Home  >> Stories  >> The Tale Spinner #2018-51

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IN THIS ISSUE

• In this Heroic Story, firemen save a family´s Christmas
• Gerrit deLeeuw sent this story about a Christmas in Holland
• Irene Harvalias shares a grandmother´s Christmas invitation
• Tom Telfer forward the true story of Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer
• Sites are suggested by Irene Harvalias and by Catherine Nesbitt

Thomas Horne of Maryland writes about

ELVES ON A LADDER TRUCK

On December 24, 1988, our firehouse ambulance was racing in response to a baby being shaken out a window three stories in the air. Police were also en route. Dispatch relayed that the baby was being used to extort money from the mother. On arrival we indeed saw a baby being waved out a window by his feet three stories up.

As we ran up the stairs my partner said, "Distract the guy for a minute, I´ll get the baby."

A crying five-year-old child opened the door, "He´s hurting my brother!" I entered, speaking as calmly as I could. Wild-eyed, the assailant said, "Don´t touch me, cop, or I smash the brat."

I said, "I´m a firefighter. I only want to check the baby."

Suddenly a pair of hands appeared and grabbed the child. From the apartment´s kitchen, my driver had gone out the window and reached across to grab the child - three stories up.

Wild Eyes looked at his now-empty hands, charged past me and escaped.

Breathing raggedly, I surveyed a desperately bleak room. One bare bulb, broken furniture, an empty drawer for a crib. My partner came in holding the baby very close to himself, saying over and over, "He´s all right. He´s all right."

We gathered up mother and two other children. Downstairs we met an army of police officers. As we loaded up the family, the officers took the perpetrator´s description. With the madman´s picture etched into my brain, I described him from top to bottom.

After transporting the family to children´s hospital, we took another call. When the officers caught the assailant he fought, bruised two officers, and ended up needed stitches.

Back at the station, a senior firefighter asked me for every detail. When I finished, he said, "You can´t fix the world but you can mend parts of it," and got our shift together. "We have a family to care for," he said.

"It´s Christmas eve! Most stores are closed," we chorused. The captain replied, "I think this shift could pull it off on Christmas day." No one argued further.

Groups went to the grocery, a toy store, and a child care supply store. Between us, we assembled Christmas for a family that needed everything. Next item, the only unpurchased Christmas tree left from our department´s tree sale fund-raiser. The crew shortened that poor scraggly thing and trimmed it to a decent shape. A 24-hour pharmacy yielded lights and ornaments.

We called the hospital and found the baby´s evaluation would take several more hours; the family would be sent home in the morning.

At 11:00 p.m. we were finally ready. But back at the apartment building, the apartment door had a double-cylinder jimmy-proof lock. We laddered the apartment, and hauled all the supplies up the ladder.

Two different police officers came by with more items. We all agreed that at least for one day, the baby´s brother and sister and yes, even his mom, could believe in Santa Claus.

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Gerrit deLeeuw sends this story by Pierre Van Paassen:

UNCLE KEES´ CHRISTMAS REBELLION

During my boyhood in Holland, Christmas was by no means a joyous celebration. Our spiritual leaders clung to the interpretation handed down by that gloomiest of men, John Calvin. Even the singing of carols was considered tantamount to blasphemy, and festive candles and gaily-decorated fir trees were deemed pagan abominations.

But one old-fashioned Calvinist Christmas lingers in my mind with delight. It was bitter cold in the great church that morning, for the vast nave and transept were unheated. Worshipers pulled the collars of their overcoats up around their chins and sat with their hands in their pockets. Women wrapped their shawls tightly around their shoulders. When the congregation sang, their breath steamed up on faint white clouds toward the golden chandeliers. The preacher that day was a certain Dr. van Hoorn, who was a representative of the ultra-orthodox faction.

The organist had sent word to my Uncle Kees that he was too ill to fulfill his duties. Kees, happy at the opportunity to play the great organ, now sat in the loft peering down through the curtains on the congregation of about 2,000 souls. He had taken me with him into the organ loft.

The organ, a towering structure, reached upward a full 125 feet. It was renowned throughout the land and indeed throughout all Europe. Its wind was provided by a man treading over a huge pedal consisting of twelve parallel beams.

In his sermon Dr. van Hoorn struck a pessimistic note. Christmas, he said, signified the descent of God into the tomb of human flesh, "that charnel house of corruption and dead bones." He dwelt sadistically on our human depravity, our utter worthlessness, tainted as we were from birth with original sin. The dominie groaned and members of the congregation bowed their heads in awful awareness of their guilt.

As the sermon progressed, Kees grew more and more restless. He scratched his head and tugged at his mustache and goatee. He could scarcely sit still.

"Man, man!" he muttered, shaking his head, "are these the good tidings, is that the glad message?" And turning to me he whispered fiercely, "That man smothers the hope of the world in the dustbin of theology!"

We sang a doleful psalm by way of interlude, and the sermon, which had already lasted an hour and forty minutes, moved toward its climax. It ended in so deep a note of despair that across the years I still feel a recurrence of the anguish I then experienced. It was more than likely, the minister threw out by way of a parting shot, that of his entire congregation not a single soul would enter the kingdom of heaven. Many were called, but few were chosen.

Kees shook with indignation as the minister concluded. For a moment I feared that he could walk off in a huff and not play the Bach postlude, or any postlude at all. Down below, Dr. van Hoorn could be seen lifting his hands for the benediction. Kees suddenly threw off his jacket, kicked off his shoes, and pulled out all the stops on the organ. When the minister had finished there followed a moment of intense silence.

Kees waited an instant longer while the air poured into the instrument. His face was set and grim and he looked extremely pale. Then throwing his head back and opening his mouth as if he were going to shout, he brought his fingers down on the keyboard. HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!

The organ roared the tremendous finale of Handel´s chorus of "Messiah." And again with an abrupt crashing effect, as if a million voices burst into song, HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! The music swelled and rolled with the boom of thunder against the vaulted dome, returning again and again with the blast of praise like breakers bursting on the seashore.

Kees beckoned to me. "More air!" he called out.

I ran into the bellows chamber, where Leendert Bols was stamping down the beams like a madman, transported by the music, waving his arms in the air.

"More air!" I shouted. "He wants more air!"

"Hallelujah!" Leendert shouted back. "Hallelujah!" He grabbed me by the arm and together we fairly broke into a trot on the pedal beams.

Then the anthem came to a close. But Kees was not finished yet. Now the organ sang out sweetly the Dutch people´s most beloved evangelical song: "The Name above Every Name, the Name of Jesus," sung to the tune very similar to "Home, Sweet Home."

We sang it with all our heart, Leendert and I, as did the congregation on its way out.

It was a tornado of melody that Kees had unleashed. Mountains leaped in joy. The hills and the seas clapped their hands in gladness. Heaven and earth, the voices of men and angels, seemed joined in a hymn of praise to a God who did not doom and damn, but who so loved, loved, loved the world.

ED. NOTE: Gerrit adds a personal note to this story: My birthmother was from the area where they practiced this Calvinistic religion. She had two brothers who lived in the Kinderdijk, where most of the Dutch mills are. We often visited these uncles. The bible was read every day after dinner, and of course it was always the old testament. If we happened to be there on Sunday, it was a church service we were condemned to attend for two and a half hours. I remember sitting on those oak benches half asleep, listening to those sermons. Every time you thought that the minister would say amen and be done with it, he started all over telling us how condemned we were as sinners. In the meantime, our tender butts were getting more sore. On Sundays, not even the potatoes were peeled - that was done on Saturday, it being considered work. Working on the Lord´s day was about the biggest sin one could commit!

Irene Harvalias writes that those of us of an older generation will appreciate

GRANDMA´S CHRISTMAS INVITATION

Dear Family, I´m not dead yet. Christmas is still important to me.

If being in my Last Will and Testament is important to you, then you might consider being with me for my favourite holiday.

Dinner is at 2:00 p.m. Not 2:15, not 2:05. Two: 2:00.

Arrive late and you get what´s left over.

Last year, that moron Marshall fried a turkey in one of those contraptions and practically burned the deck off the house. This year, the only peanut oil used to make the meal will be from the secret scoop of peanut butter I add to the carrot soup.

Jonathan, your last new wife was an idiot. You don´t arrive at someone´s house on Christmas needing to use the oven and the stove to prepare your contribution to the meal. Honest to God, I thought you might have learned after two wives - date them longer and save us all the agony of another divorce.

Now, the house rules are now slightly different this year.

New House Rules:

1. I have decided that 47% of you don´t know how to take care of nice things. Therefore paper plates and red Solo cups might be bad for the environment, but I´ll be gone soon and that will be your problem to deal with. Besides, I don´t have to worry that you might break my good china when you offer to "do dishes" and don´t understand that means "wash them in the sink, dry them, and put them away," not "stick them in the dishwasher and leave them for a week."

2. I don´t care if your favourite team is playing a critical game. The television stays off during the meal.

3. The "no cans for kids" rule still exists. We are using two-litre bottles because your children still like to open a third can before finishing the first two. Parents can fill a child´s cup when it is empty. There is one cup per kid and all of the cups have names on them and I´ll be paying close attention to refills.

4. Chloe, last year we were at Trudy´s house and I looked the other way when your Jell-O salad showed up. This year, if Jell-O salad comes in my front door it will go right out the back door with the garbage. Save yourself some time, honey. You´ve never been a good cook. You shouldn´t bring something that wiggles more than you. Buy something from the bakery.

5. Grandmothers give grandchildren cookies and candy. That is a fact of life. Your children can eat healthy at your home. At my home, they can eat whatever they like as long as they finish it.

6. I cook with bacon and bacon grease. That´s nothing new. Your being a vegetarian doesn´t change the fact that stuffing without bacon is like egg salad without eggs. Even the green bean casserole has a little bacon grease in it. That´s why it tastes so good. Not eating bacon is just not natural. And as far as being healthy ... look at me. I´ve outlived almost everyone I know.

7. Salad at Christmas is a waste of space.

8. I do not like cell phones. Leave them in the car. If I find one in my house I have a hammer to deal with it.

9. I do not like video cameras. There will be 32 people here. I am sure you can capture lots of memories without the camera pointed at me.

10. Being a mother means you have to actually pay attention to the kids. I have nice things and I don´t put them away just because company is coming over. Mary, watch your kids and I´ll watch my things. If you don´t watch your kids, remember that I have a hammer.

11. Rhonda, a cat that requires a shot twice a day is a cat that has lived too many lives. I think staying home to care for the cat instead of coming to dinner is your way of letting me know that I have lived too many lives too. I can live with that. Can you?

12. Words mean things. I say what I mean. Let me repeat: You don´t need to bring anything means you don´t need to bring anything. And if I did tell you to bring something, bring it in the quantity I said. Really, this doesn´t have to be difficult.

13. Dominos and cards are better than anything that requires a battery or an on/off switch. That was true when you were kids and it´s true now that you have kids.

14. Showing up for Christmas guarantees presents at birthdays. Not showing up may or may not guarantee a card that may or may not be signed.

In memory of your Grandfather, the back fridge will be filled with beer. Drink until it is gone. I prefer wine anyway. But one from each family needs to be the designated driver. (I realize that might be a difficult choice, so think about a cab because I don´t want any arguments on my front door step. Remember, I have a hammer.)

I really mean all of the above.

Love You,

Grandma.

Tom Telfer shares the true story of

RUDOLPH THE RED-NOSED REINDEER

A man named Robert L. May, depressed and broken hearted, stared out his drafty apartment window into the chilling December night. His four-year-old daughter Barbara sat on his lap, quietly sobbing. Bob;s wife, Evelyn, was dying of cancer.

Little Barbara couldn´t understand why her mommy could never come home. Barbara looked up into her dad´s eyes and asked, "Why isn´t Mommy just like everybody else´s Mommy?"

Bob´s jaw tightened and his eyes welled with tears. Her question brought waves of grief, but also of anger. It had been the story of Bob´s life. Life always had to be different for Bob.

When he was a kid, Bob was often bullied by other boys. He was too little at the time to compete in sports. He was often called names he´d rather not remember. From childhood, Bob was different and never seemed to fit in.

Bob, after completing college, married his loving wife Evelyn and was grateful to get a job as a copywriter at the Timothy Eaton Department Store, in Toronto, during the Great Depression. Then he was blessed with his little girl.

But it was all short-lived. Evelyn´s bout with cancer stripped them of all their savings and now Bob and his daughter were forced to live in a two-room apartment in the poorer area of Toronto. Evelyn died just days before Christmas in 1938.

Bob struggled to give hope to his child, for whom he couldn´t even afford to buy a Christmas gift. But if he couldn´t buy a gift, he was determined a make one - a storybook!

Bob had created an animal character in his own mind and told the animal´s story to little Barbara to give her comfort and hope. Again and again, Bob told the story, embellishing it more with each telling.

Who was the character? What was the story all about?

The story Bob May created was his own autobiography in fable form. The character he created was a misfit outcast like he was. The name of the character? A little reindeer named Rudolph, with a big shiny nose. Bob finished the book just in time to give it to his little girl on Christmas Day.

But the story doesn´t end there.

The general manager of the T. Eaton Store caught wind of the little storybook and offered Bob May a nominal fee to purchase the rights to print the book. They went on to print, "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and distribute it to children visiting Santa Claus in their stores.

By 1946, Eaton´s had printed and distributed more than six million copies of Rudolph. That same year, a major publisher wanted to purchase the rights from Eaton´s to print an updated version of the book.

In an unprecedented gesture of kindness, the CEO of Eaton´s returned all rights back to Bob May. The book became a best seller.

Many toy and marketing deals followed and Bob May, now remarried with a growing family, became wealthy from the story he created to comfort his grieving daughter.

But the story doesn´t end there either. Bob´s brother-in-law, Johnny Marks, made a song adaptation to Rudolph. Though the song was turned down by such popular vocalists as Bing Crosby and Dinah Shore, it was recorded by the singing cowboy, Gene Autry.

"Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" was released in 1949 and became a phenomenal success, selling more records than any other Christmas song, with the exception of "White Christmas."

The gift of love that Bob May created for his daughter so long ago kept on returning back to bless him again and again. And Bob May learned the lesson, just like his dear friend Rudolph, that being different isn´t so bad. In fact, being different can be a blessing.

SUGGESTED SITES

Catherine Nesbitt forwards this link to an illusion of a sea turtle that is so well done that she is sure most viewers will watch it twice. (I did.):

Irene Harvalias suggests this video of a homeless man playing a street piano, which changed his life completely:

Irene also sends the URL for a video of Terry Fator performing a live Christmas special on America´s Got Talent:

In this TED talk, David Puttnam talks about the reality of climate change, and what we can do about it:

From The Tyee, here is an article about the mess Alberta´s oil industry is in, and some Albertans´ proposal to leave Canada:

This toy factory is run by volunteers who give away all the toys for free:

This site tells about nine powerful people who fought for the planet in 2018: