the night before. There was no hangover with this procedure, only a 24-hour sleep marathon. 

I remember one particular New Year's Day in the 60s, waking to loud purring in my ear from Killer, my cat. It was her way of telling me, "Time for breakfast ."Due to the previous night's cocktail over-ingestion,  it took all my strength to open one eyeball. The continuous kneading of my head persuaded me to sit upright and face the music. To make matters worse, it was a bright sunny day: the curse of the hangover victim.

My head throbbed as I slithered toward the bathroom. Killer wove herself between my legs, aiming me toward the kitchen, but I needed to stop to find a cure. Through red, squinty eyes, I scanned the medicine cabinet and found a plethora of Rx's that would cure many an ailment but none that would solve, once and for all, the age-old dilemma of over-imbibing. 

Persistent in her quest for food, Killer steered me toward the kitchen. Sliding one foot in front of the other, my head throbbing, I steadied myself on the counter. My fingers touched a small sample sent in the mail the day before. There it was, like a message from a higher power: a product called "Fizzaren," a little bigger than aspirin and smaller than an Alka Seltzer. Without reading the directions, I poured a big glass of water and popped two medium-sized tablets into my mouth. I stood looking out the back door and noticed a strange foaming action on the back of my tongue. I quickly gulped the big glass of water only to find those little tablets exploding into a massive foam that refused to swallow. Oh, and one more little thing:  I couldn't breathe!

I fell on my back with arms and legs flailing and slid across the living room floor toward the front door. Killer sat staring, her eyes as wide as Alka Seltzer tablets, watching my weird rug dance come to an abrupt stop. I belched so loud she jumped a foot. I lay there in a cold sweat, my heart pounding and my body shaking, and I started to laugh; I was relieved it was all over. I felt better, but I would not recommend this crude remedy. Later, I discovered that the trick was to dissolve the tablets in water, but then I would have missed the unique experience in my quest for an overindulgence cure.

One hangover remedy we roommates discovered was to rim a flower vase-sized beer schooner with lemon, roll it in sugar, fill it with crushed ice, and pop it in the freezer. After a night of overtime drinking, it was a real treat around 4 a.m. to wake up dry-mouthed to a cold glass of half apple juice, half club soda, and the juice of half a lemon. That first gulp usually left the glass empty and ready for a refill, followed by licking the sugar and lemon from the rim.   This at least replenished the liquid loss our depleted bodies suffered.

A cure introduced in the 1970s was a coin-operated machine at the Red Onion Tavern for people suffering from the previous night's overindulgences. One had to wear a cone-shaped cup over a nozzle to inhale pure oxygen. The effect lasted only 10 to 20 minutes, so several visits were required.

The days of drinking are over. Can you imagine driving home in the early morning from hitting all those popular spots and being barely able to drive because of the lack of sleep? Yeah, that's it—the lack of sleep. These days, it is best to spend time at home with a good glass of wine or two and reminisce about how we managed to party so heartily. Those were some mighty fine times.

Of course, the old standby, "the hair of the dog that bit you," worked for my wife once. It was our first date 45 years ago in February. We were introduced at the Red Onion the week before, and I wanted to invite her for dinner. She said she may have crossed the good wine line because of the previous night's malfunction and didn't feel perky enough to accept a date. I mentioned they called me "The Doctor" and would cure her with a little White Russian, a lovely drink of Kahlua, vodka, and milk. Well, she was healed, all right. The White Russian, new friends, a game called Six Penny, and dinner at Elliott Bay Fish and Oyster resulted in a beautiful romance that has lasted till this day.

Since the early 2000s, I have avoided participating in the downtown Christmas shopping experience. I imagine heaving masses of people on the streets and in the stores, the piped music playing way too loud, coffee barristers selling magic "keep-shopping" potions, the fantastic, rather unbelievable sale prices, the way too many perfume or candle samples wafting in stores, the drums beating frenziedly on the street, the sidewalk doomsday foreseers exclaiming their beliefs, and the stress to get the shopping and decorating completed before the relatives arrive along with attending countless gussy-up parties every weekend night pretty much puts one over the edge.

These days, de-stressing during the holidays means sleeping in, perhaps watching a recorded episode of Judge Judy, never turning on the news, and by January 5, when one hopes everything is back to normal. My well-meaning wife, great family, and good friends help me to "un-Scrooge" and get into the holiday spirit every year. The one thing that genuinely jumpstarts me is venturing into an electronic store! Every imaginable toy can be had. Seeing how far TV and sound equipment have come is mind-boggling. I have become kid-like with eyes aglow, and I would like to know if Santa might reward me with a bright, shiny electronic object.

I sit down to write this month's column, fully prepared to take on the New Year with good intentions. It has been a challenge to muster enthusiasm for the holiday season. As the saying goes, anything worth doing is worth doing to excess; consequently, for some, Amazon bills and hangovers can sometimes run amok at the beginning of the year.