Growing up in suburbia, Christmas was always a special time in my home. My folks would shut their coffee shop down for the day. We would attend church service as a family, then return home for a gala celebration and a table laden with food.
I had much to be grateful for, especially a good home and a decent lifestyle. And plenty of Christmas spirit. Back then, of course, the amenities were nothing like they are today. We were entitled to one big gift and maybe a couple others of a token variety.
I was about eight at the time—an age where I grew skeptical of jolly old St. Nick because the other kids in my neighborhood said he was a myth. I wasn’t quite ready to buy that. In fact, to this day, I still believe there’s a Santa out there performing Christmas miracles for those willing to stay connected.
“So what is it you want from Santa this Christmas?” my father proposed. “How about that train set you seem to like? Or perhaps a tool kit like mine to help me build things?”
“A bike,” I suggested, “just like the other kids in the neighborhood. Suppose Santa could bring me a two-wheeler?”
It was time. I would often ride on the handlebars of someone else’s bicycle. Often, they’d let me take the wheels for a ride. I had been through the tricycle phase with no difficulty. My friends would often ridicule me to pieces.
“About time you got rid of those training wheels,” they would snicker.
They were right. I was ready for my next stage of transportation. The scooter I often used just couldn’t keep pace with the others.
“A bike, huh?” my dad pondered. “Well, seems to me you’ve done well with your chores, brought home a decent report card, and given us a hand in the shop. Guess you deserve a bike. Let’s see what Santa will bring—whether there’s room on his sleigh for one.”
In the days leading up to Christmas, I thumbed through the catalogues and saw some pretty “nifty” bicycles. The more expensive types came with different speeds and handle brakes. I didn’t need the best. Frugality ran deep in my family as the son of two Armenian Genocide survivors.
The year was 1948 as I recall. Television was just getting started and it would be another two years before one arrived at our home. I did manage to buy my first record player with the allowance I had saved from helping out in the store.
The song of the day was “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.”
Christmas Eve arrived and the tree was empty of gifts. I laid out the usual cookies and milk for Santa and off to bed I went, hoping for that bike. Without realizing the hassle, my Dad waited until I fell asleep before pulling out the large box.
The bike didn’t come assembled and he was no technician. I later learned that he spent half the night trying to match the nuts with the bolts before finally getting the thing together.
On Christmas morning, I bolted from my room and there it was, a bright red Schwinn to match Santa’s outfit, complete with a bell and streamers flowing from the handle bars. Nothing else mattered.
“Let’s take it for a spin,” I suggested. “Please, Dad. Just around the block.”
He relented. Out we ventured into the bitter cold. A slight snowfall had provided a white blanket on the ground. On the bike I hopped as Dad held it steady.
“Careful, now,” he said. “Let’s not break any speed records today.”
I started pedaling. The bike went into a skid. I lost control and bam! Into a telephone pole it rammed, sending me into a bellyflop. I looked up and there was my bike, wrapped around that pole. I was devastated.
The sight of my Dad rushing to my side left an indelible image. Nothing else mattered that Christmas. I had lost the only gift I had ever wanted at the time. How would I explain that to my friends?
There was a lesson to be learned. If you live for the “present,” you’ll never enjoy the future.
As an Armenian American family, we got to do Christmas all over again, 10 days later at Epiphany. Some call it “little Christmas.”
We kept our tree up until Jan. 6 and typically, there was usually some sort of treat to mark the occasion.
Dad went out and bought me another bike that year but it came at a very dear price. He had me working overtime at the store to make it pay.
Tom Vartabedian
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That track is totally amazing!