United Auto Stores, #6: Fat Ron

Fat Ron

Of the many characters I worked alongside, at United Auto Stores, beginning in September of 1974, none would probably have slipped behind the blinds of my memory more easily than Fat Ron, except for one memorable deed on his part.  However, in the limited range of my experience, the one incident was quite a humdinger

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I can’t remember his last name, but I do know that the word which best described Ron, is affable.  I cannot envision him with anything but a grin on his broad face.  He had a tangle of hair that wasn’t so much long, as it was big.  His dark brown hair curled at the ends, but was otherwise pretty straight.  There was a lot of it, though, and it bristled out in all directions.  You could tell he tried to train it from the right side of his head to the left, and he had a brush that he constantly reached for, running it through the mess several times, before shrugging his wide shoulders, grinning that sheepish grin, and depositing the brush back in a pocket of his billowing Levis. 

He was not an industrious sort of fellow, but he always managed to not only do enough to get by, but to include a couple of humorous anecdotes to help pass the time.  I remember him always perched on the edge of the four-inch-high platform, that ran the length of the front counter, with his toes and front part of his feet on the platform, and his heels hanging over the edge, as he rocked up and down on his toes, in a rhythmic pattern of graceful movement.  For a big man, he was incredibly well-balanced and it seemed as though, if he ever took a fall, he would end up on his feet.

Naturally, Ron attended San Jose State University, and was a sophomore when he came to work at United.  He was a business major and seemed to be a pretty intelligent guy.  He fit the perfect profile for working at United, and he did pretty well.  He was smart enough to be able to pick up the catalogs pretty well, but he was not a real fast-moving guy when it came to sweeping the store, cleaning the Gents’, or breaking up the cardboard boxes, and taking out the trash.

That didn’t make him a bad guy, but it facilitated the installment of his nickname, Fat Ron.  Everybody had a nickname, some of us (me) about a half dozen.  He never seemed offended by the selected moniker, nor did it motivate him to greater industry; it just was.

If you were not the most physically motivated employee, you had to compensate by doing other things well.  I have already said that Ron was smart, affable, did some work, and was capable of entertaining us with a good story.  He was happy to join us in the employee lounge after work, for a little “happy smoke.”  The lounge, of course, was located out in the parking lot, in the form of Old Paint, my ancient VW Bus.

Ron was also punctual to a fault.  He was always at work when he was scheduled, and he was always five to ten minutes early, admirable qualities, if ever there were.  So our eyebrows were raised one fine Saturday morning, when seven of us assembled before the nine o’clock opening of the front door, but the eighth guy was missing.  Where was Fat Ron?

We did not get a phone call, we did not have a clue, until the following Monday afternoon, when Ron strolled in, hardly recognizable with a neatly trimmed haircut, which featured the whitewalls of a military personage.

“Whoa, Ron, get too close to a lawn mower, Buddy?” asked Booker Anderson, the assistant manager.

“Naw, it was the fan at my granny’s,” said Ron laughing, “and it got all clogged up with all of my hair.  That’s why I wasn’t here at work on Saturday.”

There was a lull in the action, it being Monday and all, and still an hour before the pace usually started to pick up, after quitting time at some of the local workhouses.  We had gathered around, because we sensed a story in the works.

“What happened on Saturday, Dude?  Weren’t you supposed to be here?  Where were you?” asked Jimmy.

“You mean at nine in the morning?” Ron was just grinning at us.  “Let’s see here.  I think I was still out on the tarmac, before I went inside the terminal, but it could have been a little earlier.”  He just kept that grin on his face.

“What terminal?  Where?” asked Andy.

“In Milpitas,” answered Ron.  “Look, it’s pretty simple.  I rented a plane and flew down to Mexico to pick up two hundred pounds of reefer, and they were waiting for me when I got back.  End of story.”

He may as well have told us he had been abducted by Venusians, for all the difference it would have made.  I think I could have accepted the abduction story more readily than the other.  It was all so incomprehensible.  When did Ron learn how to fly, other than our short jaunts out in Old Paint, after work?  How did he get mixed up in big-time reefer-smuggling?  What happened now?

It turned out Ron had been flying for a long time, but had not mentioned it.  He didn’t get “mixed up” in running reefer, so much as he simply stepped into it, when a good friend had “retired.”  He told us how much he got paid, and it seemed like a lot of loot, until we thought of that plane coming to a halt, and realizing that the Man was standing there waiting for you to come out.  There wasn’t any other place to go.

As far as now was concerned, Ron had retained a lawyer, trimmed his hair, and was prepared to go talk to the nice judge.  As it turned out, Ron skated free on a technicality, brought about by the fact that the cops, who had been waiting for him at the airport, had been so excited, they neglected to read him his rights.  I told you that, if Fat Ron ever lost his balance, he would end up on his feet.

A Collection of Christmas Reflections # 12: The Twelfth Day

This is the twelfth and final installment of Christmas reflections, at least for this year.

The Twelfth Day

What about the rest of Christmas break, after the big day was over?  Can you say Palm Springs Tramway?  We went two consecutive years, and the fact that the second trip featured my Nova breaking down, meant it had to have been 1971, days before I went into the military.

Our trips out to the Palm Springs area were simply an extension of those excursions up into the San Gabriel Mountains, where we drove on through to the high desert on the other side.  We had no specific agenda, and no certain time schedule.  We were just back before it got dark.

When we went out to Palm Springs Tramway, it was a whole family affair, though I cannot say definitively that Kevin came along.  I would have guessed yes, because there were so many older siblings and hangers-on accompanying us, that there would have been plenty of eyes, but he would only have been four or five years old.

This was a family adventure to parallel anything yet that did not involve staying overnight.  The drive itself was lengthy, probably about sixty miles straight out the San Bernardino Freeway, past Ontario and Uncle Pat’s house, all the way out to the San Jacinto Mountain Range.  The tram went from the bottom at 2,643 feet of elevation at Valley Station up to 8,516 feet of elevation at Mountain Station, total length of cable traveled: 12, 780 feet, which took abut ten minutes.

We were warned to bring along warm clothes, even if it was hot below, and that we cold expect thunder showers while up on the top.  What we actually got was snow, and it was fun.  There was a restaurant at the top and a cafeteria-style eatery, and we went for the latter.  Some of us had money to pay for our lunches, and some of us did not.  I remember the big boys defraying the cost of the original tram tickets and the cost of lunch, and by “big boys” I mean brother Brian, the kingpin of Sunrize Market.  He didn’t make a big deal out it, but as he rose through the ranks of the grocery business, and began earning more loot, he was very generous when it came to the little kids.

We hiked while on the top, everyone embracing the concept of getting out and about.  Snow was unbelievably welcome to me, at least until my hands and feet got cold, and then I was a little less enthusiastic. In my case, it was good training for Fort Leonard Wood, and if you believe that, I have this bridge you might want to check out.  It’s golden, and I will give it to you for a song. 

The second year we went, my Nova decided to pull a hissy fit and left us on the side of the highway, halfway back from Palm Springs.  The problem was the stupid Holley four-barrel carburetor, which inexplicably overflowed at the most inopportune of moments, spewing gasoline all over the intake manifold, seemingly unconcerned that the exhaust system would probably make for a hot welcome, if the gas got that far.  

As unorthodox as it would seem, but also equally efficient, was the method of rectifying this dilemma.  I had to take a heavy wrench, carefully wrapped up in a rag so as not to produce a spark, and gently tap [bang] on the side of the carb.  Apparently, this action dislodged whatever impediment created the overflow.  Dave Varisco insisted that the jets needed adjustment, and I calmly explained that that was what the wrench was for, an adjustment.  After all, I knew exactly how hard to bang-sorry, tap-that wrench against the carb.  Unfortunately, leaving the car behind on the side of the road was the occasional result.

There was the time Nancie and I went the the drive-in, and fell asleep, awaking after three in the morning to an empty lot, and a Nova with a jenky carburetor.  I would have whipped out my cellie, but they weren’t invented, so I went to the phone booth outside the snack bar, and phoned Brian, who was sleeping in the radio shack on Fellowship Street.  I explained that the Nova wouldn’t start, and that I needed to get Nancie back to Louisa Street, or Harry would have my head on a platter.  I would have been willing to sacrifice my head, if I was sure Harry would stop there.  All bets would have been “off” on that one.

Brian was pretty dingy and I had to explain the situation carefully.  Once he had grasped the essentials, he said, “OK, now that I know where you are, tell me where I am.  Am I at home, or am I at the apartment in Manchester?  It just goes to show that there was more to Robert’s incessant question, “Do you know where you’re at?” than we might have garnered at the time.

I do not know how that carburetor problem translated into traveling down the highway, and then being on the side of the road.  The bottom line is that it took time to allow the system to drain the excess gas and allow the carburetor to function again.  Because the late hour mandated a sense of urgency, we abandoned the Nova alongside the San Bernardino Freeway, piled into the other Nova, and made our way back to Fellowship Street.  I got someone to drive me out the next day, at which time the Nova started up instantly.

It seems funny that we used to travel to get to the snow; now we travel to get away from it.

United Auto Stores, #5: Pescalone

Pescalone

We hang an ornament on the Christmas Tree each year that is a hand-made, crystal star, as finely crafted, as anything you will ever encounter.  Though it appears fragile, being made of glass, the star is as big as the palm of my hand, has some weight to it and appears solid.   We received it as a going away gift in 1982, when we moved up here to Bell Springs Road, from John Molinari, who was anything but delicate in appearance.  Also known simply as Pescalone, John was the manager of United Auto Stores, where I worked, at the time Ann and I moved.  He had the polished ease of fifteen years behind the counter of the busiest domestic and foreign auto parts house in all of San Jose.

He stood six feet six inches tall in his bare feet, but when you added the four inches of platform that ran the length of the front counter, plus his boots, a person was looking up at close to seven feet of Big John.  He was lanky, and he never moved quickly, so he always seemed very fluid.  Add to that the fact that John was as polished as a chrome valve cover, and a person came away from United Auto, Story Road, feeling that the shop was in good hands.

I didn’t even realize his name was Molinari, until after I had known him for more than five years.  He was the long-time manager at United Auto Number Two, on McKee Road, and came over to Story Road after Mike Emily opened All-Parts Auto, and left the manager's job open.  John had previously worked at Story Road for years, and was so well-thought of, that he had been made the manager of the new store on McKee Road, when United Auto opened its second of what would eventually be four stores.

He drove a one-ton Ford Pickup, that he kept meticulously clean and well-tuned.  His expertise in the auto parts business was initiated by his enthusiasm and knowledge of cars and engines.  He could handle any sort of problem that came up, be it mechanical, electrical or common sensible.  If you had a technical question, Pescalone was your man.  He got the name Pescalone way back in high school, because he drove around in a 1953 Chevy Sedan, with the name “Pescalone” inscribed on the back fender.  That was it; that’s how he got his name.

He also specialized in British sports cars, and had forever owned an MG.  As we well knew at United Auto Stores, owners of British sports cars, spent an inordinate amount of time, keeping those little cars on he road.  There was no secret; they simply required a lot of time, and more importantly, patience.  The cooling system on a British car alone was enough to make the hardiest of car buffs shudder, not to mention the electrical system.  The types of problems that MG’s had, always seemed to require the dealer, unless Pescalone was around.

  

When it came to VW’s, he could recite off the directions and the specs for all engine work, down to the number of foot pounds you had to torque the nuts, to tighten the cases of the engine.  And he could do it while he was taking care of the guy who brought back the Carter carburetor, after installing and running it, and who now was demanding a Holley Four-Barrel.  If there were a hammock available, he could have napped, and simultaneously handled the situation.

If he had a fault, it was that he was a hard guy to get to know initially, especially if you were a squid.  A new guy at United Auto, quickly discovered that if you asked Big John a question, it had better have merit.  Dumb questions constituted anything that had already come up once; best have and keep your wits about you, if you intended to stay on John’s good side.

Conversely, once you had arrived, he was the best friend a guy could have, especially if you drove old VW’s and didn’t have a lot of money.  Pescalone’s typical kind of day off found him working on automotive endeavors, and he didn’t seem to care whose car it was. He reveled in all things mechanical.  When I was up on the property in the summer of 1981, working on a construction project in Brooktrails and building my cabin up on Bell Springs Road, I managed to blow up the engine on Old Paint, again.  

Dust and water-cooled engines mix as well as tree-fallers and tree-sitters, and thus it was that Ann, who was still down in San Jose, made a series of trips to United to get the necessary parts.  Pescalone insisted on taking care of her personally, and I felt as though it was his way of saying that he hadn’t lost his touch.  

In August of 1982, three months after we moved up here, United Auto Stores laid John off, in an organizational shakeup that started at the top, and filtered its way down through the ranks.  From what I heard, John took the firing as a blessing in disguise, because he had been working part time for over a year with his electrician brother, and wanted to pursue a living with a more flexible schedule than United Auto provided.  No one worried about John; he radiated confidence and we figured he could do anything he set his mind to.

You can therefore imagine my absolute shock and dismay to hear the following winter that Pescalone had pulled his truck up against the big garage door out front, and climbed into his MG inside the garage, turned the motor on one final time, and gone to sleep forever.  Like the crystal star which graces our Christmas tree every year, John had proved, to my great sorrow, to be far more fragile and delicate than his gruff exterior would ever have indicated.  

As long as we hang that star up each Christmas, Pescalone continues to shine.  I don’t take anything for granted though, and I wrap that ornament up all the more carefully each January, so that I do not lose another old friend.

A Collection of Christmas Reflections # 11: We're Busy

This is the eleventh in a series of Christmas reflections.

We’re Busy

Christmas night was for sitting around the kitchen table and raking through the still glowing, smoldering embers of the day’s celebration, sifting and examining the events for any conclusions that could be drawn.  We would probably have been playing Missa Creole, the Argentinian Christmas tape that Noel had brought back with him from Dominguez.  And did we really go see How the West Was Won, in December of 1962?  I remember gathering at the kitchen table, perusing the newspaper with the drive-in movie section, and I remember going to see the movie.  I just cannot believe that that event took place in 1962, even before President Kennedy was murdered.  Is it possible that the movie was re-released at a later date?  Can someone help me out here?

I seemed so young in November of 1963, but so old going with the big boys to see a movie on Christmas night.  On the rare occasion when Clownie got to accompany the boys, I sat in the back by myself, while the three of them sat in the front.  I had to take a lot of abuse to hang with the big boys, but I paid my dues without complaint, because it was obviously a two-way street, and one which was quite busy.  I am sure that we went in the ’53 Plymouth, and that makes sense, because I used to ride on the floor of that car, right behind Pa, when we all piled in to go down and see Noel at Dominguez.  That would have been in 1964, so it all works out.

Christmas night was memorable because it was one time in our lives when we could get away with bagging an extra piece of dessert pie, or even coffee cake, except for the fact that we were still too stuffed from the Holiday dinner to be able to make our way over to where the deserts were kept to indulge.  Big sigh.

Christmas night was for piling into the Plymouth at some point and driving up to Pete Hill, overlooking our neck of the woods.  We went to see the lights, twinkling in the clear December night, but we also went because we could. It was about getting out of the house and establishing precedent.  That time period in the late sixties and early seventies, featured a number of expeditions up into the San Gabriel Mountains, or to the Palm Springs Tramway.  Any number of additional guests might have accompanied us on these expeditions, and it was all good.

When we were younger, bedtimes were extended in the general aura of benevolence that descended on the house on Christmas.  There may have been a Christmas special on TV, one of the variety shows or a Charlie Brown Christmas.  If not the television, then surely the stereo would have been playing Holiday fare.  We had new games to explore, decks of cards available if we wanted to play pinochle or poker, and there were always new books to read.

At some point hot apple cider was introduced onto the scene, and that became a Christmas night custom.  Looking around the living room on Fellowship Street on Christmas night , was a comfortable experience.  The immaculate house that had presented itself only twenty-four hours earlier, was a distant memory.  The paper chains ringing the living room and both dining areas, were the only vestige of organization that remained.  Though the wrapping paper, ribbons and bows had all been removed, either for recycling or burning, there was still plenty of evidence in sight, of what that wrapping paper and ribbons had been concealing.

From the jigsaw puzzle on the recently employed dining room table, to the “Go to the Head of the Class” board game alongside it, to the Color-by-Numbers painting, newly completed, and sitting out drying, the house reflected the day’s events.  Whether we gathered in one place to play cards, or retreated to our respective quiet spots to immerse ourselves in individual occupations, the feeling was one of great success, with the emotional letdown still too far away on the horizon to be an immediate factor.  

A year’s wait had proven well worth it, as we had indulged in all of the trappings of an enthusiastic and appropriate Holiday celebration.  For one day of the year, frivolity and fun took over the front seat, and blue collar values and a hard work ethic were set aside.  In fact we stored both in the trunk on Christmas Day and simply taped a big bow on it.  Come back tomorrow hard work, but leave us alone tonight.  We’re busy.

United Auto Stores, #4: Old Paint

Old Paint

JT commented recently that KC got off work from United Auto Stores on Saturdays at six in the evening, yet he never arrived home until seven, from what should have been a ten minute drive.  When she would ask him where he had been, he might have told her he had a meeting after work in the employee lounge, AKA Old Paint, located in the parking lot of United Auto, two thirds of the way out in the expansive parking lot. 

If you went from United Auto Store itself, and walked out to the actual corner of Story and King, you could get a pizza at Shakey’s Pizza Parlor, which you could get smothered in jalapeno peppers.  So Shakey’s and United shared a parking lot, with patrons parking anywhere in the expansive lot between the two entities.

Employees of UA used to park their vehicles midway between the two, to ensure that customers had the closest spots available to each respective  business.  And so it was appropriate that I also parked Old Paint there, my ’62 Volkswagen Bus, a calico-colored affair, with a back engine cover which flopped in the breeze.  The olive drab green exterior was supplemented by some interesting patches of primer gray, with the whole back end spray-painted primer black by me, to cover up the huge letters reading, “The End.”  It may have looked like the end of the road, but Old Paint got me to and fro.

The most significant feature, from our point of view, were the Aztecan curtains that hung on the inside of all windows, effectively blocking casual view into the interior.  Over the small table, a battery operated light put out more than enough illumination to take care of the business at hand: twisting up a little goodness for an after-work buzz.

When I bought Old Paint for three hundred dollars, the engine was in the back seat.  Jack Hendricksen towed it back to San Jose for me, from Santa Cruz, and I went to work on it, doing the engine rebuilding on the kitchen table, much to Nancie’s dismay.  What was I supposed to do?  We didn’t have a garage, and the living room was carpeted; besides there was no table in there.  What’s a little WD-40 mixed in with your orange juice?

Being employed at United Auto Stores had huge advantages when it came to actually working on your own car engine.  I could use the glass beader for cleaning up the heads and aluminum cases of the engine “block,” and I could buy any bearings, rings or gaskets that my bus would need.  I could get expert advice from at least four or five guys, who had all driven [and therefore worked on] bugs and buses.  As funny as it seems, a full gasket set for all VW’s before 1965, cost less than ten dollars back in the seventies.

   

Old Paint had been modified, so that there were two benches facing each other on the inside, behind the front passenger seat, with a small table between the two benches.  We could comfortably seat five dudes in the back.  So on Saturday evenings, after the last customer had  left, and the place had been locked up, we used to adjourn to our employee lounge, out in the parking lot, where we would indulge in whatever type of “happy smoke” was available.

The staple was ratty old ‘Lumbo, from Colombia, and it didn’t cost very much.  Occasionally there was some Acapulco Gold, and if we were very lucky, there would be some Thai stick.  It wasn’t until 1979 that Mendo green started to make its way down to San Jose.  After that, we couldn’t go back to Colombian.  It must have seemed funny to patrons of Shakey’s Pizza, who might have been parking in the same parking lot as us, to see puffs or clouds of smoke coming out of this vintage VW Bus.  When we were sufficiently debriefed from our grueling day behind the counter on a Saturday, the side doors would suddenly open, and out would stumble from two or three guys to as many as five. 

At some point all employees made side trips to Old Paint except Jaime, who refused to be seen in my van.  I was, after all, a dirty hippie, and Jaime had a reputation to uphold.  Well, I thought to myself, I’m no different.  I too have a rep to uphold, Jaime.   Besides, Old Paint recognizes horsefeathers when he he hears it, and he hears it a lot from you.  Say good-night, Jaime.

United Auto Stores, #3: Shave and a Haircut

Shave and a Haircut

One did not have to speak Spanish to work at United Auto Stores, but it sure made life easier.  There was just so much to learn in the beginning, back in the Fall of 1974, when I first began working there.  It was fine when someone needed spark plugs and points/condenser for a small block Chevy, and he spoke to you in English.  But how about the guy who needed inner engine parts for a V-8 Ford, who didn’t know for sure what size engine he had, and who did not speak English?  Let’s say it is a Saturday, and people have been pulling numbers from the machine since we opened the doors.  Now with the place rocking, I look up at the number machine and bellow out “49!”  Up steps Juan who tells me in broken English that he needs piston rings, bearings and a complete gasket set for a ’67 Ford Fairlane, with a V-8.  [HEY, JIMMY.  BRUNO.  HELP!]  

A guy standing in line asks Juan a question in Spanish and tells me Juan is pricing the stuff out, so if I can give him a figure, and he can afford them, he will buy them today.  Both Jimmy and Bruno are in the middle of their own crises, and I have to go to Jaime, who is also helping someone, but it is obvious that it is a no-brainer, so to him I go. Jaime is on the path to becoming a San Jose cop, and he had what might be construed as a predisposed attitude toward a certain segment of the general population. 

“Jaime, what catalog do I look up piston rings in?”

“TRW, you dirty hippie.  What size engine does he have?” asked Jaime, reaching over and thumbing open the proper catalog.

“He says it is a ’67 Ford Fairlane, with a V-8.” 

Jaime looked at me as though I were a banana slug.  “Of course it has a V-8 Squid, you long-haired, Commie Pinko.   What size?”

I scuttled back to Juan.  “What size engine do you have?”  Juan turned to his neighbor, who asked him, “Que motor tiene?”  The man listened a moment and said, “351 cubic inches.”

I went back to the catalog.  “Oh, heck,” I said, or something like that.  There was a listing for a 351W and a 351C.  What the heck is that supposed to mean?  I went back to Jaime, who was just taking money and giving his customer the receipt.

“Ford put out two different engines with the same displacement,” he said.  One is a 351 Cleveland and the other is a 351 Windsor.  If you didn’t have so much hair on your face, you would know that.”  Huh?

I went back to my customer and by proxy, told him, “There are two different 351 cubic inch engines.  Can you tell me whether you have a 351C or a 351W?”  From the blank expression on his face, I could tell what the answer was. 

“Is the car out front?”  I asked.  I received an affirmative, so I went back to Jaime. 

“He doesn’t know what size engine it is, but the car’s out front.  How do I tell one engine from another?”

“Well, it would help if you had a hair cut, because then hair wouldn’t be in your eyes.”  Since I wore my hair in a pony tail, there was never hair anywhere near my face.  “But if he does his own tune-ups, ask him if the spark plugs take a 13/16 inch socket, or a 5/8inch.  If he doesn’t know, just go out and take a look, if you can do it without leaving a trail of slime for me to slip on, Squid.”

There was so much of this technical kind of minutia that I had to learn, and that doesn’t even go into the question of why Ford felt it was necessary to have two engines that are the same only different, in the same year.

Jaime, as incorrigible as he was, also knew his stuff.  I found it hilarious to hear from Mike and the other old-timers, that he was one of the slowest to pick up the trade of all the squids who’d slimed their way through UA’s doors.  Now it was his turn to dish it out, and who better than I to be on the receiving end of his barbs?

I asked him one day, just to extend the olive branch [again], “Why do you want to be a cop, Jaime?”

“So I can bust dirty hippies like you, Squid.”
“Well, of course.  But besides that?  I mean not everyone in San Jose is a hippie.”

“No, but there are a lot of them, including you.  I have a lot of work to do.”  

I felt special.  Don’t you just love a man with a vocation?

A Collection of Christmas Reflections # 10: The Pope's Nose or Dinner Is Served

This is the tenth in a series of Christmas reflections.

The Pope’s Nose

or

Dinner Is Served

After an eternity the word went out that dinner was being served.  We’re not talking any dinner; this was Christmas Dinner.  These days, the topic of what will be served for Christmas Dinner, surfaces about the same time as I start counting down the days (double digits).  Back on Fellowship Street, the only relevant points seemed to be, “How big of a turkey shall we get?” and “What flavor pies do we want?”  The answers were, “Between twenty-five and thirty pounds,” and “Apple, cherry and minced meat pies, with Cool Whip on top.  Wait, don’t forget the pumpkin pie.”

About those turkeys.  Sunrize Market was the most likely source, though Mom was known to have scouted out the competition to see what Alpha Beta or Market Basket might have had to offer.  On the other hand, if you spoke to Earl, in the meat department, he was certain to hook a brother up.  We listened to plans being unfolded at the dinner table continuously, that contained information about what magic Earl could perform to enhance our dinner table, especially when it came to the barbecue.

Turkey was the only thing I ever remember being served at Christmas Dinner.  One year we raised turkeys in the back yard, with Brian being in charge of moving the cage around the yard on rollers once a week.  “Bon jour, mon turkeys,” he would exclaim.  “Comment allez-vous?”  Don’t even ask me where we found French-speaking turkeys.

The reason I even bring up the turkeys in the first place, is that one of the six in the rolling cage was a tom that was humungous.  He was so big that Pa had to weld us up a special stainless steel pan that was big enough to accommodate this most honored of guests.  Of course, we couldn’t roast a turkey without knowing how much it weighed, so we bundled up the bird, along with most of the family, while we trooped up to-where else?-Sunrize Market, to use one of the produce scales to weigh old George, the turkey.  Forty-one pounds.  We figured that if 25-30 pounds was good, then 41 ought to be vastly surpassing excellent.

I remember eating in both the front dining room, and in the regular dining area, located between the entrance to the folks’ bedroom, and the doorway into what was Mom’s sewing room for all of the later years on Fellowship Street.  We were likely to activate both rooms for Christmas Dinner, for instance, when we had the Gerlachs over.  I didn’t think of it as an adult table and a kid table; I thought of it as two kid tables, one of which also seated a few adults.

On Christmas we had hors d’oeuvres, consisting of black and green olives, celery and carrot sticks.  Pouring the little mound of salt, in which to dip the celery, was the height of cool.  From breakfast until dinner, there was no official meal, everyone pretty much fending for him or herself to keep up sustenance from a variety of Holiday sources.  In any case, I always approached the dinner hour fully prepared for action-ready for danger.  Bring on the mashed potatoes and gravy.  In addition to turkey, both light and dark, there was stuffing, into which Pa always put the cut-up giblets, which had been removed from the turkey and cooked.  I got to cut up the giblets, because I was a lucky guy.  I’m still looking for the pope’s nose.

There were freshly baked dinner rolls, or at least some top-shelf Pillsbury rolls from Sunrize; there were veggies, cranberry sauce, and a lake of gravy to pour over everything.  For dessert there were the freshly baked pies that I mentioned earlier, smothered in whipped cream, Cool Whip, or smog depending on who was talking.  And if we were spectacularly lucky, and Noel was asleep at the switch, there might still be coffee cake left over from breakfast.

The standard line that was used, when we got to that point when it seemed as though the initial onslaught of starving kids had been staved off was, “Shall we have dessert now, or later?”  And the response was inevitably, “How about if we have dessert now and later?”  With at least three fruit pies and one pumpkin pie, there was bound to enough to go around.  Not even Noel could dispatch with fall four pies and the coffee cake left over from breakfast.