I kept looking out through the frost-covered windows. Across the big meadow I couldn’t make out the stonewall on the far side. Grandma laughing, had told me if that wall went under, Santa might have trouble getting up home this year. “Up home” was what everyone called the old family farmstead. I didn’t see where it was “up”? The rolling hills seemed more level than up to me. A lad, I didn’t realize from every direction you’d climb long hills up to this rolling plateau. The snow kept falling, snowdrifts getting higher each passing hour.
Peering out the side windows I could occasionally see my grampa through the blowing snow. Standing tall astride the jouncing stoneboat plowing the lane. Thick hemlock boards angled at the front served as snowplows. Reaching the bend near the house he’d circle round, retracing the quarter-mile to the township road. Rocks under the snow covered redshale caught and bounced loose. The big draft horses, Ted and Maude, moving with sure-footed purpose, rarely altering their steady gait.
It was Christmas Eve day. Most of the extended family was already at the patriarchs home. The eldest son, wife, little girl and baby boy. The families only daughter, her new husband and baby girl. Youngest two sons still living at home out in the barn tending chores. The youngest, three years my elder, more big brother than uncle. Too young to do real work, drafted by his big brother more as “company” in the barn. I was stuck in the house.
One aunt kept me busy turning the shoulder-high crank powering the big Victrola in the living room. Playing Bing Crosby and Andy Williams Christmas records over and over. I had to use a little padded stool reaching over the top placing the needle carefully on the record whenever it stopped. Meanwhile, those aunts cranked the handle on the old oak, wall-mounted phone. Placing calls more often I than cranked the record player?
Mostly I kept watch at the windows. Santa might not get here tonight and I was worried. More than that, I was watching for my fathers old Buick sedan to come in the lane. My Dad, Mom and little sister were driving up from our home a hundred miles away. Their arrival was more important than Santas. My birthday was the day after Christmas. I figured they had presents for that, (and Christmas!)
Wandering into the kitchen, grandma and the other women were cooking and baking. The wood burning cookstove made the kitchen the warmest place in the house. I could smell the turkey in the oven. Apple and pumpkin pies kept warm in bins over the stove. Nestled beside bread baked that morning. Empty canning jars littered the dry sink having already given up their bounty. Applesauce, beans, beets (yuck!) corn, cranberry sauce (double-yuck!). All in covered bowls and servers on the big table in the dining room. I was able to filch a cookie or two each time I went into the kitchen, asking again when my mom and dad might get here?
Finally it was nearing dark, the snow seemed to be letting up. Still, the howling wind continued drifting snow ever higher. Looking out now towards the stonewall, the meadow itself was gone! I could barely make out the fruit trees that stood in the little valley this side of the meadow. Grampa, in from plowing said it was the most snow on Christmas Eve he could remember.
All the food for dinner was ready. Held captive by built-in warmers above the old stove. Table festively set with fancy plates, good silver, tablecloth, cups, saucers, napkins. The big mantle clock chimed the time. The candles remained unlit. No one asked when dinner might be served. Feasting and celebration would wait until all the family was together.
For the hundredth time I asked when my folks would come? Hearing the anxiety in my voice, grampa rested his big hand on my shoulder, absorbing my worry. Bending close he said, “A little snow never stops your family coming home...”
Walking into the parlor I stood, back to the big wood stove, waiting. A glint of light at the window. Racing to it, scratching the frost away, I could see headlights swinging into the lane! Grabbing my hat and coat I raced outside. Arriving as the old Buick slid to rest in the dooryard. Dad grinning, Mom laughing, me (almost) crying. They were home at last!
I don’t know about you..., I hardly recall presents from Christmas past? But I remember when All The Family came home.
Cal Teeple, only lonely member of the Observational Cogitation Consortium may often be found three stools down from you. He may be ignored, accosted or contacted at: twinews@wayneindependent.com.
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I kept looking out through the frost-covered windows. Across the big meadow I couldn’t make out the stonewall on the far side. Grandma laughing, had told me if that wall went under, Santa might have trouble getting up home this year. “Up home” was what everyone called the old family farmstead. I didn’t see where it was “up”? The rolling hills seemed more level than up to me. A lad, I didn’t realize from every direction you’d climb long hills up to this rolling plateau. The snow kept falling, snowdrifts getting higher each passing hour.
Peering out the side windows I could occasionally see my grampa through the blowing snow. Standing tall astride the jouncing stoneboat plowing the lane. Thick hemlock boards angled at the front served as snowplows. Reaching the bend near the house he’d circle round, retracing the quarter-mile to the township road. Rocks under the snow covered redshale caught and bounced loose. The big draft horses, Ted and Maude, moving with sure-footed purpose, rarely altering their steady gait.
It was Christmas Eve day. Most of the extended family was already at the patriarchs home. The eldest son, wife, little girl and baby boy. The families only daughter, her new husband and baby girl. Youngest two sons still living at home out in the barn tending chores. The youngest, three years my elder, more big brother than uncle. Too young to do real work, drafted by his big brother more as “company” in the barn. I was stuck in the house.
One aunt kept me busy turning the shoulder-high crank powering the big Victrola in the living room. Playing Bing Crosby and Andy Williams Christmas records over and over. I had to use a little padded stool reaching over the top placing the needle carefully on the record whenever it stopped. Meanwhile, those aunts cranked the handle on the old oak, wall-mounted phone. Placing calls more often I than cranked the record player?
Mostly I kept watch at the windows. Santa might not get here tonight and I was worried. More than that, I was watching for my fathers old Buick sedan to come in the lane. My Dad, Mom and little sister were driving up from our home a hundred miles away. Their arrival was more important than Santas. My birthday was the day after Christmas. I figured they had presents for that, (and Christmas!)
Wandering into the kitchen, grandma and the other women were cooking and baking. The wood burning cookstove made the kitchen the warmest place in the house. I could smell the turkey in the oven. Apple and pumpkin pies kept warm in bins over the stove. Nestled beside bread baked that morning. Empty canning jars littered the dry sink having already given up their bounty. Applesauce, beans, beets (yuck!) corn, cranberry sauce (double-yuck!). All in covered bowls and servers on the big table in the dining room. I was able to filch a cookie or two each time I went into the kitchen, asking again when my mom and dad might get here?
Finally it was nearing dark, the snow seemed to be letting up. Still, the howling wind continued drifting snow ever higher. Looking out now towards the stonewall, the meadow itself was gone! I could barely make out the fruit trees that stood in the little valley this side of the meadow. Grampa, in from plowing said it was the most snow on Christmas Eve he could remember.
All the food for dinner was ready. Held captive by built-in warmers above the old stove. Table festively set with fancy plates, good silver, tablecloth, cups, saucers, napkins. The big mantle clock chimed the time. The candles remained unlit. No one asked when dinner might be served. Feasting and celebration would wait until all the family was together.
For the hundredth time I asked when my folks would come? Hearing the anxiety in my voice, grampa rested his big hand on my shoulder, absorbing my worry. Bending close he said, “A little snow never stops your family coming home...”
Walking into the parlor I stood, back to the big wood stove, waiting. A glint of light at the window. Racing to it, scratching the frost away, I could see headlights swinging into the lane! Grabbing my hat and coat I raced outside. Arriving as the old Buick slid to rest in the dooryard. Dad grinning, Mom laughing, me (almost) crying. They were home at last!
I don’t know about you..., I hardly recall presents from Christmas past? But I remember when All The Family came home.
Cal Teeple, only lonely member of the Observational Cogitation Consortium may often be found three stools down from you. He may be ignored, accosted or contacted at: twinews@wayneindependent.com.
