4. Mama’s Nice Little Man

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, while a score of the church people were beautifying the tall pine tree with gay baubles, Mr. Redelsheimer came, in person, with twenty-five new suits of boys’ clothes and as many woolen dresses for assorted sized girls, together with warm underwear, socks, stockings and shoes.

The Christmas Eve entertainment was an immense success. Papa made a short talk, and so did Mama, who put in a good plug for the Jews in general and Redelsheimer’s General Store in particular. Mr. Amasa (Macy) Robinson, the Sunday School Superintendent, also made a little speech.

Monroeville boasted a Ladies’ Band. There was one man in it, Gilt Cruszon, who played the big, battered tuba. Every blast he blew puffed his cheeks, and after each piece played he tugged a U-shaped section from its small intestines and poured out a heaping mugful of a dark brown fluid which Papa, when queried about it, surmised might be tobacco juice; for many men chewed tobacco in those days, no matter what else they were doing at the time. The Ladies’ Band did very well, I think. Sometimes two or three of the instruments would be unable to finish a number quite as promptly as the others; but, eventually, they all got through it, and received hearty applause. There were all sorts of pieces spoken. Occasionally a long line of kids would take the platform, carrying large half-concealed cards. Each performer would stammer through a quatrain and hold up his or her card. When they were done, they had spelt MERRY CHRISTMAS.

Mama’s nice little man spoke a piece which, like his pants, was much too small for him. As I have told you, it was not customary, in our home, for children to beg for things, after having been refused; nor was it permissible to beg not to be forced to do things; much less stage a revolt. But, that time, when Mama handed me the rather longish poem I was to memorize and recite, I pleaded with tears to be let off. And when my tears were unavailing I got mad. I forget what the babyish doggerel was. Happily for me, I have always been able to forget the details of events that have caused me much suffering. I have even forgotten the names of people who, through the years, have wronged me.

But the Christmas poem I was to recite belonged in the same age-group as “I am Jesus’ little lamb.” I told Mama I couldn’t do it—and, By Golly, wouldn’t do it! I made a last-ditch stand, but it was no good. Mama cried. Here she was working her fingers to the bone to make this Christmas thing successful, and her own nice little man was letting her down!

Then Papa happened in on the scene. Mama and I both tried to state our cases, but the prosecution had the better of it. Papa took me aside and said gently that Mama had been working day and night to bring this affair off. She was tired, he said, and you know how it is. Don’t upset her, my boy. Do what she wants. You’ll feel better about it, in the long run… So—I capitulated.

On the night of the entertainment, when my name was called. I marched bravely up the steps of the gallows and spoke my piece; but I thought I heard some kids giggle, midway of the torture, and I omitted a stanza that had seemed particularly loathsome. When, after a few eternities, I finished and climbed down, Mama said, loudly enough to be heard by the first ten rows, “You left out one verse!” My pride nearly bled to death.

It was not until many years afterward that I understood this well-intended matriarchal tyranny. Mama had dedicated my life to the Lord, somewhat in the same manner that the boy Samuel had been trained, from his early childhood, for holy orders. Mama was determined to prepare me for the ministry. In her opinion it was, at its very highest and best, a life of self-abnegation and sacrifice. In her zeal to arrive at perfection in molding my character, and setting me apart from the rough and tumble of ordinary boyhood, she had made me a solemn, moody, lonely child.

Mama’s nice little man made no defense, nor did he exhibit any signs of annoyance when later, at home, the matter was brought up, as he had feared it might be. Mama was exultant over our smash hit performance; but, in all affairs where the nice little man was involved, she was a perfectionist. She began to chide me for putting on a poor show: I was easily the worst performer of the evening.

At that point, Papa came to my rescue! The whole entertainment, he said, had been fine! If Lloyd hadn’t shown much enthusiasm in speaking his piece, it was not to be wondered at. It was much too babyish for a lad of his age. In any case, it was now Christmas Eve, and nobody was to be made unhappy. It was on that occasion that I made a new acquaintance, whom I loved, ever afterward, with a devotion akin to worship, my papa.