What many people think of when you hear the word Christmas are evergreen trees, lights, presents, family and food. While those are all characteristics of my Christmas as well, there are a few additions. Thick, charred air, singed pajamas, melting aluminum siding and a view of my backyard through my burnt out house while kneeling in the backseat of my mother's olive green station wagon.
The ninth Christmas of my life ended before it even began. On Christmas morning, 1987, at 2:30 AM, my family and I found ourselves rushing from our enflamed row home in Northeast Philadelphia in order to stay alive. With snow on the ground and gawkers all around, our only refuge was a frozen piece of tin. The eternity it took for my mother to open the lock on the car door was no where near matched by the eons that it took that blaze to bring my family's ill-fated Christmas to an end.
In a row home fire, when one house burns, the whole row does as well. Philadelphia's predominantly blue-collared, hard working section, the Greater Northeast, is filled with streets of these units. Having grown up in this part of the city all my life and seeing these types of fires consume an entire block of houses quickly wasn't uncommon, but does anyone really think it will happen to them, especially when they are only eight years old?
All my presents that Santa Claus had brought were gone, burnt to a crisp. That's all I could think about as I watched my half brother, whom I had never seen cry in my life, with a tear rolling down his cheek. Being ignorant to what was really important, I figured he was crying because he wasn't going to get his coat from Santa. As my mother wrapped her arms around the four of us in the car, she looked around at several other families standing in the rain, although they really weren't what mattered to her. It was what she was holding that mattered and it is miraculous we all made it out of the house and into the car.
Even today I never really sleep much on Christmas Eve. I had always hoped to catch a glimpse of the fat guy in the red suit that brings me my gifts. I know there is not a Santa Clause to bring me gifts anymore, but I still like getting stuff, we all do. So it is understandable to sleep light that night with a big grin. Luckily I have always slept that way. It was my childish, ignorant, self-absorbed person that kept my family and me alive.
I remember that night, like every year, I tried to stay up all night on Christmas Eve just so I could see Santa and because I just couldn't sleep at all. I was too excited. I still get that way but that night turned into a different kind of excitement; it turned into terror.
I was laying in the living room watching television. I don't remember what it was, but some Christmas cartoon, I can remember that much. The show had ended and the clock was about 11:30, way past my bedtime. I was hurried off to bed and gave up a fight just like every year. I thought if I could just fight with mom long enough, Santa would come through that door. That never worked since in about 10 minutes mom laid down the law and sent me to bed.
At about midnight I was still wide-awake thinking about my mini-motorcycle I was going to get. It really worked too, had a horn and everything. At least that's what the commercials said. Oh, and I had asked for a Mike Schmidt pitching machine because I wanted to hit like my favorite Phillie did.
Dreaming about my new, potential toys, I laid awake as time passed. I heard my brothers go to bed and then my sister and finally my mother. After she went to bed, I peeked out of my bedroom. "Get back in there, Michael, and don't come out again!" How did she see me? I thought she had gone to bed. Although intrigued by Santa, my mother's backhand was the end all of punishment so I slammed the door shut and covered my head with my pillow. I didn't fall asleep nor could I hear my mother taking all of the presents out from the attic and putting them under the tree.
I laid there motionless, silent and anticipating the next morning. The only thing I could hear was the wind howling and knocking a tree branch against the siding of the house. I was used to that sound. Sometimes I scared if that sound were not there at all. But that night it was and I was happy. I was more than happy; I was a little kid on Christmas Eve.
Finally, I heard the noise that I was waiting for. I figured it all out in my head. "Ok, just wait here for five more minutes. Right now he's eating my cookies and drinking my milk. Then he has to go back out and give those carrots to his reindeer. Yeah, that's right. Or wait, do you think Santa eats at the same time his reindeer do? Oh, no, what if he eats while he takes out my presents and puts them, under the tree?"
Twenty little kid minutes had past, but only two adult minutes.
"If you don't go out there soon, you might not see him, this is your chance!" So, I hopped out of bed with wet palms since I had been sitting on them thinking the whole time. I grabbed for the door slowly and it slipped once in my damp hands but then I quietly creaked it open just a crack. I was about to put my eye to the crack, but instead my nose was drawn to it. I smelled something funny. It wasn't our house's usual Christmas smell, it was a bad smell. It was just plain yucky.
I walked out of the door and I was met with a wall of smoke and then confusion. What was going on? Where was Santa? Where was my tree? Where were my presents? Then it dawned on me, my house was on fire. The only thing I could think of was "Stop, Drop & Roll." I panicked and fell to the ground and started to wail like the little child I was. My sister in the next room came out and was met with the same barricade of smoke I was. She, being levelheaded and much more mature at 19 years old, dropped to her knees and screamed for everyone to wake up. She grabbed me close to her, my childish moaning and her alarming screams woke up the rest of the house.
My mother's room was next to my sister's; my brothers' room downstairs. After picking up my mother, the three of use crawled down the stairs to get my brothers. My mom grabbed for my sister and me to pull our shirts up over our mouths. As we went down the steps, my mother grabbed the coats off the hook and gave them to my sister and me. She opened the door for us to go outside. She went down to get my brothers from their beds.
My sister picked me up and carried me as she ran to the house across the street to call the fire department. It was so quiet outside. You couldn't hear any screams or rustling of burning Christmas gifts of a burning house. All you could hear was nothing.
My sister banged on the door. A weary Mr. Schiffer answered, saw our faces blackened and knew immediately what was happening. He ran to the phone and as he did he yelled, "Where are Betty and the boys?" I cried. My sister whimpered out, "She went to go get them." She turned back to look at the house and saw smoke pouring out of our escape door.
Mrs. Schiffer came to the door and watched the backs of our heads as we look at the house for something to come out besides black smoke. In what felt like an eternity, but was really one minute, we finally saw our mother and two brothers come out of our burning house. They ran away from the door and over to us. We gave them the coats that we had taken outside with us. Mrs. Schiffer offered to bring us inside to rest as we heard the fire engines start to get closer. My mother nodded then ran over to our next door neighbor's house and pounded on their door until a light went on, then she went to the next door and down three more. Where she got that strength to run down the block like that I will never know. She was a portly woman and obviously needed to rest after her rescue of my brothers.
She came back to us on the curb at the Schiffer's and motioned us all to get up and give her a hug. She grabbed in her coat pocket for her car keys. She walked over to the car, started it, and put the heat on. She sat in the driver's seat, like she always did, but this time she had no place to go. She just sat and watched. Mrs. Schiffer told us to come inside, but we all went inside the car to watch with my mother as our home burned and melted away.