A Kansas Christmas season in 1932

Ron Kershen for Progressive Dairyman

This is a true story. I have made a few assumptions, and dramatized it a bit, but the story is as accurate as my memory allows.

The 1932 Christmas season was a bleak one for the Mary Kerschen family of Marienthal, Kansas. Grandpa John had been killed in a train wreck in April. He had crossed the tracks to fix the stovepipe at school. On the way back to the field, his truck stalled on the railroad tracks, and he was hit by the Denver Flyer. He actually left his family in fairly good financial shape because of his insurance policy with the Knights of Columbus. However, in August, President Roosevelt declared a three- day bank holiday. The local banker took him literally, gathered up the bank’s spare cash, including Grandma Mary’s money, and high-tailed it to Mexico. Now they had no money and 10 mouths to feed.

Needless to say, Christmas was a somber affair – no gifts, no tree, but plenty of Christmas spirit because my family knew the real reason for Christmas.

On New Year’s morning, a cold, windy day with skiffs of snow, all the Kerschens went to Mass except Grandma and 7-year-old Marguerita, who stayed home to bake bread and make a chicken dinner.

A knock was heard at the door. There stood a bedraggled, smelly, middle-aged man, so benumbed by cold he could barely speak or move. Grandma helped him to the table, gave him coffee, then made him a big plate of eggs, with lots of bread.

My Aunt “Margie” shyly asked him questions about where he was from, and where he was going, etc. All he mumbled was “Big City” – Kansas City? Chicago? New York? All were far away, and he would freeze to death before he got there.

As the hobo prepared to leave, Grandma went into the bedroom, and found Grandpa’s greatcoat and a hat to give to the man. Marguerita knew that her big brother (my dad) could have used that coat, but she understood that this was the greater need. Her thought at the moment was, “What a wonderful grandmother I have!”

Marguerita ran to the east window to watch the hobo go down the road, but he never appeared. No cars passed by that could have picked him up. So she ran to the front door to see if he had gotten confused and headed west. No one was in sight. He had simply disappeared. It was a mystery.

Aunt Margie is convinced that the Lord Himself visited the Kerschen home that day.

So am I.

Merry Christmas,

Ron and Marie Kershen PD

Both Kershen and Kerschen are spelled correctly. My Dad dropped the “c” in 1945 when we moved to Texas, partly to make the name phonetic, and partly to leave the hard times in Kansas behind him.