Christmas in Wilmette 1954

 A Christmas in Wilmette I'll never forget

About a year after my first trip to the Carlson Building in Evanston, Dr. Grover said it was time to remove my braces. As I got ready for my appointment, Mom said it might snow later, so I put on my rubber galoshes, a heavy coat, and a wool cap with matching mittens that my aunt Betty had made for me. I had about $7 in my pocket and reached in to count it one last time.

In front of the ‘L’ station, the Duncan yo-yo man was demonstrating all the cool things you could do with a yo-yo, even in the winter. "It's the perfect gift for Christmas," he said to the small group of people watching. "And only twenty-five cents each." I fished out a quarter, then changed my mind. The only yo-yo I ever owned ended up in my sock drawer after a frustrating week of practice.

Inside the terminal, I slid my quarter across the counter at the ticket booth. A token for the return ride was pushed back, with the same instructions I’d heard a dozen times: “No running and watch your step.”

The train waiting on the platform was one of the old wooden ones, packed with shoppers and way too hot. Ten minutes later I got off at Davis Street, happy to be out in the fresh air, walking in the late afternoon twilight. All the shops were brightly lit with Christmas decorations.

The big clock on the Marshall Field department store said I still had about 30 minutes before my appointment, so I went in to Neisner’s dime store in search of presents for my family.Their front windows were crammed with ideas for the holidays. Inside, the smell of fresh buttered popcorn hit me, and I bought a small bag for ten cents. Fifteen minutes later, I had picked out an assortment of gifts, including a little sewing kit for Mom and a big black plastic comb for my dad. For Roy, I bought the latest Carl Perkins record, and for Earl, a miniature diecast hot-rod car with flames on the side.

I was stuck on what to get Pauline, but a lady at the cosmetics counter suggested a bottle of perfume called Radio Girl. “It’s made right here in Chicago,” she added. “And it’s only $1.25.” That was a lot more than I wanted to spend, but the little glass bottle was shaped just like the old radio my sister listened to up in her room. It was perfect.

With my presents and popcorn in a red paper bag, I headed over to the Carlson Building. I was going to save the popcorn for the train ride home but couldn’t resist trying some while it was still hot. In the elevator, the smell of buttered popcorn permeated the air and then, on the fifth floor, followed me down the hall.

Dr. Grover’s receptionist, who sat behind a small opening in the waiting room, said something smelled like popcorn as she put my coat, galoshes, hat, gloves, and bag of presents in the back room for safe keeping.

When Dr. Grover came in and said, “Open wide!” that’s exactly what I did. I was excited to get rid of my braces and wanted to be extra helpful. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Have you been eating popcorn?” I said I'd eaten some on the way over.

It took another fifteen minutes to clean all the kernels out of my braces and between my teeth. This included a lot of rinsing and spitting into the small porcelain bowl next to the chair. Finally, I was ready.

Dr. Grover wanted to numb the pain I might feel, so he gave me a hefty dose of laughing gas. I’d had it before, but it never made me laugh. All I remember next was staring out the window and watching what looked like swirling bits of snow blowing around in lazy circles. I also saw a rocket ship with some monkeys inside. Then I lost track of time.

When Dr. Grover was finished, he left to work on another patient. His assistant, Miriam, put me on a little couch in the back room and told me to lie down until the effects of the gas wore off. Mostly, though, I just ran my tongue over and over across my teeth.

By the time I was OK to head home, Miriam helped me bundle up. She handed me my bag of presents, minus the popcorn, and sent me on my way, adding, “No more popcorn or hard food for a day or so.” I was still feeling relaxed, so that was OK with me.

Out on the street, it was dark, with several inches of new snow on the sidewalks. When I got to the station, though, something was wrong. There were no lights on outside, or even inside the building. Several buses were lined up at the corner, and a lot of people were milling about in the snow, talking, shaking their heads.

A man in a long coat saw me and came over. “Where you headed, son?” I said 4th and Linden in Wilmette and he laughed. “Well, that’s not going to happen. It’s a blizzard and the power’s out. The trains aren’t running.”

I began thinking about the time I had once missed my stop, and that feeling of not knowing what to do hit me again. “Don’t worry, kid. See those folks over there?”

Four men and an older lady about my mom's age were climbing into a 303 cab. “What’s your name?” he asked. I told him my name, age, address on Greenleaf, even my phone number. “Well Mark, you come with me.”

I followed him over to the cab, where he stuck his head in the back window. “Hey, everyone, this is Mark. He needs to get up to Wilmette. Can you drop him off on your way?”

"Sure thing," said the lady, sitting on someone's lap. "Hop in, plenty of room back here, the more the merrier!" But the cab driver told me to get in front with him, and off we went.

It was slow going, and slippery. In the back, a bottle of something was being passed around. Probably not ginger ale. As we passed Northwestern University, they began singing along to a Christmas carol playing on the radio. I sat quietly up front, watching the snow, and trying to read the driver's name on the ID card pinned to the dash. It was a long name, Stanislav Rudolph Dombrowski, and it didn't seem to go with the little guy in a wool cap who was driving us along Sheridan Road. The cabby smiled when he noticed my interest in his ID card.

"You know, my mother wanted me to be special. Now, here I am driving cab in the snow." He paused for a minute to make a left-hand turn on Linden Avenue. "Anyway, at least our cabs are special. By the way, my friends call me Stan."

A few minutes later, about seven o’clock, Stan pulled up in front of our house, where Roy was shoveling the driveway. As I got out, Mom came running over to thank everyone for bringing me home. She wanted to pay something, but Stan said it was Christmas, and they were only too happy to help.

I was so relieved to be back, I’d momentarily forgotten my bag of presents on the front seat. About midway down the block, Stan's 303 cab stopped and then slowly backed up. “I think you forgot this," he laughed as he handed me my bag through the front window.

I just stood there, in my galoshes, holding my bag and watching Stan's taillights disappear in the snowstorm, thinking about how different I would've felt if he hadn't come back.

203Brent Jespersen, Suzanne Bean and 201 others

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