The gift that just won’t stop giving

Deepa Bharath

Like a leather-bound edition of “A Christmas Carol” pulled out

from a dusty shelf, this holiday story is quaint, yet refreshing.

It’s a tale -- almost of epic proportion -- between two friends

who were determined to share their life’s stories and precious

moments across 1,000 miles -- long before the Internet, America

Online and free evening and weekend minutes.

This is a saga that started off as a quarrel over a penny, evolved

into a chronicle of two men’s lives (if you read between the

name-calling, ribbing and mudslinging) spanning more than half a

century and will probably end up as a legacy for posterity.

This story is about Newport Coast resident Robert Borders and

Robert “Jerry” Hand -- a Casper, Wyo. attorney -- and one Christmas

card they’ve exchanged every year since they were students at Latrona

High School in Casper. Both turned 71 this year.

“The card,” as its co-owners often respectfully refer to, is a

red, green and white gag card with a kilted Scotsman on the cover

saying: “Hoot Mon -- and a Me-r-r-ry Christmas T’ye --.” Inside is a

list of holidays with the winking Scotsman wishing the recipient “for

a YIR-R-RR’s good time!” The card further suggests that if signed in

pencil, it can be erased and used over again.

Since 1950, the card has made 52 trips between the friends, about

35 of those between Casper and the Newport Beach architect’s office.

To anyone who is a newcomer to this holiday ritual, the card would

seem quite insignificant. Tattered and ragged on the edges, it is

bulging with stacks of small pieces of paper: notes -- some typed

with the archaic manual typewriter, some scribbled, some written in

bold face.

One of Borders’ entries is a cartoon showing the two of them in an

airplane with Hand saying: “Don’t worry Borders. We’ll be airborne in

no time.”

There’s a story behind that cartoon that makes it amusing, at

least to him, Borders says.

“There was this one year when our sons were going to survival

school in the Rocky Mountains,” he said. “So Jerry, he’s a pilot,

offered to fly us from Casper to Pinedale. And as we took off, the

plane wouldn’t fly because it couldn’t carry our weight. So Jerry had

to land on the prairie, and my son and I had to get off the plane.”

The card itself started because of a brawl over a penny, Borders

said.

“Jerry and I had worked on a bridge gang on the railroad during

the summer the year before our senior year in high school,” he said,

beginning to narrate a story destined to end in controversy. “We had

saved some money for school clothes and talked our parents into

letting us go to Denver to buy clothes.”

As the story goes, the duo hit the liquor store before they hit

back-to-school sales and ended up on a train back home with a

hangover and a pair of socks each.

During the train ride back, in Borders’ version of the story, they

chipped in for a newspaper and Hand owed him a penny for it.

“I never got that penny back to this day,” he says.

But his friend recalls a different story.

“Borders is delusional,” he said, over the phone from Casper. “I

forked out the nickel for the Rocky Mountain News. He grabbed it from

me to read the funnies. He owes me money and he lies. You see, that’s

why I need to keep in touch with him. I need to keep track of my

money.”

The card and the notes are full of claims and statements that

would be considered libelous in many courtrooms across the nation, if

it weren’t between friends.

But that’s OK, because Borders and Hand go way back. They have

known each other since they were kindergarteners. They lived in the

same neighborhood in Casper, a small town in the high plains known

for cold winters and gusty winds in the fall and spring. Hand

attended a Catholic School and caught up with Borders in junior high,

where they became closer.

Borders’ father worked on the railroad. Hand’s father had a

government job and his mother was a clerk at Montgomery Ward’s. The

boys grew up chasing tumbleweeds down the street, roping coyotes on

Main Street and riding cardboard boxes downhill after a winter storm,

Borders said.

“Once Jerry and I went out in the hills after a blizzard -- it was

called the blizzard of ‘49,” he said. “School was closed. We went

zipping across Garden Creek and ended up falling right in the creek.”

“It was cold,” he added with a laugh.

Such fond memories are included in the card, which every year is

ceremoniously placed first in a cigar box and then in a small wooden

box that sounds an alarm when opened. Borders claims he made the box

because “Jerry was paranoid about losing it.”

“I’m not paranoid. He’s the paranoid one,” Hand promptly alleged.

“I’m ex-law enforcement. I’ve been a prosecutor. I’ve been a judge. I

even have a gun permit.”

The duo then places the small wooden box into a larger wooden box

that plays a tune when opened.

“I had it playing ‘Jingle Bells’ before,” Borders said. “But now,

I have it playing this scary tune, which is better.”

The big box then goes into a cardboard box that is sent away.

“It has to be done the exact same way every year,” he said. “If I

did something wrong or lost any of this, Jerry would be mad. He’d

probably punch me in the nose.”

But the card is a veritable journal, a diary of sorts. It talks

about births, deaths, weddings, adventures, achievements and foibles.

One note from last year talks about “the world still shivering after

9/11.”

In 1956, Hand wrote: “This year saw me return from Germany -- work

for a liquor store and start my junior year in law school. We are

separated again -- but yet close. Again best luck buddy.”

Here’s Borders’ talking about getting married in 1957:

“Been a dandy year here in Long Beach. Gonna get married in April

with you as best man? Been drawing for eight months and like it

better each week. Hope this year was swell for you and next year

better.”

Borders again in 1972: “The family is growing up. Jim is a Cub

Scout, Jennifer is a Girl Scout, and Jeanne is a mean, little girl.

Ruth is well. The architectural business is up and down as our

economy dictates ... I hope this Christmas finds you and your whole

family very well and happy.”

Hand in 1983: “The review of the ups and downs of past messages

convinced me that ‘83, in spite of the struggling economy, Middle

East massacre, Korean air disaster, Central America concerns and

ABC’s nuclear destruction of Lawrence, Kansas on TV, was really an up

year for you and me. We seem to have entered the stability of

mid-life and can foresee the relief of passing the baton -- I still

don’t like your Van Dyke, but I realize it does provide camouflage

for what might otherwise be confused for a Halloween mask. Your

buddy, Jerry.”

To these inseparable friends, the card is a mechanism that keeps

their past alive. Laughs aside, the ritual of the boxes is just a way

of showing how much this annual correspondence means to them.

“I cherish the card as much as I cherish our friendship,” Borders

said. “But don’t listen to what Jerry says about the money. He’s a

liar.”

The issue of the penny remains unresolved. But Borders and Hand

would probably agree with the punch line from the Scot on their

nickel card: “Aye shur-r got me money’s wir-rth!”

* DEEPA BHARATH covers public safety and courts. She may be

reached at (949) 574-4226 or by e-mail at deepa.bharath@latimes.com.