A Christmas Prayer

I'm going to crawl into the way-back machine again and re-tell my favorite Christmas story. Family and friends have heard this tale about a million times. But today, instead of the long winded verbal version, you're going to get the long winded written version. Yep, it's lengthier than the other blog posts, but I've yet to find the edit function in my head; and sometimes a good story takes a little while to tell. So come back with me now to December 1983, and the Christmas I spent in Sandpoint, Idaho.

I’m doing the 5am sign on shift at KSPT, Sandpoint's little AM radio station and the region was in the middle of a serious cold snap. Of course, cold weather in North Idaho in the wintertime is nothing new. But that December brought a deep freeze so cold it challenged the memories of even lifelong residents to recall when it'd been as cold.

It began on December 15 with a chilly arctic wind plunging down from Canada. At first, it was just a breeze. But the next day it became a sustained, howling gale that blew endlessly, day and night, for the next 9 days. It was 26 degrees that first day. That high temperature for the next day was only 12 above, with a 30 mile an hour wind made it feel like minus 10. And that was the warmest day till Christmas.

The mercury continued to fall with each succeeding day as the icy north wind continued to relentlessly batter the Idaho panhandle. Even at its worst, though, the sky never clouded up; during this entire time it remained clear and sunny during the day and clear and starry at night. But it was always bitter cold, a cold I've never experienced before or since.

 

On Sunday December 18, the daytime high was 2 above and winds were gusting to 25. The wind chill that day was somewhere around minus 24. By then, Lake Pend Oreille was almost completely iced over. Exposed pipes in many homes and apartments were beginning to freeze up or break altogether, leaving many folks without water, with flooded basements, or both. In some neighborhoods, broken water mains produced fountains that gushed and then immediately froze, creating ice glazed yards, sidewalks and streets.

 

I was living in a rental house, and back in August when I moved in hadn’t noticed how drafty it was. But I did now. A-framed and poorly insulated, it didn't hold heat very well. At one time there’d been a wood stove, but the previous owners- who I assumed only lived there in the summer- had taken it out to put in a large wet bar. The heat was now provided by vintage 1960's baseboard heaters. But during the long cold spell, they barely made a difference and the house felt terribly cold and uninviting all the time. So during those North Pol’esque days I was only there long enough to sleep and shower, grateful I still had running water. The rest of the time I holed up at work, or any public place with central heat, like a restaurant, the library or the Laundromat. For over a week, I had the cleanest clothes in Bonner County.

On December 21, the pipes froze at the radio station. And with so many other places having the same problem, KSPT was put on the same waiting lists to be de-thawed. We couldn't even make coffee, which was just as well since nobody could use the bathroom either. If you needed to pee, your options were hold it all day or make a frozen dash to Dub's, the diner just across the highway where a lot of us ate lunch. The food was marginal but at least they had running water. However you’d be doing so at your own peril.

 

It was so cold, sucking the frigid air into your lungs was like sucking in razor blades, and the simple act of breathing almost seemed perilous. Inhaling the icy fingers of air felt like your lungs were being shredded. As each day grew a little colder, exposed skin was at risk of frostbite if outside for more than a few minutes. It was good being alive, but upon arising the next day, December 22, it was downright awful having to be alive in North Idaho for that was the day, with still no running water at KSPT, the pipes finally froze up at my place, too. I’d spoken to the property manager about this possibility earlier in the week, but she told me not to worry because she’d already taken care of everything. I took that to mean the plumbing was well insulated. Of course I knew better.

 

The lady didn't like me; she’d already told me so. I was too single, too young and too male, the three deadly sins in her book. And though there weren’t any loopholes in the Federal Housing laws to prevent her from renting to me, I’m sure making me feel as uncomfortable there as possible wasn’t a tactic she’s ignore. All the better if I got mad and left so she could rent to a more ‘suitable client’. At least that’s what came to mind- besides a bunch of curse words- when I tried turning on the faucet that morning. And, just as I assumed when I called Eleanor after my air shift, she wasn’t terribly sympathetic, either. She told me said she had a ‘shitload’ of tenants in the same boat as me, but many were in high-rent properties and therefore, would have a higher priority. Sorry. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. The hell she would. This very disagreeable person was about as helpful to me as a blind squirrel and cuddly as a rabid one. But I was stuck with her. Yet as long as I paid my rent on time, the old hag was stuck with me, too. 

But with all that going for me, this soon became one of the most depressing times of my life. I was cold and alone at Christmas.

 

Though we were playing Christmas music on the radio, I didn't care about Christmas at all. I certainly didn't feel it. I just wanted to go south, or anyplace the icy winds of Sandpoint couldn't follow. I didn't want to go to home, didn't want to go to work. Neither place was comfortable and neither provided much relief from the miserable freezing weather.

Christmas that year was on Sunday, which was the only day of the week I had off.  I had to work Christmas Eve, though, a day as brutal as the day before. The afternoon high that Saturday was zero with a stiff 20 mile an hour wind. Though the wind chill actually was up that day- to a balmy minus 22- it might as well have been minus a hundred. The unrelenting polar blasts cut right through you and I just knew it was never going to end. My shift ended at noon and with nothing better to do, after lunch I reluctantly dragged my sorry ass back to the igloo that doubled as my domicile; there to wait out a very bleak Christmas weekend.

 

I wanted it to be Monday again, so I could at least go back to work and be with people. And according to Eleanor, Monday was the earliest the very overworked plumbers in town could come and thaw my pipes out. 36 more hours. And with the warmth of Christmas about as far out of reach as humanly possible, I wished I was dead. Late in the day though, instead of dying I called California and talked to Mom and Dad. I didn't want to compare weather stories but that's kind of where the conversation ended up. And when I was done dejectedly rattling off what it'd been like living in the New Ice Age for over a week, Mom practically crawled through the phone. “You get yourself out of that house and go to a motel. If you need money, we’ll wire you some. But just go. Now!” Shoot. I had enough money but, whether I was too stubborn or just stupid, it hadn’t occurred to me to leave leaving as an option. But now that Mom mentioned it, a warm room, warm food and a hot shower sounded pretty darn good! It sounded like Heaven.

 

However, it was Christmas Eve. I wasn’t sure there'd be any vacancies but figured it was worth a shot to try. Besides it’d give me something to do and be one of the few times I willfully took my mother's advice. But there was no room for me at the first inn I checked. However I had better luck at the Sandpoint Lodge. The clerk said they had three rooms still un-booked and would be happy to take me in. I wasted no time getting there. I called at 5:20 and checked in ten minutes later. I didn’t even pack a bag. All I brought was my lonely, cold body and a Visa card.

 

After being handed a room key, I sprinted up the stairs and immediately cranked on the heat. As warm air began to wash over me, I sat down on the bed and, with nobody around to hear, thanked the heater from the bottom of my shivering heart. But I was getting hungry, too. I hadn't eaten anything since munching on a day old pastry I found at the radio station that morning. My blood sugar was running low, which may explain why I was speaking to inanimate objects, like a room heater. So, even though I’d have to leave all that new-found warmth behind, my empty stomach won out and I ventured back outdoors and the short walk to the coffee shop.

 

The sign on the door said they were open till 10. But when I got there and looked inside, the lights were all on but I didn’t see anybody. Because of the holiday, I wondered if they might be trying to close up early. But with the door un-locked and only a few minutes after six o'clock, I took a chance that they must still be open. So I went in and took a seat at the counter. There was music playing someplace, maybe a radio?  It wasn't KSPT. But whatever the source it was definitely Christmas stuff.  I waited a few minutes, nervously tapping my fingers on the counter and thought about leaving before a tall, slender, and kindly looking red headed lady came out from the kitchen. From the uniform, I gathered she was the waitress.

 

“Oh, hi there. I didn’t hear you come in. But I’m sorry, Hon, we’ve closed for the night.” Then she chastised herself. “Didn’t I lock that door?” From her accent it was pretty clear she didn’t grow up in Sandpoint, or even the Northwest. It was a definite Texas drawl.”Ya know, being its Christmas Eve and all, we closed tonight at 6." No, please no. Sigh...I was tired, cold, dirty and hungry. And now this. I didn’t complain or bitch about it, though, just stared up at her- probably with puppy dog eyes- and got up to leave.

 

But it was a truly pathetic way to end a pathetic week. Put out of my house with frozen pipes, I hadn’t taken a shower or been able to brush my teeth in over two days. My life was in frozen tatters.“Well, now, wait a sec. You so look hungry and like you could use a friend, am I right?” I didn’t know it was that obvious. But she was right. Yet as nice as she seemed, I'd wager I was giving her the creeps. I know I looked like hell. With dirty clothes, a dirty body and an unkempt pseudo-beard I'd tried to grow that fall, I had all the outward charm of the Unabomber. “And I’ll bet you’re hungry too.” It was the reason I was there.

 

"Well, not to put you out", I began, then like an idiot began vomiting my doleful life all over her. I couldn't stop myself and blathered on with my sad tale of being one of the locals without water for several days, both at home and work. Yadda, yadda, on and on. I was a living breathing whine-machine. But the lady listened patiently and when I was done, looked at me with sympathetic eyes. “Well, bless your heart. I’m so sorry. You’ve had one lousy time of it, haven't ya? Tell ya what. You just wait here one minute, all right? I think I can help.” Before she did anything else, though, she went to the front door and locked it, just in case one more woe-be-gone soul wanted to slither in after the early closing. ”There. Now, the cook’s gone home but I know I can find something around here to warm and fill you up. Just sit tight, okay?”

 

A few minutes later, this angel of mercy (and I never did get her name) brought out a big bowl of steaming hot split pea soup, some crackers, a dinner roll and a mug of coffee.  I don't know where it came from, whether it was left-overs she only had to re-heat or stuff she'd just whipped up herself. It could’ve come from the moon for all I cared; I’d never seen a meal that looked so inviting. Breathing in the mist rising from the soup was like inhaling the quick spritz of a sauna. My insides were as cold as my outsides, but as the hot thick stew slid smoothly down my gullet, it warmed the cockles of my heart, (wherever those are) and everything else in that general vicinity, too. With the hot coffee chaser, life slowly began to percolate from toe to head again.

 

And this dear lady stayed and talked with me the whole time. Though I ate slowly, she never rushed things or made me feel uncomfortable for being there. And, oh, it tasted so good! I had no idea I was that hungry. And I’d grown so used to the nearly two week regional jet stream of misery I almost assumed I’d never be warm again. Who knew such simple faire as split pea soup could make such a scrumptious holiday meal? The Sandpoint Lodge coffee shop was hardly the hearth and home of Christmases past but for that Christmas present, it was like being in the bosom of home. And filling my icy and empty tummy on a biting December night, the hot soup and crackers were like manna from heaven.

 

But knowing it was Christmas Eve (and being a card-carrying weenie), I felt the need to apologize.  After all, the coffee shop was officially closed and I was the last customer keeping this sweet lady at work. She was having none of it, though.”Hon, when I was a little girl, my mama taught me to live by the Golden Rule. Always be kind to animals and never send a stranger away hungry. Because you never know what kind of a tipper they are” She chuckled. “Yep, she worked in a restaurant too.” Just like, the lovely lady's delightful little bit of levity was hitting the spot, too. Frankly, there hadn’t been much to laugh about for the past week and a half. So I continued savoring the soup and ate my fill, cleaning the bowl and devouring the roll. 

 

It was nearly 7:00 when I finished eating, an hour past the time she planned to close. ”Can I help with the dishes?” It was a ridiculous question, but I felt the need to do more than just pay the check. “Nope, it’ll just take me three shakes to run 'em though the dishwasher .And someone else can worry about putting em away tomorrow so don’t worry about a thing. You just go up to your room, get cozy and try and have a good Christmas, okay?” Gosh, this was about the sweetest lady I think I’d ever run into. I nodded and smiled. ”All right, I will, thank you. Now, what’s the tab?” But my newest best friend just tilted her head and looked at me like it was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard… “Darlin', you don’t owe a thing. This one's on me. Call it an early Christmas present from the motel." But I wanted to haggle with her. For all her kindness, I couldn’t go without leaving something behind. It just didn't seem right.

 

“But you can do one thing for me”, she said, walking away. Overwhelmed by gratitude, and suddenly full of Christmas spirit (the good kind), I eagerly answered. “Name it.” She put down my dirty dishes and turned around, “You can let me pray with you. Would that be all right?” A lump suddenly rose in my throat and I quietly nodded. “Sure." My hands were already on the counter and, from the other side she stepped closer and covered them with hers. Then we bowed our heads, closed our eyes and she prayed.

 

It wasn’t a momentous prayer with lots of thee’s and thou’s. But it was simple and heartfelt. She started by thanking the Lord for all her blessings, especially her kids. Then she asked blessings on me, my family and all of us from the radio station. Finally she thanked God for sending us Jesus, and for this special night when the world paused to mark the miraculous birth of the child in the manger. Then she asked the Lord to keep everybody safe over the rest of the Christmas holiday, and concluded with a hearty, A-men. It was an uncomplicated prayer, but poignant. My eyes began pooling and I quickly rubbed them; I didn’t want her to see,

 

It’d been so long since anyone- and certainly not a stranger- had prayed for me one on one like that; so long I couldn’t recall when it happened before. But if others had prayed for me, it seemed I only listened with distracted, self-absorbed ears. And as they prayed, more often than not I silently debated whether they were doing it to be nice or, like a big mountain to climb, just because I was just there. So all I heard were words, not prayers, words that missed making any kind of mark on my soul or any lasting deep connection. I missed the entire point.

 

However for a few moments, and maybe for the first time in a very long time, God once more seemed real and alive. It took a chance crossing of paths with one special person, who I only spent an hour with and never saw again. But that sweet waitress tangibly illustrated Christ’s love through the very simple act of showing kindness to a stranger, cold and alone on Christmas Eve. Humble and unpretentious, that precious lady was truly a servant. And basking in the genuine warmth of her soul and the light of Christ in her eyes, I thought for a second I was in the presence of an angel.

For the first time that entire month of December, I forgot about the weather and work and all my stupid little problems, and actually reflected on Christmas and what it’s really all about. Again, I thought I was going to cry.

 

What was wrong with me? Usually I went through life, not hard, but certainly distant. I tried not to let anything- or anyone- really get to me. But she got to me. In the deepest freeze of December isolation, this sweet lady had moved and melted me like a too-long-in-the-sun snowman. My eyes bubbled misty again, but this time I didn’t try to hide them. ”You all right?” my friend asked kindly.

 

”Yeah. Must be all this wind, it kind of plays havoc with my allergies and stuff.”

 

I lied. Like God, I know she saw right through me, but didn’t press it. “Well, I’m gonna lock up here and get on home. The family’s probably waitin.’ But thanks for dropping in tonight and making my day. And you make sure to have a Merry Christmas, okay?”  Wait; I’d made her day? How the hell could that be?! 

 

"No, you made my day, my whole year, really....”  Once more, I felt like I was going to choke up again so swallowed hard and simply wished her a Merry Christmas and said good bye. The lady smiled brightly, waved, then turned and slipped into the kitchen area. I got up and left, but once I got outside I wanted to go back in and hug her and somehow bless her back. But it was too late. She was no longer in sight and the coffee shop door had locked behind me. So braving the icy cold once more, I hurried back upstairs to my room and took the longest hot shower in the history of indoor plumbing and went to sleep in a cozy bed.

 

Strangely, though, the next day, Christmas Day, dawned clear and quiet. But that wasn’t what was strange, the strange part was not hearing any wind. It was quiet. Dead calm. The outdoor temperature showed only 5 above zero, but without the Polar Express still blowing, it felt like 50. God had given the Idaho Panhandle the Christmas gift of no more wind. And later when I got home, the plumbing company said they'd caught up with the workload and would be out later that afternoon to unthaw me. On Christmas! It was a bunch of mini-miracles. No more wind, and getting my water back. But nothing like what I’d experienced the night before. For when I wasn’t looking and least expected it, I walked right into my own little Christmas miracle.

And it’d be nice to say, like the apostle Paul I’d had a Road to Damascus type of life changing event; that from that day, that moment on, I was truly a changed person. And in the afterglow of that Christmas Eve, yeah, something had changed. I did feel different: a little more alive, more real, and actually closer to God. But the feeling didn’t last. Soon, the promises I made to myself and to Jesus had been forgotten, the follow up New Year’s resolutions gone in a flash, and once again I was more or less the same. But it was a start. And though I never got the ladies' name, to this day I've never forgotten her or that hour on a frozen, lonely Christmas Eve in Sandpoint, Idaho; when a perfect stranger went out of her way to make a lost stray feel perfectly at home, warm and loved at a time when he was feeling anything but. 

It was the greatest Christmas gift I ever received.

 

The Worst Christmas Ever

Good or bad, Christmas is always a memorable time of year. Some I’d just as soon forget. 

Others, because of my profession, I remember having to work. (Which, on the surface, probably sounds like a bad deal, but- confidentially- it got me out of a lot of family stuff. You didn't hear that from me, though). And while everybody likes to paint stories about their favorite December 25^th’s, today I've decided to go to the dark side and dredge up the tale of my worst Christmas ever. It was not one of the happier moments of my life. But I paid for it.

It was Christmas 1979 and I’d recently landed a job at Spokane Sports Specialties. (This was between radio gigs and, for a time after catching on at both KCKO and KGA and to make ends meet, ended up working at all three places). Spokane Sports Specialties sold hockey and figure skating equipment from a tiny 10 foot by 20 foot annex inside a larger all-purpose sporting good shop, DP Sports. I split the day covering the hockey store with Dennis Bossingham, while everyone else on staff worked at DP. Both stores shared a common break room, the same coffee pot and we were all one big happy family. And both stores closed at 2 pm that Christmas Eve.

 

After the last customer left, those of us on duty were joined by those who’d had the day off, and at 2:15 all 12 store employees convened in the office/warehouse in back of the store for our staff Christmas party. As the festivities commenced Christmas music played, munchies and soda were in abundance, as well as a generous selection of booze. It made for a real good vibe: a lively party followed by a day and a half off from work. Snowing heavily outside, it also promised to be a very white Christmas.

 

At work I was probably closest to Fuzzy Buckberger, who was DP’s main salesman. Everyone called him “Fuzzy” because of the dome of frizzy blondish hair on his head and worm-like mustache meandering across his upper lip. "Fuzzy" was also better than his given name, Clarence.  On first meeting you might think, "Ewww! Creepy sales guy"; and you’d be right. To know Fuzzy was to know a disingenuous huckster, shameless schmoozer and renowned skirt-chaser. He was also fun, quick-witted and charming and you couldn’t help but like him. Everybody liked Fuzzy.

 

I did, too, and as the Christmas party kicked into full gear Fuzzy found me and asked if I wanted something to drink besides Coke. “Like what?” I asked as he pulled a bottle of Smirnoff’s vodka from underneath a countertop. “This stuff is so good mixed with Coke. It’ll give you a nice Christmas glow. Try it. You'll like it.” I’d had plenty of rum and Coke in college, but never Coke with vodka; and certainly not straight vodka, either. But heck, it was a party and I trusted him, so I let him fill my coffee cup. I wish I hadn't.


The first swallow went down hard and with a nasty bite. It tasted bitter, like swallowing barely sweetened drain cleaner. Yuck. I instantly chased it with a handfull of Doritos. Even though the Coke helped soften the assault on my mouth a little, I decided on the spot I didn't like vodka. But I didn't want Fuzzy to know that. He was older and I looked up to him, and I didn't want him to think I was a wuss. So I stifled the urge to gag, quickly downed what was left in my mug and pretended it was nectar.

 

However, when I wasn't paying attention, Fuzzy gave me a refill. And, like a dope, I drank it. Then he hit me again. And I drank that, too. He never asked, just kept refilling and always with a smile. And the more I drank the less offensive it tasted. And the more I drank, the less I cared. Eventually I stopped eating and just kept drinking and, though I got a little headachy, by the end of the party I was definitely in the spirit; or it was in me- at about 110 proof. Regardless, I was feeling the warm glow of the season.

 

Around 5:30, everyone wished everyone else a “Merry Christmas" and hit the snow clogged roads to go home to their families. The weather outside was still frightful and now it was dark, too. But the lights on the stores and houses were certainly delightful. However traffic was barely crawling, lurching and slogging along. Yet even going less than 20 miles an hour, I just missed running into a Jeep’s rear end when I stopped, but my car didn’t, and slipped at the light at Francis and Division. Wow, that was fun, I thought stupidly. I was drunk and sliding. Weeeeeee!


But despite the road conditions, and a pressing need to get off them before I really smashed up my car or got busted for DUI, I decided to take a few extra minutes to stop at McDonald’s and invite Mickey D’s over for Christmas. The buzz from an afternoon of Smirnoff’s and Coke and some Doritos had worn off and I was just really hungry and wanting something more substantial to fill the empty hole in my tummy. Besides, I wasn’t in any big hurry; while everybody else was hustling off to family-filled homes for the holiday, I was headed to an empty apartment. Fifteen minutes later I was off the Spokane streets for the night, and all in one piece

 

The apartment manager had strung up blinking lights on some of the rooftops, which gave the East Magnesium Road complex a cheesy, but festive appearance. My place, though, faced a side street away from the main road, so he hadn’t bothered with our building. I didn’t have a Christmas tree, either, just a couple of cards I’d received in the mail, and taped to the refrigerator door with care. And, in keeping with the season,  just like Ebenezer Scrooge, once inside my dark, bare apartment, I closed the door on the miserable weather and settled in for a supper of gruel- or in this case a Big Mac and fries. Then I hunkered down to watch some TV and tried to forget I was alone on Christmas.

 

But it remained a peaceful Christmas Eve for less than an hour. Shortly past 7:00, the first urgent signals alerted my brain of an impending internal disruption. My head began to pound, the room spin, and dinner to come back up. Then, just like Old Faithful- and just when I thought it was all over- I’d have to make another beeline to the vomitorium, or bathroom, for another episode of “Projectile Puking”. These sudden eruptions went on, almost like clockwork, for the next seven hours. Foul and multi-colored, the rolling waves of hurl, once disgorged, allowed for brief respites of relief. But only until the growing, churning blob of nausea returned and spewed yesterday’s breakfast. Or Sunday’s lunch. Who knew? Though it was like everything I’d ever eaten was coming back on me, after a while it all looked about the same.

I did recognize dinner though and here’s a news flash- while Big Mac’s aren’t all that appealing going in, they’re even less so coming out either. When mine came back up it looked like chunks of grayish mashed up Alpo. And these days, whenever I’m tempted to purchase another one, that image is always with me. Bleah!  But it wasn’t the Big Mac that did me in. I'd allowed myself to become intoxicated beyond what I could bare. The vodka acted almost as a poison and made me violently ill. And my body, not used to the stuff, was just doing its job-- intensely purging every remaining disgusting remnant, right down to the last drop.

 

The process was a living hell, though, and went on seemingly forever. I couldn’t sleep because I had to get back up every half hour and puke. It wasn't until around 2:00 Christmas morning when the vomiting finally subsided. But I was dehydrated and my head was pounding like a hammer on anvil. Dizzy and droopy, I was just praying to die!  Instead, I fell into a restless semi-doze which lasted until around 6, when I became conscious of my gigantic Christmas morning hangover. Hallelujah! It was the gift that kept on giving. Almost all day. And the only “Carol of the Bells” I heard were the ones clanging inside my head.

 

I forced myself up and made some coffee. Moving gingerly, there was still some residual confusion and wobbliness to contend with, but the pukey illness I’d spent most of the night with had finally gone. Oh what joy! Looking out the window, the snow had stopped, too. It’d left behind a beautiful world covered in white. But I didn’t care. It sucked. I sucked. Christmas sucked. Bah humbug!  It was only my 24th Christmas but it taught me the lesson of a lifetime- that I can't handle vodka. And since that day, not another drop of that evil liquid has passed my lips. Never will, either. Education, no matter how it's acquired, is always a good thing and on that subject, I was forever educated.

 

But I think everyone should have at least one rotten Christmas, if only to appreciate all the others. And for me, that Christmas is the crummeist one ever–drunk, alone, miserable and hung over. Doesn't get much better than that, does it?  

Ah, good times...