CHARLIE AND THE PAPER BOY by David Weale

He grew up poor, in a large family of brothers on the Miramichi. When he was old enough to work he became a lumberjack, and with his thick, tree-trunk of a body, and large powerful hands, he looked every inch the part. But as a young man he gave up the life of the wood for another vocation. He became an entertainer, and by the time his life was over his rich baritone voice, gregarious disposition and mischievous stage antics had established him as one of the country's best known and most beloved troubadours.

His name was Charlie Chamberlain, and during the 1950s and 1960s he became famous across the country as the lead male vocalist in the "down-east" band, "Don Messer and the Islanders". Charlie was always a show stopper. Whether at a one-night stand in some small Maritime community, on-stage in Hamilton or Calgary, or in front of the C.B.C. television cameras, he could take a song to the hearts of his audience in a way that was the envy of other performers. "He was a good-hearted, great fella," recalled an acquaintance, " and the sadder the song the better he liked it. He's make himself cry, and make everyone else cry too."

Charlie was, perhaps more than anything else, a master of musical nostalgia. His sincere, even maudlin, renditions of traditional Irish folksongs, favourite hymns, or popular ballads were delivered with such unabashed sentimentality that his listeners felt somehow comforted and reassured. He touched them in deeply familiar places, and they loved him for it.

In 1953 Charlie and the rest of the band were living on the Island. Charlie had a house in Charlottetown, on Churchill Avenue, and on the afternoon of the day before Christmas he put in a call to his long-time friend, Russell Downe, inviting him to his place for a little talk and a few tunes. Russell was happy to oblige. He grabbed his guitar and went over, and before long the two men were seated on the edge of two chairs in the living room, one on either side of the Christmas tree, having their own little Christmas concert. They sang some carols, as well as other favourites, and were right in the middle of "Down in the Little Green Valley" when the doorbell rang.

It was a little fellow from up the street, the paper boy, who had come to collect his paper money. "Come on in," Charlie invited, and began to fumble in his pockets for the right change. While this was happening the boy, wide-eyed, was staring at the tree. Charlie noticed his look of wonderment and asked, "Do you like my tree?"

"Yes sir," said the boy.

"Do you have a tree like that at your house?" Charlie asked off-handedly.

"No sir," was the soft, flat reply.

"You don't have a Christmas tree!" Charlie exclaimed incredulously.

"No."

"Do you have a turkey?"

"No."

"Any presents?"

"No."

By this point in the conversation, Charlie, guitar in hand, was looking quite disconcerted by the boy's replies.

"Why haven't you got anything for Christmas?" he queried.

"My father's not workin'. He told us we're gonna have Christmas next year," was the boy's answer.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Yes."

"Well!" stated Charlie emphatically, "You must have a tree! That's all there is to it!"

With that he laid his guitar on the couch and walked over to the tree. His friend Russell watched in amazement as Charlie proceeded on a course of action that was so unexpected, and so impulsively generous, that after all these years it stands out vividly in his memory. "I will remember it as long as I live," he told me.

Charlie unplugged the Christmas tree lights, then reached through the branches and, with his big right hand, picked the tree off the floor - lights, ornaments, tinsel and all. Tree in hand, he marched out to the kitchen where a turkey was lying in the sink, the neck flopped out over the side. With his left hand he grabbed the turkey. "Open the door, Russell," he ordered, "we're going to make a little call."

"Show me where you live, young fella," he said, as he stepped outside, pulling the tree through the door behind him.

"It was quite a procession," recalled Russell. "The boy was ahead, and behind him came Charlie carrying the turkey and the tree, with the cord from the lights dragging in the snow. I was bringing up the rear, shaking my head in amazement, and laughing at the look of Charlie heading off up the street."

When they arrived at the paper boy's house his mother came out on the porch. "Open your door wide." shouted Charlie.

The woman, taken completely by surprise, blurted out, "Oh my Lord! Mr. Chamberlain! I don't believe it."

"Well, we're here anyway," retorted Charlie as he swooshed by her into the house. He proceeded to set the tree in a corner, and then strode out to the kitchen at the back of the house, where he deposited the massive Christmas bird in the sink.

"Merry Christmas," he called out, as he exited the house as abruptly and flamboyantly as he had entered.

As they walked back, Russell reminded Charlie that he now had neither tree nor turkey at his own place, and that the stores were closing in just a few minutes. "You're right, Russell," replied Charlie, a triumphant grin on his face. "I don't have a turkey and I don't have a tree. But I made someone happy. I've got that."

It was the kind of episode someone could write a song about - the kind of song Charlie Chamberlain would have loved to sing.