6 minute read
Dalby's Rescues Christmas
BY VIRGINIA PERSSON
How do most old-fashioned stories go? “It was a dark and stormy night ...” This story takes place Christmas Eve 1953, and it was a very dark and stormy night.
My dad had been out of work for at least six months and finally had managed to get hired at Chemainus sawmill. He had not even had one pay cheque yet, so it was to be a meagre Christmas, as we had very little money. Now, our old ’39 Dodge was stalled on the side of the highway. Sheets of rain and sleet slammed into the side of the car, buffeting and rocking it in the wind. The rain was torrential. It was not the snowy night that I, as a child, had hoped for. I was five years old, and I desperately wished for deep snow so that Santa would be sure to come.
We had only just left my aunt and uncle’s place in Cedar a half hour before. My little sister and I were having fun with our cousins and weren’t ready to leave, but our parents said that if we were not home in bed by at least 9:00 p.m., Santa would not come. Now all I could think of was that our time was ticking away.
Our old car had just up and died as we pulled onto the highway. Dad walked back in the rain to Johnny’s service to see if someone could help. The lights went out as he approached the building. It was Christmas Eve and people had places to go. He tried flagging cars down in the rain but to no avail. Cars drove by splashing and soaking him. He got back into the car and tried the starter again. Nothing. Both parents sighed. Things were looking desperate.
My little sister started crying and the windows steamed up. We huddled together to keep warm. No cell phones in those days and very little traffic. Dad went back onto the highway. No one stopped, and there were even less cars on the road. Finally, Mom insisted she take the old blanket from the back seat to keep her warm and try flagging a car down. She felt someone might stop for a woman. She was quite a sight, her blanket flapping in the wind.
A few more cars passed before a Dalby’s Service truck pulled up behind the car. A man dressed in red got out and asked if he could help. My dad explained that he thought it was the fuel pump. However, he also explained that he had no money to fix it and it would have to wait until after he got his pay check in January. We had just moved to the Island and lived in a ramshackle rental house on Henry Road. If the gentleman could just take us home to Chemainus, Dad would pay him what he had left in his wallet. “No need for that,” said the jovial fellow. “It is Christmas Eve.” He quickly bundled our family into the truck and we were soon on our way.
I was thrilled. I had never ridden in a big truck or any truck for that matter. The man asked me my name and I said Virginia and that I was terribly worried that Santa had missed us. He assured me that things would be okay. He said, “I have an in with Santa.” Meanwhile, my dad babbled on about our recent move, our financial predicament and his hope that things would get better. Again, he stated that the car would have to stay where it was until after Christmas.
Once home, Mom put us to bed. However, I was too upset to sleep and put my ear to the air vent so I could hear what was going on. I heard my parents discussing Christmas Day. No dinner for us, as we were supposed to go back to my aunt’s house the next day and spend Christmas with the family. Dad would have to walk to the neighbour’s house in the morning to use their phone and let the family know we were not coming. We would eat whatever leftovers were in the house. Without a car, we could not go anywhere. I was just a few weeks short of my sixth birthday, but I knew when my parents were really upset. Things sounded dire. I worried that Santa might have missed us too.
We got up late on Christmas morning. There were presents under the tree. Somehow Santa had found us in the night. This made me very happy, but not going to the cousins for dinner and a visit was making me sad. Then we heard a horn outside. Up drove the Dalby’s truck with our old ’39 Dodge, and it was running. Ralph Dalby (alias Santa) had gone back late Christmas Eve, towed the car to the shop and fixed it in time for Christmas morning. By this time, I felt sure he was Santa in disguise. I think my dad did too.
My dad is long gone, so I can tell this story now. He had a lot of pride and would never admit how poor we were. He would not take charity from anyone. He apologized for the fact that he had no money to pay for the repairs. Mr. Dalby told him not to worry; just to pay when he could if he could. Of course, Dad did. But he never forgot the kindness that he received from Dalby’s Service Station when he was most in need. For the rest of his life, he told this story at Christmas. He also took his business to Dalby’s Service Station.
Dalby’s repairing the car on Christmas Eve also gave my dad another gift. He had been going through a period of really bad luck. Ralph Dalby restored his faith in the goodness of people. Sometimes, one small act can make such a big difference in a person’s life. We had a Merry Christmas.
P.S: Years later, I was in high school and started dating a young man from Ladysmith. As usual, my dad did the “third degree” and discovered that Russ (my first husband) was a gas jockey at Dalby’s Service Station. That was good enough for him. He declared the young man must be okay.
