---

This is the third chapter of a holiday series that will run for seven days and end on Christmas.

---

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

When he came through the front door, the conversation in the kitchen fell silent. Doug got up from his chair and walked over to his older brother, arms outstretched for a hug. Stan, for his part, extended his hand for a shake. They both froze mid-gesture, neither understanding what the other had intended—a normal greeting between brothers aborted.

“Hey,” Stan said.
“Hey,” Doug replied.

Stan looked at the group gathered around the kitchen table, most of whom he hadn’t seen in years—some never. “Hey,” he said again, and with that, dropped his lunchbox on the counter and headed upstairs to the room he’d grown up in, right across the hall from Doug’s.

“Who was that?” little Kim asked from the table. That was a tough question for anyone to answer.

Decades later, folks would’ve said Stan was on the spectrum. At the time, he was just called an “odd duck,” a “loner,” or any number of less charitable descriptions. He’d moved back home “to help Mom out” a few years after their dad died, but that “help” was not immediately obvious to anyone observing. He simply returned to his old room upstairs, which looked exactly as it had when he left. In his forties, he seemed to have regressed to the teenager he’d once been.

His biggest success in life had been in sales—ironic to anyone who’d ever spent ten minutes with him. He’d seen an ad in the back of a comic book during his senior year at Ferndale High for the Saturday Morning Shoe Store, a side hustle from the Mason Shoe Company of Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. The promise was bold: extra spending money, a free sales kit. Stan sent away for it and quickly signed up without telling a soul.

What he lacked in charisma, he made up for in research and product knowledge. Today people would say he had OCD; back then, he was simply “laser-focused” and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Fortunately, Mason shoes were well-made and comfortable—good enough to outlast Stan’s awkward presentation.

The company itself was the real deal. Bert and August Mason founded Mason Shoe in 1904, making rugged boots for lumberjacks in Chippewa Falls. By 1915, they’d expanded to catalog sales and a broader line of footwear for working men and women. When the war came, people bought whatever shoes they could find as long as they fit and lasted. That’s when the company’s door-to-door sales model took off—customers liked buying from someone they knew and trusted.

Stan took that idea and ran with it. He’d catch the bus to the auto plants near Ferndale, waiting outside when the shifts ended to pitch sore-footed factory workers on better shoes. They laughed at his quirks but bought from him anyway—and told their friends. Within months, men were looking for Stan and his suitcase full of samples.

Next, he realized nurses on their feet all day were just as ripe a market as the men on the assembly lines. That bet paid off. Within six months of graduating, Mason Shoe contacted him to offer a full-time position in Chippewa Falls, asking him to share his techniques with their sales force. They didn’t have to ask 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 bought a used ’47 Buick—despite the family’s loyalty to Ford—packed his things, and headed north. He spent years on the road, racking up record sales and training new recruits. His life was solitary but steady. He kept a pristine Buick, a clean apartment, and a small arsenal of rifles and comic books. He was content that way.

Eventually, he traded the Buick for a new Jordan Gray and Majestic White Buick Special. Customers admired both the car and the shoes. “That man’s laser-focused,” they’d say. During those years, his family heard from him rarely—an occasional holiday call to his mother, or a short visit when business took him to Detroit.

That changed in 1956, right around the time his parents bought the black-and-pink Ford Sunliner. Stan was at St. Joseph’s Hospital training a new recruit when a nurse named Nikki Madison caught sight of him unloading his suitcase from the Buick. Before trying on the white Nurse’s Oxford shoes he was demonstrating, she unbuttoned the top of her uniform, removed her cap, and tousled her hair just enough to make an impression. As she bent down to lace up the right shoe, she made sure Stan’s attention wasn’t solely on the footwear.

---

---

That night, they dined at the Shelley House Saloon. A few more dinners later, they made their way to Stan’s apartment. Nikki found his comic collection endearing, his frugality quaint, and his lack of experience rather sweet. The relationship blossomed. But a year turned into six, and Nikki’s patience thinned.

“I need a ring on this finger,” she told him. “I want kids. And a husband who’s home every night to take care of them—and me.”

Mason Shoes had been Stan’s whole life, but he did enjoy the… talents Nikki possessed, particularly those honed by her medical training. She could perform a prostate exam that would bring a tear to his eye.

So Stan made arrangements to come off the road. Mason rewarded him with a small office and a new Oldsmobile Dynamic 88 Holiday Coupe as a company car. He and Nikki soon married.

That’s when the shine wore off. The comics weren’t as endearing, the frugality became obsession, and his naiveté turned to irritation. The man who’d once been a curiosity became a burden. For his part, the prostate exams eventually became just another pain in the ass. Within a year, Nikki was filing for divorce, and Mason Shoes was finding a way to let him go.

“Let him keep the Oldsmobile,” said Mr. Blankenship, the general manager. “Who orders a new Olds with dog-dish hubcaps, anyway? Just make sure you get all the samples back.”

So Stan landed—literally—on the driveway of his mother’s house in Ferndale, Michigan. His father was gone, his severance nearly spent. He figured he could help his mother and regroup. After a few months, he took a part-time job at Tony’s Hardware in Hazel Park. That was eight years ago.

Down in the kitchen, Stan and Doug’s mother told the kids to go play in the basement. Between stirring and setting the table, she gave Doug and Dana the short version of all that history, tactfully omitting the medical details.

“I knew Stan moved to Wisconsin,” Doug said. “I thought he’d found his niche. I had no idea about the rest. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What could you have done?” she replied. “He’s a good boy. Something full-time will come along. He gets the Ford out for me when the weather’s nice and takes me to Woolworth’s. He’s a good boy.”

Doug saw the tear on her cheek, noticed how she wrung the corner of her apron. He never really knew his brother, even growing up across the hall. Maybe that would’ve been different if he’d stayed in Michigan. He wondered if he might finally find out—why Stan had chosen Buicks over Fords, among other mysteries.

“Maybe Stan and I will have a chance to catch up over Christmas,” he said.
“Stan probably won’t come out of his room much,” she replied softly. “Just to eat. He keeps to himself. He’s a good boy.”

Doug and Dana exchanged a look, both filing that line away for later discussion in bed.

“Is Bobby coming for dinner?” Doug asked.
“He said he had to work. He and his girlfriend will be here tomorrow. She’s a nice girl. Very pretty. You’ll like her.”

Doug suspected there was more to that story, but he let it go. His mother went on about the neighbors—who’d died, who’d moved, who’d divorced or should have—and about the new young pastor at church. “I thought maybe a younger minister might make Stan want to go to church…” Her voice trailed off.

The smell of dinner filled the house, even down to the basement. “Gather the kids and call up to your brother—dinner’s ready!” she said, in that same tone Doug had heard his whole life.

Seven people crammed around a table meant for two made for tight quarters. The kids kept stealing glances at Uncle Stan, unsure what to make of him. Stan, for his part, seemed to be concentrating on something under the table. Dinner was magnificent.

“Why can’t you cook like this, Mom?” Kyle asked between bites. Dana bristled, but couldn’t argue.
“Oh, honey,” Grandma said, “this is nothing. I probably forgot half the ingredients!” Dana thought she was softening Kyle’s comment—until she realized it was just a humble-brag dressed as self-critique.

She noticed something else, too: the difference between generations. The older ones cooked by instinct and memory; the younger followed recipes and rules. The meal was proof that the old ways worked.

That night, Doug and Dana lay in the twin beds of his old room, whispering across the narrow gap.
“You know,” he said, “we could move the nightstand and shove these together.”
Dana smiled. “I’m afraid we’d get carried away and knock all your high school trophies off the shelf.”

He took that as a firm no but appreciated the wit. “Maybe once we have the upstairs to ourselves,” she added.

They talked about family, about getting his mom to visit Texas, about how they’d all manage one bathroom once Kristen and her family arrived. “It’ll all work out,” Doug said. “We just have to keep Kyle out of there long enough for everyone else.”

He laughed to himself, content. Being back home made him wish they hadn’t waited so long to return. Dana, however, was already wondering if they could shorten the trip by a couple of days.

Downstairs, their children fell asleep in the knotty-pine basement, dreaming in a world entirely new to them. Outside, a soft snow began to fall—slowly covering the Country Squire and the Olds Holiday 88, turning both cars from black to white.

---

---

---