Sammy

Christmas arrived in December of 1963.  Families that had gathered to celebrate the holiday headed back to their own individual homes.  Even strangers, bundled in winter clothing and hearts full of love, greeted each other on the street with wishes for a happy new year.

Despite the joy of the season surrounding us, there was a feeling of sadness at our house.

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It was the Christmas of 1963.  The much-loved and admired President John F. Kennedy had been struck down by assassin Lee Harvey Oswald only a month earlier.  The nation was still in mourning but trying to gather the strength to continue as normal.

Though we were not happy because of the loss of J.F.K. his death was not the reason we were so very sad.

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Overall the year had been good.  Mom and Dad had worked hard as they always did, and, even though money wasn’t plentiful, Christmas had been good.

One of the ways we had earned money was to pick cotton in the fall.  Schools in the area back then had cotton pickin’ vacation every year.  Farmers needed the work force that schools contained.  Although there were some mechanized cotton pickers around by then, much of the crop was still picked by hand and schools closed so that families could center the time around picking cotton.

People from all around the area would rise early in the morning and drive to the fields.  Though it was autumn and mornings were chilly, the long days got hot and the work was hard.  Fingers bled by the end of the day and hands would be so stiff in the morning that they could barely grip a toothbrush.  Money, though, was good enough that it made Christmas a lot easier on the family bank account.

Some of our friends in the neighborhood met us in our driveway so they could ride with us to the cotton field.  The Gastons lived a block away from our house, within sight of my bedroom window.  They had a car of their own but Sam Sr. was a doctor and needed the vehicle to get to work.  Of course, he did not need to pick cotton to make ends meet, but the work was good for the kids.  It taught them self-reliance.

If I remember correctly, there were three kids – two girls and a boy, in the Gaston family.  One of the daughters, whose name I do not remember, was the eldest child.  The other girl, Marsha, was in class with my sister, Pam and the two were close friends.  The boy, Sammy, was the youngest.  He turned 12 in mid-November, whereas I turned six a couple weeks before Christmas.

Mom took some movies of the bunch of us loading up the car and later in the cotton field.  Of course, everybody clowned for the camera.  As an 11 year old boy, Sammy mugged more than the rest of us.

Later that day, during breaks from picking, Sammy and I talked about what we wanted Santa to bring us, and what we wanted to buy for our loved ones.  Twice my age, Sammy rarely “hung out” or played with me, but neither was he mean or a bully. I looked up to him kind of like a big brother or an older cousin.

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When cotton pickin’ vacation ended, we all went back to school.  I saw Sammy now and then in the neighborhood but, with the difference in our ages, we didn’t interact a lot.

I’m not sure if it is selective recollection or just one of the tricks time plays with memory, but I seem to recall Sammy showing me the new jacket and hat he got for Christmas and I showed him the pressed metal toy truck Santa brought me.

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The day after Christmas our families rounded out the festivities and relatives who had come in to celebrate packed up and went home.  One of Sammy’s friends invited him to spend the night on the 26^th but Sammy took a pass.  He wanted to spend it with his family.

He should have spent the night with his friend.  I really wish he had.

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Sometime around midnight on the 26^th someone in the Gaston family was awakened by the smell of smoke.  Sam Sr. looked out of his bedroom to see the house full of smoke and flames coming from the furnace.  He and his wife woke the family and they held the kids’ hands tightly as they headed for the door.  Sam Sr. was holding onto Sammy as the frightened group made their way through the lung-burning smoke.  The boy clutched his little dog to his chest.

The high-strung Chihuahua was horrified by the smoke and flame and wriggled out of the boy’s grasp.  Sammy tried to grab the dog, pulling away from his father.  Sam Sr. got his wife and daughters outside, then turned back into the house.  The horrified father tried to locate his son but quickly found himself unable to breathe.  He used what little air there was to call for his boy, finally falling to the floor.  Somehow he was close enough to the front door that he fell as much as crawled outside, where he collapsed.

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I was awakened by Mom and my sisters climbing onto my bed so that they could get to my window.  They threw back the curtains and we all knelt on my bed watching with horror.  Our friends’ house was burning.  Firemen were battling the flames, trying to cut the smoke enough to get inside.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Mom could barely gasp at the sight of two firemen exiting the house with a litter between them.  Even from that distance we could see the small form on the stretcher.

“Somebody didn’t make it out,” Mom whispered.  “Pray kids.  Pray like you’ve never prayed before.”

We all held hands and bowed our heads.

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When Sammy pulled away from his dad he had followed the sounds of his little dog.  It took refuge under the couch and Sammy lay on the floor, trying to coax it out.

That’s where the firemen found them.  His death certificate says he died at 12:05 a.m. on December 27, 1963.

On November 19 of this year Sammy would have turned 70.  That’s impossible for my brain to grasp as, in my mind, he will always be that rascally 11-year-old boy, clowning for my mom’s camera.

God bless you my friend.

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Addendum:  A simple $10 to $20 device present in most homes today could have saved my friend’s life.  Be sure you have a smoke detector that is in working order and has a fresh battery.

I wish you and yours the best of holiday seasons.

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