The Latterday Santa

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                    My father was not a demonstrative man. When he told me to come row the boat for him so he could go fishing after work, ­that was a loud and effusive statement. We both knew he could row himself out to his favorite spot and then just sit there unwinding after work. He didn’t need me to row; he wanted me along. At some level, deep inside, spinning around in my Kreb’s Cycle, I knew this. He was equally subtle when correcting our misdeeds. He did not go on and on like Mr. Rogers, explaining in a kindly voice why one should behave better. He simply stated, “You’re just a passenger on this train, sister,” and you straightened up right quick.

                    At Christmastime, my dad would never be mistaken for a jolly old elf. On December 24^th every year, a big truck from Heydlauff’s Appliance in Chelsea would squeal to stop out front. The driver would open the back doors, pull out a ramp, and back down with a hand truck. On it was something covered in a tarp and lashing straps. It was a washer or dryer, dishwasher or vacuum, something romantic and fun that the whole family could enjoy. Ho ho ho.

                    Then, he got older. Grandchildren appeared. He wasn’t buried in bills and feeding four kids. (And God bless the hormonal changes that occur in old men.) Some other cosmic event must have occurred, too, but we’ll never know. After opening gifts on Christmas Eve one year, we all sat chatting, half-buried in wrapping paper, trying to corral hyped-up kids. My dad got up and went to the garage. He returned with 3-4 huge black garbage bags. The cacophony deflated into a puzzled silence. He walked to the center of the floor and emptied the bags. We sat staring at a pile of little brown lunch bags, all stapled shut. There must have been well over a hundred of them.

                    “It’s a piñata,” he announced.

                    Thus began Jack’s piñata, which was great fun and more than a little strange. My mother had selected and gathered gifts all year, wrapped them nicely, and now she sat watching as we all tore into brown bags and staples, laughing and shouting. He explained the rules: open one, keep it or trade it. There were many rounds, so it created havoc for the rest of the evening. He experienced all the joy he’d missed out on for so many years.

                    What was in the piñata? There were the usual junky plastic toys, a vegetable peeler, socks, books, maybe an antique Blue Book from his collection. Then, there were the uniquely Jack Gilbert gifts. To say my dad was modest is to say that in 1906, San Francisco was all shook up. I never even saw him in an undershirt. He could not even utter the word bathroom or deodorant. He was hung up like grandma’s skivvies on the clothesline. So, imagine our surprise when we’d unwrap black lace undies and other rather personal items. Or, one might get a potato. Only the uninitiated guest would smile and try to be pleased. The rest of us knew to look for the little plug he had dug out and pull out a $5 bill. Sometimes one person would get half of a twenty-dollar bill and have to negotiate with the person who got the other half. Including silly string and funny nose glasses always added to the chaos. It wasn’t a true piñata until someone got the box of chocolate covered cherries.

                    In the movie, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? Sidney Portier’s character asks his dad, “What happens to old men?” He meant why do they get mean and surly and unable to even remember the passions of younger people. We did that movie in reverse. We always knew who was coming to dinner, because our dad was an upstanding man who always showed up. But, he got old and became Boppa and piñata man. He’d be 109 and very pleased to know that a smaller version of his warped piñata still occurs, just enough to bore the kiddies with stories they’ve heard dozens of times.