Friday, December 24, 2010

Christmas Eve, 1973

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Almost forty years ago, I came to Philadelphia because I had a friend who offered to put me up on his couch for a few weeks.  Times were hard back then and there was no work to be found.  I survived off of temp jobs, and by selling my blood and writing essays for a term paper mill.  Sometimes I went hungry.

Christmas was kind of a low point for me.  I was sleeping in the living room of a trinity house rented by art students, with the understanding that I'd take over the lease of one of them who wanted out, just as soon as I got a real job.  I had a bit of work then, demonstrating toys at a department store, but my employer was slow in paying me.  The students went home for the holidays, all my friends were out of town, and I had the heat cranked down low, out of respect for my almost-housemates who had to pay for utilities.  On Christmas Eve, as a special treat, I had two turkey pot pies instead of my usual one, with a tiny can of cranberry jelly to go with them.

The house was on 15th Street, near South, which at that time was a pretty raffish neighborhood.  Next door was the Sahara Hotel, where rooms rented by the hour.  Across the street was Sister Minnie's Kitchen, which used to be a soul food restaurant, but by then had been converted to a flophouse.

I had just taken the pot pies out of the oven and was about to sit down to eat when there was a knock on the door.  I went to answer it, and there was Leroy.  Leroy was one of the winos who flopped across the street, and one of the neighborhood characters.  With a big grin, he said "Merry Christmas!" and stuck out his hand.

When I told him I didn't have any money, Leroy started cursing me -- vehement, scabrous stuff.  So I closed the door on him and went back to the table.

I sat down and looked at the pot pies.  "Merry Christmas," I said to nobody at all.

*

Marianne thinks that's a terribly sad story.  But I don't.  I was living on hope back then.  I was going to learn how to write, and someday I'd make a living at it.  That was all I wanted from life, and I was willing to pay the freight.  Poverty, loneliness, and a Christmas spent sans friends sans family sans everything was just part of the price of admission.

Today, I make a living as a writer.  I'm married to a woman I love and have a son I'm proud of.  I have friends who mean a lot to me and a city that feels like home.  I have food and heat and a brand-new cat.  Tonight, Sean will come by and I'll tell this year's Christmas story while we sit by the wood stove with a fire going and hot drinks and a big heap of presents by the tree.

Things turned out better for me than I expected.  I wish the same for you.


Above:  Rather a blurry shot, I'm afraid.  You can pretend that it's a misty holiday memory, if you're feeling particularly charitable.

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3 comments:

  1. Not sad to me. I never starved and I was never alone, but my future husband and I flew from the east coast, where our families were, to the west coast where he was going to grad school. It took me a month to get a low-paying job that had nothing to do with my liberal arts degree from Amherst. I was an inventory clerk for a piping products company. I supported both of us on $10.5k a year in a very expensive city, Seattle, and we even saved a bit. We had no car. We had no furniture. Our first purchase was a mattress, of course. We ate off of a suitcase on the two dinner plates we had brought with us.

    Our first Christmas, we bought a few tiny baubles and put them on a jade bush. Our families were three time zones away and we didn't know anyone in Seattle yet. We weren't in debt, but we didn't have much money. I think we bought ourselves a large quilt for the mattress (which was on the floor) as our Christmas present that year.

    It's living on hope, yes, hope and the future's promise.

    Oz

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  2. Très Joyeux Noël to you and your family.
    We should always be hopeful and grateful for what we have.
    It is better to be in a half-full glass spirit and never feel sorry for oneself.

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  3. Merry Christmas, Michael, to you and your loved.

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