The Christmas Program from . . .

A table of contents of stories from Hogback Ridge, featuring Parson Smedley 

An Introduction to Hogback Ridge and Parson Smedley

The Christmas Program from . . .

When Smedley went out to saddle-up Sairee, the sky had an angry look about it. Smedley’s dark mood kept him from paying much attention to the weather and prevented Flora Jean from pressing her objection. “He’s been out in worse,” she thought. “I reckon that mule’s got sense enough to get both of ‘em home, even if he doesn’t.” As Smedley rode up the lane, Flora Jean said a prayer for the man she loved. “The fact is,” she thought, “I can use some time without a man underfoot. I’ve got bakin’ to do.”

The top of Peter’s Knob, was the best place for a man to clear his head and Smedley’s head sure needed clearing. Taking the bridle off his mule—he figured this head-clearing would take a while--he gave her a clear warning, “Don’t you go wanderin’ off, Sairee. I done had enough messed up business to last me well into the New Year.” Sairee twitched her ears like she always did when the Parson talked to her. She spoke mule fluently and she had learned enough human to get along. Her vocabulary was limited but she understood tone quite well, and the Parson’s tone was clear. Besides, there was late-season grass on the knob and a hollow in the rock held some water from yesterday’s rain. Smedley was glad she stayed put. He only wished he could talk his thoughts into doing the same.

“Lord, that was the absolute worstest program I ever saw, heard of, or ‘magined.” Smedley took turns praying, pacing, staring at the darkening sky, and having conversations with upwards of half a dozen people, none of whom were present. One of them was Rev. Loggins, the Pastor who had taught Smedley so much about preaching, leading a flock, and loving on folks. Rev. Loggins surprised Smedley when he said, “Sounds like it was the Christmas program from the place of Divine eternal retribution.”

“Exactly,” Smedley replied, “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Chuckling for a moment at the thought that he had, in fact, said it himself.

Smedley had felt ill at ease about the program for the last week or so. Flora Jean had tried to reassure him about it. She was almost always right, and she never lied to her husband, but she sure missed this one! Smedley still couldn’t lay a finger on what had troubled him. It was, “just something in my gizzard,” he said. His concern had led to him checking on everything. “Ever-thing looks good,” he had mused, but still . . .”

Missy Bedletter and Kora Jo Danning had done a bang-up job. They wrote up the play themselves and had Opal mimeograph copies down at the school. They’d brow-beaten their husbands into gathering up the children and bringing them to the practices in their buggy and wagon. They found out Horace Smithers was home from Erkin College and corralled him into playing the music. He made that old wheezy pump organ sound like one of those five-acre pipe organs at one of the rich folk’s churches down in Charlotte. They even got the Hogback Ridge Quilting Society to make the costumes. One of the robes was more patches than what was patched, but Missy just named that character “Joseph” and wrote in a line about his robe being just like his name-sake.

In short, in spite of the Parson’s doubts it looked like Flora Jean was right, “Everything’s going to be all right,” she said, and then added with a tone like she’d just held the Rook to be sure she won the last trick, “there’s nothin’ you can do about it anyhow.”

The debacle—Smedley had just read that word in a book and thought it fit well—started right at the beginning. Edna McClosky had insisted at the last minute that her grandson, L. Buxton McClosky, who had just arrived from Chicago for a Christmas visit, have a part in the play. Missy and Kora Jo had tried to put her off, and truth be told, it didn’t look like young McClosky was all that interested anyhow, but Edna insisted, and she was the best insister anywhere in these parts. They gave Buxton two lines. He was to welcome the crowd at the beginning and tell them cookies were waiting at the end of the program. Altogether, all he had was about fifteen words to remember, but he didn’t remember.

Dressed in the Windy City’s finest L. Buxton made his way to center stage, and just stood and grinned. After a time, Edna began to mouth his lines for him, but to no avail. “Never has so little, been forgotten so thoroughly, by one so well-encouraged,” Smedley said to his invisible guests. Finally, Smedley had stood up and welcomed the folk, to which L. Buxton replied, for all to hear, “Yeah, what he said.”

It was downhill from there.

A. J. Smith’s lamb that was as “gentle as a kitten,” suddenly became as wild as a bobcat. It took ten minutes to catch it. Instead of the shepherds abiding in the field, they laughed on the stage.

Rodney Pickens had that look in his eye—you know the look that says, “I’m up to something.” When the wisemen showed up, much to Missy and Kora Jo’s horror, the look had spread to his whole face. They knew they’d better do something, but before they could, he and his two companions broke into song, “We three kings of orient are, trying to smoke a loaded seegar.” All three wisemen, suddenly turned into wise guys, whipped out what looked like real stogies and yelled, “Boom.”

Three mothers mortified and angry, hauled the three not so wise boys outside for a serious conversation, which everyone in the congregation heard clearly. The summary is, “Whack, whack, whack, to which the suddenly contrite boys, replied, “Ow, OW, wail!” Herod winced at every “Whack,” causing his crown to come loose and fall to the floor. It fell in something the errant lamb had left behind.

That was when Smedley got up and did some serious ad-libbing. He was pretty sure nobody heard a word he said. He was even more confident that that was just as well. Smedley was actually glad that L. Buxton not only forgot his closing line as thoroughly as he had his first but also forgot to even to step out of the shadow where he’d been instructed to wait. Finally, Kora Jo, much flustered, stood up and ended the program as well as she could. “Thank you and good night.” The two program directors and Smedley weren’t in any mood for Cookies, even though some of them were Smedley’s favorite, peanut butter. So, the crowd just left, boys trying to stifle chuckles, mother giving the look that said, “Don’t even think of it,” many heads wagging, and one forlorn parson looking for a place to hide.

The sky had gotten darker and the air colder, as Smedley thought, prayed and carried both ends of the multiple conversations. He was so involved with all that was in his head that he didn’t hear the automobile crunching up the gravel road. At first, he thought the voice behind him was one of the characters who had shared the saddle with Smedley on the trip up the crooked road. But none of the people in Smedley’s head called him Reverend. “Reverend Smedley,” the voice said, and then Smedley heard the unmistakable sound of teeth chattering.

All, at once Smedley realized that it was really getting cold. Snow was almost certain to fall. As he turned to see where the very real voice and chattering were coming from, he saw a man, maybe in his thirties, dressed in the garb of a banker or some such, no top coat, no hat or gloves, and shoes that clearly weren’t up to keeping ones feet warm on this blustery December Day.

“Brother, what are you doing out on a day like this, dressed as you are?” As Smedley spoke he grabbed an old blanket he kept rolled up and tied to Sairee’s saddle, “for emergencies.” The man wrapped himself in the blanket and recovered a bit before he answered.

“I just drove up from the Mile Long Bridge.”

Smedley eyed the car and noticed it was a touring car. “That’s, what, five miles from here? No wonder you’re cold. Why would you go to Mile Long Bridge on a day like this, and why would go dressed like you are? Didn’t you know you’d be froze afore you got back home?”

Smedley wondered because the Mile Long Bridge wasn’t a bridge you could drive on. It was a swinging bridge. It was nowhere near a mile long, but when the wind was whistling up Wildcat Gap, like it would today, it seemed at least that long. There were a couple of hard-scrabble farm families who lived on Freeman’s Ridge who used the bridge to get back and forth. Other than some hunters, nobody else ever crossed it. Clearly, the cold stranger who had suddenly appeared was neither farmer nor hunter. What could have compelled him to go to such a place on such a day?

“I wasn’t planning to go back home. I went there to jump off.” The stranger said, flatly.

The very thought sent shivers up Smedley’s spine. “What in the world for?” Smedley asked the stranger.

“This morning I showed up at the insurance office, where I work, like I always do. The boss met me at my desk. I knew what he had to say, before he said it. “This just isn’t working out,” he said. “I need you to pack up your belongings. See Molly,” she’s the accountant, “before you go, she’ll settle up with you.” My wife’s pregnant. I’m behind on my mortgage. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“Well, I’m sure glad you changed your mind. That jump would have made you a goner for sure and that wouldn’t a helped yer wife a bit, but if you don’t mind me asking, what caused you to change your mind?”

“It was something you said last night.”

“Something I said,” Smedley said, amazed and wondering out loud. “What’d I say?”

“You said something about how last night didn’t work out the way you planned. You said, “Life’s like that, ain’t it? But here’s what’s fer sure. Make sure you hold onto this.” Then you read some Bible verse, something sixteen.”

“John 3:16,” Smedley said, not because he remembered, but because he knew that’s what he hoped he had said.

“Yeah, that’s it. God so loved, that He gave His Son. I was try’n to figure out which side of the bridge to jump off of. Ain’t that crazy? ‘N I thought a that. Kinda seemed like the wind was a talkin’ to me, howlin’ at me really, “Siiiixxxteeeen.” Anyhow, I figured if you could say something about love after that mess, maybe I oughta give things another try. I saw yer mule as I was drivin’ by I hoped it was you, so I pulled . . .”

“I don’t think I saw you, last night.” Smedley interrupted.

“Nah, I came in late ‘n sat in the back. My nephew was one of the shepherds. I got there on my way home from work.”

The icy blast that sent a shiver down Smedley’s spine brought him out of his head-shaking wonderment. “Well, say, what is your name?”

“Pete, Pete Dumford.”

“Well, Pete, if we don’t get you off’n this knob, soon, it’ll be April afore we get this car down & we’ll both be plum froze. We need ta talk some more, but not here. Tell ya what. You keep that blanket wrapped around ya ‘n head on down this road the way you was goin. Go right at the fork. My house is the first place on the right.” As he spoke Smedley wrote something on a scrap of paper he’d fished out of his pocket, with the stub of a pencil he always carried. “Give this to my wife, Flora Jean, tell her I’ll be down directly.”

It was way past bedtime, but Smedley just sat rocking, enjoying the warm fire and the satisfaction that came from the half-dozen peanut butter cookies, he’d eaten while he talked with Pete. “Lord, who-da thunk. . .” Smedley’s thoughts were interrupted by the hand on his shoulder. Flora Jean enjoyed the warmth of the fire and greater warmth in her heart for a moment. Smedley felt the warmth from the fire soak into his bones, and the reflection of the flames in Flora Jean's eyes warmed Smedley’s soul.

After a time she smiled and said, “I told you it would be all right.”

And it was.