A New Christmas Thread - 2002

Thanksgiving feast was on the way
When Santa came in from play.
He ate and ate
And cleaned his plate
And dreamed of Saturday.
The Christmas season starts that day
When Santa hosts the big parade -

Christmas Reminisces

Well, here we are again at the beginning of the Holiday Season. As children, we started thinking of Christmas after Thanksgiving, when Dicken's Christmas Carol was serialized on the front page of the Douglas Dispatch. Store shelves began to carry more shiny toys. Our lists were carefully written out and Santa was assured of how well we had behaved during the last year. The intensity of our interest quickened when the Christmas tree came into the house a couple of weeks before the big day. The tree was decorated with fragile glass balls that were older than any of the children. Strings of lights and tinsel, and strands of aluminum ice sickles were draped over branches. Each day new packages would arrive and be placed under the tree after being shaken. Our imaginations provided endless alternatives as to what was concealed. We secretly searched under beds and in the backs of closets to discover what might be hidden. From the kitchen came a succession of baking smells; cookies shaped like snowmen colored with sugary icing, and cakes and pies.

Going to sleep was difficult for our thoughts were filled with expectation and sweet anxiety that we might be disappointed. The nervous tension that had been mounting for days would finally overcome us. We would fall into a fitful slumber, only to awaken long before the morning. The linoleum was cold beneath our impatient little feet as we hurried to see what Santa had left.

The piles of presents under the tree always seemed to have doubled overnight. New packages wrapped in colorful paper, each with a personal tag, spread across the floor. Some toys were already setup and were ready to play. Who could resist an electric train rapidly running around a circular track running between the wire wheels of a new bike? Dolls for the girls sat in pretty ruffles atop huge boxes. Santa had come to OUR house, the annual miracle had happened again.

Parents were rousted out from their wrinkled bed to witness the truth of the Santa story. Soon the living room was filled with torn paper and stuffing intended to disguise the contents of boxes. A nurse's kit filled with pink sugar pills for a little girl who would grow up someday to be a nurse. Always there was a board game whose pieces would be lost before the end of the day, and something that would break after being played with once. Then there were the new clothes and stuff that we needed, but that had no real chance of finding favor with a child. Finally, the family would sit around and exchange their personal presents.

The presents often were not purchased, after all where could a child get enough money to buy a new car, or an airplane, or a magic dishwasher? Girls embroidered handkerchiefs, or napkins carefully stenciled with blue swans. Little boys made potholders woven from elastic, or straw. A leather belt tooled at camp, or a picture drawn in art class, would be passed admiringly from hand to hand. They weren't little presents because the care and thought that went into them was large. Such presents might never be really used, but would be put away in sweet-smelling cedar chests as mementos and remembrances.
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I'll post something better after I've had a chance to plot.

A Christmas Story
Far out on the prairie, in the emptiness of the Great American Desert, exists the little town of Tugwell, Oklahoma. Tugwell was born when the railroad came west to link the nation together with bounds of steel. Tugwell reached its zenith at its inception, when the railroad workers, the gamblers and easy women gathered there at the head of the track. After that the town might have become a ghost town, like many others. What saved the town was the need from the great steam locomotives to replenish their water.

By the end of the 1800's, Tugwell had become a quiet little town was home to a dozen families, and the social center for a few dozen more farms. At the heart of Tugwell was Foster's General Store where the locals gathered to buy necessities and exchange gossip. The time I want to tell you about occurred during the Great Blizzard that struck during the Christmas holidays of 1899.

An icy wind blew in out of the North, freezing ponds and choking wells. Animals huddled together against barn walls in search of warmth. A few days later the winds abated and the people thought perhaps the storm had passed. Then, the snow began to fall. Slowly at first, then thickening until a farmer couldn't see his barn any longer. The winds returned, and the snow was driven horizontally across the plains. Each day the snow fell, and accumulated into thick undulating drifts. The tracks were impassible for weeks, and the telegraph lines were down even longer. Around Tugwell, life paused because there was nothing to do but wait out the storm.

Foster's General Store was the one place that still functioned. There the townspeople could find some relief from the monotony and loneliness of being snowbound. Inside the store men could sit around the cherry red stove and swap stories. The checker games went on without interruption for days on end. Will Foster liked having his friends, neighbors and customers in the store, but had to carefully watch to insure that they didn't eat too many crackers and pickles without paying. Mayor Miller, the town's leading citizen, and Professor Phillips, the School Master were regular fixtures in the store. Others, like Zeke Johnstone, were hard working farmers who usually were too busy to sit around jawing.

Jawing and the telling of Tall Tales were an important activity in the last days of the 19th century. No one in Tugwell was more eagerly listened to than Mr. Nicholous, who could spin and weave a yarn into an exquisite tapestry. Mr. Nicholous was the town's oldest citizen, but no one really knew much about him. It was generally believed that he had been one of the legendary mountain men who opened the West to Civilization. Though he must have been at least eighty years old, the old man was still robust and active. During the harvest, Mr. Nicholous could still fork hay up onto wagons along with the young farm hands. When the snows came, Mr. Nicholous wore a long Grizzly coat to keep out the cold. He lived in a shack that he had built himself on the far side of town, but he spent most of his time wandering the countryside mumbling to himself. He was the town's much loved character.

In the autumn of '99 a new family came to Tugwell. The Davis family hadn't intended to stop in Tugwell, but they had no choice in the matter. Jonas Davis had gone bankrupt somewhere out west, and was trying to take his pregnant wife back home to Ohio. Their money ran out at Tugwell, and there they were stranded. There was no work to support the Davis's, but the town took them in anyway. A mile and a half out of town there was an abandoned farm with a ramshackle cabin on it. The town felt that what the bank owners in Oklahoma City didn't know wouldn't hurt them, so Jonas and his wife had a place to stay until the baby was due --sometime in January of 1900. Everyone donated a little something, but the Davis's still were the poorest folks around. The mid-wife, Mrs. Johnstone, was concerned that Mrs. Davis was not getting enough to eat and so she made regular trips out to the Davis farm with dishes made in her own kitchen.

Mrs. Johnstone was worried. Wilhelmina Johnstone knew her limitations. She thought that a doctor ought to be available, but the nearest medical doctor was sixty miles away to the west. The best she could do was to arrange for Mrs. Davis to call for assistance as soon as the birthing process began. A red lantern was strung up on the windmill and a barrel hoop alarm bell was swung outside the Davis door. "It's probably going to be alright, deary", Wilhelmina assured her patient. After all, she might be able arrange having Mrs. Davis moved over to Lawton nearer the doctor before the baby came.

Mrs. Johnstone hadn't reckoned on the blizzard of '99.

"When I was still living among the Shoshone, must have been around '63, or '64, there was a storm that put this one to shame". The checker players paused in expectation of a good story. Before Mr. Nicholous could continue, the door to Foster's blew open and Mrs. Johnstone stood there covered in snow. "Close the door, woman", her husband commanded over the shrieking sound of the wind.

"I saw the red light over at the Davis farm. Between gusts, I think I heard the gong, but I can't be sure." Wilhelmina stood shivering next to the stove as the snow melted and formed a pool around her feet. "I have to get over there, but I can't do it alone. Mayor, can you take me there in your horseless carriage?"

The question was hopeless, what passed for a road was covered with snow and automobiles of that day sometimes couldn't even get up a hill. It looked as if Mrs. Davis would have to have her baby alone, as women have done for thousands of years. "Please", Mrs. Johnstone pleaded knowing that this birth was premature and would be difficult even with medical assistance.

Mr. Nicholous stood and pulled on his Grizzly. "I'll take you". Will Foster quickly gathered a number of items from his shelves that might be needed, and pushed them into a knapsack. Professor Philips took the knapsack saying, "perhaps I can help". Mrs. Johnstone put on her husband's heavy coat over her own. The trio hesitated a moment before going out into the storm. "Pray we get there in time, and can do some good".

Before the rescue got beyond the city limits, Professor Philips was exhausted and had to take shelter. Mr. Nicholous and Mrs. Johnstone continued alone into the darkness. The wind cut through them, and it seemed to take hours before they arrived back at the Johnstone farm. There they took shelter and warmed their blue fingers and toes until they tingled. Were they too late? Mr. Nicholous peered out into the storm in the direction of the Davis place. Yes, between snow flurries he could see the dim glow of red far away in the darkness. Wet stockings were changed for warm ones, and the journey continued.

Mrs. Johnstone fell after a quarter mile, and then stumbled again. She could go no further. Mr. Nicholous lifted her on his back and pushed his way through the snowdrifts blocking their way. He leaned forward into the wind and took one agonizing step after another. If it were not for the lantern ahead to guide them, the two would almost certainly have been lost, and would have perished. Nicholous was a tough man used to hardship, but he was no longer young. Wilhelmina was, like many farmwomen of the time, hefty, and she became heavier to bear with each step taken.

They arrived at the Davis door just as Mr. Nicholous reached the end of his ability to continue. Jonas opened the door and rescued the rescuers from the storm. They lay on the very verges of consciousness before the little fire in the Davis's hearth. Wilhelmina was the first to revive. She mumbled "Are we in time?" through numbed lips.

Sobbing, Jonas told her that the baby had already been born, and the mother was dead. Wilhelmina struggled to the baby lying next to his mother on bloodied sheets. It was evident that the baby might also not live long. Wilhelmina drew upon all of her experience and skill to save the child. By the time Mr. Nicholous began to regain consciousness, the baby's condition had been stabilized.

It took two days before the storm slackened enough for the townsmen to force their way out to the Davis cabin. Mr. Davis named his son Christopher, after the man whose courageous efforts saved his life. No one in town had even known Mr. Nicholous's first name, but it seemed appropriate.

Jonas Davis and his son remained in Tugwell. The boy was the adopted child and favorite son of the whole village. You ask, "so did they lived happily ever after"?

In 1918, Little Chris was in France and his first taste of combat came at Flanders Field. He was frightened by the thunder of artillery, and the whistling bullets that blew through the olive ranks. Ordered out of their trenches, the boys stood before a hail of lead. Each step taken by the doughboys demanded an effort of will. The lines advanced into the storm, though large gaps were torn open by the enemy's machineguns. Little Chris pressed forward and clinched his jaws against the fear of death. He watched his closest friend falter, then fall into the good green grass. He stopped and tried to staunch the blood pumping from his friend's throat. Chris took his friend upon his back and tried to get him to the medic. He took only a step before falling to his knees beneath the weight of his friend. Chris managed to stand again and stumbled toward the American trenches. He was half way to safety when a burst of fire finally cut him down.

When the telegram announcing Little Chris's death came, a somber silence fell over the habitués of Tugwell's General Store. The town went into immediate mourning. Someone suggested that the boy's godfather, Mr. Nicholous should be notified. No one had seen Mr. Nicholous in almost a week, so the town fathers got into Mayor Miller's new Ford and chugged out to the Nicholous shack. There they found the old man cold and dead. He had evidently been dead for a few days, but in his withered hands was clutched a bunch of blood-red poppies.

I like the story. You're a much quicker writer than I. With me it's a painful experience. I second guess myself from the first and never feel completely satisfied with any of my works.

Glad you like the story. Since I never make any effort to publish for profit, the only reward is when folks like my work.

I do write pretty fast once the idea is hatched. I've been typing my own stuff for many years, so the process is almost unconscious now. The real effort is in editing the stuff. It's so easy to fall in love with a phrase, or element. Then you have to cut it, throw it away. Oh well, nothing is ever truly lost and I'll use some of that edited stuff somewhere else, another time.

I might go a long time without writing a word. When I'm painting, I tend to write less. During the past year most of my focus has been on projects to bring Corazon up to the standards it should have. The place is so large, and I'm not able to do many physical things with the same confidence I did when I was fifty. Now that the weather is colder, the pool is closed (my secret public vice), I've had to move indoors and my attention swings again to writing and painting. So much material got stored up while I labored under the New Mexican Summer that now it is coming out in a flood.

Let's see more of your stuff -- it doesn't have to be mint-in-the box.

I too like your pieces, Asherman! Here4 is a small piece of a different ilk:


CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS

It's 3 am here and I couldn't get to sleep because the cat kept wanting to lie on my face. I had this Christmas thought and decided to get up and write it before it passed.

I have a small holiday tradition thing I do each year. My wife would rather not be involved so, I do it alone.
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Each autumn, I go into the large woods that adjoin my property and lay out a big 12 X 12 foot camouflaged tarp. I steak it down and bait it with corn and other stuff. The deer come out and enjoy the bounty and every 2 or 3 days I go up with my truck and pick up the tarp by it's 4 corners and dump the deer droppings in the back of the truck. I continue this until mid December, at which time the truck is usually full.

On Christmas Eve I put on my Santa suit and drive around the area and throw coal shovels of deer dung on peoples roofs and a little on their porches and walks. When the kids go out to play with their toys on Christmas as morning, they ask what those round brown things are and their parents tell them they are droppings from Santa's' reindeer. The kids laugh and the parents smile. Last year one of the kids said," Well, they must have driven a truck to bring the presents cause I can see the tire prints in the yard!" Smart ass kid. He's off the list this year.

I usually finish early in the morning and end the trip by driving up this gravel and dirt road to the top of the mountain where this old 59-year-old hippy lives in a shack. I dump the rest of the dropping in his compost heap. He grows his own weed and he says the deer dung makes big buds. He invites me in for a cup of hot Sleepy Time, Celestial Seasons herbal mint tea and we chat for a while. It takes me back in time to hear him pop out phrases like, "Cool Man, far out and what a bummer". So, he talks and I listen. It lasts about an hour or so and then I get up to leave. I always give him a box of Zig-Zags and he smiles. I smile too and he always says "Peace Man!" makes the sign and I pat him on the shoulder, grin and, leave.

Peace to all of you this holiday season!

One Christmas many years ago and during the short period of time when I believed in Santa Claus I thought I had discovered absolute proof that he had visited my house. In 1951 my family spent several months in Minnesota just before my father went to Korea. We lived in an apartment hotel. I remember some of what happened there vividly for several reasons. It was at this particular residence It at this particular residence that I saw TV for the time. There was a TV in the lobby and in the evenings we would all gather to watch. I also started school, kindergarten in Minneapolis.

I remember being very worried that Santa would not be able to find me because there where so many doors. My mother assured me that Santa knew where all little boys and girls lived but I was skeptical. However Santa did find our apartment and left an abundance of gifts for me. After we opened presents went down stairs for breakfast and when we came back to the apartment after eating I saw a book on the ledge of the front living room window. I ran to it and it was a large book about fairies and elves with wonderful pictures and stories. When I asked where it came from my mom told me that Santa must have forgotten to leave it for me on his initial visit. I remember scurrying from room to room, looking in all the closets and cupboards just in case Santa was still there and just hiding. This is one of my fondest childhood memories. This is how my belief in the magic of Santa was kept alive for another year.

After the kids got big enough to cease believing in Santa we got them a good one. We all went the several blocks to my sister-in-law's for the annual family get-together. When we slipped away to set out the gifts none of the kids knew we had left at all. To this day they try to figure out how those gifts got set out for them.

On WILSO's thread last year we were writing series of mostly verses, each new one connected to the last one, telling of Santa's adventures leading up to the big day. Then a person who objects to Christmas began posting disruptive responses designed to kill the fun. It worked, despite my pleas to Abuzz to erase the person's activity from the thread. I tried to revive it on a new thread, but the same person invaded it too. It was a dark spot on an otherwise joy filled season.