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As a young lad with only eight Christmas celebrations behind me, I was looking forward with much joy, expectancy and anticipation toward the next, my ninth Christmas.
My sister Lucille and I had completed our Christmas shopping, having purchased gifts for all our family and friends. We had depleted our $5 allowance, but we were ready!
The usual traditional tree had been obtained, and all the trimming completed. It was set up in our living room where it was quite cold. Our home, like many homes at that time, had no central heating system, only fireplaces and coal burning stoves. The two doors that opened into our living room were kept closed and would be opened late Christmas eve to warm the room.
Finally the much awaited "night" arrived. We willingly went to bed early. In our cold bedroom, tucked in under several quilts, we slept undisturbed throughout the long night.
With the coming of Christmas morning, we were awakened, hurried to a warm room to dress, and then slowly partook of a very complete, nourishing breakfast. Eating breakfast was a cardinal RULE in our home!
As we slowly ate, my anticipation grew more intense. I could hardly contain myself as I though about entering the beautifully decorated living room to see the tree and the presents placed under it by Santa Clause.
We finished eating, but now came another RULE! We must line up and sort of "march" into the living room.
I questioned in my mind why my older brother (by 12 years) Dick, made and was enforcing this rule, and why my mother and father, two older sisters, Lucille and Velma were all ahead of me; and why I was always last in line--behind Dick.
As we approached the living room, my father, his hand already turning the knob was about to open the door when Dick announced, very convincingly, "Oh Wait! I must go to the bathroom!" Can you imagine my let down? I do not, as I write, think I showed my disappointment or impatience, but deep down inside, I sure felt it! I must have shifted my weight from one leg to the other a dozen times, probably muttering to myself, "Hurry up Dick, Hurry up! " I heard Dick go down the hall from our "Waiting room", open and close a door, and go into the warm Christmas living room. But why would he do that? He should have gone upstairs to go to the bathroom. Then I heard a faint unfamiliar sound, a buzzing, swishing sound, like a motor running. What was that? It continued, and only seconds later, the other living room door opened and closed and my brother came into our "waiting room" Taking his place in line, again in front of me, he announced, "O.K. now we can go in." My suspicious young mind wondered, "Why all the delay and fuss?" Why all the wait? Why so slow? Then Dad placed his hand on the door knob, turned the knob slowly, and just as slowly, opened the living room door. Much too slowly! I waited impatiently to burst into the beautiful room! Impatient, because I was last in line! Impatient because it seemed everybody was moving so slowly, Hurry up, I thought!
After what seemed like hours, my place in line slowly advanced, and I was standing, open mouthed, gazing with saucer sized eyes, at the most beautiful Christmas trce I had ever seen. Beneath it many colorful wrapped packages were placed neatly on a white cover, darkened only by the shadow of the tree. Suddenly, I was jolted back to reality by the sound I had heard before. Looking down, I was astonished to see a light emerging from under the lowest bough of the tree... That light was the head light on the front of a green electric locomotive pulling a string of green passenger cars! It slowly followed the curve of the tracks, around the tree. An electric train! All my life I had wanted an electric train, and here it was. I nearly burst with excitement and joy. To see, to touch, to hear, to smell a real electric train, imagine. A real electric train!
The next hours were spent laying on my stomach, on the floor, watching in amazement as that train circled its oval track. A real electric train, head light and all! Real lights in the passenger cars, too, with an observation car on the back end. Just like for real! Very soon instructions started coming my way, "Don't let the tinfoil icicles fall across the tracks." "Don't put your fingers on the rails", Don't run the cars on the carpet", Don't bear down so hard on the cars", "Stop, stop, the train has jumped the tracks" "Tum the juice off, turn it off! "No, No. Arnold, the other way".
Needless to say, all the commands, all the well meant instructions all the STOP, STOPS! only slightly dampened my fervor for my new electric train, My electric train? But was it really mine? I thought it was mine, but there were times when I still had my doubts! Santa brought it, and who else would he bring it for, except me? Finally I learned, yes, it was mine. But my older brother was in command. He had to show me how he had to teach, and someone (1) had to learn.
The balance of the day was all "railroading". We rearranged the track for different configurations, placing new switches, adding more trackage, and tried different circuits and control points. Near the end of the day, we had a real railroading "Conway Yards" Spread. It covered much of the living room floor.
As my brother had to soon go home for the day, permission was requested of Mother to leave our railroad as it was for the next day. "No," Mother quickly responded, "you'll have to take it down and put it away". Much to my disappointment, we reluctantly took the track apart, stored it with the cars and locomotive, with the promise of "doing it again " real soon.
Nearly 65 years have passed since that day, Mother is gone, Dad is gone, my older sister is gone, my big brother is gone, and my train is gone. But the memory of that Christmas is not gone. It is still strong and sharp with visions of a green electric engine and cars, emerging from under a low Christmas tree bough, on its oval track with head light glowing so brightly! God has been so good, and I am so grateful!
Arnold B. McMahon of Rochester, PA. is author of Beaver
County Album No.II and III and Co-Author with Denver Walton of
Beaver County Album No I.