Warm memories of cold Christmas day

By mychal wilmes

Date Modified: 01/07/2010 9:44 AM

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Icy fingers reached across the window pane on a frigid December morning.

I watched them walk past the yard light pole to the barn on the narrow snow-packed trail. Huge snowflakes shaken free by the morning breeze fell from the trees. Ma carried an empty tin milk pail, which would be full after she had hand-milked the one cow that wouldn't tolerate a machine.

Ma's Cow, an otherwise ordinary-looking Holstein, was the reason Ma had to go to the barn. Dad said the other cows didn't fuss about the machines, but Ma's Cow kicked with mean intent.

The window was nearly frozen over when she returned from the barn. This was Christmas cookie-making day. The tin Santa, reindeer, tree and star patterns were laid on the table alongside the rolling pin. I would help push the patterns through the dough and sift the green and red candy sparkles over cookies after they had been laid on the sheets. Raw dough sneaked from the bowl when Ma wasn't looking was good motivation to help.

When barn chores were done, Dad wiped the fog from his glasses, took off his five-buckle boots, put his wet leather mittens next to the wood-burning stove and sat down to eat crackers made into mush by hot milk.

The kitchen was busy Christmas week. Various uncles and aunts stopped by, bringing with them gifts of sausage, sweets and second-hand clothes their wives had saved after their own children outgrew them. A favorite uncle -- the one who would buy a couple of dozen eggs from Ma -- would pull a dime from his pocket and offer it to me. In return, he asked for a single raw egg. A pocketknife he carried made a small hole in the shell. I watched while he sucked the egg's contents down.

"What do you think of that, boy?''

I hid behind Mother's apron because he often asked if I wanted to try it.

Christmas visit

There weren't going to be any visitors today. Dad -- who could be stubborn as a Missouri mule -- said it was a good day to visit the widow who lived just up the road. He would take me with, an idea that was quickly rejected because it was cold.

Come on, he said, visiting neighbors is what Christmas is. I already knew what Christmas was about -- the presents that Santa magically put beneath the tree for each of us was proof that Santa found us worthy.

I didn't have anything against the widow. Everyone knew she had a hard life. Some years ago -- when her kids were a little older than I was -- she had lost them and her husband on the narrow gravel road where the railroad tracks crossed. Fog covered the valley and silenced the train's whistle.

She lived alone in the big farmhouse ever since along with several cats, a few chickens an a cow she kept for milk. The barn, bent and bowed in the middle, was kept upright by poles leaned hard against its side.

She was the neighborhood baby-sitter and a strong shoulder in crisis. She had a big garden in summer, but didn't get out in winter when snowdrifts filled the long driveway.

Dad put down the sturdy cardboard box filled with sausage, cheese and Mogen David wine to knock on her door. Stooped with age and her white hair tight in a bun, it seemed that she expected company.

We sat at the table, with old newspapers piled high around us. She poured a cup of coffee for him and offered a cup to me, which was declined because Dad thought it would stunt my growth.

They talked for a long time about the old days, about how in 1936 the temperature didn't get above zero for 30 days. They talked of dances and card parties, harvest days, horse teams and neighbors long since gone.

I watched while the little hand crept slowly across the wall clock's face. It seemed stuck in place while I imagined what it was like back home with cookies coming out of the oven.

Good visit

Dad left with a smile that seemed to last long after we were home. Dad said it did both of them good to remember the old days, though they seemed more like just yesterday than history.

Her house, barn and farmstead are long gone, burned and buried for a housing development. Our old house, often cursed for its coldness in winter, was knocked down years ago.

I drove by the old farmstead the other day. The red barn, which seemed so big many Christmases ago, still stands. So does Ma's chicken coop, the one Dad and her brothers built five decades ago. I suspect the widow and the uncles and aunts still get together this time of year to share cookies, hot milk and a glass or two of Mogen David wine.

Mychal Wilmes is managing editor of Agri News, a weekly agriculture newspaper published by the Post-Bulletin Co. His column appears every Monday in the Post-Bulletin.