Stilts

A dreary, foggy December day was unwinding in northern Humboldt County when my wisecracking brother Mike approached me for a ride "downtown".   He refused to tell me why until I had secured the use of Grandma's late 1960’s model Ford Fairlane.  I was a new driver so this was no easy feat.  As I drove the 7 miles to the little shopping center, Mike told me he wanted to go to Chilcott's.  I remember being surprised because Chilcott's was the toy store.  Mike announced he was going to get our younger brother Chris a present.  After I rather rudely reminded him that money would be needed, he grinned and said, "Just park the car and follow me".  I did follow him, and what that14 year old mischievous brother of mine did that December afternoon still brings tears to my eyes.

 

For a few weeks each year, the days of Christmas bless us with a handful of weeks filled with the making of new memories, the remembering of old.     Memories from childhoods and brand new bicycles, memories of early adulthood and making do with little or nothing,  memories of raising  children and prayers that the magic of these days will live in their hearts forever, for some the memories of grandchildren’s excitement.  For many, if not most, Christmas does bring at least a remembrance or two of difficult times.  The sleighs and Santa sacks of people everywhere are filled with a bit of both.  Many difficult times are best left in the past.  Some however, can be worth revisiting.  A few may even become our most beloved memories.

Our parents divorced when I was 13 years old.  My older sister was 14. We were five “Stone Kids” rounded out with Mike at 11, Dennice at 9, and Chris at 6.  Dad moved out, Mom went to work, Sharon went to work, and I stayed home with what we still refer to as "the little kids".  We are in our late 40's and 50's now but it is still how I describe my younger siblings. A few years passed with more than a few "stories you'll talk about when you're older" added to the memory banks.  Mom collapsed at her night job managing a bowling alley in the Bay Area when I was 16, and it became obvious that changes were necessary.   Our knight in shining armor was Mom's brother, our Uncle Harvey, who in two days’ time had us and our few belongings moved back to our Grandparents home in Humboldt County. 

To this day I can't imagine the change my Grandma and Grandpa had to deal with.  Their quiet retired life in what they referred to as "God’s Country" was turned muddled and chaotic with the invasion of their 38 year old daughter and her rowdy brood of 5 into their 2 bedroom cottage type home.  Grandpa was gentle and nurturing to his new housemates, and Grandma proceeded to spend less time in her garden and more time cooking and cleaning.  We "Stone Kids" were enrolled in local schools and attempted to adjust to a very different life.  Humboldt County in the 70's was much like it is today, stuck in the 60's, and a world apart from the Bay Area.  Culture shock is an overused term in my opinion, but it works here.  Mom spent much of the next several months in bed and it was a tough time.  We were lucky to have our Grandparents as a soft landing zone. Perhaps my most treasured childhood Christmas memory comes from these first years back in Humboldt County.

Christmas was nearing and it was no secret that money was nearly non-existent, though it certainly could have been much worse.  We were actually very fortunate.  We did not go hungry, and we were not homeless.  We had Grandparents who were managing to care for us, and Mom was beginning to pick herself up a bit.  One early December afternoon, the five of us were called to sit on Grandmas' brown upholstered sofa, which was already showing signs of being used as a bed by one or more of us.  

Mom announced to us in a soft, yet strong voice, that our Christmas present that year would be a load of peeler cores.  Grandma and Grandpas house had only wood heat, and peeler cores (waste logs purchased from a local mill) were an economical way to heat the place.   We were encouraged to help in the splitting and stacking of the cores into actual firewood.  There would be no presents under the tree.  We all had a unique and developed sense of humor and Mike, now age 14, was no exception. He stood up loud, proud,  and freckle faced with wild brown curls hiding his ears and shading his eyes announcing, "I don't care if there's only one present under the tree, as long as it's for me!”   Laughter and pillow throwing ensued, as we five assured our Mother that the firewood would be a great gift for our family. 

I was more than a little apprehensive on that foggy December afternoon as I followed my brother Mike into the toy store.  My uneasiness grew  as he approached the husband and wife owners at the counter, who kindly asked what they could help him find.  His reply was quite polite and very clear.  "Do you have any broken toys I can have?"  Owners Mrs. Chilcott and her husband looked sideways at me, then at each other, then back to Mike.  "What kind of things are you looking for?" Mr. Chilcott asked.  With his hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn corduroy pants, Mike grinned shyly and said, "I need a present for my little brother".  Mr. Chilcott told Mike that they didn't really keep the broken things around but motioned at us to follow him through the store as he mumbled something under his breath.   We followed him to a doorway in the back of the store walking between the shelves of board games and wire bins of giant bouncing balls and waited as he disappeared into the dimly lit and somehow magical back room.  After hearing a few muffled grunts and unrecognizable words from beyond the doorway and what sounded like boxes being pushed across the tile floor, the store owner emerged holding two long square wooden poles.  They were blue.  I can close my eyes and see them clearly even now.   They were stilts.

Mr. Chilcott handed Mike a pair of royal blue stilts, dusty and a bit scratched, with one missing footrest and the other dangling loosely to its place on the blue pole.   Mike informed Mr. Chilcott that these were perfect and assured him that he was capable of fixing them up.  Mike and I both thanked the husband and wife team and headed out the door with Mike explaining to me his plans for repair.   We headed back to Woody Road with two royal blue stilts wedged from the back seat through the open passenger window, and my brother Mike hanging tightly to his Christmas treasure.  Somehow we managed to sneak the stilts into the back of Grandpas garage without anyone seeing us.  I don't remember seeing Mike work on the stilts over the next several days, but we exchanged knowing glances whenever the subject of our peeler core Christmas present came up. 

On Christmas morning, Mike and I were up first.  Mike snuck out of the house and returned on tiptoes carrying the now shining royal blue stilts.   A few scratches were still evident but these stilts now had freshly painted, securely attached footrests of the same bright red color I’d seen Grandpa using on an old patio chair the past summer.  Others in the house slowly awakened and came to sit in the glow of the tree lights as was our tradition.  Grandma and Grandpa had managed to purchase each of us new pajamas, and Grandma had them wrapped handsomely so we did each have a present to open.   As we sat admiring our new sleepwear, Mike pulled the stilts from their hiding place behind the old piano and proudly presented them to Chris.   OH’s and awes came from almost everyone except Mom.  She sat staring at her eldest son with a look I can only describe as astonished pride.  A brotherly and nearly dangerous hug followed as the two boys attempted to keep from smacking the rest of us with one end or another of the awkwardly intersecting  stilts.  Amazingly they managed to avoid knocking over the already inclined Christmas tree.  Mike beamed as Chris examined the gift.  “Merry Christmas Little Brother”.  

Chris was the first of the "Stone Kids" to learn stilt-walking, and over the next months we all learned the skill.  Mom even gave it a shot a time or two.   Hours upon hours were spent on those poles over the years and at times arguments took place as to whose turn it was to exhibit their sense of balance, or lack of it as the case may have been.  We could all walk on stilts, some more gracefully than others.  We had to maneuver around the firewood logs for a while, but we could all walk on stilts.  Some of our children can walk on stilts as well. They learned on that same set of royal blue scratched up stilts with red footrests which they found still stored in their Great- Grandfathers old garage.

Nearly 40 years have now passed since that Christmas. We have all been blessed with many Christmas seasons since and have undoubtedly added to our collection of wonderful memories.   We’ve each had our own struggles, and added to the difficult memory sack as well, perhaps dealing a bit more easily with those struggles in part because of what we learned during earlier times.  While Chris was the recipient of the treasured and well used royal blue stilts that year, the rest of the Stone Kids shared in that joy, and I truly believe it was our brother Mike who received the most wonderful and lasting gift of all.