A Tonka Truck for Christmas

Christmas Day, 1960, stands out in my memory for one reason—I wanted a Tonka pickup truck more than anything else.  I was five years old.  Tonka trucks were real and rugged, not like the wood and plastic vehicles I had up until then.  I asked Santa for this particular toy.  It topped my list. The story of how I came to get the truck is one of my fondest Christmas memores.

The Lead Up to Christmas

Mom made Christmas really special, all while raising a family that eventually expanded to six children.  She baked, decorated, bought and wrapped the gifts.  She would send out the Christmas cards, dozens of them it seemed, written and addressed in her neat cursive hand writing. Penmanship was prized. (Christmas cards and even the long distance phone calls to absent family members seems a declining pastime in a world of instantaneous messaging and holiday emojis.  The annual Christmas letter, explaining what had happened since the previous year’s letter is a vanishing tradition).

The weekend before Christmas was reserved for decorating.  Dad would hang the wreath, bring the tree up from the basement, place it in the stand, and turn the adjusting  screws to hold it firmly and vertically in place.  He would plug in the string of lights and sometimes get very frustrated when he could not find the burned out bulb that killed the illumination of the entire string.  (Prior to the mid-1960s, our light strings were wired in series.  If one bulb burned out, the entire string would not light until the offending bulb or bulbs were found and replaced.)  Once lighted, he would wind the lights around the tree and place the angel atop.  Water needed to be placed in the reservoir of the stand immediately and every morning thereafter or the tree would dry out.  Municipal fire departments warned that dry trees would catch fire from the heat of the bulbs. 

Everything else for getting the tree decorated was mom and kids happy task. We had to be careful hanging the glass ball and more intricate ornaments.  Wire hooks atop the ornament held them firmly to the tree.  We would then set up the manger, placing the figures of Baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph at the center.  We then found places for the  supporting cast of angels, shepherds, wisemen and livestock.  After all that, it was time to bake cookies.  Mom would roll out the cookie dough on the cutting board using a cloth sleeved rolling pin.  We would use holiday-themed cookie cutters to cut the dough, decorate each cookies.  Mom would put them in the oven.  The smell of baking cookies would fill the house. 

Mom used to say that as kids we had “three Christmases.”  First, on Christmas Eve, we would open gifts from family members—siblings and out-of-town grandparents, aunts and uncles.  Second, after we were asleep on Christmas Eve, Santa would come (my parents getting items out of the attic and placing them under the tree or in our stockings), which the kids would behold with awe on Christmas morning.  Third, on Christmas Day, in-town relatives would come by the house on Marion Street or we would go to my cousin’s house a few blocks away, bearing even more gifts. Christmas was one of the two times a year we would receive gifts of toys (and clothes), the other being our birthday. 

December 25^th, 1960

Early on Christmas morning, shortly after my parents turned in, we three kids, Johnny, Mike, and I, awoke and began to reconnoiter the toys Santa had left under the tree in the living room.  Santa’s gifts were never wrapped.  His presents were the best of the three Christmases.  We were not allowed to go into the living room until my parents said we could go. But, if we turned on the light in the bathroom halfway between the bedrooms and the living room, we could make out the edge of the toys until the dim light was swallowed by the living room’s darkness.  Each one of us would go out and in turn report back to the others on what little we could see.  My dad would inevitably yell for us to “go back to sleep.”  I doubt that we ever did.  We would repeatedly ask “can we get up NOW?”  After repeated queries and an exasperated affirmative grunt from my dad, we would race down the hall and into the living room.  We turned on the lights and momentarily stood in awe of the bounty, trying to figure out which toys belonged to whom.

I looked for my Tonka truck but could not see it.  I rummaged around desperately looking for it.  Where could it be?  I looked everywhere under the tree.  I looked in those sections my brothers had claimed as theirs.  It was nowhere to be found.  I had lots of other toys, just not the one I had my heart set on.  Santa had let me down. I began to cry. “I didn’t get my truck.” 

I was inconsolable.  How could that happen especially after I had left him milk and cookies and a sliced apple for the reindeer?  My older brothers stopped their own rummaging and came over to help, showing me all the other great toys Santa left.  At some point, I realized the truck wasn’t going to drive up.  I moved on to the treasures that had been left, still hoping the truck would be found.

Too soon the fun our toy revelation ended. We had to get ready for Christmas Mass at Saint Margaret Mary Parish and celebrate the true reason for the day.  We scooted into our new 1960 Chevy station wagon.  I felt very safe in that vehicle compared to the old Mercury it replaced.  When the back seat floorboards rusted through and holes appeared,  dad reluctantly concluded it was time to get a new car. 

The rest of the day has faded into the shadows of a five-year-old’s memory.  I assume that it followed the regular pattern of our Christmas Days thereafter.  Utmost was the phone call to my dad’s parents on the East coast, trying to get an open line on our home phone’s party line and then trying to get a long distance circuit.  After the call, the kids played with toys, mom prepared Christmas dinner, dad played host and bar tender to friends and relatives that came by.  The men drifted into the basement, the kids to the living room, the women congregated in the kitchen.  We lived in a 900 square foot, three bedroom, one bath, ranch style home.  Between people, gifts, and food, there was not a lot of room to spare.

December 26^th, 1960

When I awoke the next morning and went into the living room I beheld one of the most beautiful sights in my long five year life.  Under the tree, I spied a shiny, brand new beige-color Tonka stake bed truck.  I was happily confused.  Had our searches the day before not been thorough?  A note attached to the truck, read to me by my mom, explained.

 

I had my truck. I was happier than I had ever been and maybe ever since.  If anyone needed proof that Santa was real, that note proved it. 

For many years after learning the true nature of Santa, I assumed my dad had scoured the city Christmas Day night to find the toy truck. Then I realized that in 1960, no place in the City of Milwaukee was open that would have carried that toy.  I was well into adulthood when I asked him where he found it. 

“Oh yeah,” he responded, “you blubbered your eyes out over that damn truck.  We had bought it early to make sure it would not sell out and you would have it.  We put it in the attic.  When we went to get the toys, it got covered by the access panel.  I knew that it would still be in the attic that Christmas morning, but I couldn’t get away to get it down.  I got it down Christmas night when you were all asleep.”

 I am pretty sure dad wrote the note; it has a neat blueprint lettering quality to it.  Mom saved it.  I did not see it again until after she passed when dad sent me the items she saved—baby  books, every school picture taken from kindergarten through high school, every report card, school programs, and other items that moms collect regarding their kids.  Dad saved tools, fittings, nuts and bolts, scraps of wood and screws.  Mom saved mementos.

Closing Thoughts

As I look back six decades later, I realize that Christmases around our house were wildly indulgent.  I wonder if that was so because of the sparse Christmases our parents experienced as Great Depression era children.  I recall being told that my fraternal grandfather, a carpenter and later house builder, would make the toys my dad and his brothers received at Christmas.  My mom would relate how some winter months they had to take their wagon to pick up “County coal” to heat the house.  

In 1960, our standard of living was great for two adults and four children. (My younger brother, Bob, was born earlier that year.) My dad probably made about $6000 a year from his job as a draftsman at the AC Sparkplug facility in Oak Creek.  After being discharged from the US Army Air Forces after the war, he used his GI Bill benefits to attend the Milwaukee School of Engineering.  He received his associate degree in technology, got a job, married my mom, and started a family. He purchased the home, again using his GI Bill benefits, the year I was born.  Everyone in the neighborhood had similar stories.

We lived frugally.  Kids received gifts twice a year, on our birthday and at Christmas.  For our birthdays, we surgically removed the wrapping paper so it could be reused for other birthdays.  At Christmas, we were allowed to tear the wrapping paper off the box.  Gifts from the out-of-town family members usually meant clothes from Gimbels Department Store or the Boston Store.  Mom would buy these items with money that was sent by relatives, place the items in Gimbels/Boston Store shirt boxes, and wrap and label each one.  Mom appreciated the durable construction of a gift box.  Those shirt boxes were more indestructible than the gifts they contained.  I think we used them annually well into the 1990s. I have one from the Boston Store that has to be at least 50 years old. 

Yeah, dad knew how to make Christmas; mom really knew how to make Christmas special. 

They always insisted that they really wanted nothing from us for Christmas.  What they really wanted as we grew into adulthood was for us to spend a little time with them, not much, come by just long enough for a visit and a meal.  Time was the one thing that I thought in the moment was in short supply; there would always be more time “later.”  Later rarely makes up for the time owed.  

What I would not give today if I could hug them and say “Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad.  Thank you for everything”