Monday, July 18, 2011

Tales from the Hogback #10, Smedley's Christmas Adventure

Smedley's Christmas Eve Adventure

There was a strange, burning ache right between Smedley's shoulder blades.  He knew it well.  In fact, whenever he felt the stabbing pain he thought of his childhood.  He and his brothers would make kites, and during the blustery days of March would go out to fly them.  Often Smedley would return with that ache.  "Growing pains," the old folk called it, but he hadn't grown out of it yet. 

"That was a long time ago." thought the parson.

Surveying his situation he knew it was months until March and miles until home.  The ache in his back and the numbness in his toes & fingers only reminded him of the fix he had gotten himself into.

The family had eaten supper early that Christmas Eve.  Jim Bob was sure he knew where that big buck passed just before dark and he wanted to get there in plenty of time, so he would be still and quiet before he came through.  After the meal, Jim Bob left with his shotgun, and the younger Smedleys settled down to read their new books, while Flora Jean cleaned up the kitchen.  There were a couple of hours before the Christmas Eve Service at the little white meeting house, so Parson Smedley decided to go see the Widow Douglas. 

Flora Jean didn't much like the idea.  For one thing, Sairee had pulled up lame earlier in the week, so her husband would have to walk, and for another, she didn't like the look of that sky.

"You worry too much, Flora Jean,"  Smedley said as he put on a canvas slicker over his old black Parson's coat.  The walk'll do me good.  Lord knows I need it after that meal."
Flora Jean was about to say something about the second piece of pie, but Smedley already had the door open.  "I'll see you at the church," then added with a chuckle, "Tell Ole Dead Eye, I'll help 'im skin that buck after the service."

Smedley knew there was more to it than just a sick mule and a threatening sky.  He'd been through it before and wasn't really ready for a round on Christmas Eve.  The Widow Douglas was--well, Smedley put it this way:  "Right many big muckety muck preachers 'n' such is goin' to be might surprised when the crowns is passed out.  They'll be way back yonder 'n' some angel will come 'n' fetch a few of 'em to help that sweet ole lady carry the load a crown's she'll be gettin'"  Flora Jean loved the old saint as much as her husband, but on Christmas Eve? 

"I can't see why that no-account son a her's can't leave that jug alone one night out of the year."  If she had time to talk it out she would have told Smedley to go on with her blessing, but right now she just wanted her husband near.

By the time Smedley arrived at the Douglas house he was more than glad for the fire that Rachel, the widow's kind neighbor, had built in the stove.  Mrs. Douglas knew from the blast of cold air that rushed in and snuck under her quilt that it was cold outside, so she said nothing while the Parson warmed himself by the fire.  She couldn't speak loud enough for him to hear and she knew he was too polite to ignore her, so rather than pull him away from the circle of warmth she just smiled and waited.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Douglas. Don't you look fine this evenin?"

"Oh, this old thing?" she replied, pulling at the collar of the lace gown Rachel had helped her into earlier.  "My Granny did the tatting, afore you wuz born."

"Well, it sure becomes you."

When Smedley pulled out his Testament so that he could read the Christmas story to the dear lady he thought he could see the very star of Bethlehem shine in her eyes.
The warmth of the fire and the glow in his soul warmed the parson as he stepped back out into the cold, but soon the cold had so penetrated that it was no longer something around him it was with him.  It couldn't be ignored.

In fact, his face was so cold that at first he didn't notice the sleet.  Now it was steady and the wind was up, and the moon that the Parson had counted on to light his way to the little White Meeting House was nowhere to be seen.  It was getting harder & harder to follow the trail.  If it hadn't been that the trail followed the bank of the creek with its quiet murmuring, the Parson would have been lost for sure. 
"To get to the meetin' house I got to turn up the hill from the creek after I pass the Machachen's pasture."  Smedley thought he could probably hear the sounds of the cattle and know when he was there.  "But whut am I gonna follow after that?  I might as well be in a sack for all I kin see."  And then there was that ache.  It told Smedley that he was cold--colder than he had been "since I kin remember."

Lonzo Cambell's house was just up a spring branch from the creek.  "I'll probly step in it, afore I know where it is." he thought, but when I get to it, I'll go up there 'n wait this thing out with Lonzo 'n his family. 

"Lord, help Flora Jean to not be worried."  The Parson prayed out loud.   "Remind her that I been out in worse'n 'is--not much worse though, Lord.  Lord help that boy-a mine to be OK.  He's a good'n, Lord, 'n I thank Thee fer 'im."

Sure enough the first notice Smedley had that he had reached the little stream was the sound of his feet splashing water.  It alarmed him that he didn't feel the water that he knew had come in through his old boots.  He realized that meant his feet were very cold.  A worry as persistent as the ache in his neck began to creep into his soul.  This was no longer just a matter of comfort.  Smedley had lived in these rugged mountains long enough to know that he was in real danger.

"Lord, I'm ready to go, but I cain't say that I'm really interested in goin' out in a chunka ice.  It's up to thee, Lord, but I jest want Ya to know that if I have my druthers, I'd like to spend Christmas day with my family.  Lord, you know I meant well, but I should a listened to Flora Jean.  Lord how many times have I had to pray that?"  Thank you, Lord for that woman.  And, Lord, if it please Thee, help me to get out-a this, so I kin see her again.  I reckon she's worried sick right now, Lord.  Help her know your blessed presence.  Amen."

By this time Smedley knew, or thought he knew that he should have seen some light from the Campbell house.  "Surely it cain't be snowin' sa hard that I cain't see the light in their winder."  Smedley reached down to gauge the depth of the snow with his hand.  Not only did his hand come up full of icy, wet snow, but his mind began to fill up with an apprehension that he couldn't talk himself out of.

"All right now," Smedley said aloud, "its dark.  I'm gittin' really cold, and I need to git in somewhere right quick.  If'n I'm gonna freeze I ain't gonna do it standin' here, I'm gonna try to git somewheres.  I reckon it must be snowin' hard enough that I cain't see the light in Lonzo's house, but I know it's just up the branch from the creek, so I'm a gonna keep on goin' thata way."

"Winds dyin' down?"  Smedley thought.  But when he stopped to listen he could still hear the wind moaning in the trees, but it sounded far away.
"Lonzo's house is in a cove where two ridges meet.  It could be that I'm right at it 'n' that's why the wind ain't blowin'.  The rise is blockin' it from where I'm at."

Smedley slowly turned all the way around to see if he could see anything.  Anything that would help him find the shelter he so desperately needed.  He looked hard as if by effort he could cast a light.  Everywhere he looked was blackness, blackness and silence.

"What was that?"  The parson moved in the direction from which he thought he heard the sound.  A few steps, stop and listen, a few more.  His actions reminded him of Jim Bob.  "I wonder if he got that ol' buck?" 

There it was again.  Smedley stood until he imagined the snow would pile around his feet preventing him from ever moving again.  His ear searched the night for the sound.  Yes, without a doubt.  It was the snort of an animal, the kind one makes to blow the dust out of its fodder.  Could it be?  Smedley moved now with purpose and speed.  In fact, his speed was such that he ran smack into the fence around Lonzo's stock lot. 

"Best bruised shin I ever got!"  thought Smedley as he followed the fence to the barn.  When the rail met the building Smedley climbed over and felt along the wall until he came to the door. 

It was even darker inside, or it seemed so.  Maybe it was just because Smedley knew that the shelter would block whatever light there was outside, so he imagined it was darker.  Most important it was warmer, or maybe less cold would be a better description.  Smedley stopped again and listened. 

"Must be several head a cattle in here.  I wonder if ole Babe is here?"  Babe was an enormous and equally ancient Ox.  Lonzo should have killed him for the stew pot years ago.  Now he was so old and tough he wouldn't even do for that, but still, Lonzo let him take up space in the barn and eat corn and hay that could have gone to productive beasts.  Babe and Thunder had pulled the logs that became the Cambell house.  They had pulled the first plow that broke this ground.  They had hauled the corn to the crib after the first harvest.  Lonzo said, "I figger I owe my life to those beasts many times over.  It jest wouldn't do to eat one of 'em."  So he cared for them like old family members.  Thunder was buried out behind the barn where Babe would soon join him.

Smedley was vaguely aware of all that, but right now Babe represented something far more important.  The old Ox represented heat, heat in a body so old and slow that Smedley wouldn't have to worry about getting gored or kicked in the dark. 

"That sounds like 'im."  Smedley thought.  He reached between the rails into the stall and sure enough his hand landed on the huge head.  "Steady ol' boy.  I ain't gonna make you do anythin'.  I jest wanna sit with ya fer a spell."  Babe snorted as if in reply. 

With the old horse blanket and tow sack that he'd found as he felt his way around Smedley entered the stall.  Wrapping himself as best he could he got as close to the ancient beast as he could.

"I reckon I'll jest hav'ta wait this out." 

"Meow." 

Feeling a cat rub against his leg would normally have caused Smedley to shoo it away, but tonight with a heart full of gratitude Smedley reached and picked up the bundle of warm fur. 

"Well Mrs. Cat, if you knew what I normally think of your kind, you'd have nothing to do with me, but I must confess I sure am glad to see ya tonight."

Maybe the cat was cold, too, but for whatever reason she offered no resistance when Smedley lowered her down into his coat.

"Lord, I believe I'm gonna make it now.  Thank you fer' lettin' me find this barn, 'n' thank ya fer keepin ole Babe alive long enough to provide me with some heat, 'n', Lord, I didn't think I'd ever say it, but I thank thee fer this cat."  Lord, don't let my loved ones be too worried.  Warm their hearts jest like your warmin' me. . .  "

He didn't finish.  Soon, the preacher’s snores were mingled with the cat's purr and the ox's wheezing old breath.  While outside the storm blew out its fury, in a pocket of pungent warmth the Parson slept.

He had no way of knowing how long he had slept.  He awoke, stiff from the awkward position, with the knowledge that something was different.  The wind--it had died to perfect peace.  And through a crack in the wall he could see a star--brilliant, piercing, wonderful.  Life is never so precious as when we come near to losing it.  Smedley was still a little cold.  What warmth he had came from himself and an ox and a cat.  He smelled of manure and horse and ox, and "Only the good Lord knows what." but he was glad--very glad--to be alive.

Then it dawned on him:  It was Christmas Eve.

"Away in a manger no crib for a bed.
The little Lord Jesus lay down His sweet head.
The stars in the sky looked down where he lay.
The little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay."

All at once all the cracks on that side of the barn were filled with light. 

"Cain't be angels?  Can it?"  thought the parson, as he threw off his wrap and scurried out between the rails.  He threw open the door to be greeted by the chorus,

"Merry Christmas, preacher."

The yard was full of horses and dogs and men--angels all.  Before he knew it they had him on the back of a horse.  They made the short ride over a rise to the Cambell house.  Warm fire, hot soup, dry clothes, what luxury the preacher thought.

"Yer, welcome to stay preacher, but I reckon you'll be wantin' to git home to yourn afore Christmas mornin’."  Lonzo said, and nothing would do him but to hook up the team and take the preacher home.

_____

Smedley and Flora Jean just sat by the fire the rest of the night.  Smedley told about his adventure.  Flora Jean just listened, her eyes reflecting the gratitude to God that her husband had been spared.

It was a joyful Christmas morning at the Smedley household--a hearty breakfast, simple gifts given out of love shared with one another, the story of Christmas read from the Bible.  The morning became a wonderful day.  Neighbors and church members stopped by to share their greeting.  All were amazed at the parson's tale and grateful for his deliverance.

All day long Smedley had gladly kept the fire going.  Now in the evening, he sat and watched the flames dance, and thought.  "Flora Jean wus right.  It was foolish to go all the way out to the Widder Douglas' house when the weather was threatenin' the way it wus.  A feller's got to use some sense." 

Smedley heard the knock on the door, but let one of the others get it.  In a moment, though, by the way Flora Jean placed her hand on his shoulder Smedley knew he better come.  It was Rachel, the woman who looked after Mrs. Douglas. 

Smedley knew before she spoke.  When Rachel came this morning to fix Mrs. Douglas breakfast she found her in her bed, still wearing the special gown, cold and still.

"I saw her last night, parson.  After that storm kicked up I went over to check on her.  She was fine.  I put some wood on the fire.  She told me she was glad you had come."

------

"Why don't you come on to bed?"  Flora Jean coaxed.

"I will just as soon as I put some more wood on this fire." 

As Smedley starred into the flames, he knew that he couldn't answer the question that had hung around him all day.  Should he have left home and gone out last night?  He didn't know.  The thought of the pain that he had almost cost his family pierced his heart like the ache last night had penetrated his back, yet to be the bringer of joy to a dear saint on Christmas Eve, her last night on earth, the thought of that warmed Smedley's heart as the fire warmed his skin.

"Lord, I reckon I ain't smart enough to figure this one out, but I know that you left all for me.  Help me Lord to realize that there ain't no way to serve you without me leavin' somethin', too. 
Amen 'n' good night.

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