Expressway: Remembering Mr. Christmas
![Pamela Brill of Northport with her father, Walter J. Fruth.](/_next/image?url=https%3A%2F%2Fcdn.newsday.com%2Fimage-service%2Fversion%2Fc%3AMTIzZjlkMjUtMTEwOS00%3AMjUtMTEwOS00ZTU2MmFi%2Fliedit.jpg%3Ff%3DLandscape%2B16%253A9%26w%3D770%26q%3D1&w=1920&q=80)
Pamela Brill of Northport with her father, Walter J. Fruth. Credit: Brill Family
When most people think of Christmas, images of brightly decorated trees, gingerbread men and candy canes come to mind. For me, Dec. 25 is synonymous with one thing — a person, actually. And that person is my father, Walter J. Fruth.
As a child, I remember his excitement for the start of the season with Santa's arrival in Herald Square during the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. "This is it! This is it!" he would exclaim, clapping his hands together.
The twinkling lights on our tree would mirror the sparkle in my dad's eyes, one that lasted all season long. While my mother was also in on all our merrymaking -- from our visits to Hicks Nurseries in Westbury and Dodds & Eder in Oyster Bay, to their regular outings to Planting Fields Arboretum, it was my father who unequivocally became Mr. Christmas in my eyes.
This was the soft side of a man who, during more than two decades at Grumman Aerospace served as a section head engineer and proudly worked on the lunar module and F-14. At 6 feet 3, he was a big guy who, when he wasn't at the beach, was rooting for the Mets, Jets and/or Rangers.
As Dec. 25 approached, he would scour the TV Guide in search of any Christmas special, marking it with a pen and sitting down to watch anything with a snow-covered scene. From "A Charlie Brown Christmas" to the lesser-known "Emmet Otter's Jug Band Christmas," Dad knew them all by heart.
Ever since I could remember, our house in Glen Cove was outfitted each December with Dad's Christmas village. No matter who came to visit, he would eagerly demonstrate the lights and sounds of his festive display. He adored every intricate detail -- from mounds of snow fashioned out of cotton balls, to the moving skaters on the miniature frozen pond. Sometimes, that village would stay up until spring; it pained my dad to take it down.
Prolonging the festivities was just part of his Christmas charm. Each Christmas morning, without fail, one gift would remain under the tree unopened. Mysteriously, it was always for Dad and on Dec. 26, he would pull the wrapped package out from under the tree and mysteriously ask, "What's this?" It didn't matter if it was socks or a package of undershirts, he had achieved the unthinkable: extending Christmas just a little bit longer.
Dad would drive my sister, brother and me into Manhattan to see the store windows and the Rockefeller Center tree. He would stand for a long time at each window, savoring the details that hurried shoppers failed to notice. As a kid, I never really understood why he spent that much time, but now, as a parent, I'm sure it had everything to do with the magic of the season.
When my father passed away from brain cancer last summer at 73, I was convinced I'd never again be able to experience the joy of Christmas. Trying to recreate his infectious enthusiasm is more difficult than I could have imagined, but something I feel is vital to sustaining his memory, especially for my two young daughters.
This year, as I watch Charlie Brown pick out a Christmas tree that is the runt of the litter, I brush away a tear and think of my father. Then I smile and remember the man who taught me the meaning of "That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."
Reader Pamela Brill lives in Northport.