Stan Paregien's
Christmas Stories & Poems
Page 1

	My most unforgettable Christmas took place in 1953. I had turned twelve years old that
October. My father, mother, ten-year-old sister Roberta, and I  lived in a ranch house located
about twenty miles east of the village of Piru, California. Highway 126 ran east and west through
the valley, and that busy cement strip was only about a hundred yards north of our house. 
	Though the highway was fairly busy, we were relatively isolated. Our nearest neighbor
was about a mile to the west, but they had no children we could play with, so they really didn't
count to my sister and me. The Santa Clara River lay to our south, with uninhabited mountains
beyond. North of our house, beyond Highway 126, there were hundreds of acres of English
walnut trees and then more uninhabited mountains. To the east lay more tracts of English walnuts,
and more uninhabited mountains. Our nearest neighbor in that direction lived two miles away, but
also had no children our age. 
	Between the highway and our house there was a railroad track. When those long lines of
boxcars rumbled by, a miniature earthquake shook our house. Of course, after awhile, we seldom
even noticed a train passing. But I can recall lying awake on summer nights, listening to the
clickety-clack, clickety-clack of the iron wheels embracing the iron tracks.
	My father, who was over forty, worked as a farm hand for the mammoth Newhall Land
and Farming Company. The company land stretched some thirty miles through the valley and up
over the mountains on either side. The company provided him with a modest house, or as a real
estate agent might put it, a rustic cottage. There was no central heat or air in the three bedroom
house. It had no insulation at all, so it was hot in the summer and frigid in the winter. But my
ten-year-old sister, Roberta, and I certainly didn't know any different. So for us it was a
comfortable, happy place to live.
	There was a big green barn on the east side of our large drive way. Several tractors and
other kinds of equipment were kept there. That's where the foreman met my dad and the other
workers each morning to announce the jobs to be done.
	That fascinating barn was also where my city cousins and I would sneak out to in the
evening and shoot B.B.'s at the bats which hung upside down from the rafters. Sometimes we
even hit one, although most of the time we just startled them and they would fly out into the dark
night. 
	Out back of the barn was a large wooden corral. It dated back to when the company
shipped cattle from this point. That was a long time back, and in 1953 it stood empty and silent.
	I sure wanted to change that. I had been begging my parents for many months to buy me a
horse and I was in high hopes that lightning might strike and my dream might come true. They
voiced their sympathy, but then pointed out the expense of buying a horse and a saddle (I told
them I would gladly ride bareback until we could afford a saddle). They questioned whether my
interest in a horse would last long and whether I would feed and comb and otherwise care for a
horse day after day (I assured them I wanted a horse more than anything and, unlike my
performances with a pet or two before, I certainly would properly care for my horse). They
mentioned the ongoing expense of keeping a horse, such things as hay and grain, and horse shoes,
and medical expenses. (That had me stumped, I'll have to admit. Being twelve years of age, and
living way out in the country, I had no part-time job and no way to get one. I told them I'd pay
them back when I got old enough to work somewhere; but even I didn't put much faith in that
plan.)
	That's what the situation was as we drew near to Christmas in 1953. I kept begging and
they kept sidestepping. It didn't look good, but I wasn't going to turn loose of my dream. If I
couldn't have a horse for Christmas, maybe they would surprise me on New Years Day. Or maybe
Washington's Birthday. Or on April Fools Day or on July 4th. Sooner or later they just had to give
in. Or so I hoped.
	Friday rolled around and it was the last day of school before the Christmas holidays. My
sister and I may still hold the Guiness World Book of Records award for most miles traveled in a
school bus in Los Angeles County. That big yellow bus arrived at our house before seven each
school day and turned around in the unpaved drive between the railroad tracks and Highway 126.
Ours was the first stop in the morning and the longest distance away from Castaic Elementary
School.
	"Bert" and I would board the bus just as the sun peeked over the valley's eastern edge. We
were the first ones on in the morning, so we got the grand tour as the bus chugged up and down
the various canyons retrieving kids from other ranches and the small village of Val Verde. Then in
the afternoon, we got the reverse tour, and we were the last ones to get off the bus. We got to
know that bus driver very well. And, as talkative as we were, he probably learned everything he
wanted to know and more about any family secrets we had.
	My wish for a horse was no secret, however. I mentioned it to the bus driver, to my
teacher, Mr. Godlin, and to everyone I met. Looking back, there seems to have been ingrained in
my mind the idea that announcing my wish to the world would somehow increase the odds of
getting it to come true. I had never heard anything about the power of positive thinking, but I was
sure practicing the power of positive talking.	
	Part of my life-long infatuation with horses goes back to the golden days of those great
"B" Western movies. They were called B Westerns because they were produced on shoestring
budgets and often were shown at theaters along with a featured, high-budget film. Fooey on the A
films. I grew up loving the daring exploits of B Western stars Johnny Mack Brown, Lash LaRue,
The Red Ryder, John Wayne, Tim Holt, Sunset Carson, Crash Corrigan, Monte Hale, Eddie
Dean, Tex Ritter, Hoot Gibson, Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. Up until I was about ten, I even
took my own cap-shooting cowboy six-gun along with me to the theater at Santa Paula, and
helped my heroes plug the outlaws.
	Sure, there was a mild "violent" edge to those old movies. There were fist fights; but
nobody spit out bloody teeth, and the good guy seldom even had his hat knocked off. Yes, there
were plenty of gunfights; but nobody spurted blood and the good guys always won. 
	Usually there was also a generous helping of humor in those old Western movies, thanks
to those cantankerous and mistake-prone sidekicks such as Gabby Hayes, Smiley Burnett, Fuzzy
St. John, Soapy Ates, Pat Buttram, Andy "California" Clyde, Andy "Jingles" Devine," Dub
"Cannonball" Taylor, Pat Brady, Fuzzy Knight, and Max "Lullaby" Terhune.
	To the best of my knowledge, the only movie stars I personally met during those years
were Crash Corrigan and Max Terhune . That was at Corriganville, the movie set over near
Chatsworth, which was open to tourists on Sundays for several years (Much later, when it was
abandoned, it was occupied by Charles Mason and his extended family of crazies). I was mesmer�
ized by that western town. True, most of the buildings were fake and had nothing behind the false
fronts. Still, to the faithful like me it was sacred ground.
	So you see why I wanted a horse. I was primed and ready. I had miles and miles of
company mountains and valley open to me for riding and exploring. So all that space was just
going to waste. I needed a horse. After all, whoever saw Roy Rogers or Gene Autry hiking across
the prairie? I had to have a horse. Time was a'wastin'.
	Anyhow, we bounded off the bus that Friday afternoon in late December and raced for the
house. The holidays! We were free for two whole weeks! And, we could sense that Santa Claus
must be in the last stages of making his list and checking it twice. And I sure wanted a horse at
the top of my list.
	My mom always fixed more goodies to eat than a battalion of starving Marines could
consume. Cinnamon rolls. Sugar cookies shaped like Christmas trees and bells. Chocolate fudge
that melted in your mouth like a snowball in Helena, Montana in the summer time.
	We always bought our fir Christmas tree about three weeks before Christmas. Dad took
all of us to a dealer in Santa Paula, where dad held prospective trees up in the air for our in�
spection. After we hauled the tree home, mom, Bert and I put the store-bought icicles on.
Sometimes we used electric lights on the tree, but in those early years we often used strings of
popcorn. Or Bert and I would cut out strips of red paper and green paper, then glue them
together for a paper chain.
	Always, mom put out a Christmas scene on our coffee table. The table featured a mirror in
the center. And that mirror, each Christmas, became a pond. And around the pond she placed
mountains of snow (cotton balls). Then she placed some small figures of deer and Santa and his
sleigh. And, bingo, we were ready for Christmas.
	Of course, I had been ready for Christmas for months. I wanted, needed, and had to have
a horse for Christmas. Ten days to go. Then, ever so slowly, the number dropped to five. Then
three, two and one. I went to sleep that night before Christmas, knowing that old corral was still
empty, but hoping that somehow a horse would be in it by morning.	It was our custom to open
presents early Christmas morning.That made for the longest night of the year, but I knew it would
be worth it.
	I awoke to the sound of the old open-faced gas heater in the living room hissing out
warmth. It was light outside. So I hopped out of bed, ran to my sister's room and rudely
awakened her. Then we both stampeded to the Christmas tree. That also woke up our parents and
they joined us as we tore into the colorfully wrapped packages like twin rip saws.
	We got clothes, mainly. I got a 500-piece puzzle, a Chinese Checkers set, three pair of sox
and a new jacket. And that was it. I had hoped maybe I'd get one of those "trick" boxes, where
you keep opening and opening, down to something precious or some note, in my case, saying
where the horse was tied. Nothing else was under the tree for me. I did a poor job of hiding my
deep disappointment.
	Finally, my father took a long drag on his roll-your-own Prince Albert cigarette. He blew
the smoke in the air and said, "Son, there is one more gift for you. It's out on the front porch."
	"Yahoo!" I yelled as I jumped to my feet. I ran to the front porch and there lay the most
beautiful saddle in the world. Well, it was the most beautiful saddle in my world. The dark brown
saddle featured hand-carved designs all over the skirts. It had a solid looking horn and a low
candle. There were rawhide strings everywhere, with which to tie on ropes or blankets. Beside the
saddle lay a matching bridle. True, the saddle and bridle were used or, as our local Cadillac dealer
says, "pre-owned". That didn't matter at all. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
	Daddy took another puff on his cigarette and said, "We ain't got the money to get a horse,
not quite yet. But I got a good one picked out over at Saugus. Chestnut with a white blaze on the
face and two white socks. Fella said he wasn't in no hurry to sell, so he'll hold it for a month or
two."
	 As badly as I had wanted a horse that Christmas morning, all of a sudden it just didn't
seem to matter. I had an honest-to-goodness saddle that I could touch and smell. And I knew as
soon as my mom and dad could afford it, I would have my horse. Signed, sealed and delivered.
And, two months later when I did get my horse, I knew that waiting just made the moment
sweeter.
	I've enjoyed many, many Christmases since that one back in 1953. I've received far more
expensive gifts than that used saddle. But I've never felt any more love in a gift than I did that day
when my mother and daddy sacrificed so much to give me that Christmas saddle.
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