Remember When

Two things have happened. First of all, Christmas has come and gone like a breeze.

Now, it was New Year’s Eve and Christmas school vacations were coming to a close.

Like most folks in our neighborhood, our cedar Christmas tree was fading to brown with needles littering the rug.

Mama and I carefully placed each ornament in a sheet of tissue paper saved from last year.

We carefully packed the lights, burned out bulbs and all; the war was on and we didn’t throw anything away.

As Dec. 25 draws closer, it’s not unusual for service members and their families to be apart or away from home for the holidays.

When I was in the military, many of my Christmases were celebrated on days far removed from cold December mornings. It came with the territory.

However, one year was different.

I had just completed a tour of duty on an isolated Pacific island.

The pickle jar was a fixture in my parent’s bedroom. It sat on the floor beside the dresser and when Dad got ready for bed, he would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.

The sounds that pocket change made as they were dropped into the jar were always fascinating. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. However, the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled.

In my heyday, (the early 1950s), I was a real football hotshot in the making for the Lancaster High School, or so I thought. However, some of my former Blue Hurricanes classmates will probably refute the notion that I was anyone’s gridiron hero, so I had best not brag too much about my football prowess. Why, you ask? Because nothing is worse than  being exposed.  You know, it’s sorta like loosing your swim trucks while coming through the underwater gate at the old Springs Swimming Pool. Now, back in the o