This is the third chapter of a holiday series that started Monday, November 27th.

When Stan arrived home from work the contrast of his black ’61 Oldsmobile Dynamic 88 Holiday Coupe against  against the backdrop of the fresh snow still laying on the lawn could have been a metaphor for Stan’s mood against the backdrop of Christmas.

When he came through the front door the conversation taking place in the kitchen fell silent.  Doug got up from his chair and went over to his older brother, arms reached out to give him a hug.  For his part, Stan extended his hand for a handshake.  They drew apart, neither understanding what the other had in mind, a normal greeting between brothers aborted.

“Hey,” Stan said.

“Hey,”  Doug replied.

Stan looked in at the gathering assembled in the kitchen, most of whom he hadn’t seen in years, some never.  “Hey,” he said.  And with that he dropped his lunch box off on the kitchen counter and headed up to the stairs to the room he’d grown up in right across the hall from Doug’s.  “Who was that?” asked little Kim from the kitchen table.  That was a tough question for anyone to answer.

Decades later, folks would probably say Stan was “on the spectrum”.  At the time he was just described as “an odd duck,” or a “loner,” or any other number of things that were perhaps more descriptive but less flattering.  He’d moved back home “to help Mom out” a few years after their dad died, but that “help” was less than obvious to any spectators watching.  Stan moved back into his old room upstairs that looked just like it did when he’d moved out.  In his forties, he’d seemed to regress to the teenager he had been when he moved out.

His biggest success in life had been working in sales, ironic as that would seem to anyone who had known Stan for more than ten minutes.  He’d seen an ad in the back of a comic book when he was a senior at Ferndale High School for the “Saturday Morning Shoe Store” from the Mason Shoe Company in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin promising extra spending money by selling their shoes on the weekend.  The promise was bold, the selling kit was free.  Stan sent away for the information and quickly signed up for the program without telling anyone.

What Stan lacked in charisma and personality he made up for in research and product knowledge.  Today folks would say he had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.  Back then he was just laser focused and wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer.  The fact that Mason Shoe Company shoes were well made and comfortable helped people get past Stan’s initially awkward presentation.  

Father and son duo Bert and August Mason founded Mason Shoe back in 1904 in the small logging town of Chippewa Falls.  They made their reputation making durable  boots for lumberjacks, and those who made their living on or near the river the town was built on.  By 1915 the company had grown and expanded, as had their product line.  Seven years later they were marketing through catalogs with styles available for both men and women and marketed mainly to the working people who wore them.

During the war people were in need of any shoes they could buy, styles not making much difference as long as they fit well and were made to last.  This is where the concept of the Mason shoe salesman really came to fruition.  People wanted to spend their hard earned money with someone they knew, on a quality product.  Some of Mason’s most consistent sales came from dedicated men who sold them part time in their neighborhood to people they were familiar with.  Stan, after learning everything he could possibly know about the company and the product, took that concept even further.  

Stan would take the bus to the auto factories a stone’s throw from Ferndale and be there at the end of the shift to capture the attention of people leaving the plant whose feet were sore from being on them all day. He’d sell them on the idea of a better fitting, more comfortable shoe to wear.  They’d tell their friends.  In six months people would be looking for Stan and his suitcase full of samples and order forms.  They laughed about his quirky personality, but bought his shoes and spread the word.

Calculating that if men on the factory floor were the perfect target customer for comfortable shoes, nurses on their feet all day healing patients at a hospital would be just as anxious for his product as men building America’s automobiles.   His bet paid off.  Six months after graduating from Ferndale High, someone from Mason Shoe Company contacted Stan about going to work full time and sharing the secrets of his success with others at the company headquarters in Chippewa Falls.  They didn’t have to ask him twice.

Stan bought a used ’47 Buick, despite the family being firmly in the Ford camp, packed it with his meager belongings, and headed to northern Wisconsin.  He spent most of his time on the road, racking up record sales and training new recruits to the sales system that Mason Shoes was pioneering.  He occasionally hunted or fished on the weekends, but mostly kept to himself and sold shoes.  A new rifle and boxes of comics were the only luxuries he allowed himself.  The solitary life suited him well.

Stan eventually went down to Chippewa Buick and purchased a new Jordan Gray and Majestic White Buick Special that he kept immaculate, even in the brutal northern winters.  Customers always commented on Stan’s car.  And his shoes.  “That man is laser focused,” they’d say.  During his days on the road his family rarely, if ever, heard from him.  He’d call his mother on holidays but never really had much to say.  Occasionally business would take him to Detroit and he’d stop in and say hello.  But other than showing off new styles of Mason shoes he was promoting, there wasn’t much information to share.

All that changed in 1956, about the same time his folks got the new black and pink Ford Sunliner.  Stan was at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Chippewa Falls, training a new recruit on how to sell shoes to the fairer sex, when the sight of Stan getting his sample suitcase out of the trunk of the gleaming Buick hardtop caught the eye of one Nikki Madison.  Before trying on the new white Nurse’s Oxford shoes he was showing her, she quickly unbuttoned the top two buttons of her uniform, removed her nurse’s cap, and tousled her hair just a bit.  As she bent over to lace up the right shoe, she made sure Stan was treated to a view of a pair that was more alluring than any of the pairs stored in his salesman’s suitcase.

That night they were dining together at the Shelley House Saloon and after a few more dates they made their way back to Stan’s apartment.  Nikki found the comics endearing, the lack of furniture frugal, his lack of experience in all things carnal kind of sweet.  The relationship blossomed.  Eventually Nikki found Stan’s time on the road to be tiresome.  A year of dating turned into six.  At that point, Nikki saw her clock ticking and the desire to marry and start a family a compelling reason to present Stan with an ultimatum.  “I need a ring on this finger.  I want kids.  Soon.  And a husband who is home every night to take care of them.  And me.”

Mason Shoes were Stan’s life, but he did so enjoy the talents Nikki possessed that were only accentuated by her nurse’s knowledge of the human body.  She could perform a prostate exam that would bring a tear to Stan’s eye.  He made arrangements with management to come in off the road.  They awarded him with his own office and a new Oldsmobile Dynamic 88 Holiday Coupe as a company car.  He and Nikki married soon thereafter.  

That’s when Nikki learned that Stan’s comics weren’t as endearing as she thought they had been.  His frugality became a compulsive need to control every dollar the couple spent.  His naiveté became an irritating source of arguments and frustration.  She had no idea who Stan really was before they became man and wife.  For his part, the prostate exams eventually became just another pain in the ass.  The couple quickly determined that so much time together in a small shared space had turned into a constant irritation.  At work, his boss quickly tired of attempting to interact with Stan on anything of any importance, Stan’s only focus being new shoe styles.  Within a year Nikki was filing the paperwork to end the marriage and the general manager of the Mason Shoe Company was giving the Personnel Department instructions to terminate the man who’d been their star salesman till he came in off the road.  

“Let him keep the Oldsmobile.  Who orders a new Oldsmobile with dog dish hubcaps, anyway?” Mr. Blankenship told them.  “Be sure you get all the samples back, though.  Give him two month’s severance.  I’m sure he’ll land on his feet.”

What he landed on was the driveway of his mother’s house back in Ferndale, Michigan.  He had no idea of anywhere else to go.  His father had died a couple years earlier and he hadn’t been home since the funeral.  He figured he could be of some help to her while he sorted things out in his mind.  After the severance ran out he got a job at Tony’s Hardware in Hazel Park.  Only thirty hours a week, sometimes less.  A few more during the holidays or changes of the season when inventory needed to be moved and stored.  That was over eight years ago.

Back at the kitchen table, Stan and Doug’s mother told Doug’s kids to go down and play in the basement till dinner was ready. They jumped at the chance. In between preparing dishes and setting the table, she gave Doug and Dana the short version of that whole story, obviously leaving out the details about the prostate exams. Not everybody needed to hear that story. Most of the details were news to her second son and his wife.

“I knew Stan had moved to Wisconsin.  I thought he’d found his niche.  I had no idea about any of that.  Why didn’t you tell me?” Doug asked.

“What could you have done?  It is what it is.  He’s a good boy.  Something full time will come along.  Some day he’ll probably get his own place.  It’s good to have him around.  He gets the Ford out for me when the weather is nice and takes me to the Woolworths.  He’s a good boy.”

Doug thought he saw a tear on her cheek, and noticed how she was wringing the corner of her apron in her hands.  He never felt like he really knew his brother while they were growing up, despite the fact that they lived across the hall from each other, and shared their youth.  And parents.  He felt like he had no idea who his brother even was at this point.  He wondered if that would have been different if he’d stayed in Ferndale and not moved to Texas.  Maybe figure out why Stan bought GM products instead of Fords.  They had the same father for God’s sake, and the ol’ man never bought anything but Fords.

“Maybe Stan and I will have a chance to get caught up over Christmas,” Doug said to his mother.  “We’ll be here for over a week.”

“Stan probably won’t come out of his room much.  Just to eat.  He keeps to himself.”  She stirred the contents of whatever she was mixing and stared into the bowl as if it was the abyss.  “He’s a good boy.”  Doug and Dana glanced across the table at each other, each making mental notes for the lively discussion they’d have in bed later that evening once everyone else had fallen asleep.

“Is Bobby going to be here for dinner?” Doug asked. 

“He said he had to work and couldn’t make it,” his mother responded. “He and his girlfriend will be here tomorrow.  She’s a nice girl. Very pretty. You’ll like her.”

There was more to that story, Doug was sure. He’d have to wait till the time was right to dig deeper. In the meantime, his mother casually gave a run down of the neighbors up and down the block including who’d died, who’d moved, who’d gotten divorced, or should have, and a summary of all the gossip she could think of from within the small microcosm that she’d spent her entire life being a part of.  “We’ve got a new pastor at church. Still wet behind the ears, but his heart’s in the right place.” She said, “I thought maybe a younger minister might make Stan want to go to church. . . .”  Her voice trailed off. 

The smell of dinner had filled the whole house, even wafting down the stairs to the basement. The day’s travel and the aromas coming from the oven had stirred the appetites of everyone involved. “Gather the kids and call up to your brother. Dinner is ready!”  Doug tried to think of how many times he’d heard his mom say those same words in the same tone. All these years later they still filled him with anticipation. 

Seven people crammed in around a table that usually sat two made for tight quarters in the tiny kitchen. Doug noticed that his kids kept staring at Stan, not sure what to make of him. For his part, Stan seems to be focused on whatever was taking place under the table. Dinner melted in the mouths of everyone, especially those from Texas who hadn’t experienced such a meal before. “Why can’t you cook like this, Mom?”  Kyle asked. Dana bristled at the question, but couldn’t argue the point. 

“Oh, honey,” Grandma replied. “This is nothing. I’m sure it would have been better with the right amount of salt and whatever ingredients I’m sure I forgot!”  Dana at first thought her mother-in-law’s comment was designed to make Kyle’s comment less hurtful. But then she realized it was just a judgement on her own efforts and how they’d fallen short in her mind, not realizing the incredible meal she’d produced from memory without ever referring to a recipe or using anything to measure the ingredients. That was a difference in the two generations, she realized. The older one lived by experience and instinct. Trial and error. Working from memory rather than mandate. The younger one tried too hard to follow instructions and follow the rules given to them by the experts. The authorities. The masses.  No doubt, the mouthwatering meal shared on the cramped kitchen table of Doug’s youth was one of the best the family had enjoyed in a long time. 

That night, tucked into the twin beds upstairs in Doug’s old second story bedroom they whispered back and forth across the chasm between them. “You know,” he said in low tones, “we could move the nightstand and shove these beds together.”

More relaxed than she had been in a few days, Dana was still not relaxed enough to give herself over to Doug’s passionate suggestion with his odd older brother across the hall and his matronly mother right below. “I’m afraid we’ll get carried away and knock all your high school sports trophies off the shelf.”  He took that as a firm ‘No’, but appreciated the creativity of her decline. Sensing his disappointment, she added, “Maybe at some point we’ll have the upstairs to ourselves. Well keep our options open.”

They talked about his family and then their own and how different they were. They talked about trying to get Doug’s mom to come down to Fort Stockton, but knew how difficult that would be to accomplish. “I’m still trying to figure out how we’re all going to get showered everyday, especially once your sister and her family get here,” Dana noted. 

“It’ll all work out. Always does,” Doug replied. “We’re going to have to keep Kyle out of the bathroom to give everybody else a chance.”  He said out loud and then laughed to himself. 

Finally being back home, back in his old room, but twenty years older and wiser made him wish they hadn’t waited so long to take the trip back to Michigan. Dana was wondering if they could shorten the number of days they’d promised to stay to five rather than seven. Two floors below, in the knotty pine paneled basement, their kids were falling asleep in a world that was completely foreign to them. 

A light snow was beginning to fall outside, slowly turning the Country Squire and Olds Holiday 88 from black to white. 

If you’re enjoying the series, or the blog in general, consider buying the Captain a cuppa Folgers to help offset the costs of keeping it running. Happy holidays.