As we head for the second in the twelve nights of Christmas we figure it's a good time to bring you a story from David Weale.Charlie and the Paper Boy
He grew up dirt-poor in a large family of brothers on the Miramichi. When he was old enough to work he became a lumberjack, and with his thick, tree-trunk of a body, and large, powerful hands, he looked every inch the part. But when he was still a young man he gave up the life of the woods for another vocation. He became an entertainer, and by the time his life was over he had become one of the county’s best loved troubadours.
His name was Charlie Chamberlain, and during the 1950s and 1960s he became famous across the country as the lead male vocalist in the “down-east’ band, Don Messer and his Islanders, and there are old-timers yet alive who still haven’t forgiven the CBC for cancelling their weekly TV show in the mid-1960s. Charlie’s heartfelt, even maudlin, renditions of traditional Irish folksongs, favourite hymns, and popular ballads endeared him to an entire generation of Canadians. He touched them in deeply familiar places, and they loved him for it. Some critics questioned his sincerity, but someone told me a story a few years ago that indicated he was just as sentimental and soft-hearted in life as he was on stage.
In 1953, before they were famous, Charlie and the rest of the band were living on the Island, and on the afternoon of the day before Christmas Charlie put in a call to his old friend, Russell Downe, and invited him over to his house for a few tunes, and a little Irish dew. Russell, happy to oblige, grabbed his guitar and headed over, and it wasn’t long before the two were seated, one on either side of the Christmas tree, having their own little Christmas concert. According to Russell they were right in the middle of Down in the Little Green Valley, when the doorbell rang.
It was the paper boy, from a couple of streets over, who was there to collect his paper money. “Come on in,” shouted Charlie, as he fumbled in one pocket after another for change. While this was happening the boy, wide-eyed, was staring at the tree. Charlie noticed his wonderment and asked, “Do you like my tree lad?
“Yes sir,” replied the boy.
“And do you have a tree like that at your house,” asked Charlie off-handedly, as he continued his search for the paper money.
“No sir,” was the soft, flat reply.
“You don’t have a Christmas tree!” exclaimed Charlie incredulously.
“No.”
“What about a turkey, and presents? You got those?”
“Not this year,” replied the boy.
“What do mean, ‘not this year?’” demanded Charlie incredulously.
“Me father’s not workin’” answered the boy. “He said we’re going to have Christmas next year.”
“Do have any brothers and sisters?”
“Yes.”
“Well now,” proclaimed Charlie emphatically, “you must have a Christmas tree. That’s all there is to it,” and then he went into action. He laid his guitar on the couch and walked over to the tree. As Russell and the boy stared in amazement he proceeded on a course of action that was so unexpected, and so impulsively rash, that they could scarcely believe their eyes. He unplugged the lights, then reached through the branches with his big right hand and picked the tree right off the floor – lights, ornaments, tinsel and all. Tree in hand he then marched down the hall to the kitchen where a big turkey was lying in the sink, its neck flopped out over the side. With his left hand he latched onto the bird and headed back down the hall. “Open that door Russell,” he cried out, “we’re going to make a little visit.”
“Show me where you live young fella,” he said as he stepped through the door, pulling the tree through behind him, as ornaments and tinsel went flying in every direction.
“It was quite a procession,” recalled Russell, shaking his head. “The boy was ahead, and behind him marched Charlie, carrying the turkey and the tree, with the cord from the lights dragging in the snow. And I was bringing up the rear, picking up ornaments, and laughing at the look of Charlie. When we arrived at the paper boy’s house his mother came out on the porch, and just stood there with her mouth dropped open.”
“Open your door wide missus,” shouted Charlie, “we’re comin’ in.”
“Oh my Lord Jesus,” she replied.
“No, not the Lord Jesus,” he laughed “just Charlie and Russell,” as he swooshed into the house, set the tree in the corner, then strode out to the kitchen at the back of the house, and deposited the massive Christmas bird on the counter. “Merry Christmas,” he cried out as he exited the house as abruptly and flamboyantly as he had entered.
“Mr Chamberlain,” called out the boy, “you don’t need to pay me that paper money.”
“Oh Christ,” replied Charlie, out of breath, “ I forgot all about it. “Russell, pay the lad for God’s sake.”
As they walked back to Charlie’s place through the snow Russell reminded Charlie that he had neither tree nor turkey at his house, and that the stores would soon be closed. According to Russell he just grinned and said, “It’ll all work out Russell. It’ll all work out.”
When he was done with the story I asked Russell just how much Christmas cheer he and Charlie had had by that point. He didn’t say anything for a moment, then replied with a soft look on his face, and a twinkle in his eye, “Just enough I would say; just exactly enough.”
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Prince Edward Island author David Weale has been most generous in sending us several Christmas stories for the Blog. David is also the author of our favorite Christmas story The True Meaning of Crumbfest. The unabridged Earphones Award winning audio edition of The True Meaning of Crumbfest as performed by Antonia Francis is available from Rattling Books (print edition available from Acorn Press).
