What Did You Get from Christmas: A Gift: You Can Give Without Loving – But, You Can’t Love Without Giving.

By Coach Don Easterling

“Don Easterling is a great coach, but he is also an outstanding speaker for any occasion - if you haven’t heard him you should - he is terrific!” - Jim Valvano


“Don Easterling is not only one of the greatest swim coaches ever, he is one of the finest storytellers and writers I have ever known. He is a national treasure, a man of superb wit, spirit and charm. He is motivator par excellence, my mentor and dearest friend who has enriched my life and that of so many others. These stories are a must read for all who treasure the values and lessons of life that we all cherish.” - Mark Bernardino, Head Swim Coach University of Virginia


“As his athlete, fellow coach and friend, I have been clearly inspired by Coach Easterling’s passion for story telling and his gift of finding the words to motivate us all.” - Beth Harrell, Head Swimming Coach North Florida University


“I remember vividly receiving my first Christmas Story in 1990. It came none too soon. Christmas training of my freshman year in college was tough and a heart warming, inspirational and entertaining story was certainly welcomed. Your Christmas stories have delighted for decades. In the busy world we live in: They remind us that reflection inspires & heals; They teach us to find joy in the little things; They truly remind us how to get in the Christmas spirit. The art of story telling is one of many arts that you have mastered. Nothing gets us in the spirit like your stories. They are timeless and will be enjoyed by many for generations to come.”- David Fox, Goldman Sachs, Olympic Gold Medalist


“As Coach Don tells his story you follow along with your own story because he has taken you back to a time forgotten until the echoes come flooding back. When the story is read and I have a couple of laughs and wipe away the tears, I carefully fold the story back up and place it safely back in its’ envelope and I take a moment to say, “Thanks Coach”.” - Doug Russell, 2-time Olympic Gold Medalist

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664176836

Coach Don Easterling

Coach Don Easterling’s warmth and humor have pleased audiences across the nation for many years. Coach E. led the University of Texas Arlington to the runner up spot in the NCAA college division swimming & diving championships. He then moved on to North Carolina State University where he led the Wolf pack to 17 ACC titles and several top 10 NCAA finishes. Don was National Scholastic Collegiate Coach in 1993 and Don coached 17 national champions and his swimmers earned over 100 all American citations. Coach E. has tutored 9 Olympic swimmers who have won 8 medals to include 5 golds as well as American and world record holders. Coach Easterling has written a Christmas message for 36 years. Each of his stories are very special and has touched the hearts of thousands who have read them for over 4 decades. Coach E. has “retired” to Charlottesville, Virginia and has entered his 5th decade of coaching. Don presently coaches masters swimming, does some consulting and after dinner speaking. Coach Easterling is a member of: The University of Texas at Arlington, Athletic Hall of Honor; The Texas Swimming Coaches Hall of Fame, LEGENDS OF TEXAS SWIMMING; The American Swimming Coaches Association Hall of Honor; and recently elected to the Athletic Walk of Honor at North Carolina State University.

Book preview

1

Heart Prints

T HE SUDDENLY STROLLING yet parsimonious sun wounded the peaceful canvas bouquet of schmetterlings and gave me a pep talk, seduced me, tattooing my heart with footprints, bought and erased by the ceaseless moons and tides. The same butterflies flapped their wings and disappeared into the clouds, some of which wore fluffy identical masks, while others, in their reckless youth, flew ever so softly through the cathedral heavens in a necklace of Easter bonnets.

The water on either side of the land was so close, a body could chunk a rock and dent the green gray surface both East and West.

I fancy history and my imagination, like some dreams and many memories, makes its own set of rules. The news-reel of past times on the port side told me decades earlier sinister üntersea boats roamed perilously close to our shores of freedom and perhaps, on a moonless night, rubber boats with schlafen spiones came ashore in preparation for when they thought the world would be their way.

Then my mind wandered to the starboard side where perhaps bearded buccaneers, both black and blue, oared ashore in wooden dinghies to secure for lesser times the results of their pillaging, and only they knew the true location of the gold and silver doubloons taken from the weak in raging and bloody hand to hand battles with pistols and cut-lasses where only one side would walk away, even on a wooden leg. But, the secrets of both spy and pirate have long ago been buried with them.

Eyes sandward, I was surrepititiously but seriously searching for select sea shells, while trying to finish a book that held me captured. I was half doing both jobs and I finger closed the book.

The sea gives up its dead in thousands of shells every hour but I needed an outstanding few for an outstanding twelve year old who had brought me some sea shells from her sea camp. Among the shells were footprints and like the shells, there, then disappearing as the mighty waves took them both on vacation to far away and mysterious ports of call.

Footprints, like shells, are distinct and not always exactly the same, and often, both are broken. I found some nice ones, unusual ones, both footprints and shells. There were all types and sizes of prints—small and shallow prints of sea birds, dogs and wee children measured also by the space between steps. Then there were the deeper adult prints always farther apart. Then, all of a moment, there they were. Among the whole and broken shells was a left deep and lightly turned out footprint, followed by a long man stride then broken half right foot, then a half stride to the complete left foot again—and so on. My own step prints quickened as I followed the broken water filled sandy images as they wound up and around to the sea weedy sand dunes that mark high tides throughout the world.

I heard the music first, like the tinny sounds from a portable tape player. It was some piano concerto some lone European genius had assembled centuries earlier and now played by a full harmonic orchestra. As I neared the sound the music changed to Willie with only his sadness and a guitar lamenting a lost love.

Then the prints and a half stopped at a chaise lounge which almost held a man that I knew immediately was special. As I got closer I realized the conversation he was holding was —with himself— His hair was shades of silver and sixty-ish in length. A paperback precariously hung in his lap, clothed in camo fatigues and cut off just above the knees. He wore no shirt and his upper torso was hide like in color and texture and sprouted matching the head colored hair.

Most prominent was the art work on his shoulders and arms, some more faded than others. In one hand was a huge nearly dead cigar and in the other, a can of Colorado’s finest Rocky Mountain High. I could not understand the voice which sounded like someone walking amongst dead leaves on a gravel path. As I neared, the words became snores of relaxation, notifying me that I was on private and hallowed sand.

I was at the Outer Banks of North Carolina where history hung like the moss on the scrubby pin oaks and magnifi-cent ancient magnolias. I came to witness a former swimming great that I was fortunate to coach, become a partner for life with the girl of his dreams. The beach ceremony and all of the following festivities scored tens. As everyone left but two I knew it was time to find the footprints I had seen earlier.

Heavenly shades of night are calling, its twilight time, ah, the Platters, when purple shadows mark the end of day, I’ll see you again at twilight time. Well, I sincerely hoped so anyway.

The wedding feast would stand me until the morn and all I needed was tunes. No fancy iPOD rig for me, no siree. I strapped on my old fashioned tape player and yeller ear phones. No, its not 8-track, I may be old as dirt but I ain’t yet amongst the pyramids. I equipped myself with an Everready and hopes, after all, the footprints I sought should be easy to locate.

But, memories found me first. Fear is always in the way of healing. But, it seems that seashores all over the world, through the serenity of it all, have always helped me defeat a bout of loneliness regardless of the fears that get in the way of the repairs. I’m better when the lapping of the salt harmonizes with the tunes. I felt no boundaries especially when recollections, both friend and foe had come to waltz in my head and heart that evening.

I truly have arrived, all too rapidly, yet securely, at that late autumnal period in my personal calendar when the dreams and hopes of the tomorrows no longer rate as high as the memories and smiles of the yesterdays, regardless of how fleeting are the tomorrows or how fading are the yesterdays.

I recalled a song, and that lucky old sun ain’t got nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day. The cause of the carefree and shoulder slumping second almost light and almost dark, was wrapped ever so discretely in an umbrella of corn flake clouds, each taking turn about at attempts to play hide and seek on the wallpaper of the very west end of the world; and I might add, with no decorum whatsoever. The tired sun was changing costumes from the matinee to the dusk performance and I was the lucky one. It was like a veritable garden of roses that a few steps later changed into rouge faced, scarlet lipped mermaids. The oh my goodness beauty of the sunset made me momentarily forget my mis-sion and I hummed a tune—out of tune. I smiled at the thought of a lost love—now what was her name? Everyone knows that some memories you don’t just love, you fall in love with. You know most folks say I love you, but few say, I’m in love with you.

I’ve always been in love with Christmas memories because they never let me down. The next tune on my tape was Merle Haggard doing Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone. Darkness fell suddenly and the tune was appropriate and became the balm in the transmission of my consciousness. Darkness and the tides made it impossible to search for the clues and I feared that I’d lost forever what my instincts said would be a story with no frontiers. Reluctantly, I left the sea and all its mysteries and secrets and bid the bed hello and goodnight but found sleep slow to come.

The next morning the air was as sweet as a prom dress corsage and I broke the fast with Passion Tea and pumpkin muffins that I brought with me from HotCakes, my favorite deli in Charlottesville. I hurriedly slow stepped to the sea where I knew the newborn yawning light and I would be as eager as a sailor on a weekend pass.

It was a strange cinematic new light of day as the harmony of the clouds and hidden rays made it appear to be no horizon. The sky and water were holding hands and seemed to be identical twins. A covey of squawking seagulls sug-gested that I walk the other direction in my search—Something magic I fancy.

While searching for the elusive footprints a pair of young towhead look alikes were playing Marco Polo in the shallow surf. The were talking in a Slavic tongue that turned into gap tooth grins then spontaneous laughter that is understood by everyone who has attended an opening ceremony at the Olympics.

The sand was as smooth as the behind of a new born babe. No traces. No map to guide me. Then, like an explo-sion, the East caught fire as a cradle of candy apple almost dawn began to yawn and I knew I had been blessed again for the good Lord gave me another extension. Just as I was feeling that Mr. Lucky Old Sun had let me down—out of the surf appeared the unforgettable marks of two feet—well, almost two. They were fresh and as ripe as the citrus sky. My mind shut down as my heart and step leaped with joy, gratitude and anticipation.

I saw the fort first. The walls of sand were three feet high and covered half a football field. Inside, also made of damp sand, was every kind of barracks, office building and armory I’d ever seen in real life. More impressive, there were lead and tin soldiers in every color and uniform ever worn by any armies throughout the history of time and all equipped with planes, tanks and artillery. And there, sitting in front of the headquarters building was—Caesar. He appeared to be holding an inspection of the three others, who all could be clones of himself, like Russian Matryoshka dolls. I didn’t know whether to salute, or just walk on by. At last, the troops appeared to be dismissed and the youngest waved infectiously, so I joined the ranks.

A voice that sounded like WWII echoed across the sand. I say Private, could there by even a modicum of fresh coffee forthcoming, with perhaps a wee dollop of a suggestion of milk?

The lad answered, sure General, —uh, I mean Gramps.

I was welcomed, offered coffee and introduced all around. The Private was Jeb, the great grandson. His father, a captain answered to Robert E. Then came his father, the Bird Colonel who introduced himself as Nathan Bedford, who said, pointing to the leader, This is my Pop, just call him Ike.

His eyes were huge and the color of wet lapis piercing bushy eyebrows and me. The ocean breezes blew his unmili-tary hair from the nape of his neck exposing the long narrow look of a swan. The tattoos on his torso included Semper Fi, Iwo, The Canal, Tarawa, Korea, Nam plus one I couldn’t make out, as well as the names of the three I’d just met.

As I collected information from his kin, I learned that Ike had run off from home on December 9, 1941, lied his way into the Marines, and had served, fought and bled in places all over the world where you had to boil the water before you could drink it, and worked his way up to One Star.

I asked where the women folks were, Fixin the tree, The General said, Well, all but one.

He asked me if I’d ever served and I told him of my cold war Counter Intelligence Corps years and he gave me the rank of Lieutenant.

Loot, he said, a body fills others needs and some folks don’t know what to call it. But, a long time ago, this lady and I settled on the word, Love. Ike went on to tell me that it had taken him two weeks from forever to find her, then recently he had lost her to the incurables. He smiled American teeth, yellowed with tobacco and time, and winked at me as he said, Other than them three yonder, memories are about all I have left Mister, and they are only as strong as the life you give them. He said, he’s seen son and grandson get their gold bar at the big Yankee school up on the Hud-son and had hugged them hello and till we meet again, at airports and train stations on four continents. He went on to say that ‘The Bird’ had served under him and I told him that would be like coaching one of my own to the top step on the awards stand. Ike said, that after taking a wrong step one moonless night in Nam he was nicknamed Half Track" but with special equipment he got to hang on as a consultant in the first donnybrook in the desert.

He said ‘desk bullets’ ain’t no good but at least no one fired back. Ike said he’d been proud to serve alongside men who were less afraid of death than failure and had more guts than ammunition. He didn’t wish to talk about war, but the battles, so many, hard to remember were one ended and the next began; but it all had rearranged him more mentally than physically. I ventured, I reckon General, shux, you were not even seventeen when it all began. To which he replied, Hell Loot, a dog’ll bite you when he’s a puppy."

Ike said a lady called Clarice had Marined with him from the time he was eighteen until the ‘Big C’ came for her less than a year earlier. He declared there was no need to look for another cause if I wanted to be alone, I’d rather be by myself.

They had a three story beach house just up the hill and had gathered as many as could come that same weekend for nearly twelve years, but, this year was the first one when everyone showed up.

The Colonel and Captain were on hands and knees in the fort with Jeb, planning and conducting battles as if they were all the same age.

Ike said, Each of us fought so the next one wouldn’t have to, Lord, where will it end? The General further stated that the older we all become the more invisible the children become and here lately they all prayed and worked harder to make sure that this would not happen.

We all took another hit on the coffee except Jeb, who still nursed a Nehi big orange drink. As the battles raged on the General directed troop placement and air support with all of the intensity of the real deal.

A bell summoned from the distant covered porch and the two middle father-sons bid me goodbye with firm hands and serious eye contact then saluted the old timer and wound their way through the sandy path between the dunes. I took their place in the fort and Jeb and I fought on side by side much to the amusement of the General.

Jeb seemed to gather excitement beyond normal and I absentmindedly stated that when a young got so excited it was either his birthday or it was time for Santa Claus to be coming. Against the constant echo of the bounding surf, I heard Jeb say softly, He is coming! When I questioned Jeb he said, Santa’s coming, today, that’s where Dad and Grandpaw went, to help put all the presents out.

I asked him if he still believed in Mr. Claus and he answered me with a question of his own when he looked me in the eyes and said, Don’t chu?

The eager youngster stated that the family had come from far and wide for one last huge Christmas celebration and asked if I wanted to see the tree and help him ‘shake his presents’. I begged off politely and very carefully asked why do Christmas in the summer. I knew immediately I shouldn’t have asked for the little suntanned face showed trickles of salty tears as they joined the salty sea breezes and made dirty streaks that joined the dirt rings on his neck. The brave yet proudly spoken choked up words hoarsely declared, My Dad is a corps doctor so he ought to know, I guess.

As soon as I had asked ‘know what’?, I thought, way to go Coach, just can’t keep your mouth shut. The lad declared, Daddy says, Gramps got the same bad stuff Grannie had and probably won’t be, well, ya know, may not be around come December. I asked Jeb if he really believed this and his reply was one that only a ten year old could hope for—I sure hope not cause then we’ll get to have Christmas two times.

The last I saw of him was his flat top buzz cut head bouncing in and out of sight as he made tracks to the house.

We both knew that the General had to go but, he was glad to see I was still there because he was not looking forward to breakfast and all that was to follow. Neither knew what to say next and I remembered that I had one of my Christmas stories books in my bag and broke the ice by offering it to him. Don’t I deserve an autographed copy?, Ike asked. I just signed it —All the Best, Coach E, er, rather Loot. He thumbed it and asked if I’d really written all of it and he smiled when I replied, That’s Affirmative.

Ike asked me to read a few lines and I chose some from Chapter One, It’s Magic.

When I got to the part about the only real thing that’s important is who you have beside you, I could see he had to fight a sudden waterfall in the corner of his eyes still so intense on such a stoic face.

I proffered a hand to help him up which he promptly pushed away with an, At ease Loot! It took a while for him to get going and it seemed like it took him ten seconds to unwind up, not just because he was old and stiff.

When Ike was finally assembled upright, he was a good half foot taller than I. I knew he was dreading going to the house so I tried some levity by asking; General Sir, do you still believe in Santa? Speechless, he turned and ramrod straight, walked, no, marched up the winding sand path. At the crest he halted, placed his ‘half track’ behind the left heel and executed a perfect about face,’’ and said, That’s affirmative Loot, and hey, Don’t chu?" I’ll never know for sure why I lost my voice but my right arm took over with the one gesture of respect understood around the globe. I snapped the smartest salute I’d ever executed. The General rose another two inches, peacocked his chest and briskly returned the gesture. Then he did another perfect military turn around and continued up the path.

As I turned to walk away, a butterfly landed on his chaise lounge, then, was gone. Like the forever tide, my heart overflowed and my ears roared a carol with the surf and above it all I heard another even louder explosion. At ease Loot, and hey, Merry Christmas!

Savana & Charli

Charli

2

The Future Ain’t What

It Used To Be

W INTER HAD ARRIVED, as it always does, much sooner than I was ready for it. Before I realized it, snowflakes had kissed the earth and nestled on a dozen pine trees along the driveway. The bleak background disappeared with the new snow, leaving the trees as mere silhouettes. The occasional sun bounced through the exposed limbs, lending a hint of warmth, the only real warmth this Christmas season seemed to offer.

Inside, the fireplace gave a temporary warmth but left a chill when only the embers remained. The old mantelpiece had no stockings hanging forth. The spot that usually allowed a tree to stand in all its glory stood vacant. Only the television advertisements and the typical December radio music reminded me that I had better get a card or two mailed and at least think about some shopping.

I set out to fight the crowds in one or two malls. Their faces were as I expected – filled with anxiety about finding an impressive gift for Mom and Dad, or for that special someone.

I wandered about aimlessly, trying to understand why everyone was so frantic. I decided that no Christmas could come close to what I remembered. Yesterday’s Christmases were gone and where I stood alone was a hollow ringing place called today.

I heard from far away the sounds of a guitar. I walked toward the sound, and I saw an old gentleman in a wheelchair with a tattered army blanket wrapped around – where knees and legs had once been. His talented fingers picked away, from one carol to another. His tired voice