My mom and dad were married only months before Pearl Harbor. They were living happily in an apartment on Webster Ave. and my dad was working as a coremaker at the International Harvester plant on Brookville Rd. when their lives and the lives of millions were suddenly changed by the events of December 7. My dad soon left his job and joined the Navy and my mom, who was not from Indianapolis, moved in with my dad’s parents at 5912 Julian Ave. in Irvington because if my dad got an extended liberty he’d come to his home in Indianapolis. To help occupy her time, my mom got a job as a typist with the United Christian Missionary Society (UCMS) which was only a few blocks from her Julian Ave. home.
While Christmas 1942 was a subdued event on Julian with two sons (in addition to my dad, his brother Wayne was also in the Navy) far from home, one day in the early part of the New Year brought great joy. One afternoon a taxi pulled up in front of the Julian Ave. home and my dad, wearing his uniform, stepped out and walked up the porch steps and entered the house to the surprise of my mom and others in the household. In addition, to the astonishment of all, moments later brother Wayne, having taken the Washington St. streetcar and walking the short distance through side-yards, came through the back door clad in his uniform; with the two “boys” together again under the same roof the walls of the house could hardly restrain the happiness — hugs, kisses, and joyful tears. My grandmother prepared a great feast, as much as the ration cards would allow, and for the next several days it was Christmas on Julian Ave. All too soon the magical moment passed, and the “boys” had to leave. My grandmother, however, would lay aside a portion of the rations (to the dismay of others in the household) in the weeks and months to come in anticipation of her “boys” return.
In mid-November 1943, my dad’s ship, the USS Boise, put into port at New York City after a tour of duty in the Mediterranean. My mom asked for some time off from her work to go to New York, but she met some resistance from her supervisor. Not to be denied an opportunity to see her husband, she appealed to her sister-in-law whose father was an executive with the UCMS and time was arranged for my mom to travel to the Big Apple. Using a pass supplied by my grandfather, a retired railroader, my mom took a Pennsylvania Railroad train to New York for a few whirlwind days with my dad. Sightseeing, a Broadway show, and dancing to the big band sounds ended all too soon; my dad returned to his ship departing for the South Pacific on December 5, 1943 and my mom returned home. Although it wasn’t yet Christmas, it was the best gift for my mom and dad.
On August 22, 1944 I entered the world at Methodist Hospital. After spending several days in the hospital, me and my mom were brought home to 5912 Julian Ave. by ambulance. My dad learned he was a father sometime later while standing in the chow line aboard ship reading mail from home; on reading the news he stepped out of line full of bliss. Months later the husband of a cousin of my grandmother filmed me taking my first steps in front of my Julian Ave. home to send to my dad.
With war’s end, my dad returned to Indianapolis and his job at International Harvester. Housing was tight, so we three continued to live with my paternal grandparents on Julian Ave. The household was not quite The Waltons, but close enough. In addition to me, my parents, and grandparents, my grandfather’s sister and my dad’s brother and his wife made for a cozy family group. My grandfather called me “Jake” for reasons I never learned. He once pushed me around the block in my Taylor Tot stroller without the floor tray attached; when we returned home, I was sans soles to my baby shoes. He meant well. My mom took me down with her to the Harvester plant on payday, and my dad would hand her his pay envelope through the fence so she could deposit it at the bank. Being a coremaker was a dirty job, and when my dad would come home from work my mom would pick out the grains of sand that had become embedded in his back.
By the time I was four years old, I looked forward to the holiday season beginning with Thanksgiving. Weeks before the annual day of gluttony, my grandmother was sure to reserve her fresh dressed turkey at the grocer (no frozen Butterballs at that time) so it would be ready when she did her shopping for the trimmings — cranberries, yams, and pumpkin and mincemeat for pies. Days of preparing the food before the big day included baking and my grandmother making her famous noodles. While a few extended family members beyond those in the household attended the Thanksgiving feast, Christmas dinner was the main family gathering.
Soon after Thanksgiving, up went the Christmas decorations at the Julian Ave. home. Nothing spectacular, just a wreath on the front door, a small tree in the parlor, and a scattering of greenery and ribbons across the library table with a sprig of mistletoe conveniently placed. Spanning the large archway between the living room and the dining room was a banner of red colored cardboard letters strung together with string spelling out MERRY CHRISTMAS.
“‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” was my favorite holiday tale, and with encouragement from my mom I memorized the little poem. I performed before the adults in the Julian Ave. household until I had perfected it so well my parents decided to take me on the road — that is a Sunday afternoon visit to the home of my dad’s sister on North Bancroft St. There, before my aunt and uncle and my two cousins, I sat in the fireplace hearth and recited the ditty to the amusement of all. On the return drive home, I told my parents I needed to see Santa Claus so he would know what I wanted for Christmas. My mom assured me that a visit with Santa would be arranged.
That evening after supper and listening to some radio shows — Jack Benny, Amos and Andy, Charlie McCarthy — it was up the stairs to bed. As I drifted off to sleep with “visions of sugar plums” beginning to form in my head, my mom came into the room and said someone wanted to see me downstairs. I got up and proceeded down the stairs, glancing through the slats in the rails trying to get a glimpse of the mysterious visitor. I saw a red cap and then a full white beard and finally sitting in my grandfather’s big chair the full figure of SANTA CLAUS. He motioned me over, lifted me up on his lap and then asked, if I had been a good boy. I nodded, “Yes,” hoping that Santa did not see my creative art on the dining room wall. He asked what I wanted for Christmas, but I was so awestruck I couldn’t speak, so Santa suggested some surprises. All too soon Santa’s visit was over, and I was back upstairs in bed. As I nodded off, I could hear the scraping of hooves on the rooftop.