The Bridgeton Legends Christmas Extravaganza
by Kyle
Introduction
Untold decades ago, the very prominent owners of a stately south Jersey home made one of their many lavish trips to New York City. Although the exact purpose of this particular trip has been lost to history, it was most likely a mixture of business and pleasure (they were the owners of a prominent garment company, and as the following story suggests, they let nothing stand in the way of a good party). Upon arriving in the Big Apple, the couple were saddened to learn that their favorite hotel in all of Manhattan was set to be demolished, and along with it, their favorite Manhattan bar, which was located in the lobby of the hotel.
Most people, when faced with such news, would raise one final glass in honor of the establishment that provided them with so many happy times, and all they would have for the remainder of their days would be the warm memories of time spent in this special place.
But these weren’t most people…
They were from Bridgeton.
Instead of saying a tearful goodbye to their cherished haunt, they did something far different.
They bought it.
That’s right. They bought the bar and had it shipped to their elegant Bridgeton home.
And not just the bar.
They bought the dark wood walls, and the glass-front cabinetry, and the mirror overlooking the bar. The entire room was shipped to Bridgeton and installed in the basement of their house---where it remains to this day.
I won’t say who owns this home, and I won’t say where it’s located (not because the current owners would care---I just believe that a little mystery never hurt anyone). But I will say this: I spend a part of every Christmas Eve in this bar, and the holidays just wouldn’t be the same without a long, midnight walk down memory lane with good food and great friends.
Last Christmas Eve
Let's turn back the clock. The stars were aligned on Christmas Eve 2006. It had been many years since this particular group were all in the same room together and (sadly) it will probably be many years before all of us reunite. But that night, in that bar, will definitely stand out. Present were the following: a physicist who is currently working on one of the most important scientific endeavors of the modern age; a world-class sprinter who walked away from a cushy job in corporate America to sail the Caribbean; a decorated military intelligence officer who completed two tours of duty in Iraq; a guy who did a backflip off a sixty-foot cliff in Jamaica; and a pioneering documentary filmmaker who should really get a lot more credit for starting this blog. As you can see, BHS alumni were in effect. [There was also a nun somewhere in the house, as well as a Wharton grad and the woman who gave birth to "The Deer Slayer."]
It was one of those nights where the sheer fact that all of these people were under one roof at the same time is what makes it so legendary, because, as our lives become increasingly complex, each year it becomes a little harder to see each other at the holidays.
So, for those of you who are unable to connect with your favorite Bridgeton friends this year, I put together a special collection featuring tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago. It’s my gift to you.
I just hope you realize how difficult this was…
After all, there are so many great Bridgeton Christmas stories to choose from: like kids in the 1950s roaming the outskirts of town, firing BB guns at each other on Christmas morning with no regard for shooting each others’ eyes out; or the time two girls spent all day slowly opening every single gift under the tree while one of the girl’s parents were at the casinos, then carefully rewrapped all of the gifts before the parents returned home later that evening. There’s also a story about a kid who stole a decorative gift box off the front porch of a (certain somebody’s)home, which actually led to brokered peace talks for the safe return of the festive adornment on the last day of school before Christmas break.
Clearly, the holidays bring out the best in Bridgeton. With all this great material to choose from, selecting which stories to tell in greater detail was no easy task. Yet here we are. The First Annual Bridgeton Legends Christmas Extravaganza. As you’ll see, at Christmas-time, nothing is what it seems. Especially in Bridgeton. So throw another log on the fire, grab some hot cocoa and enjoy the following tales of yore. I hope you like it…
Ryan’s Nintendo
It was around October 1988 when Mr. and Mrs. O bought their son a Nintendo for Christmas, and in every way, it was the perfect gift for a twelve-year old---there was just one problem: their son was Ryan, and Ryan was diabolical. Mr. and Mrs. O knew they needed to hide the Nintendo somewhere for the two months leading up to the big day. This, however, would be easier said than done, for Ryan was a devious, cunning little feller who was undoubtedly gearing up to launch his annual Christmas recon mission, in which every inch of every possible hiding spot would be infiltrated and probed, not unlike the way Tom Cruise rappelled into that CIA computer lab in Mission Impossible. No joke. Ryan used to dress in black from head to toe and would practice diving flip moves so that he could make a daring escape in the event of sudden parental suspicion. And (I swear this is true) he strategically hid razor blades throughout his house so that he could slice through even the finest gift wrapping without detection. This kid wasn’t just good---he was his own chapter of the DSM.
Ryan’s peeps knew that if they didn’t hide the glorious vessel of 8-bit technology somewhere completely out-of-reach, then the surprise would be ruined, and their little Evil Cleaver would have the last laugh. Under the eaves in the attic was out. Behind his sister’s New Kids on the Block Posters was out. Everywhere was out: the boiler in the basement, the trunk of the car, the wood-burning stove; the boathouse on the dock, the outhouse in the neighbor’s backyard; and so on. This kid was willing to look just about anywhere.
So Mr. and Mrs. O hid their son’s coveted gift in the one place they knew he’d never look…
His bedroom closet.
Two months and one utterly baffled child later, Christmas morning arrived in Bridgeton in all its shining splendor, and never before had the theme of Super Mario Brothers sounded so sweet as when it made its way through the O family home on that cold, bright morn.
Kyle Keeps It Real
When I was old enough to know the deal about Santa (but still young enough to totally want cool toys), I accompanied my grandfather to an event where a bunch of kids would sit on Santa’s lap, chat it up, then get handed a toy on their way out the door. And the toys at this event were known far and wide for being awesome.
So we get to the hall where this thing was being held, and it was packed, and Pop literally knew everyone. And when I say “literally,” I mean that literally. My grandfather literally knew everyone that was there. At least it seemed that way.
I get in line and wait forever with a bunch of strange kids barely out of diapers, and finally, after like thirty minutes, it was my turn.
I bounded up the stairs onto the little stage-like contraption that had been constructed for the occasion, furtively cast my eyes about the room (to make sure that none of my friends were there to witness me sit on Santa's lap), took a deep breath, then sat down on Santa’s lap.
I know. Believe me, I know. But I wanted to score a sweet toy.
Me and this guy dressed as Santa made some initial small-talk (whether I had been good that year; what I wanted for Christmas; blah blah blah). Standard fare, really. It was all going exactly as I had envisioned it. “Swimmingly,” as they used to say. Just a few more seconds, and a toy would be mine.
Then something happened.
Santa flipped the script.
“So, Kyle,” he said. “You go to (insert name of school I went to).”
This caught me by surprise, but I took it in stride. I simply figured Pop had put him up to it, and rallied with how impressed I was with the school’s curriculum. Or something like that.
Santa then starts naming like, all of my teachers and every kid in my class. This blew me away.
I remember looking directly into this man’s eyes thinking, Santa?
And then he zeroed in and started asking me about this one kid in particular. “He lives right down the street from you, doesn’t he?” Santa asked.
Now I was convinced. My still-developing brain reached the only logical conclusion that could be reached without a fully-grown frontal lobe: This was actually Santa Claus!
I had to think fast. I assumed that Santa only had a finite number of toys he could give away on Christmas Eve, and any student of history knows that one of the main reasons people go to war is because of competition for limited resources. In that spirit, I decided to make a preemptive strike. I spent like ten minutes talking a bunch of smack on the kid, and ended my rant with an unequivocal declaration that Santa should skip this kid’s house that year.
Then I hopped off his lap and made a bee-line straight for the pile of gift-wrapped toys, my greedy little hands wringing with glee.
Years later, I learned the truth: the guy playing Santa was that kid’s dad.
And in a twist that only Ryan could fully appreciate, the toy I got was a G.I. Joe villain (anyone who’s read “The Breaker Summit” knows where I stand on G.I. Joe).
Which is what I get for acting like Scott Farkus.
The Exact Opposite of Great
In preparation for this special edition of Bridgeton Legends, I asked a bunch of friends from Bridgeton what their greatest Christmas memory is. When I got to Biggz, he said: “My greatest Christmas memory? I’m not sure. But I know my worst Christmas memory…”
“Do tell,” I said. “Do tell, indeed.” (I didn’t actually say this, but it helps the narrative flow to pretend that I did.)
“It was Christmas Eve,” Biggz said, his voice still haunted by this ghost of Christmas past, “and my dad told me I was allowed to open one gift. Just one gift only. I had to wait until Christmas morning to open the rest. I knew I was getting a video game system that year, and my brother convinced me that, of all the boxes under the tree, this one box in particular was the one that had the system.”
(Little did he know that his dad and his brother were in cahoots.)
“So I opened it up,” he said, “thrilled that I had outwitted my parents and was going to get my big gift on Christmas Eve, and when I look inside, it was a little girl’s dress. My dad had gone to Goodwill and bought me a dress.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I completely freaked out,” he said. “I begged to be allowed to open another gift, but my dad refused. My whole family was like, Sorry, Biggz. A deal’s a deal. Just one gift only.”
I asked Biggz if the dress fit, but he claims he didn’t try it on. “Although it probably would have fit,” he said (which, to me sounds a lot like, “Yeah, it fit.”).
And so concludes The First Annual Bridgeton Legends Christmas Extravaganza. I hope you enjoyed reading it. See you next year.
E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com
Introduction
Untold decades ago, the very prominent owners of a stately south Jersey home made one of their many lavish trips to New York City. Although the exact purpose of this particular trip has been lost to history, it was most likely a mixture of business and pleasure (they were the owners of a prominent garment company, and as the following story suggests, they let nothing stand in the way of a good party). Upon arriving in the Big Apple, the couple were saddened to learn that their favorite hotel in all of Manhattan was set to be demolished, and along with it, their favorite Manhattan bar, which was located in the lobby of the hotel.
Most people, when faced with such news, would raise one final glass in honor of the establishment that provided them with so many happy times, and all they would have for the remainder of their days would be the warm memories of time spent in this special place.
But these weren’t most people…
They were from Bridgeton.
Instead of saying a tearful goodbye to their cherished haunt, they did something far different.
They bought it.
That’s right. They bought the bar and had it shipped to their elegant Bridgeton home.
And not just the bar.
They bought the dark wood walls, and the glass-front cabinetry, and the mirror overlooking the bar. The entire room was shipped to Bridgeton and installed in the basement of their house---where it remains to this day.
I won’t say who owns this home, and I won’t say where it’s located (not because the current owners would care---I just believe that a little mystery never hurt anyone). But I will say this: I spend a part of every Christmas Eve in this bar, and the holidays just wouldn’t be the same without a long, midnight walk down memory lane with good food and great friends.
Last Christmas Eve
Let's turn back the clock. The stars were aligned on Christmas Eve 2006. It had been many years since this particular group were all in the same room together and (sadly) it will probably be many years before all of us reunite. But that night, in that bar, will definitely stand out. Present were the following: a physicist who is currently working on one of the most important scientific endeavors of the modern age; a world-class sprinter who walked away from a cushy job in corporate America to sail the Caribbean; a decorated military intelligence officer who completed two tours of duty in Iraq; a guy who did a backflip off a sixty-foot cliff in Jamaica; and a pioneering documentary filmmaker who should really get a lot more credit for starting this blog. As you can see, BHS alumni were in effect. [There was also a nun somewhere in the house, as well as a Wharton grad and the woman who gave birth to "The Deer Slayer."]
It was one of those nights where the sheer fact that all of these people were under one roof at the same time is what makes it so legendary, because, as our lives become increasingly complex, each year it becomes a little harder to see each other at the holidays.
So, for those of you who are unable to connect with your favorite Bridgeton friends this year, I put together a special collection featuring tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago. It’s my gift to you.
I just hope you realize how difficult this was…
After all, there are so many great Bridgeton Christmas stories to choose from: like kids in the 1950s roaming the outskirts of town, firing BB guns at each other on Christmas morning with no regard for shooting each others’ eyes out; or the time two girls spent all day slowly opening every single gift under the tree while one of the girl’s parents were at the casinos, then carefully rewrapped all of the gifts before the parents returned home later that evening. There’s also a story about a kid who stole a decorative gift box off the front porch of a (certain somebody’s)home, which actually led to brokered peace talks for the safe return of the festive adornment on the last day of school before Christmas break.
Clearly, the holidays bring out the best in Bridgeton. With all this great material to choose from, selecting which stories to tell in greater detail was no easy task. Yet here we are. The First Annual Bridgeton Legends Christmas Extravaganza. As you’ll see, at Christmas-time, nothing is what it seems. Especially in Bridgeton. So throw another log on the fire, grab some hot cocoa and enjoy the following tales of yore. I hope you like it…
Ryan’s Nintendo
It was around October 1988 when Mr. and Mrs. O bought their son a Nintendo for Christmas, and in every way, it was the perfect gift for a twelve-year old---there was just one problem: their son was Ryan, and Ryan was diabolical. Mr. and Mrs. O knew they needed to hide the Nintendo somewhere for the two months leading up to the big day. This, however, would be easier said than done, for Ryan was a devious, cunning little feller who was undoubtedly gearing up to launch his annual Christmas recon mission, in which every inch of every possible hiding spot would be infiltrated and probed, not unlike the way Tom Cruise rappelled into that CIA computer lab in Mission Impossible. No joke. Ryan used to dress in black from head to toe and would practice diving flip moves so that he could make a daring escape in the event of sudden parental suspicion. And (I swear this is true) he strategically hid razor blades throughout his house so that he could slice through even the finest gift wrapping without detection. This kid wasn’t just good---he was his own chapter of the DSM.
Ryan’s peeps knew that if they didn’t hide the glorious vessel of 8-bit technology somewhere completely out-of-reach, then the surprise would be ruined, and their little Evil Cleaver would have the last laugh. Under the eaves in the attic was out. Behind his sister’s New Kids on the Block Posters was out. Everywhere was out: the boiler in the basement, the trunk of the car, the wood-burning stove; the boathouse on the dock, the outhouse in the neighbor’s backyard; and so on. This kid was willing to look just about anywhere.
So Mr. and Mrs. O hid their son’s coveted gift in the one place they knew he’d never look…
His bedroom closet.
Two months and one utterly baffled child later, Christmas morning arrived in Bridgeton in all its shining splendor, and never before had the theme of Super Mario Brothers sounded so sweet as when it made its way through the O family home on that cold, bright morn.
Kyle Keeps It Real
When I was old enough to know the deal about Santa (but still young enough to totally want cool toys), I accompanied my grandfather to an event where a bunch of kids would sit on Santa’s lap, chat it up, then get handed a toy on their way out the door. And the toys at this event were known far and wide for being awesome.
So we get to the hall where this thing was being held, and it was packed, and Pop literally knew everyone. And when I say “literally,” I mean that literally. My grandfather literally knew everyone that was there. At least it seemed that way.
I get in line and wait forever with a bunch of strange kids barely out of diapers, and finally, after like thirty minutes, it was my turn.
I bounded up the stairs onto the little stage-like contraption that had been constructed for the occasion, furtively cast my eyes about the room (to make sure that none of my friends were there to witness me sit on Santa's lap), took a deep breath, then sat down on Santa’s lap.
I know. Believe me, I know. But I wanted to score a sweet toy.
Me and this guy dressed as Santa made some initial small-talk (whether I had been good that year; what I wanted for Christmas; blah blah blah). Standard fare, really. It was all going exactly as I had envisioned it. “Swimmingly,” as they used to say. Just a few more seconds, and a toy would be mine.
Then something happened.
Santa flipped the script.
“So, Kyle,” he said. “You go to (insert name of school I went to).”
This caught me by surprise, but I took it in stride. I simply figured Pop had put him up to it, and rallied with how impressed I was with the school’s curriculum. Or something like that.
Santa then starts naming like, all of my teachers and every kid in my class. This blew me away.
I remember looking directly into this man’s eyes thinking, Santa?
And then he zeroed in and started asking me about this one kid in particular. “He lives right down the street from you, doesn’t he?” Santa asked.
Now I was convinced. My still-developing brain reached the only logical conclusion that could be reached without a fully-grown frontal lobe: This was actually Santa Claus!
I had to think fast. I assumed that Santa only had a finite number of toys he could give away on Christmas Eve, and any student of history knows that one of the main reasons people go to war is because of competition for limited resources. In that spirit, I decided to make a preemptive strike. I spent like ten minutes talking a bunch of smack on the kid, and ended my rant with an unequivocal declaration that Santa should skip this kid’s house that year.
Then I hopped off his lap and made a bee-line straight for the pile of gift-wrapped toys, my greedy little hands wringing with glee.
Years later, I learned the truth: the guy playing Santa was that kid’s dad.
And in a twist that only Ryan could fully appreciate, the toy I got was a G.I. Joe villain (anyone who’s read “The Breaker Summit” knows where I stand on G.I. Joe).
Which is what I get for acting like Scott Farkus.
The Exact Opposite of Great
In preparation for this special edition of Bridgeton Legends, I asked a bunch of friends from Bridgeton what their greatest Christmas memory is. When I got to Biggz, he said: “My greatest Christmas memory? I’m not sure. But I know my worst Christmas memory…”
“Do tell,” I said. “Do tell, indeed.” (I didn’t actually say this, but it helps the narrative flow to pretend that I did.)
“It was Christmas Eve,” Biggz said, his voice still haunted by this ghost of Christmas past, “and my dad told me I was allowed to open one gift. Just one gift only. I had to wait until Christmas morning to open the rest. I knew I was getting a video game system that year, and my brother convinced me that, of all the boxes under the tree, this one box in particular was the one that had the system.”
(Little did he know that his dad and his brother were in cahoots.)
“So I opened it up,” he said, “thrilled that I had outwitted my parents and was going to get my big gift on Christmas Eve, and when I look inside, it was a little girl’s dress. My dad had gone to Goodwill and bought me a dress.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I completely freaked out,” he said. “I begged to be allowed to open another gift, but my dad refused. My whole family was like, Sorry, Biggz. A deal’s a deal. Just one gift only.”
I asked Biggz if the dress fit, but he claims he didn’t try it on. “Although it probably would have fit,” he said (which, to me sounds a lot like, “Yeah, it fit.”).
And so concludes The First Annual Bridgeton Legends Christmas Extravaganza. I hope you enjoyed reading it. See you next year.
E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com
posted by Kyle at 1:24 PM
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