Do Overs

At night, I could hear the train’s whistle and its rushing sound as it moved through town. It mingled with the sound of air brakes and diesel engines coming from the semis at Dushek Trucking as they took off on
their nightly journeys. My father’s salvage yard security light was right above my window.

I don’t recall ever having any of these things deter my ability to sleep, but it was Christmas time, snow on the ground and in the air, and the anticipation of everything was just too much for me to give way to
slumber. The snow passed by the security light with a rhythmic and hypnotic pace. I wondered who I would call to go sledding or if they had flooded the lower area by the Methodist church for skating.

The snow had started earlier that morning and had persisted through the day, never blustery, just a constant falling and accumulation. My father’s logic in snow removal was simple: If snow was on the sidewalk and we had shovels, it was to be removed. My older brother Chuck and I thought we should wait for the snow to stop and shovel once, but that was not acceptable to my father’s logic. Shoveling was the scourge of winter and took away valuable time from my very busy childhood. For God’s sake,
our sidewalk was at least twenty yards long.

I had no problem blocking out shoveling that night. I could hear my mother wrapping Christmas presents and locking them in my sister’s closet. I had just been informed that Santa was a lie and was sworn to secrecy for my little brother Peter’s sake. My father knew me well and knew it would take more than an oath. He tugged at his belt when talking to me about this subject, letting me know the consequence of relinquishing the new secret. Pure deterrence. Needless to say, it was the last year that my little brother belonged to the Santa cult. The look on Peter’s face was way worse than the meeting I had with my father’s belt.

I shoveled ceaselessly that winter and learned at a young age that Christmas is about the magic. Sorry, Peter.