Wild Bob’s Gift

By Marie Foley

Bitter winds pounded my back as I stood in the emptiness of Stephenville, searching for a cab to take me to Winter Houses, my isolated Newfoundland home on the rugged edge of the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

It was Christmas Eve in the late 1950’s. My parents expected me to arrive with gifts, but a blizzard had whipped up and my chances of getting home were bleak

“We wouldn’t even try to venture way out there in this mess, the road won’t be ploughed for days,” a taxi driver said regretfully.

“But I have to get home. I’m Santa Claus!”

“Sorry miss, I have family too.“

I kept an eye on my two cardboard boxes, sheltered in the alcove of Kearney’s Clothing store. I think I knew then how Mary and Joseph must have felt when they couldn’t find help on that first Christmas Eve in Bethlehem.

I hailed a second taxi.

“I’m the last cab around, I’ll drive you anywhere in town,” the woman smiled politely and refused.

I thanked her and continued looking up and down the vacant street.

Though the chill pierced my skinny frame, I wasn’t about to give up so easily. As I stooped to check the damp cartons, I felt the weight of a hand on my shoulder. Startled, I turned to face a stranger in oilskins. A so’wester covered his eyes and a long black beard masked his face.

“I have an old ton truck,” he pointed to a rusted heap half covered in snow. “I’ll fill ‘er up with gas, put the chains on ‘er, and throw some weight on the back.”

He paused.

“But it will cost . . . 20 or 30 dollars.”

He was asking for all the money I had, but worth every penny and more.

“Who are you anyway?” I asked.

“I was watching ye from the Brown Derby Tavern. Ye haven’t had much luck, eh? Everyone calls me Wild Bob. But don’t let the name frighten you, I’m as harmless as a lost kitten.”

His breath reeked of beer — but he was my only hope of getting home. As he covered my boxes with a roll of tarpaulin, I whispered a silent prayer for both of us.

The storm seethed around us. Ice clung to the wipers.

“Storm is wild near the water, and telephone lines have been down all day b’y.”

Conscious of being alone with a stranger, I edged closer to the door.

“I’ve got to get home before early morning and I’ll walk if I have to.”

“Yes, ye and the boxes,” he answered and gave out a loud hearty laugh.

Suddenly, the tires began to whine. We were stuck in a snow bank. Tears trickled down my cheeks.

Without saying a word, Bob opened the door and grabbed a shovel.

I offered to help but he yelled, “Stay where yer to, Girl! You’re not dressed for dis kind of weather!”

He shovelled furiously. The headlights shone on his face, sweat glistened on his forehead, and ice and snow crusted his beard.

In spite of my fears I smiled to myself when I thought of how much he resembled Santa.

I lost my cool then and blurted out my soul to this brave man.

“Do you know my father hasn’t worked for a year? I’m the only income they have?”

And then I was shouting, “I have 11 brothers and sisters, and I have all their gifts in those two boxes!”

“Yes b’y,” he murmured and stared straight ahead while I cried.

The rusty blue Ford turned the corner toward home. Only five more miles! My heart raced, we were so near the end of this nightmare. It was four o-clock now, and the blizzard had eased.

Finally, I could see my house. Huge snowdrifts covered our gate. That meant we’d have to go through the schoolyard next door, which was much closer to my home.

As we climbed out of the Ford and sank into waist deep snow, I looked up to see a beautiful clear sky. Northern Lights danced as if in celebration.

The soft light of a lantern bobbed toward us.

“There’s Dad on his way to meet us. Oh thank you, thank you, thank you,” I kept saying to Bob.

In no time we all sat enjoying a hot cup of tea and meat pie.

“You are some brave, my son. And I can’t begin to tell you how much this means to all of us. You came all this way in this terrible weather where ‘tousands’ wouldn’t.”

Bob just smiled and gulped his food.

Soon we watched as my wide-eyed siblings raced downstairs to their swollen stockings. The look of love and gratitude on my parents’ faces will always stay with me.

Wild Bob said nothing. He just stared and smiled with tears flowing down his face. I saw him glance at the old clock on the wall.

“Jeez! 10 o’clock already! Gotta go b’y. I have a sister somewhere in St. Georges. Might go to see her.“

I followed him out to the porch and held out my hand to give him the payment he had asked for.

He gently returned it, and looking at his rubber boots he whispered, ”Keep yer money my dear. I can’t remember a Christmas that I wasn’t loaded drunk, don’t expect I’ll ever forget this one.”

As he walked away he added more to himself, ”And I s’pose you won’t forget either.”

I choked back a lump in my throat. Tears welled in my eyes. I wanted to tell him I’d never forget but in that moment I was speechless.

I watched as Wild Bill slowly tramped through the snow, climbed back into his truck and drove away that quiet Christmas morning.

Marie Foley was born in Winter Houses on the Port-au-Port Peninsula in Western Newfoundland and now makes her home in Nelson-Miramichi. She is an avid writer and has written several articles for The Downhomer Magazine of Newfoundland. Marie can be reached at marieiv@nb.sympatico.ca.