Dick Cowan

A Citrus Heights Childhood Christmas Memory

This is my recollection of Christmas, 1954 in Citrus Heights where my parents, Frank and Doris Cowan, had built a house for their family of three kids, baby sister Jan, middle child Ron, and me on Lucky Lane, then a private, gravel road off of San Juan Avenue.

Dick Cowan

Sleepy, I focus on getting dressed in front of the gas wall furnace for last few days of third grade before Christmas vacation. It is strange to see my father standing at the picture window of our living room. He is never here at this hour, always long gone to “the job” by the time I get up for school. But this morning, he is staring up at the storm which has whipped December of 1954 for days now.

Not yet thirty, the father of three, and a proud member of the International Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners, he has never been still long enough to build up any fat.

The current “job” is the construction of the Folsom Dam, which for decades to come we will tell our friends he built all by himself. He has considered himself very lucky. The Dam project will last years, steady work for a carpenter, and with occasional overtime, too.

But carpenters don’t work in California when it rains, and it has rained for weeks now. So he stands at the window, scanning the weak morning light for a break strong enough to signal that he could wisely drive his pickup the nine miles to the Dam. If work would start today, he is guaranteed four hours pay, even if work is then knocked off for rain. But if no work is available, there is no pay and the drive will have been for nothing. And with gasoline at 22 cents a gallon, the risk is worth carefully considering.

By now, my little brother and sister jostle me at the gas furnace. At five and four, too little for school, and confined to the house by the rain and wind, they will get lots of attention from Mom today. She has put coffee in Dad’s thermos, corked it, and placed it carefully in the black lunch box with sandwich and fruit, doing her part to wish and will the rain away. She calls the three of us to the second breakfast she has prepared that morning. Wheaties for me this morning, “Breakfast of Champions”. Like Mom, I’m small, the smallest in Mrs. Kantola’s second grade class at Oak Avenue school. The Wheaties will prove ineffective against the genetics. Cheerios for Ron and Jan, please.

Dad’s willing the sun to appear has failed, and the raindrops splat fat on the window. He sighs, and smiles at me now heading for the bus stop at the end of Lucky Lane. A vision in yellow rain coat and black rubber boots, I walk with my Roy Rogers lunchbox down the gravel road to San Juan Avenue, and the trusty yellow bus to Oak Avenue.

Mrs. Kantola reminds us that tomorrow will be the last school day before Christmas vacation. She sounds as happy as we are.

Backtracking my steps in the afternoon, Roy Rogers lunchbox empty, the scene is little changed. Worn down by a full day with the two little ones, Mom has put their favorite records on the radio-record player which occupies a central position in the dining room. As I come through the front door, I am greeted by the scratchy sounds of “There’s a Hot Dog Stand on the Highway to Mexico City.”

Mom is already working on dinner. Cornbread and beans, a favorite.

Dad isn’t in the house, so I peek into the garage to find him. Whistling, he is sharpening his saws. Again. The garage is swept, tools oiled, everything straight and neat. A day’s energy devoted to improvement, even if not much needed.

He replaces his saw in the steel tool box. Fort Knox could not be more secure than his steel tool box. Carpenters provide their own tools for work, these are his livelihood. He loves good tools. So while we kids are free to make projects with the old, extra tools on the garage workbench, the new tools in the box are strictly off limits.

Around the dinner table, we ask Mom and Dad yet again to tell us about their Christmases when they were little, like us. We are amazed once more, as Dad tells us of getting an orange and a pocketknife one Christmas, and considering himself really fortunate. Mom tells of dessert made of peanut butter and day old bread. They tell us of families surviving the Great Depression by pulling together, sacrificing, and helping each other.

The next morning the scene repeats, the radio already on, though. Mom sings along to “Baubles, Bangles, and Bright Shiny Beads”. Then Robert Halls Men’s Clothing pushes its jingle, “Downtown on J Street at 1—1—1—4”.

This morning, Dad has pulled on his white carpenter’s overalls over his pants and shirt. This must be a good sign that rain rain will go away, I think.

Quaker Puffed Wheat this morning. The big face of the Quaker fills the front of the box, but on the back is an action scene of Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and his Wonder Dog King. I have saved enough Quaker box tops to send away for the deed to my one square inch of the Yukon. But I am holding out. For six extra box tops, I can have the one square inch actually scooped up and sent to me in a genuine leather pouch. No way am I going to settle for only the deed.

Weary of gazing at the sky, Dad turns a critical eye over the details of the living room itself. He and Mom saved to buy the two acres at 7441 Lucky Lane. Then he built the house himself evenings and weekends, with no loan or mortgage, buying from each week’s paycheck the amount of material that it would take him after work to put in place that week. Early paychecks would buy a week’s worth of lumber; later paychecks, roofing felt and shingles, then plumbing pipe and wiring. I knew as he studied the house, he could see inside the walls and to every detail.

This morning Mom dispatches us back to our room with instructions to each choose a sock from our drawers. When we dash out, socks in hand, we find she has placed a wire coat hanger through the louver vanes of the gas wall furnace. She uses clothespins to fix our three socks to the coat hanger. With no fireplace in our house, this solves our worry about Santa knowing where to leave stocking treats on Christmas morning.

Dad pulls his overalls off, the decision made not to drive to the Dam again today. Mom and Dad look at each other, then quickly away.

But off to school Roy Rogers and I go. Recess chatter is about presents, letters to Santa, Christmas trees. Almost everyone has a tree up. We don’t have our tree, yet.

Another soggy afternoon splashing down Lucky Lane. “Let me Go, Lover,” sings the radio to welcome me inside. Mom and Dad are talking on the couch, but abruptly stop their talk as I arrive. The garage is even straighter and tidier than yesterday.

After dinner, I sit as close to the radio as I can get. My two favorite shows are on back to back. First Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, Trigger, and Bullet dispatch bad guys. Then right after that, “Father Knows Best” plays. I love the stories that end with a moral and show that families rally around to salvage some predicament created by a different member of the radio family each week.

The next morning is Saturday, the pace of waking, dress, and breakfast slower and more relaxed. Jan and Ron don’t seem to get that we should sleep longer. But that’s OK because my favorite radio show of the week is on. From Schenectady, New York, Big John and Sparkie broadcast a Saturday morning show we wouldn’t miss for the world. In our pajamas, Big John has us hold our fingernails for inspection, then gets us lined up single file to march around the house to “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic.” What entertainment!

Mom comes out of the grownups’ bedroom dressed up, long hair brushed and ready for action. Breakfast is fast, then she pulls me aside. “You watch your brother and sister for awhile, Dad and I are going out.” As the oldest of the three, I am used to being in charge. My best technique to keep them occupied is to read them stories. This lasts about 15 minutes. My next levels of babysitting skills are pretty weak.

But in a few hours, the 1946 green Chevy sedan returns to Lucky Lane. Mom comes inside and whispers to me, “Keep your brother and sister occupied in your bedroom for a minute.” I follow my orders, using the very last of my dwindling skill and tricks. But I can sneak a peek down the hall from our bedroom door. Mom and Dad have made several trips in from the car, hustling packages and bags into their bedroom and closing the door, then several trips into the kitchen. “Come out now,” she announces, and there in the living room is a Christmas Tree!

With a big grin, Dad makes a wooden stand and fixes it to the tree, stands it up and accepts direction from Mom to turn it this way and that. Then, he does the coolest thing. In a bare spot Mom identifies, he uses his Yankee drill to bore a small home into the trunk. Taking an extra branch cut from the bottom of the tree, he tapers the end of the branch and inserts it into the drilled hole. I have seen him do this trick in years before, but I still can’t get over it. The man can change a tree before your very eyes. I concentrate, fixing this into my brain so I can tell my friends about it after the holiday.

Next, out comes the box of Christmas tree lights. It’s Dad’s job to string the electric lights on the tree. The bulbs are tapered and ribbed, and some of the colored paint is chipped off. Dad has to take the bulbs out of their sockets, wet them and twist them back into the socket one at a time, to find the burned out ones. He tests them one by one until he gets a complete circuit and the colored lights come on all at once to our cheers. I am sure this skill at getting strings of lights going relies heavily on his Army Air Corps training in airplane and radio wiring.

Now it’s time to hang the ornaments. We kids have the training needed for this. Each precious ornament is a story. The white plastic reindeer that our Uncle J, Mom’s beloved older brother, has one of too. The foam stars with the red pipe cleaner hook at the top. The colored balls, so light and delicate. Real candy canes go on too, with instructions to ‘not sneak any off the tree until Christmas day, Mister!’

We all pitch in to wrap presents from the mystery bags in the back bedroom. One for Grandma, one for Grandpa, for Uncle J, Aunt Muriel, Cousins Barbara and Jerry.

The house is brighter, and though the rain is still strong, the wind still fierce, the sky still gray, there is warm cheer on Lucky Lane. Mom turns out the house lights and in the dim, multi colored glow, we listen to Bing Crosby dreaming of a “White Christmas”.

Needless to say, Santa can’t help but find such a cheery place. So a few, long days later, Dad sticks his head in our bedroom door, and shouts, “Hey, is anybody here going to get up for Christmas?” Instantly awake, we shriek and run in to the living room. Sure enough, the socks hung on the wall furnace are bulging with fruit, nuts, and small treasures. And under the trees are packages that weren’t there the night before. Squeals of delight from the three of us, and smiles from Mom and Dad, patiently listening to us explain the features of our new prizes.

Then bundled into our best, we drive up US Highway 40 through Roseville, Rocklin, and Loomis to Newcastle, where Grandma and Grandpa Kelley welcome us and our breathless news of new toys. We all three battle for the privilege of sitting next to Grandma for Christmas Dinner. Turkey, Stuffing, Potatoes, Gravy. This family of Texas and Oklahoma immigrants from the Dust Bowl relishes sweet potatoes, even okra, neither of which I can stand, but today no one makes me finish my plate.

The trip home from Newcastle puts the three of us to sleep in the backseat of the Chevy. “The Poor People of Paris” plays from the car radio, and rich in new toys, fed, warm, and obviously well loved, we three fall asleep.

The rain didn’t let up that December. The records show 20 days of rain. So carpenters didn’t work much, a cruel trick in the month when Christmas demands more, not less, of young carpenters and mothers. It took me years until I was a father myself to piece together the images of that Christmas 1954. After weeks of no work, and with Christmas approaching, Mom and Dad had decided to borrow the money to pay for the holidays, whether from Household Finance or the bank, we never learn. These two children of the Great Depression, who had seen poverty they would never fully reveal to their own children, who wouldn’t even borrow the money to build their home, had borrowed the money to give their children a normal, happy Christmas. As you might guess, that same protective care saw their children through happy childhoods, dance and piano lessons, little league, boy scouts , and many more Happy Holidays like the Christmas of 1954.​​