Christmas Eve and the bad peanuts

Last Christmas I wrote a lot of the memories I have from over the years, and mentioned the year that my father got the ‘bad peanuts’, so here’s that story:
My father worked for a fuel oil company, and he was one of, if not the first of their people they sent to ‘burner school’ to learn how to repair furnaces. That was quite an event of itself, and perhaps worth another story.
Anyway, he would always be the one on duty on holidays; I think he volunteered for it, saying that the other guys should be home with their families. We thought nothing of it, it was what he did, never mind that he also had a family to be home with. It wasn’t unusual for him to be home late because he was on a service call, or to have to get up from a meal, or milking the cows, to go restore someone’s heat. Also, he wasn’t the sort to ‘stop for a cold one’ on the way home, although now and then it did happen.
This one year, I don’t remember how old I was, maybe 10 or so, Christmas Eve he was on call, and wasn’t home when it was time to start milking, so my mother and sister and I went out to do it. We expected him to get home at any time. We were almost to the far end of the barn and the last few cows when one of his co-workers came in, and walked up the row to where my mother was, holding a set of keys in his hand and just saying ‘Now it wasn’t Eddie’s fault’ over and over again. My mother of course immediately thought the worst, that he’d been in an accident, but some how it got conveyed that this wasn’t the case.
The case was that they’d stopped at the bar for a Christmas drink. That led to one more, and then one more because of course everyone had to buy a round – or more. Speed’s, I think the name of the place was, not that it matters or that I remember right, on Lower Warren Street in Hudson.
By the time they got done, none of them was in any kind of shape to drive, but the other guys decided that my father was the worst, and had the furthest to drive, so they’d better take him home. Which they did, one driving the service truck, and one driving his car.
Their plan was that the one whose car they brought would take the service calls for that night, but just take his tools in the car, not the truck.
So the friend telling my mother ‘it wasn’t Eddie’s fault’ was saying that it wasn’t his fault he got toasted.
While he was doing this, the other guys were getting my father out of the car, and starting to help him to the house. In the midst of this, one of them noticed something not quite right at the front of the car – that being smoke coming from under the hood. He opened it and there was less right, including flames in the engine! They immediately abandoned my father, and started hollering for water.
I don’t know why I wasn’t still in the barn, but I was in or near the house when several of them came piling in looking for water, and something to carry it to the car in. I grabbed some pots from the cupboard and we started a ‘pot brigade’ to the car - and carrying open pots of water across the snowy path was no small feat for those guys at that point in time, let me tell you! I think that one or more of them were still outside, throwing snow on the fire, and between all the efforts the fire got put out quickly.
My father, meanwhile, had made it to the porch, heard the commotion, turned around and saw the flames (hanging on to the porch post for balance help) and said ‘Well, that’s a hell of a note’ and went on into the house and collapsed on the couch.
The guys got the fire out, piled into the car, with promises that they’d cover the service calls, and left. The next morning the car owner came back to retrieve his tool box, which he’d grabbed out of the car when the fire was going on. Good thing nobody’s furnace broke down that night!
My father said he wasn’t drunk. He’d been eating the peanuts on the bar and some of them must have been bad, that was what made him not feel well. For a long time that was the catch phrase for over-indulging in spirits in our family.
Enjoy your Christmas, and if you’re out celebrating, look out for the bad peanuts.
Merry Christmas.