This Christmas remembrance was
published in the current issue of South Dakota Magazine. I enjoyed writing it and hope you enjoy it
too. – Dan Jorgensen
The Christmas Medals
Dean Jorgensen was not my
biological father, but he was my Dad in the truest sense. That was cemented the
first Christmas he shared with my two younger brothers and me. We three boys
were Mom’s from a first marriage; ultimately there would be seven boys in our
new blended family. For Dean, all seven were “his boys.”
Our
first Christmas together was in 1955. Dean and my mother Virginia had married
after a courtship that seemed to include us boys as much as the two of them.
When
he came to our little home to pick up Mom for dates, he would be greeted by
joyous shouts of “Dean! Dean!” because we were as taken with him as was our
mother. Often, while waiting for her, he would share stories with us, some
about superheroes he named Starkhans and Johhny. Other stories were about his
childhood, or his Army days.
After
their marriage at the beginning of the year and our move to Dean’s farm, those
Army stories included tales about medals and military insignia that he
treasured from his time in service. Each medal had a story. Mom often implored
us to “leave poor Dean alone,” especially after a hard day of farm chores or
fieldwork. But regardless of how tired he might be, he would share them.
As
our first “family” Christmas approached, we also were excited that Mom was
having a baby. Our new brother or sister might even be born on Christmas!
Mom
went into labor on December 23, and we all raced to the hospital 50 miles away
where our brother was born. We spent that night and Christmas Eve morning with
Mom until our grandparents offered to drive us back to the farm. “We’ll take
you home and then come back to get you tomorrow,” Grandma said. “We can all
share Christmas with Virgie and the baby at the hospital.” Dean, who was very
tired, readily agreed. We piled into Grandpa and Grandma’s car and headed to
the farm.
We
didn’t have a telephone, so Dean told our grandparents we would see them on
Christmas morning and off they went. We boys bounded inside, not at all tired.
“Yay!” we shouted. “We’ve got a new brother! And tonight Santa Claus is
coming!”
Many
years later, Dean told us that he then realized he had forgotten about Santa
and that the Christmas gifts planned for our stockings were in the trunk of the
car in the hospital parking lot 50 miles away. So, after dinner and checking
the livestock, he quietly tucked us into bed and smiled at our excitement over
Santa’s pending arrival. He had a plan.
When
we raced from our beds Christmas morning, our stockings were bulging. But
before we could look into them, Dean lifted a letter off the table. “Look! A
letter from Santa,” he said. He opened it and read: “Hello boys! I know how
much your Mom and new brother want to see what you’re getting from me for
Christmas, so I’ve taken your presents to the hospital so you can open them
there after you go back with your Grandpa and Grandma.”
“Ain’t that nice of him boys?” Dean
said. “Your Mom will be so happy.” We all looked a bit skeptical at that but
could still see that our stockings seemed pretty full of something.
“What’s
in our stockings?” I asked.
“Well,
let’s take a look.” Dean stepped aside and we reached in to pull out apples,
oranges, nuts, toothbrushes and a shiny piece of cardboard. Affixed to that
cardboard in each of our stockings were Army medals and insignia.
“Well,
would you look at that,” Dean said. “Just like mine. Santa must’ve heard me
telling you about them and knew how much you liked them.”
They were Christmas gifts beyond
our wildest dreams; a memory created by our new Dad to last a lifetime.
© Copyright January
2024 by Dan Jorgensen
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