The Ark

A Christmas story about what we keep — and what keeps us

Christmas, when I was a child --like any child--it was a magical affair. In the earlier years, it was always spent at my grandfather’s house.

The house itself felt grand to me, though I suppose all houses do when you are small. My grandfather had it built. Brick by brick, it stood as the culmination of his dreams, and going there was always a treat. It was the kind of place that seemed to open wider the more people arrived.

It was rarely quiet. The rooms were filled with my aunts and uncles, voices overlapping, laughter drifting from one space into the next. There was always movement--someone passing through, someone calling from another room.

And then there was Ruby, the cook, who was always such a joy to be around. She carried warmth with her, as if it were part of her apron, and the house seemed to follow her lead.

Of course, there was my grandmother Sally, whom I adored. Wherever she was, the house felt complete.

My grandfather was a kind-hearted man. He was a doctor, as was his father, but he also loved philosophy almost as much as he loved practicing medicine. He loved words. He was always reading something and very thoughtful when he spoke.

Now I must explain: I was a most excitable child, a true testament to the patience of my caregivers. My enthusiasm for the inevitable question that I knew was about to occur on or around Thanksgiving dinner that year was reaching a fever pitch.

At five years old, I was getting the hang of the routine, and at that time, to me, the true authority of Christmas... well, that was my grandfather.

Well, after Thanksgiving dinner that year, in true form, he did ask--in his very gentlemanly and somewhat stoic way. I could always sense that so much more was stirring in his mind. It wasn’t that he wasn’t kind, because he was extremely kind; it was that he was always thinking; about his patients, or his next surgery, or perhaps pondering a bit of philosophy he was reading. He was a very calculated man, and even as a small boy, I could sense it.

I can look back now and imagine his expression as the dam broke and the flooded response spilled from my hyperactive lips as I replied,

“I want a Noah’s Ark.”

I can still remember the first time I was acquainted with this phenomenon. I was in the back seat of my father’s car as he was getting a fill-up at the gas station, when the attendant handed me a little plastic gorilla in a cellophane bag. I don’t know how he knew it, but the gorilla was my favorite animal... more than likely because of the movie Planet of the Apes.

At that moment, I felt like I had just been given the Nobel Peace Prize and the Hope Diamond at the same time. To this day, it has always been the oddest things with which I become enamored.

A few days later, I was sitting in the living room when, flashed before my astonished eyes on the television, was a commercial for ARCO gas stations. And there it was-- the Noah’s Ark.

There were even more animals available, and of course there was the ark itself. I was flabbergasted. Noah himself said in the commercial all you had to do was come and get them with your next fill-up…

and they were free.

Well, the wheels in my scheming head started spinning, and for the sake of my gorilla’s inherent need for companionship--and a good home... I plotted out a plan in my hyper-vigilant five-year-old mind.

Now, as luck would have it… Dad was a Gulf Oil man.

It was a complete fluke that glorious day when I received that precious primate, and despite numerous attempts at my prodding... constantly eyeing the gas gauge from the back seat and interjecting, “Dad, don’t you need a fill-up? we never returned to that gas station.

I can only imagine what my father must have been thinking during this failed strategy. I wonder if he thought I was developing some new kind of phobia.

At any rate, it was time for me to think of a new strategy.

That’s when it hit me... I was going about this the wrong way. I just needed to ask my grandfather. He could do anything.

That Christmas was as glorious as always. You couldn’t walk from one end of the living room to the other without tripping over someone. The floor was covered with unwrapped presents, cousins, aunts, and uncles. The fireplace was burning with those newfangled color crystals my grandfather was excitedly trying out, and everyone seemed very pleased.

But I just burst into tears.

I hadn’t gotten my Noah’s Ark.

I was devastated. I couldn’t help myself. I had been dreaming about it all year. What was I going to say to my gorilla, who was anxiously standing on my windowsill-- cold and alone--waiting for my return home?

The world seemed a bit darker that Christmas morning. It’s not that I wasn’t grateful for the gifts I was given. I had gotten a neat Apollo rocket with a spaceman inside, and that peanut butter board game I had asked for. But all I truly wanted was that Noah’s Ark. I remember sitting on the floor next to the magically multicolored fire and opening up the board game in a futile attempt to redirect my sadness.

In retrospect, I can only imagine that when given the task of finding me that “Noah’s Ark,” my poor grandmother must have scoured every department store and toy shop in an effort to find this holy grail of Christmas presents. Or perhaps, scoff… my grandfather was also a Gulf Oil man. To this day, the vision of that big round orange road sign gives me chills. And let’s face it... my grandparents weren’t exactly the kind of folks who watched Saturday morning cartoons to catch a commercial.

How could they have known?

What happened next... I don’t know for sure. I can only speculate, as many stories have been told over the years. But the version I’ve come to accept is the one my father tells.

Later that morning, a very disgruntled man showed up at my grandfather’s house in a limousine. He walked up to the front door and delivered the present.

I don’t know what my grandfather did, who he called, or how it happened. But one thing I do know: my grandfather could work miracles.

Now that I’m older and wiser--though still not as wise as my grandfather-- I understand something I couldn’t then. His name, by the way, was Weiser, and a better moniker could not have been fashioned.

Fifty years later, I still have that gorilla.

And fifty years later, I still feel that love.

The commercial referenced in this story can be viewed here:
https://youtu.be/xPU158HIDZo

Author's Note

https://youtu.be/xPU158HIDZo