Christmas this year finds me living near the seashore, the main thing I dreamed about for years. I have lots of friends, and a great life here in Virginia.
God has used this move to Virginia to reinforce my faith and knowledge that He has a plan for my life. My relationships here reinforce His goodness. My life is woven into that of others whereby I minister to their needs and find friendship for myself. I am blessed.
Someday, I look forward to sharing Christmas with you, Jesus and the angels, but for now, Christmas here on Earth is joyful! Thank you for everything!
Love,
Your Oldest Daughter
Linda
Sussex, England
December 5, 1799
My dear American Cousin,
I truly cannot believe you have never celebrated the holiday season with a Yule Log. Why, even in the smallest burroughs, it has often been called the Yuletide Season. However have you managed not to have your house burn to the ground or suffer from the worst misfortune? For that is surely what may happen if you do not follow my instructions to the letter.
First, you must not allow your father to buy the Yule Log—your family and friends must venture into the woods on Christmas Eve and cut a great tree, preferably an oak, if you have such in your country. And it must be of a huge size, for it has to burn throughout the twelve days of Christmas. Once cut, the best possible fun is in dragging it home, for as many people as possible grab onto the ropes to help pull, in this way ensuring themselves good luck in the new year.
Once the Yule log is in the hearth of your very largest fireplace, it is lit with a scrap of burned log carefully preserved from the previous year. Because you have neglected to celebrate this tradition until now, I have carefully wrapped and enclosed just such a scrap from our burned Yule log of last year. By using this small piece, we are helping to guarantee good fortune from year to year. And because this comes to you from your English cousin, perhaps it will bring us together. After all, we are preparing to enter the New Year and a new century and any manner of miracle is possible.
I truly wish you and your family the most joyous of holidays.
Lady Amanda Stafford
Post Script—
I almost forgot the most important part. Once the twelve days of Christmas have passed, the remaining scraps of wood must be stored carefully until next year, because you will need them to light another Yule log.
And there you have it.
Dear Sis,
My best memories are of waiting around Christmas morning for my sisters to show up and getting to see them. Also Christmas Eve, when relatives came out.
Then there was the year when I hid Kathy’s engagement ring and she did a scavenger hunt to find it. And, oh yeah, our Christmas—just the two of us—in Florida.
I can’t forget the first Christmas in our new house with a real fireplace. There was no denying Santa’s existence, for there were elf footprints on the floor and a small present with our neighbor boy’s name on the tag, which must have fallen out of Santa’s sack!
Now it’s fun watching my girls decorate up the house.
Sorry, but rambling is all I can come up with. I’m off to LA today, then Long Beach.
Love,
Wayne
Airborne Express Freight dog
(Who flies more miles than Santa Claus)
For those of a curious and romantic nature, it should be noted that although Seth didn’t return by Christmas, he came back to his family with only a minor leg wound early in the New Year of 1777. He and Arianna were blessed with the birth of a baby girl, whom they named Joy Noel in honor of the joyous reunion of family and the holiday season in which she was born.
Once Upon a Christmas Wish
There is a small village in eastern Pennsylvania called Snow. It’s only a stone’s throw from Wind Gap and “just around the next bend” from Pen Argyl. For most of the year, the residents of Snow are like all the other people in that part of Pennsylvania—hardworking coal miners living for the weekend when they can spend time at the pub and see the sunshine.
Pennsylvania is known for coal mining—black diamonds it was once called—for it fueled the machines that brought prosperity to the large cities and made many a man wealthy. The towns that grew up around the mines were the result of large companies owning everything within miles. The company town provided everything the miners and their families needed to survive—schools, company stores, churches and small homes.
And so the children in Snow went to the company school while their fathers worked in the coal mines and their mothers cooked the meals and cleaned the house and shopped at the company store.
Now, if that were all there was to Snow, Pennsylvania, there wouldn’t be a story to tell.
The fact of the matter is, nowadays, there are only about a hundred residents in Snow. The Carston Coal Mine shut down years ago and at that time, many of the inhabitants moved on to bigger mines, or into the cities to take factory jobs.
But it wasn’t the coal mine that put Snow on the map; rather it was and still is, the residents and what happens to this quiet little community each winter.
Every year, at the first snow, the community is transformed into a winter wonderland. For as far back as anyone can remember, and some of the retired miners have been around for a long time, the landscape takes on the appearance of a snow village. In fact, ’round about 1903 or so, the name of the town was actually changed from Carstonville (after the owners of the mine) to Snow, and it’s been called that ever since.
Glistening flakes fall abundantly from the sky, as though God were giving the people extra snow just for this special time of year. Children and adults alike spend all their spare time creating snow sculptures on every available square foot of yard, on the street corners and along the roads. There are snow castles and forts, snow families and dogs and cats and cows. The trees and fences and houses help create the beautiful scenes as glittering snow piles high on the rooftops and coats the tree branches and fences with sparkling, wintry white. Snow people wave at those passing by and snow children romp and tumble on snow-covered yards. Why, one year there was even a snow policeman directing traffic right in the middle of Main Street.
No one can remember just exactly when people from neighboring towns began coming to Snow to see the fantasies created for the holiday. One of the really old-timers recalls his papa seeing his first automobile when a couple drove into town in their model T, all bundled up with bricks under their feet to keep them warm. As things go in small towns, most of the residents spent as much time gawking at the new-fangled automobile, the man’s goggles and the woman’s wide-brimmed hat as that couple did admiring the snowscapes.
Pretty soon, the town became so famous, it was nigh near impossible to walk down the road on any given weekend in December for the automobiles were a steady stream coming and going. There was even a point when the mining company decided to charge admission to the town to make more money. But the residents, all of whom owed their living to the mine, stood united in protest outside the mine headquarters, saying they wouldn’t be building any snow sculptures that year if they couldn’t be shared for free with anyone who cared to come by. Needless to say, the mine owners backed down, making money instead by keeping the company store open longer hours and selling hot cocoa and cookies to all who came to see.
But in 1929, the stock market crashed and the depression hit. Even mining towns like Snow were affected, for the price of coal dropped, the company laid off miners, and hope grew dim that there would be food on the table at Christmas time, much less presents for the children.
Nature has a way of not understanding, or at best, ignoring the misfortunes of man, so as luck would have it, snow began falling that year on the day after Thanksgiving. By December First, there was so much snow that cars were almost buried and the school had to close. Fact of the matter was, people weren’t driving their cars much, if they even had one, because the price of gas was a luxury they couldn’t afford.
But the children were delighted not to have school, figuring they could spend the day playing in the sparkling white snow and building their forts and igloos or having snowball fights.
And of course, it was time to start the snow sculptures for which the town was famous.
This year, however, as children began chattering to their parents about helping them, it soon became apparent that the adults in Snow didn’t want to have anything to do with a snow village.
“Why should we make elaborate snow villages so people from the city can spend their money on gas coming out to see them when we barely have enough coal to heat our homes?” some fathers grumbled.
“How can we celebrate the holiday by decorating the town when we don’t have money to feed our children?” another father groused.
“I sure don’t feel like celebrating nothing!” still another man mumbled into his beer at the local pub.
As children are likely to do if parents tell them no, they all got together at the park and decided to spend their days out of school decorating the town as they had been doing since they first could walk while bundled in snowsuits, hats and mittens. Each child made a wish and began rolling and scooping snow into shapes, packing it with mittened hands, adding bits of leaves and twigs, tin cans and yarn. Soon the town once again took on the look of a Christmas village.
As the mothers walked to the company store to spend their last bit of change on a soup bone or loaf of bread, they couldn’t help but smile at the wondrous display of holiday cheer in spite of the dire straits in which most found themselves. Snowmen with coal smiles looked on as the children created a table on which sat empty cans of vegetables and fruit, and a lump of snow that one small boy said was a turkey. A snow lady proudly wore a hat made from an abandoned bird’s nest, and a small snow puppy sat at the end of the table with a stick in its mouth, looking up hopefully to catch a scrap of meat.
A week before Christmas, as the children finished their decorations, Mrs. Carston came into town, driven by her chauffeur in her shiny new automobile. Even though Mr. Carston owned the mine at which all the men in town worked, they didn’t live in Snow. Instead, word had it they had a huge mansion in Wind Gap, where the society was more in standing with those who were very well off.
All the children stared when the automobile stopped right in the middle of the street and Mrs. Carston stepped out. Their mouths dropped open as they gazed upon the beautiful lady wrapped in fur; a silk scarf of the brightest red circling her neck and a wide-brimmed hat perched on her head. She spoke quietly to her driver, who took the car away as she stood alone on the side of the snowy road.
“What have we here?” she asked in a musical voice as she approached the snow table, covered with all manner of cans and old tin plates.
One small boy, too young to know the significance of the lady standing before him, piped up in a clear voice, “We haven’t money for Christmas dinner, so we made a wish to pretend the table was full of real vegetables.”
The lady smiled, although it was a sad smile. “And do you like vegetables so much?”
The little boy shook his head. “No, ma’am, but eating vegetables would be better than nothing at all.”
The pretty lady looked around at the rest of the children, most of whom had not moved from their sculptures. One by one, the lady asked them what they had made.
“Old Mrs. Kinsley needs a shawl to keep her warm,” a blond-headed girl said as she scratched in the fringe on a snow shawl wrapped around a snow woman.
“My little brother needs a coat,” said another, stretching his arms outward from a coat too short in the sleeves to put coal buttons on a small snow boy.
And so it went. The lady spoke to each child in turn, finding that all had helped transform the town into a beautiful snow village of wishes for their friends and family. Except for the little boy who stood with his hand on top of the snow dog’s head.
“I want a puppy,” he told the woman, not looking at her, but instead twisting a scrap of yarn around the dog’s neck like a collar. “But...”
She waited. Slowly the boy turned to face her. “But even if he were mine to take care of, I would share him with my friends and we would all teach him tricks.”
The lady looked around at all the children as her driver came back down the street. “Thank you for sharing your wishes with me,” she said as she removed her scarf and tied it in a bow around the neck of a little snow girl. Then she took off her beautiful feathered hat and perched it jauntily on the head of a snow woman holding a baby.
“I hope each of you have a very Merry Christmas this year.” With that, she turned and climbed back into the black automobile, but the driver didn’t follow. Instead, he reached into the bag he held, and although eyes opened wide and mouths dropped, not a child spoke in all the time it took to give each of them a peppermint stick. And as he started to drive the lady away, the children all began singing We Wish You a Merry Christmas as the long black automobile went slowly down the road and out of town.
* * * *
On Christmas Eve, almost the entire town turned out for midnight mass. The children were to do a program, and candles would be lit in celebration of the birth of Christ. Almost as though it were a tradition, the men left the women to corral the children to the church and they sat in the pub, toasting each other and Mr. Carston, who, just that day, had announced that as of the first of the year, the mine would rehire all those laid off.
Because they were quite jolly about their newfound fortune, they were almost late for church service, and only filed in as the bell began to toll. Since everyone was already there, many of the men stood along the back and even out the doors, huddling close to keep warm as their children’s sweet voices drifted to them in the silence of this most holy night. The service ended with the priest blessing the children and the families, Mr. Carston for keeping the mine open, and the heavenly Father for giving them the faith to carry on in the hardest of times.
As everyone filed out of the church, snow began to fall, the flakes quietly descending to cover the earth with a fresh clean blanket, just as the men felt they were being given a fresh start. But slowly people stopped and stared at the wonder before them. It was only when the children shouted and began to run that everyone started chattering excitedly and hurrying in the wake of their children.
“Santa came!” many of the smallest children shouted.
“It’s a miracle from God!” the whisper rang through the crowd.
For scattered among the snow people and winter wonderland village the children had created were dozens of brightly wrapped packages. In place of the empty tins on the snow table was a virtual feast—cans of vegetables stacked high and baskets of fresh fruit and bread; hams and turkeys and mincemeat pies; even stockings filled with nuts and sweets.
The snow people were draped with heavy coats and scarves and warm hats and mittens in a rainbow of colors. A bright red wool shawl covered the shoulders of a snow woman in place of the icy one made for Mrs. Kinsley.
Toy soldiers and baby dolls were lying at the base of snow children. Sleds and skates stood propped against garden gates. Above all the excitement and everyone’s exclamations of happiness, one little boy heard a dog bark. Hurrying over to the snow dog at the table, he looked down into a wooden crate.
“A puppy!” He reached in and pulled out the floppy-eared, brown and white dog, which had a huge red bow tied around its neck. The puppy licked his face and wiggled happily in his arms.
The older children clambered around, all wanting to hold the squirming puppy.
“She will belong to all of us,” the little boy said, “and we’ll name her Lady.”
All the children cheered, for they knew who the angel of Christmas had been for the village of Snow that year.
Santa and the Lumberjacks
A very long, long time ago, before video games and four-wheelers and even before television, families made each other gifts for Christmas out of what was available to them. Mothers wou
ld make patchwork quilts to keep the children warm at night, and fathers would carve animals and toy tops out of small chunks of wood. Children would take scraps of paper and make paper chains to hang around the house to give it a festive air. On Christmas morning, Santa would leave each child a peppermint stick and perhaps, if they were really good, an orange in their stocking.
But then one year, word reached Santa that a late frost hit the orange orchards, destroying the blossoms and there would be no oranges. Santa didn’t know what he would do for the children he visited. As he walked home through the woods where he lived, he came across a group of lumberjacks, all sitting by the side of the road in tears.
Now Santa was a big, jolly man, but lumberjacks were an even heartier group, and Santa had often seen them felling trees with a single blow of an ax. The men were large enough that it only took one of them to hoist a tree onto a wagon, or toss it into the river to float downstream. So you can understand that seeing these huge men sniffling and wailing was a trifle upsetting for Santa.
“Whatever is wrong?” he asked the first man.
“The forest has been sold; the mill shut down,” the man said. He jerked a hanky out of his pocket that was larger than a blanket and it landed on Santa, covering him from head to foot. As the lumberjack dabbed at his eyes with one corner, Santa struggled out from under the blue fleece.
“What are we to do?” shouted another, stirring up such a wind, it knocked Santa down and blew his hat right off his head where it landed in the snow.
Santa was almost afraid to ask another question.
“Are all of you lumberjacks? Can’t you find other work?”
Christmas Quilt Anthology Page 6