Christmas

Christmas on the Brazos – c. 1955

By: Roger d. Stewart

The hardest part was going to sleep. How could grownups expect a kid to close their eyes when they knew, the kid knew—everybody knew that all those presents would mysteriously appear during the night?  Everyone knew Santa was coming sometime that night, and was excited about it in different ways. Dad usually looked tired because it seemed like he worked a lot more than usual that time of the year and Mom always looked like she was worried about something. But on Christmas morning everyone was wearing smiles.

            Nowadays I look back and realize how difficult it must have been for Santa to find ways and means to provide such wonderful Christmas memories down on the farm. Dad was raising cotton on the Yater place – a small farm on the banks of the Brazos River just past Five Oaks in Somervell County, Texas. He also operated heavy equipment at Pappy Lane’s Gravel Washer near Brazos Point.

            Like every Christmas, I knew that in the morning, there would be tons of presents under the tree, and the weatherman on the radio, said it would be nice and sunny—unseasonably warm, they liked to say – unless it rained with a chance of sleet, freezing rain and snow flurries. In other words it would be Texas weather. And that meant there was a very good chance I would get to take my new toys outside and put them to work!

            Oh the anticipation! Who could possibly sleep? Who? Me, that’s who! Because, as everyone knew even back then, if you didn’t go to sleep, Santa wouldn’t come. So I drifted away into dreamland, even if it was with one eye cautiously open.

            In a not quite awake but not quite asleep world, I imagined myself on a mountaintop in Tennessee, stalking a giant grizzly. I held my faithful flintlock rifle in the crook of my arm and on my head was my signature hat – the almost but not quite genuine, fake coonskin cap.

            The Davy Crockett rifle and coonskin cap were the top items on my list that year. The moment I saw them displayed on the pages of the special, huge, toy-filled edition of the Sears and Roebuck catalog, they soared to top ranking on my list – skyrocketing past the cap pistols, bicycles and everything else in that child’s garden of covetousness.

            Yep! Ole Betsy was at the top of my list and the hat right next to it. I saw myself as Davy Crockett – the real Fess Parker. Then, those items were closely followed on my list by the genuine, almost real imitation leather leggings and shirt with all the fake rawhide fringes on the seams. Oh, yea, I thought, Don’t forget the moccasins, Santa. How could I sneak up on a bunch of them thievin’ Injuns without some soft soled plastic moccasins?

            I was excited by the possibilities, but troubled at the same time. There was always the list – the one about who’d been naughty or nice. I clung to the hope that maybe Santa had not heard about that last escapade of mine. Mom and Dad, I thought, are basically sweet forgiving people, so maybe they hadn’t told him – or maybe he would overlook it on the list. But, the old geezer always checked that confounded list twice!

            For a moment these thoughts sent me spiraling downward into depths of despair. I felt pangs of guilt spawned by horrible deeds I had done. I could remember at least once when I had got in trouble for being mean to my sister. There were one or two lies I had told—“No ma’am. I didn’t rake my spinach into the floor,”--and of course there was that thing with the baby chickens and the kitchen door.  Worse still, it was too late to do anything about any of it. I would just have to somehow be content with my lump of coal and do better next year. Of course, I don’t think I knew what coal was – we never saw it growing up in Somervell and Johnson Counties. And, besides all that, I was sure Mom and Dad wouldn’t let Santa do that to me!

            So I went back to humming my theme: “Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee…” I found it quite exciting that Davy could kill a bear when he was only three. If he could do it at three, I surely wouldn’t have any trouble hanging a bearskin on the wall at 6. I was a little worried though, that all the bears might have been cleared out of Somervell County, and I would have to go some place wild and exotic to find one – some place like Fort Worth or maybe even, Dallas! Who knows, I thought, if given the opportunity, I might even WIN at the Alamo.

            I guess it was the song going through my mind that finally did me in. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth chorus of “Daaaavyyyy, Daaaavyyyy Crockett – king of the wild frontier”, I slipped into a dark wilderness of Indians, bears and river boat pirates.

            In that dream frontier, I fired steadily without a rest and vanquished the foe. Ole Betsey’s barrel got so hot it bent and I began to shoot curves, sliders and even a few sinkers. But, thankfully they were smart bullets and always found their target. Many a river pirate and wild bruin met their Maker in my dreams that night.

            It was somewhere between Davy the Congressman and the two of us fighting off the hoards at the Alamo my dream was shattered like a crystal goblet on a stone floor. I sat straight up in bed. It was light outside and I couldn’t figure out what had awakened me. For the briefest moment I sat there wondering about it and thinking: there is something special about today – what IS it? Somewhere between “something” and “special” it hit me – Christmas! It’s Christmas morning!

            In less time than it takes a snowflake to melt in the Rio Grande Valley, I was in the living room. There under the brightly decorated tree were thousands – or was it millions – of brightly wrapped presents stacked as high as the bottom of the now dried and brittle tree. The actual count was somewhat smaller than my original estimate, but who cares about numbers anyway – when there is all that pretty wrapping paper to destroy!

            In one leap, I was halfway across the room – when I hit a wall: the Law of Mom, wall. The last words she spoke before putting me to bed the night before were, “If you open even one present before the rest of the family is awake, we’ll make Santa take it all back.“ Ominous and foreboding words – but I didn’t really think she meant them. But what six year old on the face of the earth would want to risk it!

            The possibility – no matter how remote -- of having to send all those beautifully wrapped presents back stood like the wide Mississippi River between me and that tree. But the Devil was in it. I thought, Well, maybe like the Brazos, and it’s usually about dry…. So, just, for the briefest of moments I was tempted, drawn and pulled toward the stack of treasures. They didn’t say to not touch them, I thought recklessly. But still I kept my hands behind my back to resist the temptation.

            I began to look at the labels Santa had put on each package and mentally sorted them into neat little piles. I wondered, at the time, why Santa’s handwriting looked a lot like Mom’s. But then I figured she sent preaddressed labels with our wish list. Even in those early years, I was something of a rationalist -- I was convinced there was almost always a logical explanation of everything if we are willing to look for it.

            It seemed like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before the rest of the family woke up. They all came sleepily into the living room--except Dad. Mom brought little sister in, and grandpa came in with the hair on either side of his bald expanse looking as if he had stuck his finger in a light socket. (I don’t remember where grandma was, but I remember on several occasions grandpa showing up about the time Santa Claus would mysteriously leave presents under the tree while we went down to the pecan bottom or took a drive in the fields.)

            Dad looked like he had been awake for hours—he was an early riser anyway. Mom said something about him making too much noise outside and waking everybody up. That must have been what woke me! He just grinned and didn’t even try to keep from looking guilty. (I think he must have broken an old dead limb off the tree just outside my window to wake me up!)

            Just like every other year for the whole time I lived at home, we came to a ritual that I hated. (And, yes we even do it today in my own home, and even as an old man, I still hate it.) It was the most unfortunate, diabolical, and cruelest invention ever inflicted upon mankind – taking turns. Why couldn’t they just say, “Sickem” like they said to Ole’ Sport when a coon got in Grandpa’s chickens? But, no! We had to take turns. First little sister got to open one, then me, then grandpa, then Dad, then Mom, then some poor little Chinese boy on the other side of the world got to open one of his, then President Eisenhower, Congress and Winston Churchill got to open one, then little sister again, then at last, it was my turn again! Round and round, on and on they made me suffer until we were finally through.

            It seemed to take at least thirty years for me to get to my last present, but then, in the blink of an eye it was over. But, that really didn’t matter, because the first I opened was Old Betsy and the second present I opened was a tent! Yep! It was a real-live genuine plastic Indian tipi.

            The last present was a bow and arrow set. The arrows had the rubber suction cups on the end designed to keep me from killing my little sister, a cousin or maybe even someone important like Ole Sport.

            It was a wonderful Christmas. I didn’t get the leggings, the moccasins, and the coonskin cap I wanted, but I didn’t realize it until much later. But, even without those fancy trappings Old Betsy and I held off some pretty furious attacks by the Apache, Comanche and Blackfoot Indians. Then when Old Betsy ran out of ammo after firing continuously for 2 or 3 hours, I would grab my bow and arrows and would switch sides. Since I actually had real ammunition for the bow, I would should my 6 arrows and die a horrible death in my tipi, there behind the couch in our living room. Dying became an art form. I always thought I could have held classes on it for the Hollywood stunt guys who just couldn’t do it right.

            Yes, it was a wonderful Christmas. There have been many wonderful Christmases since, but if I could repeat one, I guess I would like to go back down to that little farm on the banks of the Brazos and be Davy Crockett just one more time.

            Merry Christmas everyone!

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