Volume 45 - No. 52
by lyle e davis
The streets of Omaha, Nebraska, can be mighty mean streets in the midst of a winter.
Snowdrifts of four, five, six feet high . . . sometimes more; a cold cutting wind and numbing cold that freezes the toes, fingers, nose and any other parts of the body not suitably clothed with warm, winter clothes.
To those who grew up there, you know what it’s like; to those who’ve never experienced a bitter midwestern winter . . . you’re lucky. They’re no fun.
There was a time, back around 1948, where memory recalls a lonely figure of a man, slowly walking the cold streets of Omaha. He had no transportation so if he wanted to go someplace, he walked. He was hunched over . . . almost hunchbacked. He looked much older than he was. This was on a Christmas Eve and
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December 31, 2015
this tired man was on an important mission.
His son, Little Joe, was in the Bishop Clarkson Hospital’s Pediatric Ward. He had some type of painful stomach ailment and they didn’t know what the problem was. His father was bound and determined that even though Joey was in the hospital, he was going to have his Christmas, and his dad was going to be with him.
Omaha is named after the Omaha Indians. There are a lot of Indians in and around Omaha; at least there were back in this time period. Joe and his daddy were Winnebago Indians. In fact, to this day there is a village in Thurston County, Nebraska, that is called Winnebago. Not a very big village . . . as of the 2010 census there were only about 774 residents there. Joey and his dad, however, had
been living down near 10th, 11th, street . . . not far from the mighty (and muddy) Missouri River. This was the area that, back then, was kind of a skid row. Lots of alcohics, lots of down on their luck folks, and a lot of Indians. Today, it has been transformed to a very modern, cosmopolitan shopping center with lots of boutiques and fancy cafes and restaurants. Back then . . . it was pretty much hard scrabble living.
As the old man trudged along he came upon a Christmas Tree lot. They were about to close up for the season and had very little selection of trees left. The old man looked over the trees . . . and at the prices. He chatted with the vendor a bit, told him about his son and that he was en route to the hospital to see him; that he wanted to maybe buy a Christmas tree and put it up in his son’s ward for him and any other patients to enjoy for Christmas. Cold and tired . . . but touched by the old man’s story, the vendor handed the man a tired old
‘Little Joe’ Continued on Page 2
Christmas tree, not much of a tree, really, but it would do.
“I hope your son gets better, Mister. Merry Christmas. The tree is on me. Stay warm.”
The old man thanked the vendor, took the wimpy looking tree and headed on to Bishop Clarkson Hospital. Meanwhile, his son, Little Joe had begun to make some friends on the pediatric wing. Several other kids about his age would laugh, tell stories, and generally got along well.
Every once in awhile, though, Joe would double up in pain. Gone were his flashing smile and bright eyes . . . instead, a powerful grimace, a holding of breath, as if holding his breath might ease the pain. The nurse would come a’running, give him medication to help overcome the pain, usually an injection of some type of pain killer. In time, the pain would subside and Joe would become