In October of 1960, my dad took the plunge into becoming a homeowner. We had been Near North residents in Chicago since I was born, but the neighborhood surrounding Wrigley Field had slowly grown too dangerous to raise a family. When it got to the point my dad had to pay an older kid to walk me and my younger sister to St. Mary of the Lake School to prevent getting pounded on by one of the neighborhood gangs, my father decided it was time to leave.
My father, then a truck mechanic, found a classic Chicago style bungalow on the northwest side of the city and decided it was time to move west.
The house, badly in need of repairs, carried a price tag of $16,500 due to its condition. The $101.50 per month payment made my mother cry every time someone said it out loud, but my dad was determined to work longer hours to pay this huge monthly bill.
The weather gave little chance for my father to dig into house repair that first winter. It didn’t stop him from starting a tradition of Christmas decorating that eventually would become legend. The Christmas of 1960 showed the first signs of things to come.
Although needing almost everything at the time, the house boasted strands of Christmas lights around all the damaged windows that first season. On the small lawn appeared the first tacky hollow plastic figurines of a snowman, Santa and reindeers, and of course, a pair of three foot tall angels. They all had light bulbs inside them to beam through the dark nights leading up to Christmas.
Neither my mother nor I knew that this decorating would continue to grow every year until people from Kentucky and Nebraska would eventually be seen slowly driving by the house to see this incredibly gaudy display of house decorating. Urban legend has it that the managers of Marshall Fields would drive by our house to get ideas for their State Street store, but I can’t confirm nor deny the tale.
I do remember my Grandma Treacy mentioning that she could have used the electric meter for a meat slicer when dad turned all the decorations on every Christmas season. All of this started in the year 1960.
One day in mid December, when my father came home from work, he stood at the back door without coming into the kitchen. When mom asked him why he wasn’t taking his coat off and getting ready for dinner, he said he wanted to clean up a few things in the decrepit old garage first. Looking at me, he said he could use my help. I could see in dad’s eyes there was something else going on, and knowing that look always produced interesting results, I grabbed my coat and ran out the door after him.
My dad, smiling as he entered the garage, told me he wanted to show me something he had found at work. As he began to open the rear of the old Plymouth wagon, he gave me that dad look that meant I was being sworn to secrecy. Nodding my head and peering into the back of the car at the same time, I was shocked to see a bomb in the car. The bomb, about four feet long and more than a foot in diameter was distinctive by its back stabilizing fins. It was obvious this blockbuster bomb was the kind I had seen in hundreds of movies and newsreels being dropped over bad guys during the wars.
Dad reached in and pulled this huge bomb out with one hand. Banging his knuckles on the side of the bomb I could tell from the hollow metal ring that it was just a tin shell. This alleviated my fears that dad had decided on blowing the house up and starting over, rather than remodeling room by room.
Dad explained how this was known as a practice bomb. The shell, filled with water or sand, was used by the air force to help novice pilots practice their bombing without errantly blowing something up, such as a neighborhood, in the event they weren’t quite ready to be given the real things.
Dad, rummaging through the company’s scrap heap, had found this marvelous bit of junk and he started explaining to me what he thought we should do with the bomb. His idea was to cut the front of the bomb off, from left to right, at an angle that matched the slant on the roof of the house. Then bolting the bomb to the roof, it would look like it was sticking into the house. Behind this “ornament" would be a sheet of plywood with lights strung on the board saying: “Merry Christmas, The Russians are coming".
It only took my twelve year old mind a few seconds to realize this was one of dad’s best ideas yet. It also only took another moment to wonder how we could get this idea ratified by mom.
In the ensuing days, I could tell dad was just waiting for the perfect time to spring the idea on mom. One night, at dinner, when mom was in a totally good mood by not burning the meat for the thirtieth consecutive night, dad sprung the idea on my mom.
It only took a heartbeat for mom to tell us both we were crazy and that there was no way she would allow us to put a bomb on the roof as a Christmas decoration. Mom finished her lecture by leaving a loophole for dad that over the years he would exploit to the fullest. Mom said dad could do whatever he wanted with decorations, but no bomb.
Over the years, I failed to ask my father if he ever thought we actually would use the bomb for Christmas. I do recall it being in the garage for a decade, and every year when he brought the subject up, mom would tell him to do something else, which is exactly what dad did.
As time went on, dad revised Christmas history on our front lawn to include Santa and his thirty reindeer as well as Frosty the snowman having a mate and twenty or so baby snowmen.
I will never know if he planned on using the bomb or just used the threat as a means to continue embellishing his Christmas decorating ideas without being slowed down by mom. I do know that I will always remember those days as if they were yesterday, and I imagine they, along with that bomb, are a Christmas gift unto themselves.
Freelance writer, columnist, author and writing coach, ex-Chicagoan Mike Fak presently resides in Central Illinois. More information about Mike's services are available at his home website www.mikefak.com
Mike currently writes humor columns for searchwarp bi-weekly and is the managing editor of www.lincolndailynews.com
» left by Marie Lehman from Frederick, MD (1 year 307 days ago.)
Laugh Out Loud Funny! My husband is jealous - he wants an old empty bomb for the roof. Respond to this comment
» left by Mike Fak(3,480) Mike Fak (1 year 307 days ago.)
Well tell him he has to find his own, because if I ever find the "family" bomb, I'm using it myself. Well I think I will. Thanks Mike Respond to this comment
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