Christmas
Day!
Asleep, at last, to fantasy dream what expectant
’morrow brings
Child, elder-young, warm loving heart in wonder
de-light sings
Bright sunlight radiance, prism-rainbows frosted
window glass
Beckons mystic-magic day for each sweet, awesome lad
and lass
Redeemer birth mid-holy night, be celebrated
Crisp, frigid cold, conscious pierced, exacerbated
Gathered thankful group ’round most decorated festive
tree
Cheerful “I
believe!” Merry guest, again, please be, childlike entity
Explosion of wrapped gaily colored paper-ribbon
myriad spectral gifts
Avalanche mountain-presents like sculpted snowy crystal
ice-blue drifts
Enjoy delightful scrumptious holiday cakes, fruit
pies
Impressed by unique treasures for little gals and
guys
Pleasant glide within a one-horse bright red sleigh
Twilight bonfire comfort punctuates adventure play
In each Christian soul, Christmas-kindled essence
glows
Christ Jesus blessed! As Holy Spirit Grace-light
shows
Peace! Innocent in rustic manger to mankind brought
Father bestowed Savior-Redeemer, now eternal sought
Communion Family performs “Silent Night!” angels’
song
Welcome! To this holy Christian Trinity of Faith
belong
Praise! Honor! Glory! Almighty God! Each prayer say
His sacred new dawn gift enjoy like Christmas Day!
Celebrate every blessed Day for the adventure He
offers! Amen!
Merry Christmas!
Plus:
CHRISTMAS MAGIC
As had become a pleasant near-habit,
oft-practiced, of late, we took a walk on the hill behind our farmhouse above
the lake sometime before Nanny’s century old black walnut antique grandfather
clock standing stately in the entry and long ago inherited through her family,
chimed its announcement of that magic midnight hour. Now, that special “tick-tock”
had only just passed as verified by a single, subtle “ding” from my companion’s
modern-day digital wrist timepiece.
Obscure black velvet softness blanketed
clear, wintry air as no wind stirred in the diamond-strewn abyss. My nose
tingled with the fresh tang of a perfect new-born Christmas Eve in the innocent
pre-dawn morning chill. White frosted grass softly crunched under my insulated
hunting boots, well-broken in after decades of traipsing and trampling these
hills in pleasant pursuit of wily whitetail or smaller game like squirrel,
rabbit and quail, or through carrying the hunter to a blind on the bank of the
lake to clandestinely court wild ducks or elusive Canada geese. The well-oiled
leather did not squeak and in sixty-odd years of contemplating nature with
respect while offering some challenge, I had learned a little of how to walk
quietly like a soft wind gently caressing long blades in the meadow or wafting
through whispering needles in the stately pine, familiar in my surroundings,
hearing all but sounding no alarm to stir the nocturnal beings silently secluded
in the shadows all around; watching, listening, sensing, surviving.
Ella, my flop-eared beagle whose short
legs nearly persuaded her ample belly to drag the frozen ground, meandered ten
yards or so, ahead, pausing often to listen and stare into the darkness,
sniffing the still air. She was fifteen now, but still spry; a savvy hunter
with a great nose and the tenacity of a black bear after sweet wild honey. We
had shared many a hunt; she was a good partner; we had covered a lot of
territory in fair chase of an old cottontail. Ella loved to lay on my feet
enjoying the warmth of woolen socks as I sat in my rocker watching crackling cedar logs shoot mock fireworks up
the limestone chimney fireplace in our cozy living room.
Goldie was Ella’s understudy; a large,
short-haired golden retriever, still very much a puppy, only three years old.
He was a neutered male full of insatiable curiosity, recalcitrant antics and frivolous
frolic. Never one to miss out on any adventure, he was constantly raring to go.
But, while Goldie would often spook game as
Ella stealthily worked her seemingly magical natural abilities in an effort to
procure a successful outcome, the beagle tolerated the pup’s inexperienced enthusiasm.
They were friends; Ella was the boss. Watching them gave insight to the
subtleties of nature’s myriad variations of pragmatic harmony.
When the matriarch hound would lay on my
woolen socks, Goldie was content to sleep beside my rocking chair with his head
comfortably propped on his huge paws as I scratched his ears and gently petted
him; so soundly did he slumber that occasionally he would actually snore in a
rhythmic, puppy cadence, apparently dreaming adventures yet undiscovered.
I loved this farm and reveled in its
sights and sounds, its subtle feelings, moods and emotions. And while I had
often claimed a preference for autumn as my favorite season, and truth be told,
it was the time of year to which I most looked forward, winter was close behind.
And, just for the record, when springtime rolled around, bringing April showers
and May flowers and the morels popped and the big red ear and bluegill sunfish spawned,
I admit, I fancied that early season, also. Then came summer with its cooling
breeze to relieve cramping muscles resultant from heavy labor baling hay and
storing it in the barn loft; I’ve enjoyed many a glass of lemonade in the dappled
wide shade of that ancient silver maple in the front yard. The “old Grandpa
bench” which my grandfather had constructed of twelve inch white oak planks
sawed on this very farm had rested my weary bones many a time. Ah! Pleasant
memories!
I paused on a rise just shy of the pond,
now crusted with a moderate sheet of glazed ice, not yet nearly thick enough to
skate across; that would come after the New Year. A deep breath of frigid air
filled my lungs as I sniffed for any telltale hint of coming fresh snow. The
nighttime panorama enveloped my vision as I reflected on God’s generosity
blessing me with heaven on earth. Life is not just good, it is full of holy grace
and simple happiness; none of His abundant generosity is lost on me; I am most appreciative
and, always, reverently thankful.
“Smells like snow,” I allowed, breathing-in
that “special” sensation of understanding nature.
Somewhere along the awesome journey I
had acquired the ability to discern approaching snow before its arrival. Upon
reflection, I doubt that I learned the awareness, but rather came to rediscover
some ancient sensibility of the human instinct available to man prior to an
easy life and erudite weather forecasting abilities. I had tried to explain the
phenomenon of the sensation of a certain crispness in the air experienced
simply in the breathing process to my family, but, thus far, to no avail;
apparently, such “special” talent had to be inherited; it couldn’t be learned.
Once, I had hired a carpenter to aid in
the construction of a horse barn. About two that afternoon, the Wednesday
before Thanksgiving, I told him I smelled snow. He was quite a character and
openly scoffed at my prediction. It was an overcast, low, iron-grey, blustery
day with a temperature in the middle twenties. About fifteen minutes later---snowflakes!
When he purposely ignored the frozen white, I made the announcement, getting
his attention; all I received by way of recognition was a curt glance my way
without a word spoken. I gained a silent, grudging modicum of respect from that
old man on that particular day.
Z. Tyler walked beside me. He lived in
town but in his twenty-two years had spent a great deal of time with us on the
farm. Like Ella and Goldie, he would not miss any event with a hint of
adventure; a midnight jaunt on Christmas Eve morning held just such a
tantalizing promise.
His little sister, Lexi, sixteen years
his junior, sometimes things just worked out that way, along with their two
cousins, Lauren, age eight, and Anna Marie, her kid sister, were fast asleep
with Nanny, warmly tucked under a goose-down comforter in the huge featherbed in
the loft of the farmhouse; Lexi and Anna were the same age, separated by only
ten weeks. The three of them had come to love our farm, also. The animals,
understandably, were a huge attraction, but Nanny was the main event as she
spread generous amounts of love in every endeavor she undertook. And, she
spoiled those grandkids shamefully, including Z. Tyler, but I never did. They
all loved me, I knew, but, Nanny was the apple of their eye; truth be told,
mine, too.
As I drank in the beauty of my perfect world,
I prayed my silent prayer this sacred, holy night.
“My Lord! My God! You gave me life and I
have offered it back to you the best way I know how, with praise, honor and glory.
I did so by living complete, without fear. I refuse to worry; never do I lock a
door or secret any supposed treasure. You take good care of me; I live the adventurous
journey! These hills seem no larger today than when, in youth, first I climbed
them; I am not so fast as once I was, nor as deep of breath, but since You saw
fit to place them here, perhaps, occasionally, a little inconvenience in a
near-perfect life, I truly appreciate their beauty; I will continue my climb to
the mountain top. Thank You! Amen!”
I realized the young man’s eyes were
scrutinizing me.
“Are you praying, Bapa?” he chanced an
interruption.
“Always!” I replied.
He nodded, knowingly. We had held
similar conversations previously; I had suggested that every human action could
be offered as a prayer as gratitude to the Creator, even in sleep, if the
intent was to praise, honor and glorify our God.
Spreading my arms to the night sky as we
briefly paused on the shore of the pasture pond and gazed into the heavens. I
turned to Z. Tyler and held my finger and thumb three inches apart. He shook
his head, held his own digits four inches distance from one another, smiled
brightly in the starlit night and nodded, giving a “thumbs-up” with his other
hand.
“You learn good, grandson,” I
complimented. “A three inch layer of ice is too thin to skate on, safely; a
full four inches is okay, though. More thickness, of course, is even better”
“Usually takes three to four overcast days
of twenty degree temperatures, or lower, to freeze solid,” he added, letting me
know he had paid close attention and studied well, fully cognizant that my supposed
ramblings were often informative, meant to elucidate as well as to entertain.
“One more night around the zero mark and
it’ll be plenty safe,” he opined.
“Good by tomorrow,” I agreed with a nod,
smiling at his perceptive understanding.
We moved on, the dogs roving a little
distance ahead. We did not speak again until we had topped the rise sparsely
populated with hardwoods and offering a daguerreotype picturesque view of the
farmstead across the lake in stark black and white, silver-shadowed bas relief.
In the distance showed the back porch light glowing a waiting, warming welcome
in the chill darkness.
To our east, as we surveyed the night
vista, at about a hundred yards stood a copse of trees, again, mostly
hardwoods, oak, maple, walnut, but, also, cedar and pines, some hickory and
wild cherry with the odd spruce or pine here and there. Many of the trees I had
planted through loving labor over the years. I had cut a fair amount of
firewood in my time, dead or damaged or diseased trees, and had replaced each
fallen one with at least ten saplings; a worthwhile practice.
Once, Nanny’s uncle and I had planted
some three thousand pine trees along with wild crabapple and Russian olive bushes
numbering some two hundred and fifty of each variety and hundreds more of white
and red oak and black walnut. He had access to a planter which was pulled
behind his tractor as I sat on the contraption’s seat placing saplings in the
furrow plowed open by a shear, then closed behind me by two wheels set at an
angle to mesh dirt around the roots. In a bit less than three days we had
accomplished our monumental undertaking.
When Z. Tyler had been a pup, we had
grown twenty-five apple trees from seeds and later set them out with two
hundred pin oaks nurtured from acorns we had planted and tended. When he was
two, he found a peach pit. As he did with everything, he threw it. Striking the
concrete sidewalk, the hull split open revealing a tiny green sprout attached
to the soft inner pulp. We planted it and every day measured its growth; it
averaged an inch per day. That peach tree, with others, and pear, cherry
varieties and trees in the apple grove produce fruit in our orchard, still.
His penchant for throwing things served
him well in sports as he developed into an excellent pitcher with both good
speed and control; he could hit well, too. He played soccer, a little
basketball, and, his favorite, ice hockey, with the best of them, even through
college.
That patch of woods covered thirty acres
or so and was cut through by a meandering rock-bottom creek which flowed all
year from a spring at the foot of the hill upon which we now stood. This
acreage, we called “the whitetail refuge”; each deer season, we would not hunt
it until the final day, saving it for the last chance. Invariably, that little
forest produced venison. Z. Tyler smiled, white teeth glistening in the light
of the new risen moon as his gaze followed my line of sight to the shadows of
our hot spot; his thoughts, I knew, were reflective of my own; reliving
memories of various hunts. He participated in the festivities, but, he was
neither a meat nor a trophy hunter. The boy was content to play “dog” on our
jaunts; he was good at it.
Cattle moved like black wraiths haunting
the pasture nearest the barn contentedly munching frost-covered grass. Smaller
“ghosts” shadowed the edge of the herd, offering silhouettes of four whitetail
deer, also foraging in the chill night air.
“The animals are quiet,” he spoke,
attesting to his observant nature.
“Yes, as they should be on Christmas
Eve,” I replied. “It is a special time. ‘Peace on earth’, as they say.” I
smiled.
He nodded. I could see in his handsome
face the same fulfilled satisfaction I enjoyed. He was my grandson and I loved
him, but, while still a young man, he was a true man in his own right. I was
most proud of him. Many a man, and woman, of more grizzled years could learn a
thing or two from this fine young man. He had sand and was one with whom to
ride the river, as stalwart westerners of a by-gone era might have, most
appropriately, put it. A man’s man! Indeed!
“Tomorrow,” I allowed after a while, “I
leave at seven. I would like you to accompany me.”
His eyes twinkled as I added with a
wink, “Santa Claus! You know!”
He nodded, knowingly; I smiled,
approvingly.
Then, “You’re really comfortable, being
Santa Claus?” he opined, a rhetorical statement, but with a hint of a question
in the offering, requesting a reply. Education can be a mighty fine thing in
life; couple that erudite understanding with a natural intelligence peppered
with curiosity, and, voila---genius! That he perceived what I thought to be
obvious, pleased me, immensely.
“Of course, son,” I answered, using the
familiar. I meant it to be endearing and he did not ever seem to mind. “It’s
what I do.”
“You seem to be mostly happy,” the young
man intoned. “Are you?”
Plus:
Day 355
Pizza & fish
from Doerr’s in Columbia
There
was, once, a time when the “entrepreneurial”-spirit reigned supreme. Ahh!
All
it took, back in The day, was a lot
of courage and a “bit” of money. No overbearing government regulations,
building inspections, paper work, delays, red tape. Just “guts”.
A
widow lady not yet into her 50’s found need for some income; she rented a
little storefront on the edge of the business district in her fair town and
opened a Tastee-freeze soft ice cream
shop. Being on the Main Street of the tiny berg, she attracted the “cool” high
school kids who hug out at such gathering spaces. The venture proved to be
lucrative for the lady; all is good!
She
served cold treats and offered pizza, burgers and fish sandwiches. Mmm! Mmm! Good!
I’ve
done a fair amount of eating in my day (too much, on occasion) and I may not be
a gourmet-connoisseur, but, I know good
food when I taste it---and…I know what I like.
And,
it wasn’t just about the delicacies
sold at the proprietorship; riding up on my red Schwinn 3-speed with
hand-brakes until I got an official driver’s license so I could arrive at the
“destination” a bit late, usually just after sunset, riding royally in my red
convertible chariot. Ah!
Mrs.
Doerr’s pizzas were the very best; hands down. All her culinary offerings were
laudable .And, for a teenage Rock ’n Roll-“Cool”
kind of guy with an eye for the girls and his best Levis with trademark white
corner triangle handkerchief peeking over the edge of the rear pocket, the
corner gathering place in our village was a great beginning to each night’s
fantastic adventures.
Life
is what one makes of it! Amen! I
reckon I sure enough created some
“legacy”. For sure!
Ah! Cookie
Jar Sweet “Thank you! Mrs. Doerr!” Memories!
No comments:
Post a Comment