Music is fully ingrained as part of the season. “White Christmas,” “O Holy Night,” “Hark! The Harold Angels Sing,” “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer,” and more can be heard on the radio, at fully-decorated department stores, and just about anywhere else you can imagine. It can be hard to escape the festive cheer.
As you grow older, the holiday season becomes more about those wonderful meals with family and friends. Opening presents on Christmas Eve while drinking wine and cocktails. Loading up your plate with mashed potatoes, piled high, and steaming hot turkey, freshly carved.
The traditional observation of holidays are memories for a lifetime.
Today, I have three extraordinary Christmas tales to share.
The first: in 1959, the Airstream Wally Byam African Caravan had just reached the American military base called Kagnew Station, located in Asmara, Eritrea.
For the Caravanners, it was an American oasis, with the conveniences of a town back home. Movies, hamburgers, milkshakes, a PX store, officer and enlisted clubs, and, of course, people speaking American English. This was quite a thrill for everyone after our long journey from Cape Town.
We celebrated Christmas with church services, singing Christmas carols, and even put up Christmas trees.
Many of the service personnel were close to my age. We talked about the “kool” new music sounds. Number one was Bobby Darrin’s “Mack the Knife,” followed by Conway Twitty’s “Danny Boy,” Sammy Turner’s “Lavender Blue Dilly, Dilly Lavender Green,” and the list continued of jukebox hits I hadn’t heard since leaving home in June.
I spent my 21st birthday with my new friends in the enlisted club.
My second Christmas memory takes place in Mexico City.
The Caravan was camped at a secure private school with high walls crusted with large shards of glass, very effective at keeping bandits out.
Turning thirteen was quite the milestone, as I could officially call myself a teenager.
You can imagine Wally Byam’s responsibilities as leader of the Caravan. Among them, though, was watching over me, his cousin’s son, Dale “Pee Wee” Schwamborn.
My Christmas Eve began by asking Wally’s permission to go into Mexico City with some of the other Caravanners. He said yes. What happened next, though, is hard to believe. I asked the Caravanners to let me out to go shopping on a street that branched off the Paseo de la Reforma, a wide avenue that runs diagonally through the heard of the city.
To this day, I can’t remember if we planned a rendezvous point. If we did, I never made it there.
When you’re a thirteen-year-old gringo wandering around Mexico City with no idea how to get back to where you’re staying, amidst streets full of shops, peddlers, and food, where in the world do you go?
You buy tacos from a vendor, a couple of cheesy satin hankies for your mother, and bottle rockets.
I walked too far, took too much time, and found myself standing on a sidewalk that had been rolled up, with no one around. I desperately needed a taxicab. I finally spied one that was about to close up for the night. I shouted, waved, desperately hoping he’d grant me fare.
I called out, libro, libro, libro, which means book, book, book! Then I remembered – the word was libre. Nothing in life is free, but libre means no charge, just an open taxi.
The cab driver was reluctant, but took pity on a teenage gringo.
When I arrived back at the school, they were waiting for me, every last one of them, including Wally. It was a few minutes after midnight: Christmas Day had arrived.
Looking back, I can’t imagine how Wally kept his composure, but that is the sign of great strength and leadership.
We sat down, and he asked me where I had been. I recounted my steps from the evening. He gently explained that what I’d done gave him great concern. Many years later, my mother gave me a letter from Wally to read. While waiting for my return to camp, he had already resolved to send me home by plane.
I suppose the give and take of our conversation changed his mind, and he allowed me to finish out the trip.
My third Christmas memory: the year is 1963. I was stationed at Fort Dix, New Jersey, with no means to fly back home to California to be with my parents.
In the 1957 Eastern Canadian Caravan, I met the Shuttleworth family. They lived near New York City. From Fort Dix, I took a bus to the New York Port Authority, where they met me and brought me to their home in New Jersey. It was a Christmas away from home, but when you’re a part of the Airstream family, anywhere can feel like home.
Three days. Three Christmases away from home. But all with Airstream silver.
Memories are important.
Dale “Pee Wee” Schwamborn has silver in his blood. Each week, Pee Wee shares one of his many stories, including his experiences on the iconic Airstream Caravans, his time spent working in the Airstream factory, and the many Airstreamers he’s befriended, far and wide.
