Grandpa’s Tallest Christmas

Grandpa’s Tallest Christmas

By Fred Benton Holmberg

The bicycle was beautiful and brand new.  It was under the Christmas tree and had the names of my two sisters, my brother, and myself on it. We saw nothing else.  I was nine years old and couldn’t believe it.

The year was 1940 and for us, like so many other people, the Great Depression was still not over.  So the gift was almost beyond our imagination.  A friend of Mom and Dad had given it to us and we were thrilled.  We climbed on it, over it, danced around it – all four of us trying to ride it through the living room at the same time.  Snow hadn’t fallen yet that year and all morning long we rode it up and down the street, literally all four of us riding at one time.

By noontime Christmas Day, we were eager for Grandpa to see it.  Grandpa and Grandma were coming for Christmas dinner by bus.  There had been a time, twelve years earlier, when there were servants and a chauffeur and two great houses and cars.  The Depression took it all; mortgages, forecloses, finally there were ten of us in one small house and no money.

Grandpa was a very proud man.  He had been Governor of Massachusetts, president of its Constitutional Convention, and now he was penniless.  He was in his late seventies, and very proud, but on this day even his bus fare was borrowed.

“They’re coming – they’re coming!” my two sisters shouted, seeing two figures getting off the bus.

We were about to rush out with the new bicycle when my brother shouted to me, “Hide the bike, quick.”  I didn’t understand.  Then, looking out the window, I saw Grandpa was wheeling a bicycle – worn, bent, beaten, but freshly and badly painted bright red.

Grandpa was smiling.  It was the biggest smile I had seen in years.  Grandpa walked tall as if displaying a prize-winning racehorse.  The four of us looked at each other; and my brother, without saying another word, quickly carried the new bike of the early morning down to the cellar.  Then we ran out to greet them.

“Guess who this is for?” Grandpa said, his chest expanding like a proud peacock.  “It’s not the sturdiest, but…”

“We love it, Grandpa!” my brother shouted, rubbing his fingers along the rusted chrome handlebars.

“It’s the best Christmas present ever!” my sisters chimed in, lavishing Grandma and Grandpa with hugs and kisses.

We climbed on board and again all four of us tried to get on and ride it.  The front tire went flat.  We pumped it up.  Later we found out Grandpa had gone to the Salvation Army, paid a few pennies for the old bike, taken it home, fixed it as best he could, and then painted it bright red.

We rode only the rickety bicycle the whole time Grandma and Grandpa were there.  And Gramps never left the porch that afternoon.  He stood there tirelessly watching us race back and forth on the wobbly bike.  And I know now that was the best gift we could have ever given Grandpa.  For he never looked taller or prouder than when he bent down to get a hankie from Grandma’s apron pocket and quietly wiped his eyes.