Doug Daugherty
Some would say that dads just need an opportunity to be boys again. On a cold winter night many years ago in Brainerd on Wiley Avenue, I witnessed such a transformation.
Christmas was just a few weeks away, and, as these things happen, the men were huddled around in a neighbor’s garage watching with profound manly interest as Mr. Mangini converted a 1958 Volkswagen Beetle into a dune buggy. One would offer a tool, another a bit of advice, another some warm hard cider.
“Hey, I know,” offered Sam Cooley, “why don’t we turn this into a Santa Sled and drive it down the street on Christmas Eve?”
“Yeah,” said one dad with a belch, “Santa could bring some of our gifts to all our kids!”
The magic dust of boyhood was being scattered over these young. lubricated fathers.
The next few nights, the dads in mass, filled Mr. Mangine garage, laughing, imbibing, with inspired additions to the project. On Christmas Eve, they all bought colorfully wrapped labelled packages for their sons and daughters to the garage.
As WDEF counted down the reindeer traffic on the radio, everything was readied. The lit fathers transferred their impulsive offerings to the transformed VW. It now looked like a Santa Claus sleigh, painted green and red, with a police car light turning red circles, a loud speaker blasted Hear Comes Santa Claus, covered with swaths of red, green, and white lights and golden garland. The only thing that gave it away was the tires and the sputtering air-cooled engine of German precision.
The men scattered to their homes. Children would be allowed to stay up late. Mr. Mangini would take the sleigh to the top of the hill and start down at midnight. (The engine was not the only thing getting high-test fuel.)
At the stroke of twelve down he came, music, lights, and a Ho-Ho-Ho. As he came down the street, dads exited their homes, all dressed like Santa Claus or elves, that is except Mr. Stanissloff. He had dozed off and came to the street in his underwear. And there was Mr. Fournier, who had forgot what the occasion was about and came down from the front porch dressed as Napolean.
I watched in absolute amazement. My eyes grew wide. My palms sweat. I fidgeted with the belt of my bathrobe.
As the men rushed the sleigh, the dogs in the neighborhoods joined the excitement, dancing, and yipping, chasing their tales and each other.
Mr. Beazley carried a cooler.
I am not sure how it started, but the dogs got in a fight. Snarling and nipping, lunging at necks, fangs showing, it turned into a mighty whirlwind of fur and saliva. Dads waded in and began to pull the dogs off. Mr. Beezley dropped the cooler on the sleigh and shattered the fender. Mr. Mangini stopped and after cursing his favorite saint, swung at Beesley. A melee erupted. Every dad, dressed like Santa, joined in either to distribute comeuppance, or some to pull brawling elves apart. Beards were torn off! One man seemed to be gathering them like scalps and gave an occasional “whoop.”
All the kids formed a perimeter. What a show! It was the best Christmas ever. Moms weren’t far behind.
“Tom! Stop that!” said one.
“Silas, remember your temper,” said another.
“Go, Dad,” I shouted. “Put your guard up!”
Old Mr. Scumple came out of his home in his World War I dough boy uniform carrying a Springfield rifle!
“Who hit me?” asked the new neighbor from Soddy Daisy. “By cracky, I’ll give you what fur!” and swung his bag at fat Mr. Johnson who hit the ground.
Old Mrs. Scorsese finally called the police. When they arrived, you guessed it, all the dads split. Only Mr. Mangini was left to explain the fracas.
Mangini knew all the police. My dad, who had been going to law school at night, went out in his Santa suit to lend a hand. Before long, they were all laughing. The priest from O.L.P.H. pulled up. Father O’Brian offered his services.
There as Christmas morning was on the cusp, we all watched as our fathers stood in the street, laughing, and slapping one another on the back, wishing one another good cheer. The priest gave a blessing to Catholic, Protestant, and Jew as the darkness ended and the VW sleigh putted down Wiley Avenue on Christmas day in 1959.
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Doug Daugherty can be reached at dedsr1952@gmail.com