This Christmas Eve--a Christmas Tale 4f2b36

This Christmas Eve--A Christmas Tale

Robert Reynolds

Published by Robert Reynolds, 2021.

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

THIS CHRISTMAS EVE--A CHRISTMAS TALE

First edition. February 19, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 Robert Reynolds.

ISBN: 978-1365866753

Written by Robert Reynolds.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

This Winter’s Eve... | Part One | Chapter 1 | Summer Days

Chapter 2 | Good and Plenty

Chapter 3 | A Long Wait Until Winter

Chapter 4 | Autumn Leaves

Part Two | Chapter 5 | Wish Books and Wishes

Chapter 6 | Winter’s Arrival

Chapter 7 | A Giant Icicle

Chapter 8 | Tractor and Plow

Part Three | Chapter 9 | Santa’s Parade

Chapter 10 | Into the Woods

Chapter 11 | Every Boy Should Have a Train

Chapter 12 | A Little Shepherd

Chapter 13 | Day Before Christmas

Chapter 14 | A Near Miss

Chapter 15 | An Unexpected Visit

“MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!”

This Winter’s Eve...

Part One

Chapter 1

Summer Days

Summer evenings found us playing hide and seek as twilight settled delicately into mauve and purple and black. As the sun sank beyond the treetops, shadows came together into a solid blanket of darkness. A fluttering of wings carried flocks of robins to refuge in the foliage. They chirped their way to silence while a chorus of croaking amphibians came awake. “I’m glad that old marsh ain’t any closer. Those dad-blame ol’ frogs would keep us awake all night,” Grandma Lacey said. Mama and her enjoyed the warm evenings in the wooden swing out front beneath a big old apple tree. The two wiled away the balmy evenings discussing the plight of the world and the turn of the weather while slapping away pesky mosquitoes. “Me and Dennis was down to the ditch catching pollywogs,” I said. I had a mason jar sitting on a windowsill and I could see tadpoles dancing in the glow of the streetlight. “I know you were,” mama said. “Your shoes are still wet. You need to leave them on the porch to dry before you come in.” “Don’t you forget and go traipsing those dirty ol’ sneakers in the house and make work for your mother,” grandma said. She scolded in a nice way so as not to hurt my feelings. The wooden frame creaked, as the old swing gently rocked back and forth. She scooted over to make room for me between her and mama. I loved grandma very much. A light shone in papa’s shop out back of the house and now and then I could hear hammering or the buzz of his saw. He always had a project of some sort going

on. Someone rode by on a bicycle, the whoosh of its tires lifting off the pavement in the darkness, but I didn’t recognize the person. “It’s that Clayton boy,” mama said, but I don’t know how she knew it in the dark. Something buzzed past in the night. I absently swatted the darkness. “He’s not right anymore,” grandma said, but not in a mean way. The shadowy figure ed under the streetlamp and disappeared into the warm night. “I’m sure glad the fighting’s over,” mama said. “That was a horrible time.” I was what folks called a “war baby”, although I was no longer a baby and I didn’t like when they talked of me that way. They spoke of the war as if it were long ago, but often enough so that I knew that it wasn’t. “You were born near the end of it,” mama said as the swing rocked. My sisters came out from the house and soon we were taking turns hiding in the dark. “Keep your eyes closed and don’t peek,” Lizbeth said. “Count to twenty and then you can come looking for us!” They went running off into the dark to hide. “Mercy! Where do those children get all that energy?” grandma said. “We had energy like that,” mama said. “You’ve a better memory than me, child,” grandma said and they both chuckled. Stars twinkled awake across the black sky and later after we tired of hide and seek, we kids played at finding the big and little dippers. They were the only constellations I knew. “There’s Mars,” Maribel said, pointing. “It’s called the Red Planet.” But it looked orange to me. “It’ll look red when you grow up like us,” Lizbeth said. “Things change when

you get older.”

DURING THE SUMMER A comet ed by and each night for the next few weeks we watched it hang in the eastern sky, its celestial tail seemingly dragging behind. “Well, my land!” grandma said the first night it appeared. “Just look at that!” The rest of the family gazed skyward into the night. “What is it?” I asked in wonder. “I know what it is,” Lizbeth said. “Tell me,” I begged. “It’s Santa’s sleigh,” Lizbeth teased. She was older than me, but not as old as Maribel. Lizbeth teased a lot and mom got after us, but she was only playing now. “It’s not,” I said. “How do you know?” I didn’t know much about celestial events, but I’d witnessed my share of Christmases and I knew about Santa Claus, reindeer and the like. “Because Santa comes when it’s icy cold and all snowy on the ground,” I said indignantly. “Maybe he’s flying to the North Pole, Mr. Smarty Pants,” she countered. “You don’t know.” After a few weeks the comet drew farther away. Then it faded from memory as it faded from the sky.

TOWARD THE END OF SUMMER another cosmic spectacle occurred. The aurora borealis appeared one sweltering evening, shimmering rainbow colors across the northern heavens. The vibrant hues moved like gentle swells on a meadow pond. “What is that, grandma?” It was the first I had seen such a sight and it fascinated me how the waves of light shone in vast oceans of lime and yellow and indigo. “Why, that’s the Northern Lights shining for you, child,” grandma smiled. She knew that would please me. “Northern Lights?” “That’s right. They come from a very long way off, shining from way up by the North Pole where Santa lives.” “What are you gabbing about?” Maribel said, coming over to where grandma and I rocked in the swing. “Scoot over.” I pointed to the shimmering waves of light that seemed to roll across the dark heavens. “I’ve seen them before,” she said plopping down beside us and leaning back to gaze at the lights. “But the colors were different.” “This old body has seen ‘em many a time and every time they’re different,” grandma said. “They’re certainly one of nature’s wonders.” “I’ve seen them three times,” Maribel said. “Or maybe it’s two.” “What makes them so bright, grandma?” “Santa’s elves need bright lights so they can see to make Christmas toys, so angels send them light.” She knew everything in her own folksy way.

ONLY A NARROW INTERIOR doorway separated our part of the big house from grandma’s part. She mostly stayed in her part, although we visited hers frequently. I felt I was entering a private sanctuary when I crossed those few rooms into her modest home. An old upright piano sat in her living room, the wood darker than the room itself. She often took rest at the large musical contraption from busy days of cooking, baking and cleaning. Her hands frail from a life of toil, she’d wipe them clean on her cotton apron, squeeze them a few times, and grimace. “Bless these stiff old ts,” she smiled simply. “Take your time, mother,” mom would say. Grandma played a few tunes I knew from Sunday school, as I stood by wondering how she knew to make those glorious melodies. “Rock of ages...” her delicate voice began and my sisters chimed in. It was her favorite hymn and she knew it by heart. I ed in, too, with wobbly voice as I tinkered with the piano’s ivory keys. “Don’t pester grandma,” Maribel said, but I wasn’t pestering. I only wanted to do my part. “This boy’s no bother,” grandma smiled. When the girls left, grandma offered to teach me, but the contraption was daunting and I was more intent on playing with my friends than I was on practicing. I was content to plink the keys now and then to hear the pretty notes, but when they didn’t sound like any song I knew, I quickly tired. “You’ll never learn if you don’t stick to it,” grandma said, but she gave me a big hug and said, “you run along and play. You’ve got your whole life to decide if you want to play this old thing.”

IT WAS A DREARY DAY. Rain beat down and cascaded off her porch roof. Puddles lay across the lawn like small ponds. Thunder rumbled and I knew I’d have little chance to play outside on this gray afternoon. Thunder rumbled again, this time shaking the windows. I went to see what grandma was up to. “That’s a mighty sad look,” she said as she darned away at holey sock. The large needle poked through the fabric and she pulled the hole closed. “I can’t find a thing to do,” I replied. “Well, here,” she said, handing me her tin of buttons. There were hundreds of them in various sizes and colors and over the years I had come to have my favorites. I had played in that tin since I was little more than a toddler. “I like this one,” I said, displaying a particularly ornate button. “It certainly is a nice one,” she said without looking up. “I’ve had it for a very long time, but just never have found the right garment. Run along and get that ol’ vest of yours.” Earlier in the summer she had given me a vest that had been grandpa’s house. I didn’t him, but grandma had a picture of the three of us from when I was very small. Grandpa was gone now and she had given me the vest. I wore it when my friends and I played cowboys and Indians, like I’d seen Randolph Scott do in a western movie. I went upstairs to fetch it and then brought my vest to her. She got her sewing basket and changed needles from the big darning needle to a smaller one. “This one will do.” Thunder was still rumbling around and rain was coming in torrents. There would be big puddles at the street corner to play in once the storm ed. “You find those buttons you like so much and I’ll show you how to sew them on,” grandma said, closing one eye as she threaded the needle. It took several tries before the thread found its way through the needle’s tiny eye.

“Watch closely and do as I show you.” I did, but I pricked my finger several times when the needle went the wrong way. It hurt some, but not as much as the times I’d been stuck by sand burrs. She checked, but there was no blood. “That’s just a little pin prick. You’ll be okay,” she said. Grandma made sure I finished my project, not like my piano lessons. “Sewing a button will be a good thing for you to know when you grow up,” she said. “You won’t always have your mama or me to help you.”

Chapter 2

Good and Plenty

Fruit flourished from the many trees scattered about the side lot where mama and papa planted our garden. In spring, apple blossoms bloomed abundantly, white and pink and filled the tree’s canopies like they were crowned in new snow. The delicate blossoms would last until the season’s gusty winds whipped the branches, sending the petals swirling to the ground, as if the warm snow had fallen. Shortly, tiny fruit would emerge. By mid summer apples had ripened and grandma went to gather them in her apron. We had half a dozen different kinds, the trees producing red, green and even one yellow apple tree, plus a few pear trees and a plum. The fruit was sweet as could be. “This was our orchard,” grandma explained, but that had been some time before and most the trees had been cut down. “All of this was orchard and garden clean across this entire lot. Now your daddy only cultivates half of it. It’s too much for a body to keep up with and hold down a job.” I tagged along picking apples off the ground, watching how grandma inspected them and tossed away the bad ones. “They’re plenty wormy,” she said, showing me a tiny worm hole in the apple’s flesh. “If you see this, throw it away.” “It’s bad for me?” “It sure won’t do you much good,” she chuckled. “These trees got old and wormy and that’s why your grandpa cut them down.”

She tossed the apple away. An orange-breasted robin took flight as the damaged fruit rolled its way. “My land! I sure didn’t mean to scare you away, Mr. Robin,” she said. I can’t say as I ever saw grandma be mean to any creature. It settled in the green apple tree in the front yard. We lived but a short distance from a cedar swamp and there were always plenty of birds coming up to chirp in our trees and rabbits to snoop in mama’s garden. Now and then a doe might come traipsing through the yard and set the dog to barking, but I hadn’t seen one in a long time other than hoof prints in last winter’s snow. Grandma stooped. “Here’s a nice red one for you. But don’t eat green ones,” she cautioned, meaning the unripe apples. “They’ll give you a tummy ache.” She needn’t have warned me. I’d not listened to mama’s words some time back and had the bellyache of my life. “I know,” I said. With a paring knife she trimmed out a bruise from where the apple had fallen, then handed it to me. “I’ll make apple butter with the rest of these so we’ll have it next winter,” grandma said. It was wonderful on a slice of grandma’s freshly baked bread and she kept jars of it in the cellar along with the rest of the goods she and mama canned. We went about the garden harvesting beans and radishes, tiny onions and sweet orange carrots, some rhubarb stalks for pie. Several asparagus plants grew in the very far corner of the lot and grandma took me there to see what we could harvest. She handed me her paring knife. “Be careful not to knick yourself or your mama will have my hide. Now get these nice stalks and this one over here.”

We made our way back to the house, grandma with her apron filled with crop and me with asparagus, rhubarb and a couple spiny cucumbers. Mama would be happy.

Chapter 3

A Long Wait Until Winter

“Take me along,” I teased. “It’s up to your sisters,” mama said. From the corner of my eye I could see Lizbeth giving mom a don’t let that pest come along look. “Can I, please?” “If you behave and mind what you’re told,” Maribel said. “Don’t make a habit of it,” Lizbeth chimed in. Their friends came by and we set out on foot to the river. Halfway there the street turned into a dusty yellow dirt lane that led toward a tall bluff everyone called High Banks. Long before we got to it I saw the bluff rising above scrub brush and trees that served as a greenbelt along the river. In the distant past the river had eroded away a large part of the hillside on the opposite side of the river. It now fell steeply away to the cool, swiftly running water. Atop the bluff a thick canopy of native elm and oak provided shade and down below along the river, it was sandy where scrub brush, tall grass and wild sumac grew. “Do we swim here?” I asked anxiously as we neared the bluff. It seemed higher than any hill around town and for some reason I was intimidated. “We’ll go upriver a bit where it’s not so deep nor swift,” Maribel said, swatting away a dragonfly that had found us and swooped in to investigate. It flew off to alight on a milkweed, sending the plant’s silken white fibers fluttering on the soft afternoon breeze.

We turned off onto a narrow path that led through the grass and foliage, through a stand of sumac that was turning red, the path winding parallel to the river. “There are plenty of sandy banks where the water’s not so deep up this way,” Maribel said as she led the way. She had taken command of our afternoon excursion. The sun burned through my tee shirt onto my scrawny shoulders. Someone had ridden horses along the sandy path, as fresh tracks had kicked up dirt. I expected one of the animals to come galloping out of the thicket like in the western movies. “Don’t wander into the tall grass. There’s poison ivy and it’ll make you itch like crazy.” Maribel knew. It had found her in the past. We came to a clearing at the top of a small, sandy bank. I could see upriver to the next bend. The water was very shallow and sunlight exposed the gravelly river bottom. Small sandbar islets crept into the river making for tantalizing places to play. For as far as I could see there were no dwellings, only small rolling hills, thick foliage and winding river. A twenty-minute stroll had taken us from small town home into the countryside. Wrens chirped unseen from within scrub brush foliage along the river and bank swallows flitted about, darting into small nesting holes in the sandy riverbank. The swallows swooped past, tiny brown blurs as we invaded their riverside domain. We skidded down the sandy bank to the river. The water there “It’s freezing!” one of the girls squealed, stepping in barely to her knees. Lizbeth plunged in with a splash, followed by the others. I felt the cold water splatter my flesh. “Brrr!!!” “Where’s this icy river coming from, the North Pole?” But they quickly became accustomed to it and began scampering about,

splashing each other and diving into the shallow pools, no longer noticing the chill. “Come in! It’s not so bad.” The sun beat mercilessly, shimmering brightly on the river’s surface. The water appeared green and umber from the foliage and sandy banks. It sparkled silver from the afternoon sunlight. “Stay close along here,” Maribel said. Mama had put her in charge and I knew to mind if I wished to come along again. I stood ankle deep and felt muddy sand squish between my toes as the river forged past. “The water’s cold at first so jump right in and get wet quickly. The quicker you do, the quicker you’ll warm up to it.” Maribel ran along the bank a short distance and jumped in. I took a deep breath and followed her in with a splash. The river was far colder than I expected, but like my sister had said, now that I was drenched, the water didn’t feel so cold and the sun burning my bare shoulders felt hotter. There on that hot afternoon, it seemed a long wait until winter...

Chapter 4

Autumn Leaves

During summer our pet cocker spaniel Bootsy died, struck by one of the few cars that ed our house that day. It happened on the street corner no more than a stone’s throw from our front door and I my sisters kneeling on a side porch holding its lifeless body and crying. I didn’t cry at the time. I may have been too innocent to know what dying meant. Still, it saddened me to see that beloved animal lying so hurt and still and to see my sisters in their grief. “You’d better go now,” I said to my friend Jimmy who had come to play. I wanted to be alone. The girls cried for a long time and the more I heard them, the less I wanted to be there. I loved Bootsy too, but I couldn’t make myself see him this way. I went inside and sat down around the corner where I could hear what was going on without seeing. Grandma Lacey brought a soft blanket and laid it carefully over the lifeless form as she and mama consoled the girls. I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. It was a sad day as we said goodbye to an old friend. Papa buried Bootsy out back, but I never knew where and I never went to look. Perhaps I didn’t want to know. I suppose it was beyond the garden where tall grass grew—out of the way and peaceful for our dear pet.

SUMMER ENDED AND WE returned to school. Mama bought me new clothes and papa took me uptown for a haircut. “Sit still, please,” the barber kept saying. I thought I was, but that didn’t quiet him. “You look very proper,” grandma said when I got home. It made me happy that she noticed. School was an old red brick building, three-stories if you counted the basement classrooms. It was the tallest building in town. Mama entrusted me to walk to and from school, as it was but two-blocks straightaway from home. My friend Richard lived across from the school and I had played there. “I’ll meet you at the school door and walk you home the first week,” mama said, making sure my hair was neatly combed and my shirttail tucked in before we headed off for that first day. “After that you’ll be on your own.” “Yes, mama. I know my way.”

AUTUMN HAD BEGUN TO cool and the air was crisp with the smell of the season. Gray smoke tinted afternoon skies. My sisters were outside raking the front yard and had scraped leaves into several colorful mounds— red and gold, orange and brown. “Don’t do it,” Lizbeth warned when she saw me eying the leaves from the front porch. “I’ll tell mama!” Throwing caution to the wind, I took a running leap and made straight for the closest pile, diving headfirst into the leafy mound with a squeal. I rolled around like a dervish, tossing leaves about while Lizabeth shouted, “Get out! Get out!” “Do you know how long it took to rake those?” Maribel scolded halfheartedly. I didn’t know and her pleadings fell on deaf ears as I ran and tumbled through the piles. Pretty soon they were playfully chasing me about and holding me down while the other laughed and stuffed leaves in my jacket. “I’ll tell!” “You started it!” We laughed and had a good time. After a while we gathered up the leaves and carted them to the back where mama had pointed out a bare spot in the garden. We trudged back and forth several times and I helped what I could. I felt it only fair for all the fun we had. The sharp aroma of burning leaves wafted about the neighborhood. When he got home from work, papa hooked up an old black garden hose and drug it out near the leaf pile. “We don’t need to start the neighborhood on fire,” he chuckled. “I promised the kids they could toast these,” mama said, bringing a bag of puffy white marshmallows from the kitchen.

Maribel cut toasting twigs from a small tree out back and papa set a match to the leaves. It took a moment for the dry ones to catch fire, but soon the pile was ablaze sending wicked orange flames and columns of bitter gray smoke tumbling skyward. “Stay back and let the flames burn down,” papa warned. But he needn’t have warned me. The heat was such that I wanted no part of the fire. I retreated from the flames, then moved in closer when the brisk afternoon air chilled me from behind. The late afternoon was air either too hot or too cold and I couldn’t find that “just right” spot. Sparks flickered skyward when papa stirred the leaves with a rake. The sparks gaily danced upward, bright against the darkening sky. After a while the fire died down and we punched marshmallows onto the end of sticks. “Hold it above the flame,” papa said, as I extended the stick. “Don’t get too close or it...” Poof! The snowy-white orb burst into flame as if it were a torch on the end of the stick. It burned brightly and turned black as coal as I pulled it away from the fire. “Oh, such a mess!” Lizbeth said. “Don’t try to eat it!” Maribel warned. “It’ll stick to your tongue and burn you badly if you’re not careful. Let me show you how it’s done.” She knocked the charred, gooey treat from the end of my stick and replaced it with a fresh one, gingerly holding it near the flame, but not directly in it. I watched as it toasted into a beautiful golden brown. “Do you see how to do it?” I nodded that I did. “Blow on it to make it cool before you eat it. It’s still hot.”

Bits of charred leaves curled into the sky along with the gray smoke. Papa watched where the sparks lit and beat them out with a long handled flat shovel when the tiny embers got too close to anything that might catch fire. “Can I do it?” Lizbeth asked. “Can I smash the sparks?” “Do that one,” papa said. He let her tamp out one or two, but then she tired of it and came back to toast another marshmallow. “How are you kids doing?” mama said, coming out the back door in her apron and over to the garden where we had gathered. She stopped to rattle the chicken coup door and make sure it was secure. A few of the chickens squawked at the intrusion. “Brrr! It’s a chilly evening. I should have worn a sweater,” mom shivered. “Come over by the fire, mama,” I said. “It’s warm.” “Have a marshmallow,” Maribel said, offering her stick. “I don’t want to smell like that old leaf smoke. I think I’ll go back inside,” mama said, her arms wrapped about her for warmth. “You kids come in and get cleaned up when you’re finished.” “I’ll shoo them along pretty soon,” papa said. We finished off the last few marshmallows and tossed our toasting twigs into the fire. They caught fire quickly and began to burn. “Stay back now.” Papa stepped forth and stirred the center of the pile; bringing unburned leaves up from the bottom where they began to smolder and burn. Ashes and sparks went up in a miniature maelstrom of smoke and fire. Against the black sky, a flurry of orange sparks tumbled upward, sparkling like the lights of Christmas.

Part Two

Chapter 5

Wish Books and Wishes

Evenings now we’d lay on the floor in the soft glow of the radio’s dial and listen to cowboys and cops, arguing as siblings over which programs would come crackling across the airwaves. With two sisters in complete agreement about our listening fare, I grew up that year listening more to My Little Margie, Our Miss Brooks, and Meet Corliss Archer than I did Red Ryder and Hopalong Cassidy. At least that’s how I it. But I believe we all agreed on the importance of laughing along with Amos ‘n’ Andy and being first to Name That Tune. “It’s time for bed,” mother said at last. “But, mama, The Great Gildersleeve is about to come on.” “Gildersleeve will get along fine without you kids,” she countered and off we grudgingly went up the creaky old stairs to our chilly rooms. The girls had separate rooms at opposite ends and narrow slivers or light peeked from beneath their doors. Soon they settled down, turned off their lights and the slivers of light grew dark. I slept in the hallway at the top of the stairs and could hear the goings on down below. When it came time to sleep, mama and papa were never long behind us.

INDIAN SUMMER CREPT in, but it was brief. It became warm again for a week or so and I longed for a swim at the river with my sisters. “The water’s much too cold,” mama said. “It’s warm outside,” I countered. “That’s not the river,” she said. A few days later the wind came across from the north and I knew she had been right.

ONE AFTER ANOTHER CHRISTMAS catalogs arrived in the mail: Aldens, Spiegels, Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Ward; whichever of us siblings got to a new one first assumed temporary ownership. “I get it next!” “As soon as I’ve finished with it!” We weren’t the only ones. Our neighborhood friends eagerly thumbed through the colorful books, “oohs” and “ahhs” escaping over the sight of steam emitting Lionel electric trains, A.C Gilbert erector sets, toy six-shooters, tin ranch house sets, plastic bricks and blocks, and Lincoln Logs; the boys, of course. The girls in our neighborhood, who were mostly older and pals of my sisters, had other wishes in mind. Having ed beyond the years of baby dolls and dollhouses, focused on clothing. Unlike us boys, they had little interest in Lionel, Daisy or Handy Andy tool sets. With these invaluable catalogs as proof of Christmas’ impending arrival, my friends and I began anew to increase our interest in Santa. For who else could offer such an envious array of toys, festive clothing and other such goods? “If you haven’t been good,” Lizbeth teased, “you won’t get what you wish for.” I pondered Lizbeth’s words. I believed I had been. Good, that is. And up to that point I hadn’t wished for anything. I had thought about many things as I leafed through the catalogs, but having wished? I don’t believe so. Erector sets intrigued me, but it was difficult to envision constructing a Ferris wheel or bridge from a red metal box filled with miniature steel trusses and tiny nuts and bolts. Who was to say what went where? Handy Andy tool kits provoked interest, but papa had an entire shop full of tools. Plastic building blocks? Bricks? Ranch house with livestock and cowboys? Toy soldiers? Ice skates? Skates were only good for a few months out of the year—

and I could barely stay upright on ice as it was. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but my mind kept wandering back to those colorful pages to that Lionel set with the big, black locomotive.

Chapter 6

Winter’s Arrival

Winter blew in during early November, cold and blustery, with a rush of the season’s first snowflakes. Snow swirled through the night leaving half-a-foot covering the ground by morning. “You’ll no sooner get outside than you’ll want to come in,” mama said as she patiently bundled me into warm clothing. Fortunately I had grown beyond the days of bulky snowsuits—although not by much. She pulled the mittens over my stubby fingers and tucked them under my coat sleeves. “Do you need a scarf?” I shook my head “no”. Scarves were for girls—unless you were a grownup and wore an overcoat. That seemed all right to me. “Keep your galoshes buckled or you’ll get snow in your boots. You don’t want that.” I knew that from last winter. It wasn’t like I was a little kid. Mama had broken from her baking to bundle me up. The house smelled of bread dough and yeast and freshly baked bread. With rolls about to come out of the oven, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to go out now. “They’ll still be hot when you come back in,” she said, as if reading my mind. I trudged out into the snow. Neighborhood fathers were out with snow shovels clearing their walks and cleaning their drives. There would be many more snowy mornings before spring arrived again. Many of the men wore red and black plaid hunting gear with game licenses

tucked neatly into clear plastic pouches pinned to the backs of their vests. Mr. Oswald had come home with a buck strapped over the fender of his Hudson the day before. Hunting was as exciting for the men as the arrival of Christmas was for me. Undoubtedly some of them would be going to the woods as soon as the snow was cleared. The wind howled and snow tumbled unwilling to bring a halt to the storm now that it had gained force. Snow was drifting along the deserted streets and I could barely see to the next street over. Father was carving a path along the sidewalk even as snow continued to fall, but he stopped long enough to rescue the old sled from inside his tool shed, where it had gathered dust throughout the other seasons. There were no nearby hills on which to go sledding, but I was content to drag the sleigh along behind me shuttling toys from one place to another. “Get on,” he said and we proceeded to cut a narrow swath across the snowcovered front lawn. The next street over one of the county’s big plows was clearing the pavement.

SNOW CONTINUED TO FALL and so did the temperature. All of papa’s hard shoveling had gone to waste as wind-blown snow drifted back over the driveway. Streets were drifting over too. Plows had come along the side streets earlier, but now they were back out trying to keep open main roads and thoroughfares. Papa took my sled around back and stood it against his shed, leaving a trail of footprints in the deep snow. Already snow was building up alongside the house and outer buildings and although it was daylight, the corner streetlamp had come on. Snow was blowing with such force it was difficult to see beyond the lamp. “You’d better come in,” mama called, shouting into the icy wind. “You needn’t be out in this blamed old storm. There’s nothing you can do until it’s over.” “The temperature’s dropping like nothing I’ve seen in ages,” papa shouted back from near the chicken coop. “I need to get these baby chicks in or they’ll be frozen stiff by morning.” He trudged up to the attic leaving little clumps of snow along the way, like Gretel’s breadcrumbs. Mama came along behind cleaning it up. “What are you doing upstairs?” “Building a pen and incubator,” papa answered without breaking stride. “We don’t need baby chicks running about the attic,” mama said. “Don’t worry, they won’t.” Wind howled through tiny cracks around a small window at the far end of the attic. “Fetch my drop light,” papa said, and the girls went to find it. When they returned papa had finished the enclosure, rolling out some old linoleum to keep the floor clean, boxing it in and laying a storm window across the top.

“Those baby chicks can huddle under the glass and heat from the drop light will keep them warm as toast,” papa said. “If it don’t burn this old house down,” mama muttered. We took turns cradling the baby chicks in our arms and scurrying them into the house and upstairs. Well, mama, papa and my sisters did. “By the time I get you all bundled up, all the chicks would be in,” mama explained. “You stay inside and watch the door for us.” When at last they had finished and the chicks placed safely inside the makeshift pen, papa plugged in the droplight and turned it on. In no time the enclosure grew warm inside and the chicks began to peck and play about, cheeping noisily. “They’re cute,” I said. “Yes, they certainly are cute,” mama agreed. “I hope they don’t make too much of a mess up here.” “Well, let’s leave them be,” papa said. He made sure the light was secure, closed off the attic and we trudged downstairs. The freezing wind whistled even harder as tiny ice crystals beat on the windows. By the time we had finished it was late for us kids. Grandma had already gone to bed and all was quiet in her end of the house. I asked to stay up and listen to the radio—I seldom was allowed to stay up this late. Maribel was fiddling with the radio dial, but finding mostly static. Lizbeth had asked to pop some corn, but mama said it was too late for that, too. “Tomorrow night when we’ve not been so busy,” she said. “Maybe I’ll make you kids some fudge tomorrow.” On wintry nights mama draped a blanket over a string stretched behind the oil burner—the name we called our central heating stove. We all huddled nearby catching its warmth. I could hear the pecking of sleet as it struck the window glass and snow swirled in the corner where two exterior walls met. Maribel ’s face had taken on a glow from the light of the radio dial, but she was

having little luck finding a clear station. “That blamed old storm is playing havoc with the radio,” mama said at last. “You kids had better run off to bed,” She took the blanket from behind the oil burner and wrapped it tightly around me. It was pleasantly warm and toasty and I felt special to get the attention. She kissed me on the forehead and rushed me to the foot of the stairs. “Hurry now before your cover gets cold,” she said, “and say your prayers!” I turned and ran upstairs as quickly as I could and scooted into bed, pulling the blankets tight around my chin. Wind howled through the window at the foot of my bed and I could feel the draft on my face, but my blanket stayed warm for a long time. In a while my sisters came up to their rooms, the old stairs creaking under their footsteps. Downstairs the house got quiet. Once or twice I thought I heard the chicks, but it may have been the wind fooling me. I was soon asleep and heard nothing until morning when mama came upstairs. It seemed I was the only one who knew where the creaky steps were. It was very cold, but the wind had diminished. I stuck my head from under the covers and gazed out my window. It fogged up from my breath. The morning was still early and black as coal, but I could see that snow had accumulated in wavy drifts. The aroma of coffee had followed mama upstairs. I liked the smell, but had tasted her coffee once and believed I would never be so bold as to taste it again. She opened the north room door and I felt a rush of cold come at me. Then I heard the attic door open. This time I was sure I heard peeps. In a moment she returned, closing the door behind. “Are the baby chicks okay?” “They’re fine,” she replied, coming over to tuck in the loose blankets.

“I’m glad they’re safe.” “And I’m glad the house didn’t burn down,” mama muttered. “Now go back to sleep. It’s much too early for you to be up.”

Chapter 7

A Giant Icicle

By week’s end most of the snow had melted, but cold weather lingered. With clear, crisp sky and sunshine on the roof, days warmed enough to melt the snow that had accumulated up there. The melting snow formed into tiny rivulets, found its way to the roof’s edge and dripped steadily toward earth. As afternoons waned and the rooftop cooled toward night, the dripping water thickened and slowed, forming shimmering icy stalactites along the eaves. A long, thick, menacing icicle was forming where the roof came together to form a V. The icy column already stretched halfway to the ground and was almost a foot across at the top. “Stay away from that one,” Maribel cautioned. “One of these days it will come crashing down and could hurt you badly if you’re under it.” Each morning the ice column had grown longer, become thicker. I had never seen an icicle that size and it fascinated me to no end. It was already many times longer than I was tall. “Watch out for tha...” mama began, having noticed me staring at the big ice spear. “I know,” I said, cutting her off before she finished. “Maribel already warned me.” “It’s best that you listen. It could come down in an instant.”

THE ENSUING DAYS WARMED and the chicks matured enough that papa took them back to their coop. “They’re sturdy enough to come back outside,” papa said, cradling half a dozen of the squirming chicks in his arms. “Unless it gets too cold again,” I said. “Yes, unless it gets too cold.”

SNOWSTORMS CAME MORE frequently and each time there was a fresh fall, the drifts grew deeper. A daily procession of snowplows created what appeared to be an endless maze of snowy fortresses lining the narrow streets. With days being so cold, I saw less of my neighborhood friends. “Their mothers won’t let them come out, either,” mama said, as she checked the meatloaf baking in the oven. I moved closer. I liked the smell of the meat and the warmth from the oven. “I don’t want you traipsing about the neighborhood in this kind of weather.” I made my way to grandma’s part of the house. She was napping so I sat down on the piano stool and gazed about at the things that made up her room. The items were old and I wondered about them—where they came from; what they meant. On the opposite wall, a picture of a lone wolf gazed at me from atop a snowy hillside. Whenever I saw that picture with the wolf’s breath clouding the night air, I felt a chill. After a while grandma awoke and we chatted. She always spoke to me like I understood big folks’ problems, although I seldom did. “Well, I’ve some sewing to do,” she said at last, “and I’d better get to it.” She had collected old garments, tore them into narrow strips and rolled them into a large ball. When she had amassed enough, she braided the strips together to make rag rugs. Grandma’s rugs were ever so colorful and nothing ever went to waste. “You can stay and watch, if you like.” “That’s okay,” I said. “Give me a hug before you run off.” When I came back into our part of the house mom was leafing through a Christmas catalog. It was the first time I’d seen her doing so and wondered what it all meant.

Chapter 8

Tractor and Plow

“It’s your ma and pa what gives you things,” my friend Willie said. He’d become a nonbeliever in Santa Claus now that his brothers were older and giving him advice. “No they don’t. My presents arrive when everyone’s asleep.” I said. “They trick you,” he replied. We sat bundled on the front porch with the winter sun warming us. A cardinal had alit in nearby shrubs, a ball of bright crimson feathers tucked back in the deep evergreen undergrowth. “Not my mama,” I countered crossly. “And even if so, that don’t mean there’s no Santa, so how would you know?” The cardinal tilted its head this way and that listening intently. “My brother told me and he’s in fourth grade.” “My sister’s older, so there.” “Girls don’t know that much,” he said. But Willie was always first to write Santa a letter after the new Christmas catalogs arrived. “I only write it cause my ma makes me,” he said. I twitched and the cardinal flew off in a whirr and flutter of red. “Don’t you listen to that boy,” grandma said when I told her. “You believe what you know is right.”

I didn’t care what anyone said; I knew if I behaved Santa would take notice.

PAPA CAME HOME IN THE evenings pretty much worn down, but there was always something needed being done: sidewalk to clear, water pipes to thaw, fuel oil to check. One evening after a particularly heavy afternoon snow he bundled up, slipped on his galoshes and disappeared in the Chevy into the snowy night. Twenty minutes later the rumble of a motor sounded and headlights swept through the front room. I went to the window and saw papa atop a Ford tractor, running its plow along our driveway, pushing snow here and piling it there, building small icy mountains. He stopped for a moment and called to mama over the noise of the motor. “Come put your coat on!” mama said. “Hurry now!” I did and she made sure I was bundled tightly. “Don’t forget your cap,” she said. “And cover your ears.” Papa waited while I hoisted myself up to sit on his knee. “Hold tight,” he said loud over the sputtering engine. He eased the machine into gear and lowered the plow. We edged forward scraping along the frozen surface, snow piling up at the plow’s edge as he cut a swath the width of the tractor. Exhaust curled up in a thick white cloud. I felt the heat of the motor and the cold of the clear, brisk night. Papa made several es, pushing snow off to the side, piling it higher and higher. I watched the machine’s big tires grip the frozen earth and propel us forward. The corner streetlight shimmered brightly on the new fallen snow. He made another the length of the driveway. The headlights danced in the darkness, bouncing through our neighbor’s trees, casting quickly moving shadows. Mrs. Knight peeked from her window to see what was going on. Satisfied, she let her curtain fall back across the glass.

“Take the wheel,” papa said over the grinding motor. “Me?” “Sure. Now’s a good time to learn,” he said. I grasped the steering wheel tightly as my heart began to race faster than the motor. In my nervousness, I didn’t notice his hands slip to the bottom of the wheel. “You’re doing fine,” he said. The wind blew cold in my face as the tractor cut through the black night. Snow was still blustering, spitting flurries, but not coming down as heavy as it had earlier. We pushed the snow into higher mounds as the cold bit into my cheeks. “You’ve done your share,” at last papa said. “Run along inside now and get warm.” I climbed down and jumped away from the tractor, slipping on the icy snow. Papa waited until I was inside before he made one more along the frozen driveway and gave a light tap on the horn to let mama know he was leaving. As he came up to the street corner, he paused then made a quick in front of Mrs. Knight’s house, lowering the plow and whisking away the snow that had accumulated during the storm.

Part Three

Chapter 9

Santa’s Parade

Thanksgiving approached and in school we learned about pilgrims in funny black hats and strange clothing. We made colorful turkeys out of construction paper and acted out scenes from the teacher’s book. Mrs. McKinnon encouraged us to dress as pilgrims and papa made me a wooden axe that he cut out on his table saw. I watched as he fashioned it into an axe head and bore a hole for a handle, of which he inserted a long dowel. I was quite proud of it when I went to school the day before our Thanksgiving vacation. “That’s a fine pilgrim’s axe,” Mrs. McKinnon said iring papa’s work of art. “My father made it for me,” I replied. “Well, you make sure you take it home with you. When you become older you’ll this day and the part you played.”

SATURDAY EVENING PAPA drove us uptown for the Christmas parade. Parking on Main Street, all three blocks of it, was filled so we parked on a side street and walked in the cold over to where the crowd had gathered. Intermittent snowflakes drifted down as if they were left over from an earlier squall. Main Street was decorated with festive wreaths, artificial candy canes and candles hanging from the light poles and Christmas carols and seasonal Christian melodies blared from somewhere. Some of the shops were still open and their lights shone brightly onto the busy streets capturing parade goers in a colorful glow. Small patches of icy snow had accumulated in front of some of the shops and mama held to my hand. “Watch where you step,” she cautioned. “You’d crack your head open if you slipped on this icy ol’ walk.” Stores were closing quickly as shoppers scurried out to take their places for the parade. With the colorful lights and gaily-dressed people, it was beautiful on this cold, crisp night. “Stay on the sidewalk,” mama said as we found a spot where we’d not block the view of others. It was not a difficult thing to do, as our town was small and even with folks coming in from the country and neighboring communities, there was plenty of room. A few friends from school were running about, darting in and out among the crowd. One of them, Jamie Washburn, slipped on a small patch of ice and went tumbling. Seeing he was all right, the boy’s mother yanked him up by the arm and scolded him right there in front of others. The boy bowed his head sheepishly and shrank in with the rest of his group. Mama glanced at me, but she didn’t have to speak. I understood that look and turned my attention up the street to where the first of the parade vehicles made

its way around the corner. “They’re coming!” someone shouted. Everyone turned his attention to the oncoming procession; even the unruly kids. I stood on the curb shivering, but excited as the small caravan chugged along the icy thoroughfare; police cruiser with Officer Steubens waving to the crowd as it led the way. To our delight, every thirty-seconds he’d give a short blast on the siren. “It sounds just like on the radio!” I said to papa. A handful of penny candy came flying our way from the back of a pickup truck carrying several older kids. We scrambled for the treats and I came up with a couple pieces that skittered my way. I unwrapped one and put the other in my pocket. “Give me the wrapper,” mama said. She was very particular that we didn’t toss our litter on the streets and tucked the paper in her purse. A pack of blue-clad Cub Scouts and then a troop of Boy Scouts brandishing flags marched by looking very official in their uniforms. Soon came a fancy Packard with an important man and woman I didn’t recognize. Other automobiles carrying the high school Homecoming Queen and court ed and Maribel and Lizbeth called out names of the girls they knew. There must have been half a dozen new cars carrying those girls and their escorts. The high school band blaring out-of-tune Christmas songs marched past and then came a host of local farmers showing off their new machinery, an IH Harvester, a new Ford, followed by a festive green John Deere with billowing red ribbons and a Farmall Tractor pulling a hay wagon with half a dozen teenagers dressed as elves. A group of kids wearing 4-H jackets led a dozen riders on horseback. The steeds snorted steamy breath into the chilly night, as the animals pranced along. At last, the town fire truck gave a blast of its siren and there was Santa perched atop the shiny red truck. Somewhat disappointedly, I had expected a sleigh and reindeer. “Merry Christmas!” Santa waved and called out and a loud cheer went up. “Wave to Santa so he’ll see you,” Lizbeth prodded, trying to hoist me up so I could see.

“Merry Christmas, Santa! Merry Christmas!” I couldn’t tell if he heard me, but for a moment he appeared to glance my way. “Have you told Santa what you want this year?” mama said as we made our way back to the car after the parade ended. “I’ve told you,” I said. “Do you believe that’s sufficient?” I wasn’t sure what that word meant. “You’d better make sure Santa knows,” mama said, giving my hand a squeeze. When we got home my sisters helped me write my letter.

Chapter 10

Into the Woods

“You should have come along, grandma,” I said when I saw her the next day. “It was fun, grandma!” Lizbeth chimed in. “My land, but I’ve seen my share of Christmases come and go. I don’t need to be out there on that slippery old ice. Why, I’d worry about breaking these brittle old bones.” She was all dressed for Sunday morning service, but grandma Lacey was always dressed proper. “We had a good time,” Maribel said, plopping herself on grandma’s couch. “Christmas music was playing along the street near the city bank. It felt like we were in a movie.” “I’m glad you children enjoyed yourselves. I’ll hear carolers at church,” grandma smiled. She had a way of smiling that made us feel contented and happy. “Davy has a part in our Christmas play, but it won’t be for a few more weeks,” Maribel said. Grandma attended one church and us kids another closer to our home. We were all dressed, too, but it was only a five-minute walk to our church, a block over on Arbor Street. “You have to come.” “I’m a shepherd!” I said. “A shepherd! My land, you must be proud of that,” grandma said, giving me a little tweak on the cheek. “I wouldn’t miss that for the world.” “There’s your ride, grandma,” Lizbeth said, spotting an old black sedan as it

pulled up out front. “I’ll help you down that slick old sidewalk.”

“SO THIS IS WHERE YOU are,” papa said, finding us camped around the radio listening to a man broadcast the Sunday funnies. It was our weekly ritual to follow along with Comic Weekly Man Lon Clark as he read the likes of Mutt and Jeff, Joe Palooka and Little Orphan Annie. We had the funny papers spread out on the floor so we could follow as Clark read from each cartoon pane. “The Prince hears horses coming his way,” he read, as a series of clippety clops sounded from the radio. I leaned in closer to view the little pictures in the newspaper. Half a dozen horsemen with swords and lances were about to top a hill. Prince Valiant appeared trapped. “Valiant glances around, then breaks for the cover of a nearby thicket!” The narrator paused. “And that’s it for this week,” the unseen voice said. “Be sure to tune in next week to see how Prince Valiant gets out of this exciting jam!” I could only think, wow! How thrilling! Maribel folded the paper closed and placed it neatly on the table. “We’re finished, daddy,” she said, turning off the radio. “Do you kids want to come along?” papa asked, breaking into my reverie. “Where are we going?” Lizbeth questioned. Maribel seemed to know and declined. “I’ll stay home and help mama,” she said. Lizbeth followed her sister off toward the kitchen. “Well?” “I’ll go,” I said. “Get bundled up, then,” papa said. He drove us into the country, past snow covered fields and small farms, out

along the river where the woods grew thick. A blanket of snow several inches thick spread through the woods from the road to the river. I could see the river several yards off winding through the woods. The river ran cold under the bleak December sky and patches of ice clung to the bank where the current was slow and water had frozen. The trees were barren, their autumn foliage stripped by the season’s icy winds. A short distance further on a grove of evergreens grew some ways in off the road. Papa parked the old Chevy along the gravel road’s narrow shoulder, took up his axe and trudged in past a stand of red-berried holly. Tiny icicles hung off the fragile limbs, catching the morning light. The crimson holly made it all Christmassy like the decorations in the stores downtown. “We’ll break off a few sprigs and take home for grandma,” papa said. “We can get them when we leave.” Rabbit tracks traced their way through the snow leading a path into a dense cedar thicket. I recognized the tracks, as rabbits often came up from the swamp not far from our home. The tracks disappeared amongst the cedars that were clustered so closely even I could not through. The river curled below having cut away the bank many long years ago. I could hear it now, flowing across the cold earth. “Look over there,” papa said softly. A deer stood across the river, its head proud and true listening. It hadn’t seen us yet, but it knew something was in its forest. Papa stopped and put his hand on my shoulder to stop me too, but it was too late. The animal spotted us and with a sudden leap went bounding away past a stand of birch and deeper into the forest. “I saw it, papa! I saw that old deer,” I said. “It was a doe,” papa said. I gazed deeper into the woods, but the animal was gone now disappeared back into the undergrowth. “Do you think there are more?”

“I’m sure there are plenty, but we’ve probably scared them off. And if we haven’t yet, we soon will.” Papa led us into a grove of pines, inspecting them along the way. It wasn’t nearly as thick as the cedars and we could walk within them. More rabbit tracks crisscrossed through the snow. “What do you think of this one?” he said. I sort of shrugged. They all looked the same to me. When I looked closer, it was somewhat taller than papa, but not by a lot. “This one it is. Stand back now.” Papa lopped off a few lower branches so he could get to the trunk, sized it up and took a measured swing. The axe blade cut through the morning light burying itself into the trunk a few inches above the ground. A large chunk of pine flew away and I smelled the tree’s clean scent. He swung again and another wood chip went flying. The steady sound of chopping echoed through the forest. Shortly, the little pine began to wobble and with one last swing of the axe the small trunk cracked and the tree toppled over. When it was over and done, I guess it had taken papa all of a half dozen swings of that old axe to bring the tree down. Papa grabbed up the trunk in one hand and the axe in the other, dragging our Christmas tree across the snowy path we’d come in on and leaving the icy river behind.

BY AFTERNOON PAPA HAD sawed the trunk smooth and nailed a wooden stand to the bottom. The entire house smelled like pine when he set it up in a corner of the living room. “That’s about as pretty a tree as anyone will find,” grandma said, and then she broke into a story about when she had lived on a farm outside of town. It sat on a knoll near a crossing of two dirt roads not far from town. Someone else now owned that stone house on the knoll. Papa had driven past it and told me mama had been born there, but mostly I ed the wooden barn that by now seemed falling apart. With the tree secure in its corner, the girls brought boxes of decorations from the attic and set about stringing lights. I wanted to help, but mostly got in their way. “Can I do the manger?” I said. “Yes! Do the manger!” they said, “and stay out of our way.” Assembling the manger was my favorite task anyway, so I was pleased. Our manger set was scanty at best, Nativity images printed on pressed cardboard. It had been assembled and disassembled by unskilled hands so often that it took patience to meld the pieces together so they would remain standing. “I can’t get the lamb to stand up,” I fretted. “Do the best you can and I’ll tape it,” Lizbeth snapped. The girls finished placing the last ornaments on the tree, topped it with a plastic angel and I carefully slid the manger across the carpet so that it was under the lower branches. “You children did a grand job on your tree,” grandma said, iring our handiwork. “And that pine smells just like we’re in the woods.” “They did do a nice job,” mama agreed. The girls took the empty boxes back to the attic and I lay there on the floor for

the longest time gazing at the animals in the manger and baby Jesus in his crib.

Chapter 11

Every Boy Should Have a Train

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas...” The tune sprang from the radio amidst the afternoon’s static. “There's a tree in the Grand Hotel, one in the park as well...”[1] It was beginning to look like Christmas and I began to appreciate the meaning of the song. It seemed that most everywhere I went now the sounds of Christmas filled the air. The girls walked me uptown in the cold to buy presents for mama, papa and grandma. I slipped and slid on the sidewalk’s icy patches and they kept me from going down a few times. I know they cared about me, but that didn’t stop them from teasing. It was a very long way for me and I didn’t feel nearly as cold by the time we got there. Mr. Conklin had erected his electric train display in the window of his cabinet shop and we stood outside watching the locomotives drag long strings of cars around the miniature railroad. When he saw us, he invited us to come in and see it close up. “It’s frightfully cold out there for you kids,” he said. “We don’t mind,” my sisters said. “What do you think of my train?” “I like it a lot,” I said, unable to take my eyes off the miniature display. “Would you like to operate the controls? You push this lever on the transformer to make it go and you bring it back this way to make it stop. It’s pretty simple.”

I eased the lever forward and watched as the drivers begin to turn the locomotive’s wheels and the long row of railroad cars inch ahead. “You can go a little faster.” The train sped up; winding it’s way past miniature buildings, across tiny trestles and artificial fields, along the base of a hillside and disappeared inside a tunnel, coming out the other end having curved back on itself. “Do you have a train set?” I shook my head no. “Every boy should have a train,” he said.

THERE WERE NO MORE respites from winter. We were lucky when the temperature broke the freezing mark for a few hours before diving down again. The giant icicle along the back of the house almost touched the ground now. I could stand on my tiptoes and touch the lower end of it. “If you jiggle it, it’ll come down on you and you won’t think you’re so smart then,” Lizbeth said. Smaller icicles had come down and were stabbed into the snowdrifts alongside the house. “May I have this one?” I pointed to one of the fallen icicles that was still intact. “You may, but leave that big one alone.”

MYSTERIOUS PACKAGES began showing up with the mail from Spiegels, Aldens and Sears Roebuck, and my thoughts harkened back to the colorful, dogeared catalogs I’d repeatedly leafed through over the past weeks. The packages mysteriously disappeared just as quickly once mama got her hands on them.

THE EVENING CAME COLD and clear. Mama sent Maribel upstairs to the attic and when she came down, she called me to follow her. “Come with me,” she said and I followed along up the creaky stairs to the north room. “Look out there,” she said, pointing. The sky was black as could be and clear and shortly I saw a flicker of light. “Gosh,” I said. The light was shimmering over Mrs. Knight’s house; quivering in the clear, black night like summer lightning. “What are you doing?” Lizbeth had snuck up behind us. “It’s the northern lights,” I said. She crowded in with us to gaze out the frosty window. The lights came in waves, bright at times, vanishing at others. They flickered again across the northern sky. “You know what that means,” Maribel said. I shook my head. “Santa Claus and his elves are working late.”

Chapter 12

A Little Shepherd

Sunday morning came and mama woke me up early. I crawled out of bed and ran downstairs to warm myself by the oil burner. A light snow had fallen during the night and Papa was outside clearing the sidewalk. I could hear the shovel scraping on cement. “Eat breakfast and then get ready for Sunday school,” mama said as she cracked an egg into the skillet. The egg sizzled. “Have you memorized your line?” It was the morning of our Christmas play. We’d repeat our performance in the evening. I recited my line for mama. “Look everyone! Wise men approach...” “We made him practice,” Lizbeth said as she came downstairs. Maribel came bounding right behind her. “You girls need to get ready, too, so don’t dally.” “Yes, mama.” I finished breakfast and brushed my teeth. Mama had set out my clothes and while the girls ate, she helped me dress. My shepherd’s costume, a tattered old robe, lay neatly folded nearby. Being my first Christmas play, I took my shepherd’s role seriously; believing if I was good for Mary and Joseph’s sake Santa would bless me. It was confusing, but in my mind logical.

“You’re coming to church?” I said, wriggling into my Sunday tros. “Your father and I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Grandma will come to see you this evening.” “I’d better remind her,” I said. “Run along and see her, but don’t pester grandma if she’s busy.” When I came back to our side of the house papa was all dressed in suit and tie. I’d only seen him dressed that way for Christmas and Easter. Oh, and the time Aunt Louella died. “Well, let’s be on our way,” he said. We walked as a family as the church bell tolled. The chiming was meant to remind the faithful they needed to be on their way if they weren’t already. Papa held onto mama’s arm and guided her carefully past the little patches of ice on the pavement. The Kelway boys had finished ringing the first call to church and were waiting for time to to make the final call so service could begin. The older one was very friendly with Maribel. Church was a small white, wood structure with a single aisle between the pews. The benches were shiny from years of parishioners scooting back and forth in the name of the Lord. We made our way to an empty pew and slipped in. Someone came over to greet mama and papa, seeing as they hadn’t been there for some time. “It’s nice that you could make it,” the lady said. The pews were filling up quickly. Old Mr. Carr had already taken his seat along the wall between the dais and the flag. He had a special chair with a tall back and everyone seemed to know it was his. It allowed him to be out of the way and to sleep through the sermons without interruption. The dais was bedecked with a simple crib and a couple cardboard palm trees. My heart fluttered when I realized I’d soon be up there in front of the congregation.

Mama sensed my discomfort, squeezed my hand and turned to me. “It’s all right. Your piece will be over before you know it.” Mama rummaged about her purse and found half a stick of chewing gum. Her purse always smelled of Beeman’s Gum. “Take this. It will calm your nerves.” Morning’s gray light filtered in through stained glass windows along the sides of the church. There had been no hint of sunlight on the walk over and there was none now. Inside, I felt the draft as the front door opened and closed ushering in more parishioners. Pastor Sharpe was busy greeting the flock. “Kids in the pageant is s’posed to be downstairs,” an older boy in a fancy tunic nudged me from behind. He was a wise man. I slid out of the pew and began to follow him. “Don’t forget your robe,” Maribel reminded, reaching over the pew back and handing the tattered garment to me.

FROM THE CHURCH BASEMENT I could hear folks singing The First Noel and knew it was time to march upstairs, down the aisle to the dais. I was glad I was a shepherd and not a cow or goat. The play went splendidly. Everyone knew their lines except for Thomas who never took things seriously and even when folks laughed had to be prompted. “Wise men approach...” I mumbled when my turn came. Mama and papa beamed. We sang in chorus Hark the Herald Angels Sing and O’ Little Town of Bethlehem and I saw tears in the eyes of some of the old women near the front. Joseph and Mary tended to baby Jesus, but I knew it was Patty McAllen’s doll. I’d seen her bring it in. The kids finished their parts and we sang Silent Night to finish things off. Mama hugged me tightly when I went back to the pew, still in my raggedy old robe. Pastor Sharpe and some big kids ed out paper bags filled with hard candy and peanuts as everyone left. Some kids couldn’t wait and opened their bags and began tossing peanut shells on the freshly shoveled sidewalk. “Don’t you ever do that,” mama said. She had strict standards about our behavior. The morning had warmed little while we were inside. Low gray clouds covered the sky and a north wind had picked up. Papa speculated we might be in for another snowfall before the day ended. I turned my head against the bitter wind and hurried on toward home. “Do you think they’ll give out candy tonight?” I asked. “I’m sure they will,” mama said, “but you should decline. We have plenty.” “I know,” I said. “I was thinking of grandma.”

Chapter 13

Day Before Christmas

The snowstorm papa had predicted failed to materialize other than a light dusting, but we already had half a foot covering the ground. An earlier thaw had turned street snow into slush and then refroze leaving icy ruts on the side streets. School was out for Christmas vacation and I’d been outside to play a few times, but with days so cold, a hard crust had formed atop the snow leaving it no good for making snowmen nor snowballs. With none of my friends out, I didn’t stay long until coming back in to the warmth of the house. There wasn’t much to do so I laid on the floor listening to the radio: Bobby Benson and the B-bar-B Riders, Lassie, Clyde Beatty. I was anxious for Christmas to arrive.

THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS came in blustery. Icy wind rattled the windows and whistled through the cracks. Loose snow was blowing fiercely, but with earlier snowfalls having fallen victim to the hard layer of crust, there wasn’t enough to blow into drifts. Still, I could hear icy crystals peppering the window glass. Mama and grandma were busy baking bread and holiday cookies in grandma’s kitchen. I helped stamp the dough with grandma’s cookie cutters—pretty stars, chubby Santas, gingerbread men, Christmas trees. Maribel and Lizbeth quarreled over who got to decorate the cookies with colorful sprinkles. I liked experimenting with the various icing nozzles, but couldn’t get the hang of applying frosting so Lizbeth took over—although unwillingly on my part. “Take turns, kids, or I’ll do it myself,” mama said. It didn’t take much threat for us to behave. Grandma wiped dough off her hands onto her apron and took up a dry cloth to handle the hot trays. “You children stay back from the oven,” she cautioned. Mama made room on the counter, moving about mixing bowls, bags of flour and sugar, and various utensils. “Put them here, mother,” she said. A rush of hot air burst out as grandma removed a cookie tray. The steamy air rushed at the cold kitchen window fogging it like frosted glass. As soon as they cooled, I grabbed a freshly baked sugar cookie. Leaving the girls to decorate the remainder, I went off to check my stocking for the third time that morning, where it hung behind the oil burner. It was an old sock with a hole in the toe that grandma had darned and mended. She had stitched my initial with red and green thread so Santa would know it was mine. The gingerbread cookies had just come out of the oven when I went back to grandma’s side of the house.

“Just one now,” mama said, being careful of the hot cookie sheet, “or you won’t eat your supper.” “Save some for Santa Claus,” grandma added. With everyone busy and me just getting in the way, I took my cookie and went to the living room and lay down on the carpet near the Christmas tree. Mama had plugged in the tree lights early and they glowed brightly on such a cold, gloomy day. Gifts beneath the tree were sparse. They were mostly gifts from aunts and uncles, a cousin or two—nothing that might suggest a Lionel train or an erector set. Though it was tempting to open my gifts, mama had recommended I wait until Christmas morning. “You’ll have more nice surprises,” she said. We weren’t a poor family, but we weren’t rich either. I relied on Santa for my finest gifts and I knew I’d have to wait for his arrival. “Get out of the way, please,” Lizbeth said ing by and then running upstairs. I moved, but not much. The aroma of baking bread had offset that of the cookies and was thick in the old house. I lay on the floor daydreaming, turning Christmas catalog pages in my mind and wondering what was in Santa’s workshop and could he fit it in his sleigh? The radio was on and Gene Autry, one of my favorite cowboys was singing Up on the Housetop. I knew many of the Christmas songs as well as I knew the ones in church. “Grandma wants to know if you want a fresh bun. She’s taking them from the oven right now,” Maribel said. “I’ll be in in a little bit,” I said. “Thank you.” I lay there a while longer looking at the manger, the radio providing festive music from one direction, kitchen noises from another, and the harsh wind from outside.

The angel gazed down from atop the tree, proof enough for me that God and Santa coexisted. I studied the menagerie: the donkey, the ox, the camels, sheep and shepherd, my role in the pageant. There below the fragrant pine, all adorned in glittery ornaments and strings of colored lights and garland, I wondered how those poor ancient people felt that long ago night in the lonely manger.

Chapter 14

A Near Miss

Papa rounded up us kids after supper. Along with being Christmas Eve, it was also the night the local newspaper came out. “Let’s get a weekly before the news agency closes,” papa said, leading the way out into the frosty night. “Try not to track snow in the car.” Mama and grandma stayed home to clean up. “To tidy up,” mama had said. “You run along with your sisters.” Maribel opened the enger door and tilted the seat forward so Lizbeth and I could climb into the dark, cavernous back of the old Chevrolet. Maribel was up front with papa where big people sat. Her face took on a pale glow from the dashboard lights. “Scoot over,” Lizbeth said and I did. I saw no reason to misbehave on an evening when Santa would soon arrive. The motor on the old Chevrolet rumbled to life and papa slowly let out the clutch and maneuvered the car out of the driveway, the tires spinning on the icy incline. The evening had cooled since afternoon and what little thawing had occurred had refrozen into a slick, icy sheen. The tires spun slightly until traction was gained and off we went. It was dark and cold in the car, but at least we were out of the wind. The heater was blowing, but I didn’t expect it to warm for some time. I was glad I was bundled up. Snow flurries had begun, but it wasn’t steady and the flakes were coming in intermittent spits, flashing in the glow of the Chevy’s headlights. The street was empty of cars, except for down on Main Street where an occasional headlight could be seen. New fallen snow glistened like crystals beneath the street lamps, sparkling in the night as we ed. Our church was dark, but lights were on in the Schwartz house across the street. The house was big and charming resting there in the snowy yard. The Schwartz Christmas tree sat in front of a picture window and the colored lights shone

through to the street, reflecting off the ice like gemstones. Smoke curled from chimneys along Arbor Street and disappeared with the icy wind. The big, dark automobile crunched over the frozen roadway. My fingertips clung to the lip of the window and I gazed keenly as the pretty homes crept by. I had forgotten to wear my mittens and the glass was cold against my fingers. My breath came warm against the window, fogging it so I could barely see. Lizbeth was blowing on her window and drawing stick figures in the steamy moisture. The big brick school building loomed like a hulking mountain against the black wintry sky. It was cold and dark. Bare limbs rocked in the bleak, winter wind. Snow swirled. I thought of grandma’s picture of the lone wolf on that snowy hillside. I could almost hear it howl. Suddenly... “Oh my gosh! Up there!” Startling me, both sisters sprung to their foggy windows in unison. “Look!” Lizbeth said excitedly. “What? What?” I scooted over to her side of the seat and tried to look to where she pointed, but all I saw were naked silhouettes of leafless elms, maples and the lurking brick building. “There he goes over there!” I snapped my head to the opposite window bumping my nose against the cold glass. “What is it? What is it?” “It looks like a sleigh, daddy!” Maribel exclaimed breathlessly. “I see it! It is a sleigh!” Lizabeth gasped.

“Why it’s Santa Claus!” papa chimed in as excitedly as my sisters. “Yes, it’s Santa!” the girls squealed. “There! Over the treetops!” “Did you see him, too?” “I certainly did!” papa said, still gazing about the dark heavens. “He sailed right over us, just as plain as day.” I continued to gaze about the cold, black sky, mouth open in awe as I went from window to window. The sky was bleak, dark, cold and still. “You’ll never see him if you keep breathing on the glass!” Lizbeth scolded goodnaturedly. “I don’t mean to,” I said apologetically. I moved back from the foggy window, craning my head and still trying to see skyward, but I had missed my chance. Sadly, I sunk back into my dark corner of the car. We pulled onto Main Street where storefronts were brightly lit for last minute shoppers. Being Christmas Eve, I was surprised to see so many people on the street. No one else must have seen Santa because the shoppers were all going about their business without interruption. Teddy Winkle’s father was coming out of the Gambles Store with a large package under his arm. I wondered what it might be. Half a block up, a solitary couple was entering the theater. The gentleman held the theater door for his partner and they disappeared inside to buy tickets. I didn’t know what they were showing, but they didn’t show kid movies on weeknights. It was bright along Main Street and I gazed this way and that in case Santa was had landed on a nearby rooftop, but I couldn’t see him no matter how hard I tried. “It’s not fair,” I muttered under my breath.

Papa pulled around the corner in front of the news shop and Maribel ran in to buy the paper. My heart fluttered as I stared toward the sky hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus, but try as I might he was nowhere in sight. “Did you see him?” I asked. “Did you see Santa Claus?” “I told you I did,” Lizbeth said. “You didn’t look quick enough. You’re too slow.” “Those ol’ reindeer are pretty swift,” papa said. I bit my lip and tried not to cry. The thought of coming so close to seeing that old man in red... No tears came, but a lump arose in my throat. Maribel came back with a newspaper and scooted back into her seat. The car’s heater had warmed the interior, but it still seemed cold and dark where I’d sunk into the backseat. Lizbeth was big enough to see out her window without craning forward. I felt alone and a little sad, but the man in the news shop had given out candy canes with each purchase. Maribel broke hers into pieces and shared so I didn’t feel so badly about not seeing Santa. Papa pulled away from the curb and stayed on a side street, turned and drove past the stables. I wondered about the horses and how they were doing on this cold night. It seemed odd that Santa chose reindeer and not horses to pull his sleigh and I muttered something about that. “That’s because horses can’t fly, silly,” Lizbeth said, as if I should have known. We turned back onto Arbor Street. It was as lacking of vehicles as on the drive uptown, but, hands stuffed deeply into pockets and collar turned up against the wind, someone was out walking on this wintry night.

Chapter 15

An Unexpected Visit

Mama greeted us when we got home, holding out her hand for me so I wouldn’t slip on the icy steps. “We saw Santa Claus!” I said excitedly. “You didn’t, but we did,” Lizbeth corrected. “I almost did,” I said. “Well, my land! Just how did that happen?” mama asked, helping me off with my coat. “He flew right over us in his sleigh,” Maribel said. “Is that right?” mama asked. “It sure is,” papa said. He removed his galoshes, tapped them on the porch floor to knock the snow off, and placed them near the door. “That ol’ sleigh was just above the treetops halfway along Arbor.” “I bet you were excited,” mama said. “I was, mama! But I would have been more excited if I’d have seen him.” “He was all over the car looking,” Lizbeth laughed. “It’s a shame you came so close to seeing ol’ St. Nicholas and missed it,” grandma said, having come from her part of the house. “Well, perhaps another time,” papa said, as we huddled around the oil burner.

Then he paused to listen. Mama listened, too. “What’s that racket coming from the other room?” “I think someone’s in there!” Maribel said, her eyes wide and questioning. “I’d better check,” papa said, rushing toward the living room. He disappeared through the doorway before the rest of us knew what was happening. I heard shouts and heavy footsteps as if someone was running. And then papa’s voice, “Look! Look there he goes!” The rest of the family charged forward and I, too, darted in quickly. “Did you see him? Did you see who it was?” the girls clamored in unison. “What is it?” I hollered. The room was in a bit of chaos with papa going one way, the girls shouting and going another, and mama checking the windows. Grandma chuckled and stayed out of our way. “It was a big fella dressed in red!” papa said, all excitedly. “He was here and then he was gone!” “Do you hear that? It’s coming from up on the roof.” “There’s something up there all right,” grandma agreed. “Could it be...?” I mumbled, eyes wide in wonder. It had been some time since I’d had this much excitement in one evening. “Oh, my! Look under the tree,” mama said. Scattered neatly under it were gaily-wrapped presents—more than I could count. More than I could imagine! “It was Santa, I’m sure!” I said. I stood at the window staring into the night, but all I saw was the snow beginning to fall a little harder. “Can you see him?” mama asked.

I shook my head and lay my cheek against the cold glass. “Maybe next year,” she consoled. “Santa Claus came awfully early this year,” papa said. “That old fellow usually comes when we’re sleeping and we find the presents in the morning. But this is a different kind of Christmas.” He turned to mama. “Would it be okay for them to open their gifts tonight?”

SANTA HAD LEFT PLENTY of gifts under the tree that evening and a few more appeared in the morning. I asked about that and grandma said that in his hectic night, he may have forgotten to drop off some and came back while we were sleeping. Grandma seemed to know these things. I wondered if I would have seen Santa if I had looked out the car window as quickly as my sisters had done. I wondered, too, if I’d had a chance to see Santa if I’d been a little hastier into the living room, but even papa had only caught a glimpse of a red outfit disappearing from the room. I’d heard him running pretty fast to get back to his sleigh and everyone said he had to hurry to get to all the kid’s houses before Christmas morning. No, I didn’t see Santa Claus, but he’d left some pretty nice gifts for us kids— although I wish mama, papa and grandma had fared a little better. “Our joy comes through the happiness of you kids,” mama had said last night, wrapping me in my warm blanket and sending me up to bed. “You’ll understand when you get older.” Lo and behold, it was a good thing for me that Santa came back while we were sleeping. I was very surprised to come downstairs the next morning to find the cookies and milk gone, our stocking full and a few more gifts under the tree. My sisters got new sweaters and scarves and of course some little things in their stockings. After all the presents were opened and room tidied of ribbons and torn up wrapping paper, papa discovered one last gift that had been pushed way to the back under the tree. With all the commotion, no one had noticed it there, halfhidden behind the Nativity set. It was a flat, square box and pretty big compared to most of the boxes. I figured it was for mama—cooking pans, most likely—or tools for papa’s shop. I crawled underneath the tree where I could get hold of it and slid it out, being careful not to strike the manger and knock over the animals—or even worse, Mary or Joseph! “It’s for you,” papa said, reading my name off the tag. “From the size of the box, it’s no wonder Santa couldn’t bring all the presents in one trip.”

I pulled the box out to where I had room and ripped the colorful wrapping paper, wondering what it could be. My eyes opened wide in surprise when I pulled the top off the box. Mr. Conklin had been right. Every good boy should have a ...

“MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!”

THANK YOU FOR READING This Winter’s Eve... I hope you enjoyed it. If so, you might want to read The Rabbit’s Tale and Trouble’s Garden.

A SPECIAL THANK YOU to Pexels.com and Anastasiya Gepp for the use of her photo for the book cover.

[1] PARTIAL LYRICS It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas. Songwriters: Jeff Cook / Mark Herndon / Randy Owen / Teddy Gentry. Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC.