A Christmas Story

During the Roosevelt era, times were tough to Bill Beasley in a small town in the Texas panhandle. So when he got the call that his son was ill in California and not expected to live, Bill didn’t know how he was going to get the money for his wife and himself to make the trip. Bill had worked as a trucker his entire life, but he never managed to accumulate any savings. He phoned a few close relatives for help, but they were no better off.

So it was with embarrassment and dejection that Bill Beasley walked the mile from his house to the filling station and told the owner, “The son is really sick,” he said, “and I’ve got no cash. Can you trust me for the phone call to California?”

“Pick up the phone and talk as long as you need to,” the owner replied. As Bill started to dial, he was interrupted by a voice asking, “Aren’t you Bill Beasley?”

It was a stranger, jumping down from the cab of a truck. The young man didn’t look familiar, and Bill could only stare at him with a puzzled look and say, “That’s right, I am.”

“Your son was one of my best pals when we were growing up together. When I went off to college, I lost all track of him.” He paused for a moment and then continued. “Heard you say he’s sick?”

“Real bad, from what we hear. I’m gonna call and try to make some arrangements for me and my wife to get out here.” Then, as a matter of courtesy, he added, “Have yourself a Merry Christmas.”

Bill walked into the office of the station and placed his call to the cousin on the West coast, informing him that he or his wife hoped to be out as soon as possible.

There was an obvious look of sorrow on Bill’s face as he assured the owner that he would pay for the call as soon as he could.

“The call has been paid for. That trucker – the one your son used to pal around with – left me a 20 and said to give you the change when the phone bill comes in. He also left you this envelope.”

Bill fumbled open the envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper. One read, “You were the first trucker I ever traveled with, the first my dad trusted enough to let me go along with when I was barely five years old. I remember you bought me a Snickers bar.”

The second sheet, much smaller in size, was a signed check with an attached message: “Fill out the amount needed for you and your wife to make the trip … and give your son, my pal, a Snickers bar. Merry Christmas!”

 

Directory Assistance

Joanna’s father was sick and stayed at the hospital at the time her husband was out of town at a radio advertising convention. “If you need me, call the radio station. The secretary has the name of the hotel and the number,” he said before he left.

The bad news came in mid-morning. Joanna’s father has passed away. As the hospital and the rest of Joanna’s family were in another state five hours away, in her grief, she had to decide what to do about traveling.

She called the radio station. They put her on hold. They couldn’t find the number of her husband’s hotel and they were sorry.

With shaking hands, Joanna opened the phone book. She found the area code for the city that her husband was in and dialed information. Bell Telephone policy allowed operators to give out three phone numbers for each directory assistance inquiry. Joanna jotted down the three numbers of the first hotel chains she could think of.

She called one. Neither the radio convention nor her husband was there. She called the second – same situation. She called the third. The numbness had started wearing off, and she sniffled a little into the receiver. “No, we don’t have a convention for radio ad managers here, and your husband’s name doesn’t show on our list of registered guests,” said the switchboard operator. “Sorry, I’m just the operator …”

But before the operator could hang up, a sob escaped Joanna’s lips.
 
“What’s wrong?” the operator asked quietly after a long silence.

“My dad died a few minutes ago. He – his body – is in another state with a five-hour trip, and I can’t find my husband. I don’t know whether to jump in the car and go or to wait,” Joanna blurted. “I want to be with my family, but I don’t know what to do!”

Another long silence. Then the operator spoke slowly and quietly, “Give me your name and your number and sit tight until I call back.”

She called Joanna back in less than five minutes. “Joanna, I found him. He’s at the Adam’s Mark Hotel. I’ve notified the manager, and they have people posted to grab him as soon as the general session breaks. That should be within 20 minutes. It’s impossible for him to get past them.”

Joanna sobbed into the phone. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

“One more thing,” the operator continued, “if you do decide to drive, please take a friend. Be careful. You’ve had a dreadful shock and … be careful, okay? I’m sorry about your dad.”

From another state, the voice of a friend soothed Joanna. Whoever this woman was, she was more than just a switchboard operator. She was a wonderful, kind person who was more than her job. You have not lived a perfect day, unless you have done something for someone who will never be able to repay you.

 

Changed Life

In 1921, Lewis Lawes became the warden at Sing Sing Prison. No prison was tougher than Sing Sing during that time. But when Warden Lawes retired some 20 years later, that prison had become a humanitarian institution. Those who studied the system said credit for the change belonged to Lawes. But when he was asked about the transformation, here’s what he said: “I owe it all to my wonderful wife, Catherine.”

Catherine Lawes was a young mother with three small children when her husband became the warden. Everybody warned her from the beginning that she should never set foot inside the prison walls, but that didn’t stop Catherine! When the first prison basketball game was held, she went … walking into the gym with her three kids and she sat in the stands with the inmates.

Her attitude was: “My husband and I are going to take care of these men and I believe they will take care of me! I don’t have to worry!”

She insisted on getting acquainted with them and their records. She discovered one convicted murderer was blind so she paid him a visit. Holding his hand in hers she said, “Do you read Braille?”

“What’s Braille?” he asked. Then she taught him how to read. Years later he would weep in love for her.

Later, Catherine found a deaf-mute in prison. She went to school to learn how to use sign language. Many said that Catherine Lawes had made Sing Sing alive from 1921 to 1937.

Then, she was killed in a car accident. The next morning Lewis Lawes didn’t come to work, so the acting warden took his place. It seemed almost instantly that the prison knew something was wrong.

The following day, her body was resting in a casket in her home, three-quarters of a mile from the prison. As the acting warden took his early morning walk, he was shocked to see a large crowd of the toughest, hardest-looking criminals gathered like a herd of animals at the main gate. He came closer and noted tears of grief and sadness. He knew how much they loved Catherine.

He turned and faced the men, “All right, men, you can go. Just be sure and check in tonight!”

Then he opened the gate and a parade of criminals walked, without a guard, the three-quarters of a mile to stand in line to pay their final respects to Catherine Lawes.

And every one of them checked back in that night. Every one.