Christmas past brings 50 years of present guilt
During the ’60s, I grew up in Albany in a decade that was as confusing, violent, divided and framed by the same political dysfunction that exists today. The one constant in my life, within which I felt a sense of peace, family and hope was the Christmas season. But, when I was 15, I was guilty of a single act that ruined the holiday and became a footnote for all Christmas pasts and present.
My childhood was framed by my baseball days at the National Little League and Central Babe Ruth League. The Albany ballparks were across from one another on Partridge Street — just a 20-minute walk from my home.
My friend and I lived at the parks from the end of winter to the beginning of school. When our summer game schedule concluded, we still went to the park to play home run derby. And even with the change of seasons, from Thanksgiving to Christmas Day, we sold Christmas trees for the league’s biggest fundraiser.
I have no excuse for what I did. Sure, the ’60s were a time of rebellion, and questioning authority. What was perceived as “right” was often attacked as wrong. But no excuse. I knew right from wrong.
I stole a Christmas tree from my Little League.
My friend and I decided to help ourselves to a tree and gift one of our families saving them the holiday expense. In the flip of a coin my folks were the lucky winners. Or so I thought. My parents never complained, but I knew money was always an issue. A milkman father who moonlighted as a school maintenance worker, and a stay-at-home mother caring for her eight children, were not economic characteristics for class advancement.
On that sinful night we dragged the cumbersome Balsam fir up snow packed Partridge Street. Detouring from the most direct route home, we carried the tree through Ridgefield Park and made our way onto Morris Street near the Sisters of Mercy convent. “Bless me Father for I have sinned...”
Opening the gate to the Vincentian elementary schools, we took turns sliding the tree through the snow until we
reached the “technical building.” My family lived in the back of the building. The VI kindergarten classrooms were in the front. My childhood home, at 994 Madison Ave., is now part of The College of Saint Rose campus.
My father saw the tree at 4:30 in the morning as he was leaving for work. He stormed into my bedroom. I confessed claiming we just wanted to get him a free tree. My Dad was furious. “Get dressed and put the tree in the car. You’re bringing it back before I go to work.”
We drove to the ballpark with the stolen tree in the station wagon. His disappointment was accented by his silence. Providence Street was so peaceful. But I felt no peace. I was at war with myself and my crime was at such odds with my upbringing.
I leaned the stolen property onto the fence with the other Christmas trees. My father handed me a 20-dollar bill. “Put your donation under the door by the concession stand.”
“Are you really making me do this?” But that was the extent of questioning my father 50 years ago.
Instead of bringing me home, we drove to Normanskill Dairy. I knew I would be working all morning on the milk truck. When we finished the deliveries, we stopped at the bank on Madison Avenue across from Joe’s Restaurant. I was still a paperboy for The Knickerbocker News and I had a savings account at the bank. My dad directed me to withdraw $20 to pay him back. “But we returned the tree?” I didn’t even bother to look at my father and hopped out of the milk truck.
This childhood memory infiltrated my thoughts while I sat for lunch at Graney’s on New Scotland Avenue. The pub was only a few blocks from the Little League. For five decades I’ve been unable to shake free from this albatross of guilt and stupidity and never returned to the ballpark.
But there was an uncomfortable urge to go back today.
I got out of the car and stared at where the wooden fence was constructed to hold the trees. My theft occurred long before the popularity of artificial trees. Christmas trees were no longer being sold as a fundraiser. The baseball field looked so small from my adult perspective.
(How did I not hit a home run every time at bat?)
When I returned home, I addressed an envelope to the National Little League. I made a 20-dollar donation just like my father directed me to do 50 years ago. At the mailbox I imagined a reassuring and forgiving hand on my shoulder. The hand of my father; strong and authoritative. I felt relieved and smiled up at heaven, “Still sorry, Dad. Merry Christmas.”
Gregg Weinlein is a freelance writer and faculty member with the Capital Area School Development Association. His email address is: greggw97@aol.com