Christmas is a bittersweet holiday for me. I miss my folks. It’s during this time of year when I think about them the most.
When I was kid, back in 1965, the little town I lived in was subjected to a terrible tragedy that to this day, no one really talks about. It’s been all but forgotten now, and maybe that’s the way it should be, but I’ll never be able to forget it.
Sanders was like a thousand other small towns in the middle of the country. It was just as big on the holidays as it was on the gossip, and the two thousand or so people that lived there indulged in both with an unbridled glee. On the edge of town, there was a junkyard, and the man that lived on the property was Melvin Klopek. His family had owned the property since before my grandparents were born, and Melvin came from a long line of surly miscreants that grew nastier and meaner with each new generation. People in town would joke that at least Melvin Klopek had never found anyone nasty enough to have a kid with, so the line was probably going to die with him.
Melvin had fought in World War Two. The nicest thing that could be said about him and his family was that they always took the call when their country needed them. Melvin was past his prime when he went over to Europe, but the passage of time had done nothing to blunt his effectiveness. He had bragged that he had personally killed hundreds of Jerrys.
Inside the main building of his junkyard were at least a hundred or so hand drawn pictures in handmade frames that he had done himself. The faces of every man he had cut down in battle. His only regret in the war is that he had no way of taking pictures of the men he killed. His incredibly graphic drawings of their dead faces improved with each one he drew.
Klopek was also an avid collector of weapons from the war. Guns and swords and grenades and any other pieces of murderous metal he could get his eager hands on. Many folks thought he liked to surround himself with memories of what he felt was a better time in his life.
The only people that Melvin got along with to any degree were some of the old rascals who frequented the Maple Room; one of two bars in the town. The nicer folks went to Donna’s right in the middle of town. The shadier sort sleazed through the doors of the Maple Room, as my mom used to say.
Now over at Melvin’s junkyard, he had nine dogs. Biggest dogs I’ve ever seen in my life. I have no idea what breed they were; some kind of a mix of something large and mean with a light brown coat peppered with dark brown spots. No one ever went into the junkyard after hours. Kids would dare each other to go in there, but none of us ever did. No one was ever called a chicken if they refused. The way those dogs would push up against the chain link fence made you sure that someday, the fence was going to break and someone was going to be eaten. Even the adults in the town would refuse to get out of their cars once inside the fence unless they were reassured by Melvin that the dogs were locked up.
I still remember their names. Dagger, Spot, Kaiser and Dot. Heinrich and Bill, Carl, Jerry, and Phil. I always remember them in that order, and it still makes my stomach lurch even to think about it, because I can still hear Melvin calling out their names into that cold December night.
Just before December, Melvin had taken up with a married woman. Not just any married woman, but the wife of the Mayor. Rumor was that the Mayor’s wife was paying her husband back for his infidelity, and what better person to do that with than old Melvin Klopek.
Only a few people knew it at the time, but of course it all came out afterwards. It’s hard to keep anything secret in a small town. After the whole thing was over, it was impossible to know for sure exactly how it all happened the way it did, but the general thought went like this.
The Mayor, Danny Bryant, found out about the whole thing. Knowing that it was only a matter of time before the whole town found out, Mayor Bryant decided to exact his revenge on Melvin Klopek in the worst way possible that was completely legal. If he was going to be humiliated, he was going to make sure Klopek paid for what he had done. In November, some folks from the government suddenly showed up at the junkyard, and by the end of the day, Melvin Klopek’s life was forever changed. His land was going to be seized for lots of reasons that Melvin couldn’t possibly afford to argue. The only thing Melvin Klopek had was his family’s land, and he was given until Christmas to vacate the property.
All of the sudden, Melvin Klopek was the nicest man in town. He was begging people in town for help. He was asking everybody to help him pitch in for some kind of legal defense, but he never got any takers, not even any of his acquaintances from the Maple Room. By that time, most of the people in town had heard about the affair and who exactly was behind the troubles that had fallen on Melvin. When you couple that with the fact that he was really just a mean son of a bitch, it’s not exactly surprising that he never had anybody in his corner.
Melvin learned rather quickly that no one was going to be of any help at all, so he did the only thing that he could think of to save his land. At the beginning of December, he spoke at the monthly town council meeting. Word had spread that he was going to take the floor, so people were crammed in the community center like sardines. I didn’t go, I was only ten, but my parents did. I overheard them talking about it when they got home. Melvin had taken the mic at the end of the meeting and confessed his sins to the town council in front of everyone. With genuine tears he addressed his pleas directly to the Mayor. He begged for mercy from the council who was clearly not going to go against the most powerful man in town, even if they did have an inkling of pity for Melvin Klopek. Which of course, they didn’t.
Despite years of terse and trying encounters with him in town, my parents felt sorry for Melvin, but the scene they described was a great hall full of half smirks and barely controlled smiles at the plight of Melvin. My father said it disgusted him to be living in a town with such callous people and my mom agreed. Of course, Melvin was told by the council that the matter was out of their hands. Mayor Bryant ended the business by telling Melvin that he was very sorry and to have a Merry Christmas.
Melvin walked out of the community center, looking around for anyone for sympathy, but none was had. Instead, his looks were returned with joyous applause, a boisterous outburst of mirth and merry at the expense of a man who truly deserved it.
My parents walked out directly after him and caught up to him before he could climb into his truck. At that time, my parents were just under thirty years old, and we were a family with little to no means, but my parents were good people. They both apologized for the jeers and the sneers that they themselves had not participated in. They both pledged to Melvin the meager funds that they could spare in order to help him. To my parent’s amazement, Melvin’s eyes brightened and the corner’s of his mouth turned upwards. It was the only time they had ever seen him smile. It faded quickly. Light doesn’t shine long on a hard heart.
“Folks, get the hell away from my truck.” My parents were stunned into silence after Melvin gave them a wink. They watched him slam the door and they heard him laughing as his truck rumbled and sputtered away from town in a sooty cloud of exhaust. I would hear my parents retell that encounter a few times in my life and they would always end it by saying that they shouldn’t have been surprised over what happened next.
No one saw Melvin in town for the next few days. If you walked past the junkyard, you could hear him banging around in his garage just inside the fence. The large American flag that flew over his business was turned upside down. Sometimes people could see a flickering blue light coming from underneath the big metal door of the main building and the snap hissing of something being welded together. The main thing every kid in town had noticed was that those awful, monstrous dogs were nowhere to be seen. I even remember hearing that a couple of kids from the high school actually hopped the fence and made off with some parts; a first in the history of Sanders. Of course everyone in town had a life to live and even the thought of Klopek quickly faded from the forefront of most people’s minds, except my mother and father.
My parents had decided after what they experienced at the meeting, that we would stay put for the rest of the month. In January it was off to greener pastures out in Salinas with my Mom’s folks. My mom wanted to take me to the Christmas Tree lighting that Friday night even though we were going to be surrounded by people that were as fake as the trees that they were selling down at Dillard’s. My dad, God rest his soul, decided he was going to stay behind and start packing away the non-essentials in the house.
My God, I still remember how everything had smelled that night. Caramel popcorn and hot cocoa. Candied nuts and hot cider. We walked down the main street of a town that looked like something from Rockwell heaven. Lights were everywhere and their colors were so warm against the snow that had fallen the night before. It was the perfect example of not judging a book by its cover, because the cover over the story of Sanders was so damn beautiful over all that corrosive gossip and those spiteful spirits.
There was a stage set up in front of the giant tree at the end of the street, all decked out with holiday bunting and tinsel. The Mayor said some words that no one really cared about and then it happened. Those lights on that tree exploded into the night. To this day, it’s still the most magnificent tree I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. That pleasure though, was cut awfully short.
Somehow, the “Ho-Ho-Ho’s” managed to dwarf the sounds of brass and caroling. Everyone turned behind them to gaze at what they all thought was a part of the festivities. A jolly old elf on a sleigh, being pulled by nine reindeer that was coming our way.
My mom said she heard the voice of an angel in her ear telling her to grab my hand and run. Every Christmas until she passed, she always gave thanks for that voice as she said grace over our dinner. She yanked me so hard, I heard my arm give a little pop. She pulled us into the open door of the hardware store and we both watched out the window as Santa came to town.
The red suit and hat hung from Melvin Klopek’s bony body. Two revolvers were slung low on his hips and a bandolier full of grenades hung over his shoulder; each of them painted to look like Christmas bulbs.
His dogs had all been outfitted with antlers slapped together by old german sabres, and small sleigh bells were hanging from each of their ears. They were strapped together as a team and they were pulling a metal sleigh that crushed over the ground on wheels pulled from old cars. Phil was the leader of the pack; his nose had been outfitted with a red bulb that flickered.
The sleigh had been welded together in great haste from whatever was on hand in the junkyard. It was decorated with festive lighting and tinsel. A long pole had been mounted in the rear and it was topped with the stars and stripes that were fluttering in the cold night air. Two old machine guns had been affixed on the front, and as Melvin Klopek came into town, he fired both into the crowd as he Ho-Ho’d and Ha Ha’d.
My mother led me to the back door, but it was locked. I looked behind us through the front window and watched in wonder as Santa Klopek’s wrath came crashing into town as my mom ran for a sledge hammer.
Melvin had freed his dogs and they were attacking the townsfolk while he was throwing grenades and laughing. Buildings were bursting into flames from the explosions as people were running for their lives. The last thing I saw before my mom busted open the door was Melvin setting that beautiful tree on fire.
My mom and I ran for home. Our house was about a mile away down the frosty road, and the refrozen snow was crunching under each step . We could still hear all of the mayhem and mirth behind us when a new sound carried on the December wind.
We turned at the sound of sleigh bells and were met with the sight of Phil and his glowing nose bobbing up and down as he pursued us down the lonely road. The dog’s stride was massive and my mother knew we could not outrun the beast. The makeshift metal horns mounted on his head gleamed as they caught the light from the streetlamps overhead; his breath leaving clouds behind him with every kick forward.
My mother told me to run, but I refused. I stood with my mother as she cradled the sledgehammer, waiting for the nightmare with the red stained teeth to close the distance between us.
With one perfect swing, my mother cracked the hammer across Phil’s face and knocked those gory teeth into the glittering snow.
My dad had been blaring Bing Crosby out of the record player while he was organizing and hadn’t heard a single shot. When my mother burst through the door with me in tow, she screamed at my father that we had to go. They grabbed a few things and we ran out the door, but we were met with a ghoulish apparition surrounded by his dogs on our lawn.
The dogs were all still and grumbling as their coats were dripping onto the snow. Melvin stood in silence as my father kept his body in front of my mother and me. Melvin took off his hat and walked up to our porch.
“You folks take your time. You were the only ones on my nice list.” He gave a slight smile and twinked his nose before he put on his hat and walked off into the night with his dogs.
Once he was out of sight, we got in our car and never looked back. Up until the day she died, my mom regretted never going back for her records. When something awful like that happens, it makes you not care about the things that can be replaced.
The state police never found Melvin Klopek, nor did they find his dogs. It was a lot easier to disappear back in those days. It was a lot easier to forget and move on as well. The Merry Massacre is only a legend now. The town of Sanders was never put back on the map. The buildings that survived were left to rot. We had just lost a President and we were going back to another war, people had enough on their plate and I guess that no one was interested in talking about another tragedy.
I remember it though. I’m thankful every Christmas that I was one of the lucky ones who was blessed with parents who had good hearts. Parents who offered kindness and help to the meanest son of a bitch who ever lived in the state of Iowa, and were shown mercy from a madman simply because they did what every decent person ought to do for someone else in a time of need.
Merry Christmas folks!