Christmas at the Hacienda Café
I woke up on
a cold December morning in the year 1941 with seven hungry kids and a driving
snow storm outside, six cents in the match box, and their father gone. My boys
ranged from three months to seven years; my only daughter was two years old. Their
dad had never been much more than a presence they feared. Whenever they heard
his wagon wheels crunch on the gravel outside they would scramble to hide under
their beds while the older boys ran to safety out the back door. Now that he
had decided to leave, there would be no more beatings, but no dollar a week to
buy groceries. I had to have a job.
If there was a
welfare system in effect in Oneida County at that time, I certainly knew
nothing about it.
I scrubbed my
younger kids until they looked brand new and then I put on my best homemade
dress, loaded them into my old hay wagon, harnessed up the two tired almost
worthless shoeless sorrow work horses, and went to town in search of a job, in a
raging storm the thick snow blowing in heavy gusts.
I reigned in the horses at every factory,
store and restaurant in town. The kids stayed “crammed” low below the side
boards of the wagon and told to be quiet while I tried to convince whoever
would listen that I was willing to learn or do anything. No luck. The last place
on my way home, located on the West corner of State and Oneida was the La
Hacienda Fine Dining Café a meeting spot for the local farmers and truckers.
A
Mr. Prichard, Todd Prichard rented the building from a local Taxidermist who had
his Taxidermy business in the former Iris Movie Theater building two blocks
down the street, one time owned by my dad Cyrus Ward. Todd spent nine months
remodeling the building inside and out before he opened for business. The
Taxidermist helped Todd put horse hair and plaster on the walls. He and a local
lady upholstered the booths; he used a fine sand and gravel mix for the floors,
he hand painted the table and chairs he had bought in Idaho Falls at going out
of business sale.
I
stepped down from the wagon with a worried look on my face and went inside. I
asked Todd if he could use any help. He studied me, and the wagon, his eyes
rolling back and forth said nothing for a full twenty seconds. He peeked out of
the window at all those kids.
“Need a job, Yu
say?"
Another long
thoughtful pause while massaging his goatee. Finally he said,
“I could use you
to clean up and care for this place 7am to 4pm. I can pay five cents an hour you
can start tomorrow.”
I thanked him graciously and started to cry as
I left the café. That was the biggest blessing in the world. I jumped up onto
the front seat of the wagon. The two sorrow work horses took off for the barn,
facing a head wind, running as fast as they ever went for a mile and a half. It's
called racing for the barn. As soon as I walked in the door, I pulled the cord
on my telephone, turned the dial to three rings, on the party line, lifted my
finger and Sister Jensen answered. She was widowed lived a mile away in a small
one room newly white washed storage grainery that had many years before been
empty except for chickers and army ants. I bargained with her to come to my
place for ten cents a day. She said she would arrive when the older kids were
leaving for school, and tend the babies until I got home from work.
This was a good arrangement for her, so we
made the deal. That night when we circled the kitchen table and knelt to say
our prayers, I thanked God for the blessings he has bestowed on our family.
And so, I
started at The La Hacienda Fine Dining. When I got home at five pm I sent the
baby-sitter home with ten pennies of my tip money—fully half of what I averaged
every day. As the days went by, heating bills added a strain to my meager wage.
The tires on the old wagon had the consistency of penny balloons and began to
leak, more so because the road was gravel. I would have to fill them with air
on the way to work and again in the evening before I could go home.
One
bleak fall early evening, I dragged myself to the wagon to go home and found
four new tires in the back of the wagon. There was no note, nothing; just those
beautiful brand new tires. Had angels taken up residence in the land of Zion? I
made a deal with the owner of the local Chevron Service Station a Mr. Clark
Leishman in exchange for mounting the new tires, I would clean up his office
and service bays. It takes longer to clean up than it does to change the tires.
I
was now working six days instead of five and it still wasn't enough. Christmas
was only three days away and I knew there would be no money for toys. I found a
can of red paint and started repairing and painting some old toys. Then I hid
them in the basement so there would be something for Santa to deliver on
Christmas morning. Clothes were a worry too. I was sewing patches on top of
patches on the boys’ pants and soon they would be too far gone to repair.
On the day before Christmas, the usual
customers, the regulars, sat around, talked, walked in and out. The Oneida
County trooper Captain Wes Gold berry, Les, Frank, Jim, were having small talk
and coffee. A few musicians were hanging around before going to play at the
“Bloody Bucket” in West Warren. A couple of guys were dropping nickels in the
pinball machine. I was told I could leave early because it was Christmas Eve
and the café was closing at noon. I left and to my amazement, my old hay wagon
was filled full to the top of the side boards with boxes of all shapes and
sizes. I quickly stepped on to the driver's bench turned around facing the
beautifully wrapped packages. Reaching down, I pulled off the lid of a box.
Inside was a whole case of little blue jeans, sizes two-ten. I looked inside another
box: It was full of shirts to go with the jeans. Then I peeked inside some of
the other boxes. There was candy and nuts and bananas and bags of groceries.
There was an enormous ham for baking, canned vegetables, potatoes, pudding, Jell-O,
cookies, pie filling and flour. There was a bag of laundry supplies and
cleaning items, there were five toy trucks and one beautiful little doll, a
ceramic jar with twelve dollars and seventy-nine cents, and more.
I road
home, the sun was bright and the snow glistening on the most amazing Christmas of
my life. I will never forget the joy on
the faces of my precious kids that morning. Yes, there were angels in Preston,
and they all hung out at the Hacienda Fine Dining.
DR. KARL WALLACE D.D.S.
To read more stories go to: www.karlwallaceblog.blogspot.com
