Christmas came early for me one year. As a young boy, my Christmas expectations were usually quite reserved due to our family’s financial circumstances. But that year, the first Christmas snow we had been praying for began just after I finished my homework, and I spent the next hour watching the magical white stuff transform a gritty urban neighborhood into a winter wonderland.

I usually had trouble sleeping the night before I had an assignment, but with the thought of a fresh blanket of snow, I found myself up and dressing long before first light. I had promised the caretaker that I would dig clams for one of the holiday treats he prepared for others, particularly single men and widowers who did not have friends or family with whom to share the holiday. I stepped out onto the virgin snow, where not a single footprint was visible until I arrived at the corner where the hardware store was located and noticed a single set of tracks going in the front door. Two blocks later, I walked in two sets of fresh tracks, both heading for the all-night Bridge Diner on the bank of the Taunton River. With a shiny quarter burning a hole in my pocket, I decided not to have breakfast at home but to treat myself to a hot chocolate and Danish pastry at the diner. After I cleaned up the very last crumb of food and was about to leave, the waitress called me back and handed me another hot chocolate for the road. Back in the good old days, just about everyone was in the holiday spirit.

I headed for the boathouse landing. Halfway there, I cut across the tracks of my friend Mike. It was an easy read as the old vet walked with a cane and had a bad leg that he dragged behind him. I followed his trail to the top of the stairs, where he had looked down at the slippery descent, appraised the situation, and decided against the risk. There wasn’t any smoke coming from the boathouse chimney and no tracks along the shoreline, so I surmised the caretaker and his drinking buddies must have celebrated late and closed the tavern down in the wee morning hours. It was less than an hour to low tide and I had work to do, but it would have to wait. I sprinted down the long staircase and found the coal shovel where it was hidden under the work skiff. It took fifteen precious minutes to clear a path on the stairs before I was able to begin my assignment at the water’s edge.

Most of the old timers used a round-tined pitchfork to dig clams, but I was taught to dig with what the caretaker referred to as a clam hod, a short-handled rake with inward-facing tines that required digging in a kneeling or bent-over position. The short rake was more difficult to use, but it was much more efficient and allowed a skilled digger to excavate in an enlarging circle as the walls of the expanding trench caved in, exposing the clams and covering up the hole behind him. After the first frosts of mid-October, colder weather had discouraged the fair-weather diggers, but the most productive areas were still pretty well cleaned out. To make things more complicated, after the first frost the clams hold much deeper and their shells become very brittle. For that reason I decided to dig in a section of hard bottom that the smart diggers avoided because of the bowling-ball-sized rocks that littered the area. I worked up a sweat over that structure, but it was well worth it because I uncovered a cache of clams that overflowed the rim of the 4-quart pan I was using.

Mom always taught us that we would be rewarded for our charity and acts of kindness, and on that cold December morning, I believed that removing the snow from the stairs paid off in diamonds. I expected to unearth perhaps a quart of clams for the caretaker’s chowder, but as it was, I struck the mother lode. Once the pan was overflowing, I began stuffing clams in my pockets. I was just about frozen when I walked into the warmth of the caretaker’s kitchen where the aroma of pipe tobacco filled the air and the pungent scent of licorice emanated from the jug of clear liquid that was being passed around.

For a hearty stock, at least a quart of clams is necessary. Since we had more than enough, one of the caretaker’s cohorts melted enormous gobs of Crisco in a huge cast iron skillet while another whipped up a tasty batter to roll the shucked clams in. Fried clams a few days before Christmas was an extraordinary treat.

When someone popped a head in the door, the caretaker added another cup of water to the pot, cut the potatoes a bit smaller and then handed out another bowl of the steaming, aromatic potage. It was like the blessing of the loaves and fishes; before long, it became so crowded that I found myself sitting on the countertop in that narrow kitchen filled with aromatic steam, pungent tobacco smoke and goodwill toward men.

I still recall that day, when disabled veterans and poor working class men shared small gifts and good cheer with their fellow watermen. Their actions spoke louder than the proverb about the consideration being much more important than the size or value of the gift, as tins of tobacco, an inexpensive pipe and a few packs of cigarettes were tendered. The men also addressed the caretaker’s sweet tooth when they pooled their meager resources and chipped in on a box of Fannie Farmer candy for the man who cooked for them and was always looking out for their welfare.

It got so hot in the kitchen that one of the men cracked the top half of the south-facing window and, even though their appetites were sated and gifts exchanged, it was obvious to me that no one was in any hurry to leave, particularly those who had no family to return to. I slid off my perch and was about to gather up my jacket and scarf when Mike caught my arm with his cane.

“Hey kid, I saw what you did. I was looking out the window and watched you shovel off the stairs. Thank you.” And with those words he placed his hands on my shoulders and told me my father would be proud of me. I fought back tears, and just before I made it to the door, the caretaker blocked my exit.

“Where do you think you’re sneaking off to? There are dishes to be washed.” He rubbed my head and produced a giant bag of penny candy from Parents candy store. They all knew that was usually my first stop whenever I received a few coins for running errands. My trips to the candy store were usually for nickel and dime purchases, never for a bag of that volume. Mom and my siblings would be sharing it with me. And, I don’t know how or when he did it, but the caretaker had managed to put aside a large saucepan of chowder for my mother.

That afternoon, I walked home over well-trod sidewalks with not only food for the body but nourishment for the soul. Life was good. Merry Christmas!