Dec. 24, 1937, Buffalo, N.Y.
The snowstorm delighted my kid brother and I, not for making snowballs, but for making nickels and dimes by shoveling out neighbor’s yards. We worked hard that day moving wet snow from back yards out to the curb.
Though tired, we had to go to church for evening service. The younger kids, like my brother, were to recite passages from the Nativity legend. He looked forward to it, and knew his piece by heart, having rehearsed for weeks. He wanted that small box of striped hard candy from the Pastor, a reward for effort. In those days, that was a treat.
The sermon dragged on into the evening. In the overheated little church my brother, wearing a woolen suit with knickers, nodded off. When the recitations began he was unable to stay awake.
All of the other children had finished when my brother's name was called for the closing episode. I shook him, and he went to the front, sleepy and totally disoriented. He turned and faced his audience in panic, completely forgetting his piece. He was paralyzed and in my pity I felt like shouting his opening lines.
The little fellow knew he had to do something but couldn’t quite remember what it was. After moments he improvised a desperate, unsolemn substitute. He surprised us by bursting into song: “Jingle bells, jingle Bells, jingle all the way ...”, and sat down with his candy fighting back tears against the laughter of the congregation.
It was his last performance. Later, he would become a fine engineer.
