LH's note:  the material published on this Web page is copyrighted by Norman Schroeder and is published here with his permission.

     Author's note to "Wisconsin Sunrise":

"Wisconsin Sunrise"

by Norman Schroeder

Copyrighted by Norm Schroeder, 2001, with all rights reserved.

     As I step out side this November day, the early morning frosty temperature stung my face and awakened me. Frost was on the barn roof of my neighbor; the lawn was covered with frost. The windows on my old truck were frosted over. As I looked out towards last summer's cornfield, amongst the stubble of stalks I saw a small flock of geese, perhaps seven or eight in number, quietly resting. A lone sentinel, his neck out stretched out kept an ever-watchful eye out for danger. The autumn brown stubble field was covered with a light frost. My breath froze in the air.

     My eyes adjusted to see the moon was low in the western sky. The stars were dimming as the darkness of the night slowly began to turn into day.

     A slight breeze began to develop from the southwest as I made my early morning walk to check on the progress of the change of the seasons. Only a few of the maples still had leaves on their branches. Some of the young oaks still held tight their autumn brown leaves. The birch and elms were first to lose their leaves this year. Not many leaves remained with the strong winds from last week's sudden change in weather. Where was Indian Summer, I thought?

     I found my old camera resting on the front seat of the truck with a few pictures left to be taken. I was anxious to take some pictures of the sunrise today, as the eastern sky was clear. You could make out the first signs of twilight. Low to the earth, however, things began to change. I became mesmerized as frost that covered the farmer's fields began to sublimate. The warmth of the slight breeze from the southwest was changing the frost into fog. The fog was held tight to the earth in the low-lying areas. I could see the change taking place rapidly. I began to hurry my walk looking for a place to capture the sunrise with my camera.

     Walking across my neighbor's field, I lost the first rays of sunlight behind a small hill. I hastened my pace. The frost was escaping quite fast now as the wind was picking up so very slightly. The geese began to move about nervously, as they were watching me.

     I journeyed on.down an old cow path, towards a hedgerow. Now the sun was almost in perfect position, a few clouds began to form. I wanted to compose my picture with a few trees silhouetted on the horizon against the sun. I journeyed onward. The sun was silently resting on the horizon, but not for long. The earth does not stand still. I needed to wait just a few more minuets. As I waited, the warmth of the wind and the warmth of the suns rays made the frost disappear into a low-lying foggy haze. A mysterious haze was forming. It briefly held tight to the autumn brown stubbled fields. Only if I could get a little more sunlight thorough the low-lying mist, would I be happy with my picture.

     I continued the chase. The old cow path suddenly ended at the farmer's gate. I could hear the quiet lowering voices of cows. They too had been enjoying the early morning sunrise. The old wooden gate was quickly pushed aside and I stepped into the farmer's field. Suddenly before my eyes there was the revelation of farm buildings. Out of the mist came first the silo, and then I could make out the red barn, a tired windmill, and a wired corn bin filled with the gold of fall harvest. In the glow of the morning sunlight, windows of the farmer's house were opened to my eyes. My eyes were held captive as I gazed at the century old two-story farmhouse.  The old house was gray and weathered, but the windows were ablaze with reflected sunlight. A warm color that reminded me of the burning glow of a kerosene lantern. The farmer's dog let out a quiet inquiring bark; there was a pause. as he waited for a response. None was returned and he remained silent as the crispy foggy morning.

     My journey was now about finished. As I turned towards the eastern sky, I saw on the horizon the golden sky. The sun was now moving from the dawns early light into the full day. Silhouetted against the morning light, a small flock of geese were in flight. I watched their graceful movement.  As they turned to the south, they formed a thin undulating ribbon, a ribbon drawn by the mysterious magnetism of the seasonal change. I took the lens cap off my camera and snapped a picture. Then I looked down and across the farmer's field. I saw that in just those few brief minutes that I had lost the perfect light that I had imagined that I could capture on the film of my camera. But I managed to capture it in my mind. The challenge now was to place it into words.

Click went the shutter in my mind.

* * * * *

     Respond to Norm Schroeder at nlschroe@plymouth.k12.wi.us.

"My Grandfather’s
Christmas Presents"

by Norm Schroeder

Copyrighted by Norman Schroeder, 2001, with all rights reserved.

     The countryside is blanketed with a light covering of fresh snow this December day. There remain a few fields of standing corn. Some are partially harvested with only few dozen rows left to pick. The rows of corn with their ears dropping towards the ground remind me of columns of tired soldiers standing at attention. Looking up I feel the warm sunshine on my face and enjoy the bright blue sky.  As I look towards the west, I see my neighbor’s red barn and the churning windmill. Retracing my steps in the snow from the woodpile I notice fresh rabbit tracks. In a bush near the kitchen window the call of a cardinal breaks the stillness of the air.

     My arms are full of several pieces of freshly split red oak. Summer’s warmth will soon  be released by the fire that father has started in the fireplace. The house is decorated to celebrate the arrival of Christmas. The tree is decorated with the glass ornaments handed down to us from my grandmother. You can hear the radio playing Christmas music with an occasional interruption about the weather. Pickles, the cat, is purring quietly on the sofa, nestled up in an old quilt. Mother sits at her desk addressing Christmas cards and writing short notes inside each one.

     The fire is now brightly burning and I warm up a cup of hot cocoa. Next my eyes turn toward the cookie jar and I sneak a couple of cookies onto my plate. My mother asks me what I might want for Christmas, as she continues to write cards.

     I pause and think a moment. “ I want a model airplane like my grandfather flew.” I reply. (It was not the first time that I had asked for such a gift. The plane was on my list from Christmas last year as well as a much anticipated birthday gift…all to no avail.)  My mother did not reply and the pen in her hand fell quiet.

     She got up and went over to the radio and switched the station to some polka music. It was” happy music” she would often say to me. Her voice was now silent, as she did not speak of my grandfather. He remained much of a mystery to me. She did not return to her desk, but instead went upstairs. I heard the attic door open. Quietly I stepped up the stairs to the attic. The attic door was now ajar. The cold musty smell of the attic rushed to meet me.  I cautiously peered around the door. I could see my mother remove the lid from an old shoebox that had been kept in the safety of her grandmother’s trunk.  She took out a bundle of old letters tied together with a brown piece of string. Carefully she took out what looked like a book; it turned out to be a diary. Tears were in her eyes. I turned away and quietly crept down the stairs.

     It was not long before she returned and sat down at her desk. She untied the bundle of letters and after sorting through a number of them found the ones she was looking for.”Here.” she said,” this is the voice of you grandfather,” and she gave me the diary with the letters.

     The letters were written on plain white tablet paper, such as school child would have. It was written in pencil. The date was December 24^th.

     I now heard the voice of my grandfather speaking to me after 50 years of silence.

     Now I began to understand the gifts of Christmas he left for us.

December 24, 1943

Dear Mom and Dad, 

     I have just received my wings and have graduated from Bombardier and Navigator School. What a great Christmas present. I have the rank of 2^nd Lt. That means a little more pay.

     The Texas weather here at San Angelo has been pleasant. I do miss the snow at Christmas in Wisconsin. Wish I were with you both to celebrate Christmas this year. Who knows where I will be next year at this time.  Tomorrow I will attend church on base and have turkey and mashed potatoes, Uncle Sam style. I must close now and write Marge.

                                             Merry Christmas

                                                        Your son,

                                                         Howard

WESTERN UNION

             RA GK 35 Govt. NUE Washington DC 2:25PM 8-15-44

    Mr and Mrs Cletus Geier

    Route No. 2

   Sheboygan Wisc.

   We Regret To Report To You That Your Son Howard Geier is

   Missing In Action While Performing His Duties Over Germany

   For The Government Of The United States Of America.

                                  Dunlap Acting

                                  The Adjutant General

   GR-N245Pa

    Mailed

WESTERN UNION

            
                      RA GK 35 Govt. NUE Washington DC 1:25PM 12-2-44

   Mr and Mrs Cletus Geier

   Route No. 2

   Sheboygan Wisc.

  Report Just Received Through The International Red Cross States

  Your Son, 2^nd Lt. Howard C Geier Is a Prisoner of War of The

  German Government. Letter of Information Follows From Provost Marshal General.

                                  Dunlap Acting

                                  The Adjutant General

  GR-N245Pa

    Mailed

November 8, 1944

Dear Mom and Dad,

     By now you have received word that I’m a prisoner of war. In German they say Kriegesgefangenen or for short “ Kriegies” I’m a guest of the German government so say the prison guards.  Each day begins with roll call at 7:00 AM. It does not take long to dress as I have only the one shirt, jacket and one pair of trousers. No shoes, cap, gloves, socks or underwear. The shoes that have been given me are 3 sizes too big. I have one blanket and a pillow to go along with my burlap bag filled with straw for a mattress. Our camp is about 50 barracks. The camp or Stalag Luff lll  must be in northern Germany as it is quite cold here.

     I feel lucky to be alive as there was difficulty in my parachute opening. But I managed to get it open after falling for over a mile.  I landed in a farmer’s field near a road and it was not long before a German soldier on a bicycle captured me. I offered no resistance, as my arm was badly broken. After receiving medical attention I was questioned a number of times. I only can give my name, rank and serial number, I told them each time. After 3 or 4 of these interrogations, I was placed in this camp. The International Red Cross has visited me and they have by now told you of my fate. There is little I can do but to write you the 2 letters each month that I’m allowed and to sit and wait for the War’s end.

     Tell Marge that I love her and will write her next.

 Love,

 Howard

* * * * *

December 24, 1944 

Dear Mom and Dad,

     Merry Christmas!  It is late as I write to you this Christmas Eve.  I miss you both. I received word from the Red Cross that you are now aware that I am POW. The night is clear and we have snow on the ground in our camp. The windows have their wooden shutters locked by our guards.  There was good news today. A shipment of parcels from the Red Cross has been received in time for Christmas. The parcels add to the food we receive from camp.

     Each day we have 2 slices dark bread with jam and “ersatz” coffee for breakfast. (The coffee is quite bitter and is made from ground acorns) Lunch is a very thin soup made with barley and wormy potatoes. Evening meal consist of dark bread with jam and “ersatz” coffee again. If it would not be for our Red Cross parcels, I think many of us would starve. In each one there is a can of powdered milk, prunes or raisins, a chocolate bar, crackers, Spam, processed cheese, a bar of soap, and some times tobacco. In my last one there was a harmonica in my package along with a deck of cards. Cards and checkers help pass the time. Tonight we are to have a chaplain and a small service tomorrow if the guards allow us. They have given us an extra allotment of a few small bricks of coal for the cold winter night.

     I think of the warm Christmas dinners we had.  I relive and relive those precious days when Christmas was spent on the farm in Wisconsin. I miss your homemade bread, the Christmas cookies, the hot cider, the stuffed goose and dressing. I can only dream of an apple pie or the taste of an orange. I remember the time when as a young boy, we trimmed the Christmas tree with strings of popcorn. Tonight I would eat the decorations on the tree, as I am so hungry. Two rows of barbwire fencing separate us from the pine forest outside our camp. That is as close as I will get to having a Christmas tree. 

     The gifts of Christmas take on a special meaning this year. It’s just like you said to me when I was a boy, “There are Christmas gifts that money can never buy.” The freedom to come and go as you please, to write and receive letters that are not censored, to shop at a grocery store for food that you like, to visit with my aunts and uncles, and other loved ones, to read the paper, to listen to a radio or music, to sleep on a real mattress, (not one made of straw and a burlap bag), to see children at a department store telling Santa what they want for Christmas and listen the to Christmas story at church as a choir of “Angels” sing “Oh’ Holy Night” by candlelight.  

     It would be nice to have the light of a candle to take away the darkness and give us hope. In our barracks tonight we will sing “Silent Night” as I play the harmonica.  Each airman will say his own personal Christmas prayer. We all wish to be home for Christmas next year. The fire in the stove is only a glow now.

     A Blessed Christmas to all

Love,

Howard 

* * * * *

      I now opened my grandfather’s war diary. The soil and stains still looked fresh as I read from his pen.

* * * * *

 January 1, 1945

Happy New Year

     Received a letter from Mom and Dad dated November 10^th,1944.
Wishing me a Happy Thanksgiving. Good to finally see a piece of mail.
Nothing from Marge. Hear that we are bombing many rail yards and trains.
Red Cross parcels are far between. The sun shines today, but it is cold. It is always cold.

Jan. 15, 1945

     Still cold and food is in short supply. Tomorrow is “Pay Day” - Red Cross parcels are to arrive. The bombers fly night and day. Some bombs have dropped dangerously close. Were called out of our barracks again last night and took to a ditch as bombs exploded and sirens wailed.

January 29, 1945

     It is quite late and we have been told to be ready to march to a new camp.
This is the last entry in my journal for sometime I feel. The temperature feels
Like 10 degrees and a blizzard is upon us. Must gather blanket and food parcels. Some are making small sleds from their bed boards to carry their belongings. The word is that the Russians are only 20 kilometers from camp. Still no Gloves, socks.

 April 12, 1945

     Conditions here at Stalag IV take on the appearance of a hobo camp. Can’t find anything worth eating.  Damp and cold.  Have word that the war is just about over.  For many the war is over, as we can’t make it more than a couple of weeks.

     Many guards are just walking away. From the sound of the artillery our troops must be close at hand.

 April 29 , 1945

      Elements of General Patton’s 3^rd Army 14^th Armored Division
arrived at the gates. We have been liberated.   I never thought a tank could look so beautiful.

 For us the war is now over.

* * * * *

 December 25^th

     I awoke this morning and rushed down to the Christmas tree. Santa had arrived during the night while I was asleep. New skis and a basketball caught my eyes first. Last night we exchanged gifts with family and I was hopeful that I might get my model airplane. But to no avail again. Then looking carefully towards the back of the tree, I spotted a long rectangular box, carefully wrapped in plain brown paper. No bow was attached. It was held together with string that I recognized from the meat market, where my father bought bratwurst. I carefully picked up the present, and slowly opened the box. My mother turned away and walked out of the room. A warm glow came over me as my Christmas gift made itself known to me. There in the box was a wooden scale model airplane kit of a B-17. It was the “Flying Fortress” that my grandfather flew.

     The next few weeks were spent putting the model together and learning about the airplane my grandfather flew. I went to the library and checked out books about the plane. In the evening hours I would carefully cut out the parts of the plane from balsa wood. Sanding, more sanding, and gluing each part into place. The plastic bubble, where the bombardier sat, fit perfectly on the nose of the plane. The gun turrets with their machine guns ablazing were in place. The four engines, propellers turning looked so very real. More sanding and then painting. It was painted an olive green. I placed my grandfather’s air group insignia on the tail, aligning decals carefully then glued on.  I then remember that the aircrew got to name their plane.

      “What was the name of my grandfather’s plane?” I asked.

      My dad, working hand-in-hand with me, paused and said… “Marge.”

      “It was named after my grandmother?” I pondered.

     So with a little help from my father, we carefully painted her name on the nose of the plane. After a coat of lacquer had dried it was ready to show to my mother. The plane just simply looked grand. With my imagination it  looked like it could really fly. I placed it on a little plastic stand. The wheels were down ready for a landing I imagined.  I took the stairs down from my room and walked into the kitchen where I found my mother.  She turned around and carefully looked at the plane. Tears again filled her eyes. She went back upstairs. I heard the attic door open, and after a few minutes she returned to the kitchen. There she stood looking down on me with a warm smile. She knelt down. From a small white box she took out something wrapped in soft tissue and silver in color. She pinned it on my shirt and gave me a warm hug. I looked down and saw my grandfather’s silver wings.

 Respond to Norm Schroeder at nlschroe@plymouth.k12.wi.us.

     It was early December and it was snowing undecidedly. Mother drove through our small town on the way to my grandfather’s farm. The tinseled Christmas decorations played in the wind as they swaggled from the streetlights on Main Street. Candy canes, toy soldiers, angels, and Christmas wreaths. A banner proclaiming "Peace on Earth" hung across the intersection of Main and Mill Streets. It billowed in the chilly north wind. My faced was pressed hard against the cold window. Rubbing the frost away with my mitten, I could see a man dressed in his Salvation Army uniform. He was ringing a bell on the street corner as he stood by his red kettle. Cling, cling, cling, and ring the bell did sing. Christmas shoppers, heads bent down, scurried along sidewalks. Few noticed him this Saturday morning. The news was not of peace on earth, but of war. And for Mother it was the war at sea which occupied her mind.

     Mother had been unusually quiet. The long delay of letters from my father at sea was a constant worry. The sinking of liberty ships in the North Atlantic as reported in the newspaper gave her no comfort. It was even on my older brother’s mind as he delivered the local newspaper. We all wondered if Father would be home for Christmas. We drove on - the windshield wipers flip-flopped, flip- flopped. Quietly I again looked out the window of the car. I could see the frozen millpond where willows lined the shore. There by the abandoned icehouse stood a solitary pine tree. Here children and parents were in the process of decorating. By the end of the day it would be transformed into a magical Christmas tree for the town. The millpond is where children, dressed in their stocking caps skated carefree. A small brown dog was learning to "skate" on the ice, much to the delight of the small children like myself. I looked upon them with envy. This Christmas would be different, I sensed. There was emptiness within me. I had learned from my older brother that Santa was not real. When I asked my mother, she only answered with silence. I sat with my doll wrapped in a blanket and leaned my head on my mother’s lap as she continued the drive.

     It wasn’t long before Mother turned on the radio of the car. When she did, Christmas music began to play. I began to feel more cheerful and my thoughts turned to what gifts I might be receiving this Christmas. Mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas. " I have not made a Christmas list yet," I answered softly. It was the first time that I had not written Santa a letter. There was a sudden bump and clapping from the road. I pulled my head off my mother’s lap and saw that we were passing over an old wooden bridge. I knew that in a short time we would soon be at my grandfather’s farm.

     The car climbed up to the crest of Waddams’ Hill. I pressed my face hard against the window again. From the ridge, I could see the outline of the woods of my grandfather’s farm. In the valley below I could see a tired train - the smoke and steam trailing from the black engine. It was pulling a solitary passenger car, two boxcars, an empty flat car, and a red caboose; a train that was winding its way through the valley where my grandfather farmed. The train would make its way again past the farm early in the morning, blowing its whistle once or twice at the railroad crossing as it announced its presence in the valley. Then farmers and grandfathers would pull out their pocket watch and set the time of day anew.

     The fields were now covered with fresh snow. The snows came early this winter. In the field were the tied bundles of corn shocks holding on to their autumn brown color. A pheasant flew into the wind and blowing the snow as it passed in front of the car. We crossed the railroad tracks and turned by the redbrick schoolhouse where my mother went to school as a child. In the windows were paper snowflakes that the children had made celebrating winter’s beauty. Soon I saw my grandfather’s mailbox at the end of the lane, the flag still up waiting for the mailman to deliver Christmas cards and letters. Mother turned the wheel of the car and we now drove down the lane towards my grandfather’s house.

      The windmill turned restlessly as it stood proudly next to the red barn with its spotted stone foundation. My grandfather’s old gray truck was parked next to the granary. Grandfather was getting ready to go to the mill to grind feed for grandmother’s chickens. Mother stopped the car, then pulled my scarf tight around my head and reminded me to put my mittens on tight. She gathered a brown bag of groceries from the back seat that Grandma had asked her to get from town. I held my doll close and covered her with a blanket again. Mother opened the door for me and I stepped out and looked around.

     In the corner of the yard Grandmother had decorated a snowman that my grandfather had made for me. The snowman was dressed in my grandfather’s old black hat and grandmother’s red velvet scarf. His face smiled with an orange carrot nose and an old corncob pipe. The black coal eyes and buttons shined and seem to make him come to life. I shuffled my feet slowly towards the house. I did not need the red boots my mother made me wear as the walk was freshly shoveled. As I looked up I saw my grandmother’s warm smiling face through the porch window. She greeted us as she walked out on to the porch of the old white Victorian farmhouse. Pickles the cat rubbed herself around my boots and meowed. Mother returned to the car and drove quietly back to town.

     Such a beautiful house! A pair of cardinals was feeding at the bird feeder that hung from a birch tree next to my grandmother’s kitchen window. The summer porch was now decorated for Christmas. Grandmother had strung fresh cut garland from the porch banisters and railings. A Christmas wreath, with its red bow, hung on the side of the house below the upstairs sitting room. The Christmas tree had not yet been placed in the parlor window. It sat outside waiting for Grandfather to put it in the Christmas tree stand. Tomorrow after church, Grandfather would bring it into the house, and then Grandmother and I would decorate it.

     Grandmother left the door open as she hurried to greet me with a warm hug. She stood there in her ruffled apron and told us to hurry in. I could smell that she had been baking gingerbread cookies - my favorite. Grandmother carried my small suitcase in as I was allowed to spend the night. Sleeping in Grandmother’s soft feather bed was a special treat. Grandfather had to sleep in the downstairs guestroom. Grandmother and I would talk long into the night that night. That was when we talked about Santa, how important it was to believe, and the meaning of Christmas.

     I awoke early the next morning to the smell of fresh ground coffee that Grandmother had made for breakfast. Rubbing my eyes as I walked down the staircase into the kitchen, I was greeted by the warmth of an old cream-colored cook stove. The breakfast table was set with buttermilk pancakes, maple syrup, freshly fried canned sausages and scrambled eggs (eggs that came from grandmother’s chickens). Hot cocoa was steaming in my cup. Grandfather looked up with his cheerful blue eyes, eyes that reminded me of my father, and asked if anyone had seen his old corncob pipe. There was silence as I looked at grandmother. He poured his second cup of coffee and he said that after finishing the chores he would set up the Christmas tree in the parlor for us to decorate. Grandmother thanked him and told him not to hurry as we were going to be busy making Christmas cookies, fudge and bread.

     The day passed quickly, baking and frosting cookies. We were making fudge from Grandma’s secret fudge recipe, and baking Mother’s favorite Christmas bread. The bread had been started the night before, as the yeast had to raise the dough slowly. The hickory nuts we gathered from the fall were now being used. Two oranges sat on the table from which grandma would make a special orange glaze to be baked on the bread. With a small pearing knive, Grandma showed me how to make a small heart in the crust of the bread adding my initials to it. As it would bake the heart would swell, not unlike my own heart as this bread served as my gift to my mother. It was to be her favorite Christmas present from me.

     That Sunday it was bitter cold. Grandfather’s old car would not start nor did his old truck. So he started the green tractor. Pop! Pop! Pop! it went. He hooked it to an old sleigh kept in the barn and down the road we drove to church - Grandfather on the green tractor, Grandmother, Pickles, and I bundled in Grandmother’s quilt. We were as warm muffins from the oven, as we glided along riding in the sleigh. "Best have the car fixed by Christmas," said Grandmother," for we do not want to ride to church on Christmas Eve in a sleigh pulled by a tractor." That evening mother came to pick me up and I told her that I had made her a special Christmas present. She smiled and gave me a hug, but she was still quiet. The newspaper she gave grandmother told of another liberty ship sunk at sea. Still no letters from my father. "Will father be home for Christmas?" I asked. Mother did not answer.

     Other children at school were also questioning if their father would be home for Christmas and if Santa was real. It was the topic of conversation on the playground, some believing others confused, and some saying grownups don’t believe in Santa. I told them that my grandmother believed in Santa. This seemed odd to quiet a few of them, but others only laughed to my hurt. In the classroom our teacher read the poem, "Twas The Night Before Christmas." She and the music teacher prepared for the Christmas program to be given by our class. The music teacher would take us to the small gym and we practiced our Christmas carols to her accompaniment on an old upright piano. The children then put on a small play about children and Christmas. The program ended with a wish for all people to have peace on earth as we sang "Silent Night.". Then our teacher would hand each of us a candy cane and wish us Merry Christmas as the parents came to get their children. I felt the absence of my father again.

     The following week came the celebration of Christmas on the farm with Grandfather and Grandmother. There was much talk about the loss of life at sea as a friend of my mother had received a telegram with the sad news " We regret to inform you…. ." I could not help but notice that we had received a telegram also, but mother hid it in her writing desk not having opened it. Its message would remain sealed. Mother, along with my older brother and I, drove out to my grandfather’s farm to celebrate Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. The night was still, the snowdrifts along the roadside and in the farmers’ fields glistened in the moonlight. It was a silent night, and clear, as we retraced the road again to the farm: over the bridge, up the hill, down into the valley, across the railroad tracks, past the little red schoolhouse, and down my grandfather’s lane to the Victorian farmhouse. Candles glowed in every window and Grandfather’s Christmas tree stood proudly in the parlor. I knew Christmas was almost here. The windmill slept in the cold winter night as I looked towards the barn. My eyes widened as I saw a meteor streak across the sky. I wondered if my father had seen it and where he might be.

     Grandfather was waiting for us at the door. We went into the parlor and placed our gifts around the Christmas tree. On top of the old player piano burned a solitary candle. Next to it framed in gold was a picture of my father in his sailor uniform. My mother went over to it and quietly wiped the tears from her eyes. Grandfather gave her a warm hug again. He turned around and said we will open our Christmas gifts Christmas morning and we needed to get ourselves ready for Christmas Eve services at the country church.

     Since we were still warmly dressed it wasn’t long until we had all climbed in Grandfather’s old Packard and were driving down the lane on our way to church. The sermon was given and the Christmas story told again. We ended the service with a prayer for peace for all lands. We sang, "Joy to the World." as we left church each child got a small brown bag with an orange, candy cane and popcorn ball. I thought of my father again as he especially liked popcorn.

     On our way back to the farm it was windy and snow was blowing and beginning to drift. I must have fallen asleep in the car on the way back, for I was tired. Hearing the distant sound of a train whistle awakened me. It was then I noticed that I had been sleeping in a small trundle bed next to my mother. She lay there sleeping quietly. I pulled the quilt from my bed and went over to the frosty window. There in the moonlight I could make out the "Christmas Train" pulling away slowly from the railroad crossing as if it had stopped. A single passenger car, dimly lighted, continued its journey into the night with the wind blowing the snow across the barren fields and lonely roads. I then looked into the sky for Santa and his reindeer. For a moment I thought I had seen something fly across the face of the moon. Looking again, it had vanished. "Was it Santa?" I asked myself. It was Christmas and I still believed. I returned to my bed and closed my eyes and fell fast asleep waiting for the arrival of Christmas and its early morning light.

     As the morning unwrapped itself from the night, I awoke again. In a dreamy state I found myself feeling warm and cradled with warmth. My sleepy eyes saw the Christmas tree in the parlor aglow with lights. Below its outstretched limbs were Christmas presents joyfully wrapped in holiday paper and red bows. Surrounding the Christmas tree was a small train waiting for a child to wind and make it go. On the piano bench was a sailor cap. I looked up, rubbed my eyes and saw my father’s blue eyes smiling at me. He had carried me downstairs, in my sleep waiting for me to awaken. When I did, I understood the special gift that the "Christmas Train" had brought to me that early Christmas morning.

      Respond to Norm Schroeder at nlschroe@plymouth.k12.wi.us.

By

Norman Schroeder

Copyrighted by Norm Schroeder, 2003, with all rights reserved.

Dear Classmate,

     As graduation day approaches our local high school, I reflect upon my high school years. I sit with the faculty of school where I teach, behind the school board members, administrators and our speaker for this afternoon. In a few moments these young men and women will march across the stage and receive their diploma. A few of the graduates will look out at the audience of family, friends and guests, take that one last look at their assembled class, and move on to their next endeavor. For many of them they will not personally reacquaint themselves with their classmates or teachers. The realization that that this era in their life is about to close, brings tears to some and for others, great joy of relief and accomplishment. For most, that opportunity to reacquaint themselves with their high school classmates will come in the form of an invitation to attend their high school class reunion. Did the reunion committee track you down with a little help from the FBI or CIA? As a last resort, perhaps, they found help from your mother or a brother or sister. Did you remember to return the RSVP? For myself the notice arrived in the mailbox on the porch.

    The invitation to attend my class reunion arrived in the mail over six months ago. With some hesitation… I opened it. At the bottom of the page I recognized one of the names on the class reunion committee. Even after high school some of my classmates were still socially active in keeping our class together, keeping in touch. Some truly friends for life. For me, I suppose I was easy to find. My address had not changed since graduation.

     Inside of me I felt a strong yearning to acquaint myself with former friends, classmates and a few of my former teachers. It would be a chance to relive some of those memories of the sanguine days of our high school years. I mentally began to prepare myself to attend. It seemed like only yesterday, but twenty years have already passed since my graduation from high school.

     Was I ready to attend? That is the question that I needed to answer and was struggling with.

     Looking in the hall mirror, I noticed that I had put on a few pounds over the past few years. (My mother is such a good cook.) Grudgingly I decided to lose a few pounds to make myself look a bit more youthful. I also noticed more than a few gray hairs had made their self-visible. I made a note to get a bottle or two of "Just for Men" dark brown hair coloring. The television advertising of the desires of a more youthful look was having its effects on me. Five minutes in the shower and the dark brown gel would do wonders to erase much of the age that has crept up on me. So, I whimsically dreamt.

     Working in a retail environment under fluorescent lights had done nothing for my pink skin…I noticed. From the local paper I filled out a registration form for a number of discounted tanning sessions at a local tanning salon. Their motto was " You can get that man, with one of our tans." Anyway I wanted to look like I had been to Arizona or Florida over the winter playing golf. When the golf course would open up, I would be out on the links mowing grass to work on my tan. (I had worked part-time at the golf course since high school.) I wanted to look real good and tan! If this was not enough I enrolled in the local fitness club at half price for the past few months. Running on the treadmill, lifting weights, and of all things I began to eat my vegetables. My mother noticed! My trainer had given me a special diet, and more exercise which would help me lose some of the flab. Exercise, I thought, is this what they really mean by graduation exercises? I had acquired more than just a few pounds at my job in retail sales. The mirrors in the fitness center do not hide the truth of one’s appearance.

     In about three months the people that came into the store had noticed quite an improvement in my looks and many were generous with their compliments. I am really beginning to feel good about my reawakened youthful appearance. I became a regular reader of Man’s Health, took fast releasing, fortified vitamins, and drank carrot juice! When I looked in the mirror … I found I didn’t look over forty-five.

     Our class reunion was to be held at the local Elks Lodge. Great I thought, there the lighting would be low and no one will notice the little lines that have crept around my eyes and across my forehead. The festivities were to begin with cocktails at 5:30 P.M. Dinner to follow at 7:00 PM. Well, I thought, I should plan on arriving about 6:30. That would give me enough time to visit some of my classmates and choose a table where I felt comfortable; making sure that the table lighting was subdued. I made it a point not to seek out or to sit with those who have already made a million dollars or more and may have formed their own company. And who knows what classmates have been to graduate school and are engaged in scientific research for some pharmaceutical company or work or I Net company having tons of stock options? All of this making the rest of us look like a collection of hapless failures that gather at the local laundromat on a Saturday evening.

     My self, I was still living at home, still saving for a house. I have held a steady job at Barr’s Shoe Store now for over twenty years. My title is assistant store manger. "Making happy feet" is the store’s motto. (It’s on my nametag and business card.) I still have the upstairs bedroom that I had when I was in high school. The view from the dormer looks out onto a maple-lined street. It’s quiet and peaceful. I can see the playground where I played ball as a kid. As I look back on my accomplishments, I’m still proud of the trophy I received in the third grade as being the spelling bee champion for Central School. My framed blue ribbon, that I won at the county fair for having the best Pez collection, hangs on the far wall next to a framed picture of me and the shoe store manager proclaiming me as employee of the month. Next to an empty milk glass and a plate of half eaten chocolate chip cookies, sits a glass enclosed ant farm. It has been a source of constant company for me since my high school science fair days. I’m still self-conscious and cautious as always. I still have my high school graduation present- an Amity leather wallet. A small little circular ring a little bigger than a quarter is embossed into the wallets inside cover. Like a good boy scout, I have been prepared for that special moment for over twenty years.

     I make a mental note to ask mother for the keys to the station wagon next Saturday night. . It is a cream colored, four door, Ford Country Squire with the fake brown wood trim. I write a small note to myself on the Boss Drug Store calendar that hangs on back of my bedroom door. " Class reunion at Elks Club" and highlight it in yellow. It’s the only entry for the month of August. Mother thinks that it is nice that I’m going to attend my class reunion. She is as interested as I am in what had happened to many of my classmates over the years.

     The day of the class reunion is finally here. The family wagon is washed, waxed and vacuumed. 1977 must have been a good year for Fords. A little green pine tree air-freshener hangs from the cigarette lighter. My dark brown hair looks real good I tell myself as I check myself out again in the review mirror. Off to the Elks Club I drive. When I arrive, I’m careful of where to park. I feel it is best not to bring to much attention to the fact that I am still driving my parents car. This feeling of being a little bit uncomfortable and insecure is nothing new. At the registration desk I found that my nametag was missing so they had to make a quick one for me! One of the girls sings that song that has haunted me over the years…Norman, ohh, oh darling Norman. I blush and head for the bar thinking that I must have forgotten to mail in the RSVP.

     It was after the meal and a couple more old fashions when I began to relax. It was there that several of my classmates and I were discussing the successes and failures in our lives over the past twenty years. Then someone asked the question " Do you remember our commencement address?" Without exception almost everyone did. When I began asking other friends and later relatives, that event passed without being recorded in any detail Most of my classmates could not recall their commencement address from college.

     Let me "visit" that event with you, or should I say "invite" you to my high school graduation and the commencement address so vividly etched into my memory.

     As I close my eyes I can see Lincoln High come alive with its hustle and bustle of students standing by their empty lockers one last time. I can see that we are dressed in a blue mortarboard, tassel and matching gown. We are standing inline in the hallway outside the gymnasium. There is the constant chatting with friends, the making of well wishes, telling jokes, and a small prank or two as we were all placed in alphabetical order. Over the intercom came the cue for us to begin our march into the gymnasium, into the rows of folding chairs placed on the gym floor to the familiar song " Pomp and Circumstance’. I hear the tired piano come to life as the music teacher, Miss Dorothy Sharp, plays the first chords of the traditional melody. We march in tall, proud, young and full of youthful pride and ambition. I see my mother and father sitting in the bleachers. Father has his camera and flashes a picture of me as I walk by. I smile as other cameras join in and record the event for prosperity.

     We sit down in the same seats that we have been so carefully rehearsed only the day before, lest we get out of line and get the wrong diploma. The basketball boards have been cranked back towards the ceiling and secured. We sit facing the stage at the east end of the gymnasium. The scoreboard and clock have played their last game for our class. We rise and we all join in and say the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag. The flag hangs just above the scoreboard. The tired velvet black curtains trimmed in gold frame the stage. The stage sits above the basketball court to the east end of the gym. Here the dignitaries sit to anoint us with words of wisdom. On the stage floor reside two vases of pink gladiolas on each side of the podium. On the floor, just to the left of the podium, sits a recently tuned upright piano with Miss Sharp. The superintendent now makes a few opening remarks. The pastor follows with a prayer. The school board president has a few remarks for our class, of which his daughter is a part. He quotes Lincoln and something from his Gettysburg Address. (I have a feeling it is the only famous quote he can recall.) Mr. Hodgson, the principal, now introduces our speaker for our commencement address.

     We all have noticed our speaker as soon as the curtains have parted. He sits apart from the others of our community here gathered for this important occasion. He is dressed in a white suit with a blue button down collar and dark blue tie. We notice that he is wearing dark glasses and is led to the podium with his white walking cane. It is our speaker Allen Potter. In the short introduction he is simply addressed as " A teacher of the blind:" I’m puzzled. How can a teacher of the blind be blind? He gives us a short biographic sketch of himself explaining how he became blind as a child because of an illness. The faces of his parents, uncles, aunts, home, church, the sky, his hometown, dad’s car, and the sports heroes are all frozen in time. The year was 1971. A time of peace demonstrations and of a conflict in South East Asia. He said he was only fourteen years old at the time. He now must be in his fifties. He has titled his presentation after Helen Keller’s short story, "The Seeing See Little," or "What did you see having passed this far or failed to see?"

     I now remember the trouble that the principal had in the setting up of a large white screen sitting on a tripod with chrome legs positioned at the back of the stage. A slide projector with a carrousel of slides was plugged in and the long cord with a control button to advance the slides was turned over to our speaker. Of all things, I thought, this is going to be a commencement address with a slide show presented by a blind person. How can a blind person do such a thing? We are keenly attentive to our speaker, in fact I remember the astonished feeling I had, for I wear glasses and it is a secret fear that I always had that I might go blind. Our class was unusually quiet as well as were the rest of the guests. We are now totally captivated.

     The lights of the gymnasium are now turned off except for the glowing red exit lights. With a cue from the principal, he begins his presentation. I remember it more like a conversation one would have with a gentle uncle. His first slide is that of himself at the age of fourteen. He tells us this is how he looks even today. According to him he had not aged. We laugh a little. Next are the pictures of his parents, brothers and sister. It looked like a vacation picture from out west on a camping trip. The trailer in the background, and he and his dad were showing off the fish that they had caught that day. They were first on his list of heroes. Next he showed us a picture of Helen Keller and told us of her accomplishments. Author, lecture, could speak foreign languages, all of this without ever hearing her own voice or the voice of her teacher. He told us her first words were "water". He held in his hand some cards from which I think he was reading. I began to wonder if he was really blind or was this just a stunt.

     The next slides were that of Ray Charles and Chubby Checker. He said he enjoyed their music and did not notice their skin color. How could he, he said, all people look black to me. There was a quiet laughter that filtered through the crowd. Next he showed a slide of the constitution of the United States of America. He said he had read it wondered if we would remember its importance. Liberty, freedom, and justice we experience, are not particularly seen, but we see their injustice and its effects. He showed us slides of the Grand Canyon, the president’s faces on Mt. Rushmore, the Golden Gate Bridge, the rugged Rocky mountains, a summer rainbow, puffy clouds, a farmer’s wheat field, an old abandoned house in need of paint, children swinging from a swing, playing baseball, and a marching band at a football game, a homecoming queen and king, and a girl and boy dancing at the prom followed by what may have been their first kiss. He told us to notice the little things that are so often missed as we live each day. I remember at that moment the scent of lilacs drifting into the gymnasium.

     Next came a picture of his "bride" he called her. She was so youthful and had a captivating smile; smile that he never saw, I reconciled to myself. Next were the pictures of his two children, dressed in their play clothes playing in a sandbox. Not unlike the one I had played in. Each picture brought back a special memory to me and I’m sure our audience.

     Next came a picture of a covered bridge and fall foliage. He said he liked to hike along a country road and listen to the sounds of a running brook and the squeak of the boards as he walked across this bridge. It was not unlike the bridge from Madison County, Iowa, that my mother had once described where she met my father. Next there was a slide from the view of a microscope. They were cells. We had been taught about the importance of cells in Mr. Proctor’s biology class; how one cell can make a difference, especially if it is cancerous. That brought a chill to me then and still does today. He must have enjoyed nature as he showed us slides of snow crystals, arching rainbows, flowers in a garden, pollinating bees, the wave of a pounding surf, blinking lightning bugs, popping bubbles, early morning dew, colorful butterflies, a colt and her mother, cows in a meadow, Halley’s comet, and pictures of stars and galaxies.

      He walked out from behind the podium as if to get a better look at the slide of the Milky Way he was describing. He said he wanted to get a better view. We laughed. He backed up nearing the edge of the stage. Then without warning he turned around and "looked at us", took one step off the stage falling to the gymnasium floor scattering his note cards in disarray. The audience gasped, he was unshaken. "I should have looked before I leaped." He quipped. His note cards, now in disarray, lay on the gym floor. He asked Victoria Thornton, who sat in the first seat in the front row, the class valedictorian, to put them in order, as they were all numbered. We now could see that they were all in brail. She was embarrassed. He said "The seeing see little," and quickly had them all back in order. I think the lesson there was we need to learn how to see and feel what we see.

     He found the edge of the stage and with out a moment’s hesitation, jumped back up and found the podium, with just a little help from Mr. Hodgson. Addressing the graduation class, "We do not understand our fate or how we will land. " He turned the accident into a learning situation. " Each day is an opportunity to see and to learn." Carpe Diem it is said in Latin Mrs. Eberle would quote.

     If you can’t "see", try to understand, for you have been given the gift of sight. Remember how to use it. Remember what you have gained from it. Life is so much easier if you just do kind things. Be kind to all of God’s creations. Remember to laugh, especially at yourself.

      I remember his parting words as he wished us well.

     "Be of good health; be generous with warm hugs; do good work and keep in touch. If I can’t see you, you know that you are on my mind. The little lessons in life, the little kind things that you do will be the most important. I now pass that on to you," He said. He left the stage but not our memory.

     Our class was called to stand. Our names were announced and we came forward to receive our diploma. As done in generations before us, there was the congratulatory handshake, and the lifting of the tassel from its right side to the left as we were presented our diploma. We marched out into the world leaving our graduation behind us… we thought.

     Thanks for attending and reminiscing my high school graduation with me.

Norm

P.S.

I still like chocolate chip cookies and milk.

      Respond to Norm Schroeder at nlschroe@plymouth.k12.wi.us.

"The Christmas Walk" is copyrighted by Norman Schroeder, 2003.  All rights reserved.

December 2003

Respond to Norm Schroeder at nlschroe@plymouth.k12.wi.us.
 

Home

Introduction

1960 Photos of Classmates, Faculty, & Staff

Mementos, including The Railsplitter 5-60

Reunion Photos

Directory, Autobios, & Other Contributions

Guestbook & Archive of Emails to the Class

 
Brad Dye's Lincoln Photos of 10-00 & Autobio
 

Photos and Stories from Grade School & Jr. High Years, including the Lincoln Theatre Roy Rogers' Riders Club (more forthcoming)

Links & Things