THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Thursday, December 8, 1994 TAG: 9412070124
SECTION: SUFFOLK SUN PAGE: 06 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Guest Column
SOURCE: Ron Speer
LENGTH: Medium: 67 lines
I've never had an unhappy Christmas since my dad told me about how he celebrated the holiday as a teenager, in what we like to romantically remember as ``The Good Old Days.''
Born in a sod house to homesteaders in the Nebraska Sand Hills, Dad never talked about Christmases of his youth.
But one Christmas, when I was grown and a father myself, Dad heard me whining about the pressures of modern holidays, and the costs, and the stress that results from fighting crowds in the stores and on the highways.
``I wish we were back in the olden days, when you didn't have to put up with all this pressure,'' I complained to Dad. ``I bet it was a lot easier and more fun then.''
He looked at me, and around my house filled with presents and food and goodies of all kinds, a beautiful tree in a corner, flames leaping up the fireplace chimney.
``All right, I'll tell you about an old-fashioned, country Christmas,'' he said, ``back in about 1910, when I was 15 or 16 years old.''
And this, as best I can remember, is the story Dad told:
Winters were harsh in Nebraska, winds sweeping through the cracks in the sod house heated by a cow-chip burning stove, water carried in from a well 50 yards from the door, the nearest neighbors five miles away.
There was little money, and of course, no cars. The nearest store was in Rushville, probably 25 miles over the prairie, and to get there Dad rode a horse, or went on a buggy with his folks. Dad was the oldest of eight kids who lived in the one-room soddie. There was no church for miles, and the family never celebrated Christmas or even talked about it much.
But a new neighbor made a big deal out of Christmas, and after hearing him talk about his holiday plans, Dad decided it would be fun for all his brothers and sisters, and his hard-working mother, to celebrate Christmas, too.
So he gathered some muskrat skins he'd gotten from trapping and rode 25 miles to Rushville on Christmas Eve. The skins brought a disappointing price, and he didn't have much money for presents. He bought a big bag of candy to give to the other kids, and he found a mirror that he knew his mother would like.
He put the gifts in a paper bag and rode home in a blizzard, stopping along the Niobrara River to cut some pine boughs, since there were no trees within miles of the homestead. He stored the presents in a corner of a leanto that served as a shelter for the cows.
Dad woke long before dawn on Christmas Day and went to to the leanto to get his presents ready. When he opened the door he saw the dogs licking the candy they'd torn out of the bag and scattered in the manure on the floor. Dad shouted and charged into the pack. The dogs fled, Dad kicking as they went. When he put his boot down he heard a cracking noise. He'd stepped on the mirror.
That was the end of the story.
I didn't ask him any questions, and he never mentioned that Christmas again.
I don't know what he told his mother and brothers and sisters.
But I do know that not since I heard that story have I ever whined about modern holiday pressures. MEMO: Ronald L. Speer is the editor of The Carolina Coast, the community news
section serving northeastern North Carolina.
by CNB