Max and Dora Orloske are shown at Christmas in December 1959.
The four Orloske girls are, from left, Sharon, Alice, Maxine and Lois.
Our dad, Max Orloske, died Dec. 4, 1972, at the age of 62. A few days before his death, he was hospitalized with a severe foot injury that occurred at his workplace, American Crossarm in Chehalis.
I don’t recall any other time Dad was ever hospitalized. He could not get out of St. Helen Hospital fast enough, though he went home on crutches and was taking pain pills, and his foot was badly swollen.
His mind was upon Christmas and the busy December schedule — getting a tree for home and also one for the Newaukum Grange Hall. There were church and school Christmas programs. He was a director of the Adna School Board, and felt compelled to attend school sports events and activities.
Dad suffered a massive heart attack less than a week after his foot injury and died.
Each December Dad is utmost in our thoughts, not just because we lost him, widowing our mother, Dora, but because he was such a part of Christmas, which he truly loved.
He risked going on the housetop to string colorful Christmas lights on the whole house, topped with a huge Christmas star. He cut patterns out of plywood and hand-painted them for a large lawn Nativity.
He liked making hot buttered rum drinks for friends and family, which mother tolerated, since she was an absolute non-drinker. He made fudge that included raisins, which he remembered from his childhood. Normally, Dad avoided all kitchen cooking. Mom was a stay-at-home mother and cooking was her job.
Dad worked a 40-hour week, plus maintained an 80-acre farm, milking six or eight cows each morning and night. He knew a man’s hard work.
The Christmas of my focus was in the early 1950s, and all four of us girls were still at home: Alice, me (Lois), Sharon and Maxine. Christmas Eve fell on a Friday and the winter weather was icy cold.
Mom had prepared the evening meal, just waiting for Dad to come home from work, his usual time of 5 p.m. Our house was decorated inside and out, with packages heaped under our front room Douglas-fir Christmas tree.
There was no word from Dad that he was not going to be home on time. If late he would place a phone call from Kelly’s Grocery Store phone customers could use free or charge.
Mom was getting concerned. The roads were icy, and the cows needed to be milked. Finally, at 6:30 p.m. mom told me, “You better milk the cows,” since I was the only daughter who had learned to operate the Surge milking machine.
She kept asking, “Where could your dad be?” I bundled up in a heavy coat, and with the milk pail and a flashlight in hand, headed for the barn. Much to my surprise, at the foot of our driveway, Dad was in his red GMC pickup, with the motor still running, his head hung over the steering wheel. I don’t know how long he had been there, or if he had just arrived.
That Friday at noon, the Crossarm office workers left for the holiday weekend, but the men in the yard had to work their usual 7 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. hours. In all, Dad was a Crossarm employee for 31 years.
At that time he was a tallyman for incoming lumber by both rail and truck. He had to verify the packing lists, making sure they were accurate, and there was no damaged product.
At Christmas time, the regular truckers dropped off gifts of appreciation, to win favor for getting unloaded quickly, so they could get on their way.
Typically for postal letter carriers, complimentary gifts might be homemade cookies or candy, but on the shipping docks, the truckers were given bottles of’ whiskey or vodka.
With management all gone home, it rightfully could be said, “While the cat’s away, the mice will play.” The yard crew chose to sample the booze gifts, toasting one another with Christmas cheer.
Dad not being a drinking man, it did not take much to make him “loopie.” I don’t know how he managed to drive from work to home, a distance of 7 miles, in his condition.
Mom’s grave concern and worry turned to anger and disgust. Her choice words of shame were reminded to Dad several times over in the coming years. Dad slurred to me, “I will milk the cows, you don’t have to do that.”
Mom’s lecture to Dad included the true meaning of Christmas, Christ’s birth and not observing it with alcoholic beverages! At the same time, sister Alice taunted him, saying. “What would Santa say about you drinking on Christmas Eve?” He replied, “You’ve been a naughty, naughty boy, Max.” We four girls roared with laughter.
I milked the cows that fateful night, and Dad never made it to the barn. If memory serves me, he was still hung over in the bathroom when I returned to the house, cold to the bones. The cows’ milk yield was perhaps half of normal. Cows recognize when someone different is milking them.
We had a lot of joyful family Christmases, but the one that is always recalled is the year Dad came home late Christmas Eve “snockered,” and Mother’s admonishment.
Dinner was dried up, and we opened gifts without Dad, who remember today with much love. Christmas was never the same after his passing. In time Mother sold the farmplace where we spent out growing-up years. She died in 2007.
