Ben Camino's Not-so-Ironic Advent 2019 Meditation #666:
Little Help, Bro
Gordon wanted a bicycle but he didn't want to wait.
The other seven year olds had 'em, why shouldn't he? Heck some of his farm boy friends were almost driving pickups, not to mention riding bikes.
But for some stupid reason he had to wait until Noel, the little brother, was old enough to ride one too because . . . well it's not entirely clear how it happened, but it had just so happened that the two of them somehow became one entity in our family--"the little boys"--and they kind of just always got gifts and things at the same time when it came time to get things.
This may also have been the year we each got a pig for Christmas (I like to throw this stuff in just in case people start wanting to compare their life to mine in terms of overall weirdness), but I can't remember exactly. And anyone who's been following my Advent Meditations knows how important it is to me to get all the (weird) things exactly right.
I knew Gordon wanted that bike. Yessir (as our family friend, J. R. Wade used to say), he wanted it bad. Noel was clueless. Some things never change (just joking gigantic little brother!).* But I never saw dad let on in the days leading up to Christmas whether Santa was going to make Gordo's wish come true or not.
Mom was in bed most of the time that Christmas, nursing her sinus headaches with scotch on the rocks. But I do seem to remember her leafing through some catalogs (the ones with the great underwear ads I enjoyed perusing) in the early part of December, looking for stuff that she wouldn't have to go out shopping for. Blenders and and stuff, but we didn't want those. I do think I once got an electric football game from a catalog. It broke by New Year's.
It was Christmas Eve and poor Gordon was sure that he'd have to wait another year. At midnight mass, the Wade boys told us that they got . . . a freaking horse for Christmas. Damn! They didn't say freaking. And I didn't say damn. Not in church at midnight mass anyway. What, do I need to flash my poetic license at you people? Just pay attention to the important stuff. Jimmy and I were both altar boys that night/morning. That was not the year I passed out from the incense. This year my parents remembered to give me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich around 11 P.M., even though they had never heard the phrase blood sugar. Perhaps that explains the incredible amount of candy we ate as children.
After we had all settled into our Christmas pretend sleeps, Dad came into my room and got me up.
"Joe, come with me, I need your help."
That was pretty cool for a nine year old to hear. And if you've read much Ben Camino, you know what I thought of my father. So I threw my jeans on and followed him out the door. We got into the old Country Squire and starting driving towards downtown Mercedes (such as it was).
It may not be much, especially now that I've seen Paris and London and Fort Wayne and Gas City, but it was the only downtown I knew at that point in my brief pilgrimage in this vale of tears. In truth I may not have used that expression then because I didn't know what it meant. Yet. Although I had said it probably a thousand times when praying the "Salve Regina" at Our Lady of Mercy School in Mercedes.
Not only was it cool to be asked to help my dad at two in the morning on Christmas Eve, but I'm pretty sure I had never been up that late before. Back in those days when kids had sleepovers, the mean parents (unaware of blood sugar) made them go to sleep. No video games existed, and, in Mercedes at least, the television broadcast signed off at midnight (with the Lord's Prayer but, strangely, never the "Salve Regina").
So, without any further explanation, the kind giant and I got into the old Ford Country Squire and drove downtown to the parking lot of Hanshaw Furniture. Back around the back where they loaded and unloaded stuff. Wait a minute -- since when did Dad has a key to Hanshaw's? Still no explanation. He flipped on the light, and I walked in and saw two beautiful new black and white Schwinn bikes. Identical of course. Sometimes I swear my mom must have just dreamed that she had twins and so was just trying to make it happen.
"I can only fit one in the back end of the station wagon Mott (Everybody called me Mott). I need you to ride the other one through town." All the way through town to . . . our house? In truth, dear reader, it probably would only take me five minutes now. But that night it felt like it took at least six. And it was dark. And I was downtown. And it was late.
Gulp. I knew the way, but still . . . riding a bike all that way at two in the morning. At least two dogs on that route had bit me before, several others had chased me. And what if the police saw me?
"Don't worry, Tiny knows about." Tiny Perez was the 6'6" giant chief of police in Mercedes. Tiny, apparently knew everything, including my whereabouts at 2 A.M. on Christmas morning. And what was hiding in the back of Hanshaw's.
Well, I don't want to go all Christmas Story on you and everything, but, to a nine year old, that was one scary, crazy, extraordinary ride. The only thing that got me through it was that dad drove right in front of me all the way across town and into our driveway (as I had begged him to do instead of just letting me ride home by myself). Who knows, maybe he was a little ashamed that his son was such a big chicken. I bet he wouldn't have been when he was nine. But it felt good to follow him as that cold night turned into Christmas morning.
I still remember the look on Gordon's face that morning, like . . . fine UH lee . . . like how long can a good looking young Texas boy wait to have his own bike?! And how did this get here overnight; I mean it's not like you can hide a bike very well around the house. I looked at Dad. He looked at me. "Santa" we said.
I've been Santa's helper lots of times since then. But I have never felt more like what I was doing mattered. Now I know, at least when I'm plugged in properly to the constellations and oceans, that everything matters. Nothing does not matter. Nobody does not matter. Dad mattered a lot. He did a lot. I did a little. We did something. For Gordon (and, of course, Noel, but he has lots of meditations about him already).
If any of the stuff they preach is true, Advent means that someone greater than us did a lot, more than we can say, to give a gift. But there is no catalog order form. That gift needs givers. Even the kind giant needed a helper. In case it's a heresy, the last thing Ben Camino wants to be accused of, I won't say that there is no Advent, no Christmas without a lot of helpers. Mary for one. That Baptist fellow for another. But, as I say, in case it's a heresy I won't say that.
I will say this. It makes no sense NOT to make Advent and Christmas and other non-heretical things happen for the people who are just waiting for someone to see them as worth a bike ride from downtown in the dark after midnight mass to finally get a great gift.
It might be a little scary. Most good things are at least once.
So what? Get up out of bed, take the strange, disorienting ride, dare the dogs to do their worst. Make Christmas happen. Ask him to stay in front so you can follow all the way. It feels good to follow him as that cold night turns into Christmas morning.
Merry Christmas, Gordon. Rest in peace Noel. And dad. And J. R. Wade. And Tiny Perez.
*an earlier draft of this was written before Noel passed away in November of 2013. He was still my "gigantic little brother" when I wrote that draft. Something in my soul says not to edit his being alive out of the revised version.
**that's Gordon on the left and Noel on the right. Officially, "the little boys." I edited Missy and me out of the picture.
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