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December 1959
Peggy Standish
"PLEASE, please do NOT
call on me.” I pressed my back against the chair
and slid down to the edge of my seat until my chin
nearly sat on top of my desk, certain that I’d become invisible behind Dottie
Dombrowski.
“Peggy, can you tell me what
the word, “misapprehension” means?”
Rats! My strategy failed. It
was no use hiding, Sister Mary Therese had eyes in the back of her habit.
I hadn’t done anything other
than glance at last night’s homework. I grabbed the sides of my seat, and
pushing myself upright, made a stab at the answer.
Let’s see now, I thought to
myself, misapprehension is like two words put together, mis and apprehension. “Mis”, well the
meaning for that is obvious enough, and “apprehension” sounds a lot like
apprehended, which could mean being arrested. I heard Sergeant Joe Friday use
that word on one of Dad’s favorite police TV shows, Dragnet.
“Misapprehension,” I
repeated. “Means you just missed getting arrested.”
Then I heard it, a familiar
sarcastic snicker at the front of the room. Only one human being could make
that sound. Becky Know-It-All Newton’s arm snapped up like an arrow shot from a
bow. Nobody else in the classroom had a chance.
“I know what the right answer
is, Sister.” She looked over her shoulder at me, smirking with
satisfaction. “Misapprehension: is
a false impression or incorrect understanding, especially of somebody's
intentions. As in this sentence, “Peggy is giving her teacher the
misapprehension of doing her vocabulary homework last night.”
It goes without saying that I
could not stand Rebecca Newton. There was no reason for her to add that example
sentence, but she never could resist the opportunity to show someone up by putting them down. I should have expected it.
“Thank you, Rebecca,” Sister
Mary Therese said and then added. “However, next time please wait until I
acknowledge you before giving me your answer.”
Sometimes, there is justice
in the world.
********************
The two hands of the
classroom clock met and pointed straight up to the sky, setting off the noon
bell. We lined up, half of the students heading for the lunchroom, the other
half for home.
I sat at the cafeteria table
with my buddies and reached into my brown bag. What did Mom pack today? Of
course, there was the usual healthy piece of fruit, but what about the
sandwich? Turkey, salami, ham on rye? My stomach had been rumbling the last
hour, and I was more than ready to pull apart the aluminum foil wrapper to
reveal its contents. Liverwurst. Unappetizing, brown as the bag I brought it
in, liverwurst. I pushed it aside. I’d have to be content with the apple that I
usually traded for a Twinkie or tossed in the trash.
Wormeater (you don’t want to
know how he got his nickname) lunged for my leavings. Liverwurst was just fine
with him. “Well,” he said to Jeff and the rest of our lunch crew, “it looks
like I’ll be busy for the next couple of weeks practicing.”
“Practicing what?” Jeff
asked.
“Dancing. You do know the
Christmas Snow Ball is just two weeks away.”
The Snow Ball is a party that
was reserved for sixth, seventh and eighth graders. It’s supposed to be a fun
way for the upper-grade kids to kick off the two weeks of Christmas
vacation while teaching students proper etiquette at a formal dance.
“Of course, I remember,” chimed in my best friend, Kenna,
“though no one’s asked me to go with them…yet.” She glanced moon-eyed at Jeff
across the table.
“I’d ask my brother to help
me,” Wormeater continued, “but I don’t think he knows any more about the Hand Jive or the Stroll
than I do.” Then, he turned to me and said, “Hey, Peggy, your sister Babs is
pretty cool. Do you think if I came over she could teach me some of the new
dances?”
I suddenly stopped chewing my
mealy apple. Wormeater liked me, but the feeling was one sided - his.
Anyway, that wasn’t saying much, he liked a lot of girls.
"I’ll see,” I said,
though I had no intention of asking my sister any such thing. I wasn’t about to
encourage him.
I looked at Jeff who was
sitting next to me. He had an expression on his face somewhere between
acceptance and anxiety. And I knew why too, it could be summed up in one word,
Emaline.
Emaline Bogs was a big girl -
bigger than most of my classmates (boys included) and fully developed (if you
know what I mean). Heck! She should be, this is her third time around in the
sixth grade and now her younger brother, Luther, who’s caught right up to her,
is in our classroom also. Having two members of the Bogs' family in the same
space with the rest of us is trouble waiting to happen.
The season of comfort and joy
struck fear in the heart of every male in our classroom. It was Emaline’s
tradition to take the cutest boy in her
class to the Snow Ball. Like I said, it was her
tradition; the boy she chose didn’t have a choice. Worst of all, her
brothers were the school bullies of St. Sebastian. There were enough of them to
go around for each grade, so whatever Emaline wanted, she got.
This year Emaline targeted Jeffrey Drumbott or Jeff “Dreamboat” as Kenna called
him. He had been an ordinary looking kid like the rest of us, but over the
summer, he stretched three inches, his voice deepened and his features changed
from round and rosy-cheeked to chiseled and rugged. Though I wasn’t
into boys (at least not that I cared to admit to anyone) even I had to own up
that he was good looking.
Emaline sniffed out Jeffrey
and strolled over to our table. She slammed her tray down, tomato soup
splashing on to her grilled cheese sandwich and sat across from him. “See
you before the dance at 7:00 sharp,” she barked and then added, “Oh yeah, my dress is pink, don’t ferget to bring a corsage.” Then she
slurped up the soup, shoved down the sandwich and went off to join
her brothers. Things must have been done differently in
the Appalachians where the Bogs’ family used to live. Around here, boys
usually do the asking when it came to dates and dancing. It was clear that
Emaline wasn’t bothered by propriety of
any sort, she didn’t even ask Jeff if he would like to take her, but then
again, she didn’t have to.
You would think that since
he’d grown some and was now only a couple inches shorter than Emaline, he
wouldn’t be afraid to tell her to get lost. But you’d be wrong. Crossing
Emaline meant that you’d cross her brothers at the same time. The Bogs’ family
was stickier than Elmer’s rubber cement glue. If you messed with one member,
you messed with all of them. Jeff was a goner, and he knew it.
“What’ll I do?” he asked when
Emaline was out of earshot.
“Nothing,” Wormeater
told him through his beaver teeth. Pushing his thick glasses up his nose, he
said, “If you don’t go to the dance with her, she and her brothers will clobber
you.” He wiped the liverwurst from the corners of his mouth.
“Well, I need to do something
to get out of this situation,” Jeff said.
Wormeater’s bushy eyebrows
flattened into a single line across his forehead. “You need something alright.
You need a miracle.”
********************
That evening, as my family
sat around the dinner table exchanging happenings of the day, I told them about
the Snow Ball and Jeffrey’s problem.
I don’t see a way out for
him, he’s doomed,” said Babs. She was as familiar with the Bogs’ bullying as I
was. “I sure would like to be at the dance to see the expression
on everyone's face as Emaline waltzes in with Jeff.”
“Aren’t you going?” I asked
my older sister.
“No, and neither are you.”
“What?”
“We’re going downtown that
day for our Christmas outing. It’s all been arranged. Dad is going to take a
half day off of work to meet us there,” she told me.
You would think that my older
sister and I would squawk about not being able to attend the school dance, but
you’d be wrong. Babs had her reasons, and I had mine.
I’m sure that my older sister
would have liked to go, but there was a rule in our house (actually it was
Dad’s rule) of no dating boys until you were sixteen. So I understood where
Babs was coming from. In Dad’s strict eyes, going to a school dance with a boy
constituted an official date, it didn’t matter if the Sisters of St. Sebastian
sanctioned it or not. Babs was taking no chances, she was popular and knew
she’d be asked. This was as good as a way as any to avoid the embarrassment of
going alone.
I, on the other hand, had my own concerns. Being on the shy side,
dancing with boys in order to learn the social graces of life was something
that I wouldn’t mind delaying for a while.
“We are going to see Uncle
Mistletoe in Marshall Field’s department store window,” said Katie changing the
subject.
“Me too,” echoed Jimmy, her
twin. “We’re going to visit Santa, and eat lunch under the big Christmas tree
in the Peanut Room.”
“It’s called the Walnut
Room,” Mom corrected Jimmy.
********************
“How much does a corsage
cost?” Jeff asked me the next day at school.
“I see you haven’t found a
way to wriggle out of it,” I said, ignoring his question for which I had no
answer.
“Nope.” He hung his head in
resignation. “Not only do I have to take her, I have to spend my money on her
too.”
“Maybe you could find a way
to cut out of the dance early?”
“What?” Wormeater jumped in.
“Are you a ditz? Did you forget that some of Emaline’s brothers will be there
too?”
“Emaline won’t let you out of
her sight, she’ll make you dance every dance with her,” said Kenna and then
added with a sigh, “She’s not the sharing kind.”
Wormeater doused Jeff with
more cold reality. “You’ve only got two weeks to come up with a plan to get out
of it. And it has to be a good one.
One that will make Emaline back off without her brothers going ape.”
“I’m doomed,” Jeff echoed my
sister’s words.
********************
I’m sure that for Jeff those
two weeks moved faster than the speed of sound. It was just a few days before
the dreaded dance when the first school bell of the morning rang. Students lined
up according to grade. The eighth grade first, followed by the seventh grade,
and so on. Suddenly, twitters of laughter and muted whispers flew amongst the
eighth graders at the front. None of us knew what was up until the pipeline of
murmurs made it all the way down to the sixth grade.
Amanda Prittle, who stood in front of me, received the
hushed news from Kenna, who received it from Wormeater. “It’s something about
St. Sebastian,” she leaned into my ear and said in a quiet voice. “Something
about the statue. Pass it on.”
And so I did. By the time the
second bell rang, the word made it all the way to the
first grade. And if you hadn’t heard about it by then, you were sure to see it
for yourself as the procession of pupils passed by the statue of St. Sebastian.
The entire student body knew what had happened to St. Sebastian, except for the
nuns.
********************
As we walked in the classroom
Sister Mary Therese immediately sensed something. She wouldn’t have to wait
long to find out exactly what the source of our unusual behavior was.
“Sister, have you seen what
someone’s done to poor St. Sebastian?” asked Becky.
“What do you mean Rebecca?”
Sister Mary T asked.
“Why, just look, out the
window. I think what’s been done to him is a crime," she said,
adding, “whoever did such a thing should be arrested for vandalism or
something like that.”
Sister Mary T walked over to
the window and gazed down at the front of the church. The reverent statue of
St. Sebastian looked anything but saintly. Sprouting from the top of his haloed
head was a pair of moose antlers. A bright red ball was plopped squarely in the
middle of his pious face over his nose, and a long green and white striped
scarf straddled his neck. The branches of the sculptured tree that the marble
martyr was tied to, glimmered with silver tinsel icicles dangling in the winter
wind.
Though I couldn’t swear by
it, I thought I heard her start to laugh. She quickly covered her mouth with
her hand and changed her tone. “Who on earth would do such a disrespectful
thing?” Sister Mary T asked, clearing her throat.
Of course, she didn’t
directly ask Know-It-All Newton, but she just might as well have.
Becky folded her arms across
her chest with enough attitude and arrogance that would have given President
Eisenhower an inferiority complex. “That’s not hard to figure out,” she said.
“Who do you think would have enough nerve to commit what is practically a
sacrilege?”
With that, the entire class
turned around and looked at Luther and Emaline Bogs.
“What?” Luther stared at us like a
deer caught in the headlights of a car. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.” Though he tried to
fight against it, he couldn’t help but cast an
eye in his sister’s direction.
“Hey! It wasn’t me neither!”
she said.
While the two of them were
busy trying to defend themselves from the suspicions of Sister Mary T and the
students, I pulled on the sleeve of Jeff’s sweater and whispered to him. “You’d
do just about anything to get out of taking Emaline to that dance wouldn’t
you?”
“Sure I would,” he answered
and looked at me like I was crazy for even asking.
“Well, here’s your chance.”
There was a puzzled
expression on Jeff’s face. I could see I would have to do some explaining.
“Listen,” I said, “if Luther Bogs goes down for this, he’s sure to get
expelled. He’s already been suspended twice this year. You get expelled on your
third offense.”
I could see that the power of
understanding was penetrating Jeff’s brain. A look of realization crept across
his face as he hung on to my every word.
“If you said you were the one
who dressed up St. Sebastian like Rudolph
the Red Nosed Reindeer, and take the fall for Luther and Emaline, you’ll be the
one who gets suspended and…” I dragged out the word so Jeff could fill in
the rest of the sentence.
“... I won’t be able to go to
the dance!” he said.
“What’s more,” I added, “the
Bogs will respect you for it, and Emaline will never be able to bother you
again.”
********************
Sentenced to a suspension of
two weeks, Jeff had more than enough time to miss the dance and then some. I
told Mom and Dad the whole story (well, actually not the whole story) of how
Jeff took the fall for Luther and Emaline. I just left out the reason why he
did it.
“That was quite noble of
him,” Mom said. It was the way she used the word noble that made me uncertain
of how much of the story she believed. “I have an idea. Since you’re not going
to the dance and neither is he, why not invite him to come along with us on our
holiday outing?”
As if my raised eyebrows
formed question marks on my forehead, Mom answered, “Don’t worry; your father
won’t think it’s a date.”
********************
The ride on the El train was
not my favorite thing in the world. But, it was a convenient couple of blocks
from our house, and a quick means to an end. In less than a half an hour, we
would arrive in the heart of downtown Chicago.
It was like looking death in
the face when I stood on the skinny
platform of the station. Every so often, I would read about people that were
electrocuted on those tracks in the newspaper, fried like eggs on a Sunday breakfast. And if that wasn’t enough
to make you back away from the edge, there was always the wind that the El
train created when it roared in, ready to suck you under its wheels. I didn’t
feel safe until I was on board.
The train threaded through
the city at roof top level, flashing unfamiliar neighborhood scenes from its
windows. It was a slide show of seedy side streets, back porch life, and a peek
into enticing ethnic areas that were as foreign to me as a different country.
Just as I got used to my bird’s eye view, the train dove into the darkness of
the subway. A continuous howl echoed from the El against the walls of the
underground tunnel and made it nearly impossible to carry on a conversation.
Getting off of that train was the best part of the ride.
From this cold, dark, dingy
and graffitied cavern, we floated up on the escalator and out into the bright
blue of the sky. Tall elegant buildings that seemed to touch the clouds formed
a concrete canyon filled with bustling people, dazzling lights, and traffic. Babs held on to Katie while Jeff and I held on to Jimmy keeping
them safe from being mowed over by fast moving shoppers on crowded crosswalks,
or being blown away by the east breeze whipping off the icy waves of Lake
Michigan. Mom held Danny close, shielding him from the cold. I didn’t think she
had to worry, though; Danny was
bundled in a snowsuit so thick he looked like the Michelin Man.
Jimmy started to talk but
neither Jeff nor I could understand him. He pulled the scarf from his mouth
that muffled his words. “Dad! There’s Dad!”
I had to squint to see the
man that Jimmy’s red-mittened hand
was pointing to. But yes, it was Dad alright, standing beneath the Great Clock
of Marshall Field’s Department store.
When we met up with my father
beneath the hovering timepiece on State Street, we said our hellos and
immediately started the beginning of our Christmas tradition with the tour of
Marshall Field’s windows. They were brimming with the red and green of
Christmas, holiday fantasies, and whimsical characters. The twins, Jimmy, and Katie,
pressed their noses against the panes, they couldn’t get close enough to the
festive magic. It was one eye-candy object right after the other. Uncle
Mistletoe, a little elf with wings, flew around a miniature replica of the
giant Christmas tree that was inside the
store while animated characters hammered and sawed, making new trains,
beautiful dolls, and other toys.
Christmas mice danced in the kitchen and made scrumptious looking pastries and
sweet treats. Finally, when we finished, our red noses chilled, our eyes
watering from the biting cold, we stepped inside.
The store smelled of high
priced perfume, Frango mints, and expensive chocolate. Everywhere I
looked from floor to ceiling was embellished with a lavish garland of gold and silver or some other kind of
holiday paraphernalia. The entire place glittered, shimmered, and shined.
“Are you going to ask Santa
for something too?” Katie asked Jeff.
Jeff looked at me with a half
grin on his face. “I think I’m a little too big to sit on his lap,” he said to
my sister.
“Then, how can you tell Santa
what you want from him? How will he know what to bring you?”
“Don’t you
know anything?” Jimmy said to his twin. “He’ll do what Babs and Peggy are
going to do.”
“What’s that?” I asked Jimmy.
“Write him a letter of
course,” he answered.
“Oh.” Katie sniffed. “Well,
I’m glad I get to sit on Santa’s lap, cause all I can write is my name.”
********************
After the little ones' visit
to Santa, came my favorite part of the Standish Christmas tradition, hot
chocolate heaped with a mound of whipped cream and a slice of Yule log cake
beneath the giant fir tree.
As we walked into the elegant
Walnut Room restaurant with the magnificent Great Tree towering above us, Jeff
looked up, his eyes sparkling with the reflection of the lights on the tree.
“Wow!” was all he could say.
The waiter seated us at a
table close enough to see our faces in the giant ornaments.
“I’ve never been here before,” said
Jeff, as he sat between Dad and me. “It was really nice of your family to let
me join in.”
“Well, my Mom thinks you
deserved a reward, for helping out with the less fortunate,” I told him.
“The less fortunate?”
“That’s what she calls the
Bogs kids. She says that she thinks they don’t have the same advantages as most
children. But then, she doesn’t know them like we do,” I added. “Anyway, Mom
thought that by taking the blame for Luther and saving him from getting
expelled, you were being “noble” and should be rewarded.”
“But, I…” Jeff was
about to blurt out the whole premise behind his act of supposed nobility when I hushed him up.
I removed my hat
and scarf and started to work on
unbuttoning my wool coat. One of them was hard to undo, so I pulled off my
glove to make it easier. A single strand of silver tinsel fell out from the
glove and floated down. I was able to scoop it up in midair before it landed on
the floor, but not before Jeff caught sight of it.
I quickly shoved it into my
pocket and didn’t say a word, but then, I didn’t have to. Jeff’s eyes twinkled,
and it wasn’t because of the Christmas lights.
The
End
Follow this link to Tour
Chicago Christmas of the past at
About the photos
Photo 1
Marshall Field's Department store created the Uncle Mistletoe
character to compete with Montgomery Ward's, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.
Uncle Mistletoe often appeared in their fantasy windows and was
usually placed on top of the fully decorated, 45 foot Great Tree
in the center of the Walnut Room restaurant.
Photo 2
The Great Clock where Peggy’s family met up with her father to
mark the start of their Christmas tradition still hangs on the Marshall Field’s
building (now Macy’s).
Follow this link to see the Great
Tree at Macy’s (formerly Marshall Field’s)
