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Times Remembered

Lonely night gives way to surprise

A hunger for Christmas camaraderie would prove challenging, but sometimes joy may be found when it is not sought.

By ROGER HOFFINE
Published December 20, 2005

[Times photo: William Dunkley]

Roger Hoffine, 58, of Tarpon Springs, remembers a bleak Christmas Eve for several young Army second lieutenants furtively seeking a fine meal to cheer an otherwise lonely night.

Christmas Eve 1969 found three long-faced second lieutenants standing in the lounge of the Fort Carson bachelor officer quarters. This small band of brothers shared a forced camaraderie: Each of us had arrived at our first permanent duty station too late to be eligible for Christmas leave. The late arrivals had also delayed our packages from home. Alone had new meaning for us.

In spite of this, none of us was willing to surrender to the depression and self-pity that would highlight a night in our rooms. Pockets still full of travel pay, we decided to celebrate the evening with the finest meal money could buy.

Colorado Springs was still new to us. Fine dining may have been hidden around every corner, but because we didn't know the town, we were lucky to identify the franchised burger joints and national restaurants. Another chain food meal was not what we had in mind.

New as we might be, each of us was familiar with the community's crown jewel, the Broadmoor Hotel and Resort. Located at the foot of Pike's Peak, the Broadmoor enjoyed a worldwide reputation for luxury. We decided that nothing else would be suitable. We hurried to shower, dressed in our finest civilian garb and took off to create a night to remember.

The Rosewood Room was perched at the top of a winding pink marble staircase. As we climbed the stairs we admired the spacious lobby, and when we reached the top, we took in the beautifully decorated dining area through the open double doors. Dark wood, lace tablecloths and multiple crystal chandeliers filled the room. Waiters in tuxedos bustled from tables to the kitchen. It was an awe-inspiring sight.

"Table for three, please" one of us advised the maitre d'.

He nodded, then carefully examined us. His smile fading as his look moved past each of us. It was completely gone when he said, "I'm sorry, gentlemen. I can't seat you. Our dress code demands suitable attire and does not include turtlenecks. They might seat you in the coffee shop."

He walked away.

My companions each turned an accusing look toward me. After a moment of stunned silence, we left.

It was late, it was snowing and our new-found morale was crushed. If we didn't eat soon, all the restaurants would close and we could be hungry and miserable. Mr. Steak provided dinner for the 14th time in three weeks.

Back at the "Q," we quickly parted, each of us in a hurry to nurse our misery in private. As I reached my room, a burst of defiance raced through me. Shedding a shoe, I stripped off one of my socks and hung it from a hook that was mounted in the door.

I slept well into Christmas Day, getting up only because I was required to share Christmas dinner with the troops. So many were on leave that three of the four battalion mess halls were closed, but one of my duties as an officer was to join the dozen or so men who might show up.

When I opened my door, I received a shock. The sock I had hung the night before had fallen to the floor. It lay on the linoleum with a conspicuous bulge. During the night someone had filled it. Candy canes, hard candies along with a darn fine cigar lay inside. It was stuffed it to the point that it couldn't hold its own weight on the door.

I never learned who filled the sock. Neither of my friends had done it; neither smoked, and bachelors don't buy candy canes. The cleaning staff had not come in because of the holiday.

I never tried to find out how the sock got filled. Instead, I have chosen to believe that on that cold night, Santa found a homesick young man and chose to brighten his day. I've shared the story many times with Santa skeptics, and none can find a better answer. This year I'll be telling it to a granddaughter who has already announced that she knows there is no Santa.

- Three months after Roger Hoffine's Christmas tale, he met Linda, his wife of 35 years. They live in Tarpon Springs. When not selling commercial insurance, Hoffine enjoys reading, writing, and fishing.

[Last modified December 16, 2005, 12:40:06]