Wednesday, December 26, 2018

Excerpt from the book "Christmas Magic" by Carl Schuler (Amazon books) Part 1 of 2

 
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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