CHRISTMAS MAGIC
As was my want, we took a
walk on the hill behind our house sometime after midnight. Black velvet
softness blanketed clear frigid air as no wind stirred in the blue-white
sparkling diamond-strewn abyss. My nose tingled with the fresh tang scent of a
perfect new-born Christmas Eve in the early pre-dawn morn. Brittle, frost-bitten
blades of grass, hard as granulated sugar-coated crystal shards of a kid’s rock
candy, crisply crackled under the souls my insulated hunting boots, well-broken
in after decades of traipsing and trampling these hills in pursuit of wily
whitetail or smaller game like turkey, squirrel, rabbit, or quail. The
well-oiled leather did not squeak and in sixty-odd years of contemplating
nature I had learned a little of how to walk quietly like a soft wind unobtrusively
whispering through the valley, familiar with my surroundings, sensing and hearing
all but sounding no alarm to stir the nocturnal beings secluded in obscured shadows.
The wild creatures’ survival was dependent upon vigilant eyes which surveyed my
wanderings while sensitive ears weighed every perceivable nuance; survival
instinct had been honed to cutting edge cunning through eons of evolution;
nature provided protection for each of her species in all the necessary ways.
Ella, my flop-eared beagle
whose short legs nearly caused her swaying ample belly to drag the ground,
meandered left, then right, ten yards or so ahead, pausing often to listen intently
and stare appraisingly into the darkness, sniffing at the still air for any
hint of a long-eared cotton tail up for the merriment of a good chase. She was
fifteen now but still spry; a savvy hunter with a great nose and the tenacity
of a black bear after honey, once she got the scent. We had shared many a hunt;
she was a worthy partner; we had covered a lot of territory in fair pursuit of
an old furry rabbit. Of late, 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 stone fireplace chimney that my father had laid many years
ago; it provided warming comfort. Man and dog are in easy agreement on that
pleasantry; which participant got the most enjoyment was undecided.
Goldie was her understudy.
The full-bodied, short-haired golden retriever was still very much a pup, only
three years old. A neutered male, he was full of antics and frolic and
insatiable curiosity, much like any impudent young boy. Never one to miss an
adventure, the hound was always raring to go and eager to please.
But, while Goldie would
often inadvertently spook game as Ella stealthily worked her seemingly magical
clandestine tendencies in an effort to procure a successful outcome, she
tolerated the pup’s inexperienced enthusiasm. They were friends; Ella was the
boss. Watching them gave insight to nature’s way imbuing special knowledge
gained through objective observation; life’s education presented itself in
various forms, if one simply paid particular attention to the variegated subtleties
with intense curiosity.
When the beagle lay on my
woolen socks, Goldie was content to lie beside my old rocking chair with his head
comfortably propped on huge paws as I scratched his ears and patted his dome;
so soundly did he sleep that occasionally he would actually snore in a rhythmic
cadence.
I loved this farm and
reveled in its sights and sounds, its feelings, remembrances, 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, with warm days, cool nights and the splendor of nature’s majestic
regal mantle displayed in the myriad bright colors of a landscape painter’s
palette, winter ran a close second choice. That frozen time offered respite for
enjoyment of the harvest bounty born of loving labor through the year, that
satisfying yield a pleasant consequence of understanding and co-operation with
nature. And, just for the record, when spring rolled around bringing late-March
warming winds ushering in April showers which produced May flowers and the
morel mushrooms popped and the bluegill and hybrid red-ear spawned, I freely
admit, I fancied that promising 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 iced lemonade
in the wide shade of that ancient silver maple in the front yard. The “old
Grandpa bench” which my grandfather had constructed of twelve inch wide white
oak planks sawed from monster trees grown on this very farm had rested my weary
bones many a time. Ah! Pleasant memories!
On our late night jaunt, we
paused on a rise just shy of the pond, now crusted with a thin sheet of ice,
not yet thick enough to skate across; that event would come after the New Year
arrived with January’s long spells of ten degree days. A deep breath of frigid
air filled my lungs as I sniffed for any telltale hint of coming 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 grace
and happiness and wonder; I am appreciative…and thankful. It is a sacred
experience.
“Smells like snow,” I
allowed in an audible voice which Ella noticed but Goldie ignored.
Somewhere along the way I
had acquired the ability to discern approaching snow before its actual 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 modern weather forecasting prognostication attempts. I had tried to
explain the unusual 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. It seemed a knack unique only to myself.
One fall, I had hired a
carpenter to aid in the construction of a horse barn. Shortly after lunch on
the Wednesday before Thanksgiving Day, I told him that I smelled snow. He was
quite an obtuse character and openly scoffed at my prediction, emphatically
cackling his irritating laugh while mouthing his obvious skepticism. It was an
overcast, low, iron-grey, blustery day with a temperature in the mid-twenties. About
fifteen minutes after my announcement---snowflakes! I gained an unspoken,
grudging modicum of respect from that old man that afternoon.
Z. Tyler, our grandson, on
semester break from his studies at the university, walked beside me. He lived
in town but in his twenty-two years he 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 excursion on Christmas Eve morning held just such a
tantalizing promise. Unlike the dogs, he took keen notice of my snow
prediction, surreptitiously sniffing the cold air.
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 and the
youngest of the threesome, were fast asleep, back at the farmhouse with Nanny, all
warmly tucked under a goose-down comforter in the huge featherbed in the loft
of the dwelling.
Anna and Lexi were the same
age, separated by only ten weeks. The three of them had come to love our farm,
also. The animals, of course, were a huge attraction but Nanny was the main
event as she spread generous amounts of love in every endeavor she undertook.
Of course, she spoiled those grandkids shamefully, but I never did, at least no
so blatantly that anyone might take notice. Of course, they all loved me, I
knew, but, Nanny was the apple of their eye; truth be told, mine, too. A good
part of her saintly appeal was an unselfish spirit.
As I drank in the beauty of
my perfect world, I prayed a silent prayer in thankfulness to the Creator on this
holy night: Lord! 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 nor secret any
treasure. You take care of me; I live the journey! These hills seem no steeper
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 a
little inconvenient challenge in a near-perfect life, I truly appreciate their
beauty; I will continue my climb to the mountain top. Thank You! Amen!
Through my reverie, 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 of respect to the Creator, even in sleep, if the
intent was to praise, honor and glorify God.
As I spread my arms wide to
the night sky, 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 a half-inch
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 half-inch of ice is too thin to skate on; a full four inches
is safe.”
“Usually takes three to four
days of twenty degree temperatures to freeze solid,” he added, letting me know
he had paid close attention and studied well, fully cognizant that my ramblings
were often meant to elucidate.
I winked an approving nod
and grinned at the subtle elucidation he had gained.
We moved on, the dogs still 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
relief. In the distance showed the back porch light glowing a golden warming, waiting
welcome in the chill darkness; a satisfying comfort and cheerful invite to the
hearts of willful wayward travelers.
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 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 purposely replaced each fallen
one with at least fifty saplings.
Once, Nanny’s uncle and I
had planted some three thousand pine trees, wild crabapple and Russian olive
numbering 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 three days we had accomplished our monumental
undertaking; it resulted in a personally satisfying venture.
When Z. Tyler was a pup, we
had grown twenty-five apple trees from seeds and set them out.
One fall, the boy and I
gathered some three hundred pin oak acorns and planted them in potting trays
which we kept on a table in the house in front of a southern exposure window
through the winter season. Tending them with care and careful watering, over
ninety per cent survived; these we transplanted in a row in Nanny’s vegetable
garden. After two years, we took a day of his Thanksgiving vacation time and
planted the seedlings in the woods, placing them in areas of sparse vegetation
where they would get ample sunshine and adequate rainfall. Today, those oaks
are tall and strong, offering shade and shelter for critters and nests for
myriad birds.
Through these endeavors I
tried to teach Z. Tyler that there was much more to real conservation than
hopeful thoughts, good wishes, vacant lip service and vapid misunderstanding of
what nature is actually all about; saving tradition means not only preserving
the status quo, but building upon the goodness with effort born of a love of
nature, knowledge and earnest pursuit.
He had been tutored well and
early on; he was born blessed with the necessary natural inclination to do good.
That penchant proved that a conservationist is a traditionalist. Amen!
Earlier, when he was two, the
boy 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. Z. Tyler insisted that we plant it and every day he measured
its growth which averaged an inch per day. That peach tree and 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 excellent control; he could hit well, too. The boy could
run like a deer, even to this day. He played soccer, a little basketball, and,
his favorite, ice hockey, with the best of them, even through college. And, he
was no novice at golf, either.
That patch of woods covered
twenty 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 hunted it
on the last day, saving it until the end. Invariably, that little forest
produced venison. Z. Tyler smiled, white teeth glistening in the light of the
new risen full 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. Hunting was not his forte.
Cattle moved like black
wraiths in the pasture nearest the barn contentedly munching frost-covered
grass. Smaller “ghosts” shadowed the edge of the herd, offering silhouettes of
four whitetail deer foraging peacefully in the still night air.
“The animals are quiet,” he
spoke.
“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 which 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.
“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; I smiled.
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. Formal education was a
fine thing in life; couple that erudite understanding with a natural
intelligence peppered with curiosity, and, voila---genius!
“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?”
His eyes were on me in the
pale light. I felt as though he were asking these questions of himself and
merely directing them toward me, searching for some relevance in his own
existence; I admired that self-examination trait.
“Yes. I am,” I replied,
frankly. “I would hope that it shows in my demeanor; the way I behave and live
my life. And with Nanny and our girls and you grandkids…well! As they say: It
just doesn’t get any better than that! Yes! I am most content and perfectly
happy.”
Then, continuing, “With
time, and experience, you will find a certain peace within yourself, a comfort,
a place where you belong in the scheme of things in this life. What I’m talking
about is solitude within your very spirit. It is a sense of well-being which
satiates the hunger for good and slakes the thirst for justice and
satisfaction. And, that discovery of such a place within one’s heart, allows
the personal human spirit to soar untethered. It led me to a spiritual
development in seeking: Faith! Family! Freedom!
“And, somewhere in that
space of time between now and forever, you will come to know the secret truths,
all of which, by definition, are constant. Important among them is an
understanding which enhances humility: what other people think of me is---none
of my business!
“You already have much of
what is needed to succeed, to endure, to secure happiness.” I added, “Even at
the little girls’ tender age, so do they.”
He looked thoughtful, his
eyes revealing assurance, self-satisfaction. He did not find necessity to speak
in self-congratulatory ego, as many would have; this young man was humble by
nature.
I added, “My mantra, if I
confessed to having one, would be: Truth! Justice! The American Way!” I paused,
laughing. Then continued, explaining, “That exclamation comes from the old
black and white episodes of ‘Superman’ where the good guys always prevailed and
evil paid the price for its most unworthy pursuits, whatever form they might
take. Of course, he wasn’t my one and only childhood hero; The Lone Ranger was
of equal value. It really is that simple.”
“Santa Claus! Indeed!” Z.
Tyler thought as he silently stared into the night.
In quiet reflection, his own
thoughts rambled. “Yeah, he sure is, to each of us. He and Nanny are always
giving everything to everybody. You had to be careful about what you said
around them; just mention something you wanted and they would get it for you.
And, not only for the immediate family members found in need.
“Stories were told of
someone anonymously providing needed generosity to anyone in dire straits.
People had received Easter hams, Thanksgiving turkeys, Christmas presents,
money, bills were satisfied, clothes, bicycles, cakes, every kind of item
required was given. No one ever confessed
to being the donor. But Bapa had always teased that he was “Santa Claus”. Of
course, he made a joke of everything. He taught his progeny, by example, that it
was one of three necessary life ingredients: Honesty, Humility and Humor! He
and Nanny practiced all of them. He abased his own accomplishments, never took
credit, always refocused attention on someone else when the limelight
threatened its illumination upon himself or Nanny. The saints among us!
“Yes! Santa Claus! Indeed!”
he concluded the thought with an approving smile.
Reflecting on what had been
had said about faith, family and freedom, Z. Tyler nodded knowingly, a deep
satisfaction glowing in his eyes.
No more needed to be spoken;
a comforting quietness surrounded the companions.
We stood, enjoying the
night, each man alone with his feelings, each in his own deep understanding. We
silently shared an abiding respect, an enduring truth, a mutual love. This
“Peace on earth” reality was more meaningful than any Christmas salutation
adorning myriad holiday cards. This tranquility blossomed in the heart,
feasting on love. Truly!
After a while, we trekked
back to the house where Z. Tyler retired to pleasant dreams and I sipped hot
tea as Ella warmed my feet and I scratched Goldie’s ears. Zoe, our calico house
cat, lay on the sofa end arm nearest the fireplace, pretending disinterest in
the dogs’ trespass into her domain, truly aloof as only an independent feline
can be.
Nanny came and sat in the
recliner next to my rocker; we fell asleep there, each in the other’s thoughts,
holding hands. Trapped droplets of moisture in the cedar logs exploded in
miniature pops and crackles, sending showers of sparks up the chimney; the
cedar fragrance as pleasant to the senses as the warmth of the cozy fire was to
the body. A perfect end to a beautiful day.
The girls were up a six.
Giggling and laughing with the exuberance of youth hyper-extended with the
anticipation of Christmas Eve; surreptitiously, they plotted their clandestine attack.
Each armed with a feather pillow they burst into Z. Tyler’s room, caught him
still asleep and pummeled him in a loving assault. Moaning and groaning with
yelps of “stop”, he playfully captured each girl, holding them as best he could
while tickling and whacking each with his own pillow; there would be no
declared winner in this mock contest, yet each would take away memories of a
loving battle victory.
Nanny danced around the
kitchen putting together a delectable breakfast for the marauding horde,
showing little effort in her pleasing endeavor. I heard her impish laughter
filter forth several times as her youthful desire to join the melee belied her
stern admonition, “You all calm down, now! I mean right now, this minute! Don’t
make me come in there. Santa Claus is watching! And, I don’t think he’s going
to like what he sees.”
That added rejoinder was
wasted, having as much deterrent effect on the troop as a single raindrop on a
forest fire conflagration, and, she knew it, even as she spoke the words. It
was more of a way for her to join the merriment than it was a meaningful
reprimand. Anyway, there would be no containing their youthful spontaneity,
today. Probably, not her own, either!
As she giggled her vacant
admonishment, I laughed. No one took her infrequent attempted sternness
seriously, not even she, herself.
When Nanny had completed
preparing the meal, as we all managed to get seated and somewhat curtailed the
cacophonous party to an acceptable college roar, I announced, to a nearly
attentive audience, that Z. Tyler and I had to run into town for some last
minute shopping.
Immediately came the
torrent: “Can I go?” “Me, too?” “Me,
three?” followed by an excited laughter from the threesome.
“Now, girls,” Nanny intervened.
“I need you to help me decorate the parlor.”
“But, the tree is already
up,” protested Lexi.
“Yeah!” came the “Little
Professor”, Lauren, pushing her professorial-looking glasses in place on her
button nose. “And, it’s been up for two weeks because Bapa can’t wait.” Teasing
giggles escaped the throng.
“Yeah!” agreed Lexli Lu.
“Yeah!” echoed Annie Rie.
“If I had my way, children,”
Bapa interjected, defensively, “every day would be Christmas! Every blessed
day!”
“I think you already believe
it is,” intoned Z. Tyler, quietly. Smiles broadened at the attestation;
everyone knew that it was true.
Nanny attempted to save her
husband further bittersweet embarrassment.
“Girls,” she quickly added,
employing the plural while assuredly speaking to each individually, “ I need
help with the cooking, too.”
This, she knew, would surely
appease them. Each had inherited her “femininity” as Bapa referred to her loving nature. Helping was
natural to the three neophytes as were the virtues women exhibit in cleaning,
child rearing, keeping a family together with boundless love and motherly
ability. Bapa had married a saint; he acknowledged her virtue by treating her
like royalty. She was many things; he even called her an angel. One word
summarized Nanny: Lady!
“Okay!” came the decision
from the peacemaker. Anna Marie continued, “We’ll wait to go to town until the
day after Christmas. Today we can all help Nanny.”
The other two acquiesced,
nodding in agreement.
“Yeah!” said Lexi, impishly,
a twinkle in her eye. “The day after Christmas!” She paused, then squealed, “To
go ---shopping!
“Oh! Yes!” exclaimed Lauren.
“Shopping!”
Eyes flashed as Annie Rie
added, tilting her chin down slightly while easing the blue crystals demurely
toward her grandfather. “But, today Bapa, could you bring us a surprise?” she
queried, long lashes fluttering coquettishly.
Laughter erupted.
“What?” bellowed Bapa in animated theatrical
amusement. “Bring you a surprise?” He laughed, “Annie, today is Christmas Eve!
Santa Claus comes tonight! And, I do believe you all will truly be surprised!
“In fact,” he added,
reveling in his own turn to be surreptitious, “Santa might just surprise you
before tonight!” A knowing glance passed between himself and Nanny, their
“secret” as safely guarded as the myriad Christmas gifts secreted around the
house.
“Yea!” came the uproarious
reply, followed by curious looks of wonder. Bapa and Nanny had a way of making
good things---better. Even…great!
After breakfast, the
threesome dutifully helped Nanny clear the table. They voluntarily washed
dishes and put the kitchen into tidy order. As Bapa and Z. Tyler went out the
living room door to the front porch, the boy stuck his head back and announced
with heartfelt little boy excitement, “It’s starting to snow!”
The girls crowded onto the
porch followed by Nanny. All were wide-eyed, Nanny smiling as the uncontrolled
threesome giggled and laughed and danced, attempting to catch swirling
snowflakes on their tongues.
“Back inside with you, now,”
Bapa admonished after several moments. “We don’t need a pack of sick little
girls on Christmas Eve.” He shooed them toward the door.
“We’ll be back by noon,” he
promised as he and Rye-Rye headed across the yard.
Three little girls stood at
the window along with their Nanny as Bapa and Z. Tyler left the barn in the old
pickup with a red stock trailer in tow. The two men exchanged waves with the wraithlike
silhouettes obfuscateded behind the frosty glass windows.
Time slows to a crawl when
anticipation runs rampant and expectation is high; always the way on Christmas
Eve. However, Nanny and the girls had plenty to do and the hours flew. Several
times Lauren glanced outside, hoping to see the boys return; even Anna and Lexi
peeked once or twice. Nanny had to force herself to concentrate on the
decorating, so excited was she. Christmas was not just for kids, she thought,
and most certainly not to be celebrated only one day a year. Christmas was, for
her, a life experience, an event to be enjoyed each and every day.
Snow was falling with a
vengeance when the truck and trailer pulled into the drive shortly after two. Fresh
tracks from the county road furrowed grooves in the farmstead driveway and Z.T.
smiled when he spied his mom’s SUV parked in the lot between the house and the
barn; their foot tracks were not yet covered, so his parents and aunt and uncle
must have only just arrived, slightly ahead of he and Bapa. The girls had failed
to notice the boy’s return.
The young man opened the
barn door and Bapa entered, parking the trailer in the alleyway between the
cattle feed room adjacent to several horse stalls, and granaries on the other
side used to store corn, wheat and beans at harvest time. The men unloaded
their cargo; Bapa sent Z. Tyler to the house to gather the clan while he made
final preparations for the surprise.
(Part 2 o 2 tomorrow)
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