IT'S CHRISTMAS FOR SULLY

IT'S CHRISTMAS: Time to celebrate the day- and reflect on the Christmas's of old.

They start with my earliest memories as the oldest of three Sullivan boys residing at 120 Sumner Avenue in Forest Hills; a suburb east of Pittsburgh and which we called home. This was only after dipping our toes in the water at 119 Sumner and  23 Sumner - also rentals.

We Sullivan's were obviously Irish Nomad's - but apparently also extremely cautious due to our innate fear of  becoming  lost by straying too far away from the 87 Ardmore streetcar line that ran on Route 30 at the foot of Sumner. 

It was the 40's . My brother Jim was born when I was 4 and we lived at 23 Sumner . Tom, the youngest was born about 3 1/2 years later, following our pilgrimage all the way up to 120 Sumner from 23 - when I was about 5 or 6 years old.

Our home at 120 was the source of my first Christmas memories, me nestled  in an upstairs bedroom on Christmas Eve trying to fall asleep, but kept awake by muffled shouts below leading to my puzzlement as I attempted  to determine why Santa Claus was cussing.

Unfortunately, I was hampered in my research by my solemn promise to my mother not to leave my bed for any reason including the imagined sound of hoofbeats on our roof.

I soon learned as the years went by that the words I heard were not coming from Santa but another guy whose name started with an "S" - my dad  - affectionately referred to by friends, neighbors, and co-workers as "Sully."

"Sully", a very strong but compact Irishman, was not  blessed mechanically and attempting to keep an old 27 gauge Lionel - 5 car train on the track surrounding the Christmas tree - was a real challenge for him. "O" gauge would have definitely put him over the edge.

His lack of ardor for the task may have also been influenced by his "possible" intake of a few shots of "Three Feathers Rye" which he kept hidden in the high kitchen cupboards. The rye was normally private stock for his own fathers' occasional forays from the railroad style flats in uptown Wilmerding, Pa to graciously babysit his grandkids - when Marge (my mom) and Sully went out on the town.. 

As I became older and now in my late teens ,Mom had deemed me mature enough to accept the assigned but thankless task of assisting Sully, at our annual Pre-Christmas ceremony of "the holding the brads" for Sully. In brief, I had graduated to becoming "The Sorcerors Apprentice."

Each previous year Dad tried in vain  - by himself -  and despite  Marge's specific directions from the warmth of the living room ,  behind the safety of the rugged heavy glass storm door. to complete our outside Christmas decorations.

This had required my Dad  to convince  his unyielding stubby semi-frozen hands to hold the brads while he also "operated" the hammer.

His assigned task was to be completed  in order to accomplish Mom's annual goal of affixing the thick colored Christmas light cords into the weathered yellowish door frame in a symmetrical pattern - whose predestined shape was revealed and known only by her.

But, change was a coming.

Now, while Sully, under the tiny and bent overhead metal awning outside the doorway of our only owned Forest Hills home on Avenue F- was puffing on his ever present pipe - and still filled with greatly misguided determination - he yielded the ax (hammer) in the general direction of the brads, and I (with my eyes tightly closed) carefully placed one or two sacrificial fingers around the chosen brad.

I was able to do this by keeping my mind occupied - as I attempted to determine which I liked the best: becoming a new participant in our holiday lighting preparation or studying for my  final exams.

Needless to say, Sully  - a good man -would rather have outsourced both of the physical tasks involved in Mom's "annual decorating scheme."

Judging by his own continuing "annual non-Santa like" choice of words to describe his state of unhappiness to my Mom; it soon became obvious to one and all that Sully was not going to receive  the Christmas present he sought this Christmas either. 

As I got older, and had kids of my own - I became happy that Sully never had to deal with the challenge of inserting the razor sharp  tab "A" into slot "B" of my daughter Beth's metal stove, refrigerator, and whatever; particularly following her dad's "obligatory" celebratory Christmas Eve attendance a mile down the road at our popular neighborhood bar, MARTINI'S. 

One year, the Christmas Eve celebration there lasted so long that my best friend, another Irishman, John Tubbs and myself had to break away from our neighbors and friends - leaving both complimentary drinks and change on the bar - in a hasty but unsteady pursuit of a Christmas tree for yours truly - whose mission it was several hours before to accomplish this apparently daunting task all by my lonesome self.

John and I ended up "stealing" a tall but lop sided fir tree from a now empty and apparently closed Christmas Tree lot (only because the attendant had gone home and carelessly left no cash deposit box for latecomers.)

Actually, the tree looked not only straight - but perfectly proportioned at the time, as the two of us, reveling in our good fortune in finding one so close to home, were appropriately curious as to why it had been passed over.

Selecting it was only half of the battle. The real challenge was wrestling it on top of my company car as we both held it down on the roof by clinging to it's straggly branches through the open front door windows. 

Meantime,  I slowly headed home, despite the lack of traffic -carefully watching the road, but still working on my lengthy explanation for Beth's mother as to why it took so long for me and my pal to locate and select that "perfect tree." 

(I checked the following day, Christmas - on my way to our local "Stop-N-Go" convenience store - with a couple of  my kids along for protection - in order to make sure our new "perfect" tree had not previously been occupying a neighbor's front lawn. 

 But,  I soon realized neither John nor I  had taken along any sharp implements on our mission, and therefore I could drive back home and enjoy Christmas with a clear conscience.) 

My current Christmas Eve celebrating has been reduced to about a half- glass of Pinot Grigio - if that- and it no longer includes experimenting to determine that "just right"  combination of egg nog, rum and whipped cream, that I'm convinced I had perfected when I was much younger.

Time, age, and maturity tend to change a lot of old habits..

However, the spirit of Sully - lives on - as I still have scars on my fingers from those #$%^ metal tabs as well as "those hanging brads" - most of which are probably still stuck in the wooden door frame or red bricks surrounding that front door on Avenue F.

Merry Christmas.