QUIET CHRISTMAS MORNINGS
Don Lively

Don Lively is a retired police officer and freelance writer. He spends his time between Shell Bluff and Charleston. Send comment or questions to Livelycolo@aol.com.

Growing up in the country there were always certain sounds that we came to expect. Even late in the year it was not unusual to hear tractors harrowing under the stalks from the recently harvested cotton or peanuts, or plowing the fields in preparation for some winter

crop.

Back when most roads were still unpaved, the rumble of log trucks hauling their loads, hardwood to the sawmills, pulpwood to the paper factories, was constant. You would often hear the whine of chainsaws off in the distance.

But one day out of the year was different. It was quiet. It was Christmas morning. A near perfect silence punctuated only by the occasional barking of somebody's dog down the road. I remember the quiet.

Thinking back, I'm not sure how we ever fell asleep on Christmas Eve because every year we would hear reindeer clattering on the tin roof. The reindeer made exactly the same sounds as if somebody had thrown rocks up there and about the same time we would hear Daddy outside hollering "Old Sandy Claus has come and gone!" To this day I'm certain it was reindeer, not rocks. After their visit we were way too excited to fall asleep but somehow we did.

Christmas mornings we would wake up early and slip out from underneath the half dozen or so blankets that Mama had piled on us the night before. If necessary, we would make a quick trip down the frosty path to the outhouse, barefoot, then run back into the house to the "front room" to see what Santa had left.

The only sounds were our own laughter and excited chatter. This was the best day of the year! A quiet Christmas morning in the country.

Most Christmases my big brother and I conspired ahead of time to give each other the same toy Army rifle so we knew exactly what one of the wrapped packages was. Our cousin Little VZ was also a part of the plot and we all ended up with the same weaponry with which to re-fight The War in Europe and the Pacific. Forget Viet Nam, we were still fighting the Germans and the Japanese. We made up the perfect unit, one sergeant, one corporal and one private. I was always the private. We spent many Christmas afternoons in combat in the nearby woods.

Little sister always found a baby doll under the tree, the kind that actually cried and wet. She loved to play Mommy. She still does. She raised her own and has helped raised dozens of others, including mine. Little brother always got toy trucks and tractors. Even then he wanted to farm and to this day he can grow anything in any soil. I'm not sure what it says about big brother and me that we wanted toys that we could make war with.

As we got older the gifts got to be more "grown up". I got my first guitar on one of those quiet Christmas mornings. I was so proud! I had looked forward to it for weeks and when it arrived I strapped it over my shoulder and walked all over the community showing it off. I imagined that I was Bob Dylan or Woody Guthrie.

After visiting every cousin, and every aunt and uncle within walking distance, I sat down under a pine tree at Grandma's and found out, for the first time, that I couldn't play a lick. The sounds I made that interrupted the quiet were nothing like those that came from my little transistor radio. I never learned to play but it always looked great hanging off my back.

I remember our Christmas trees were usually the top eight feet of some huge cedar that we found in the woods. There was plenty of room for it under the ten foot ceilings. I remember stockings, actually old large work socks, stuffed with tangerines and nuts. I remember trying to crack open the walnuts and Brazil nuts without crushing the meat inside the shells. I remember finding half eaten cookies and partially consumed cups of coffee on the mantle where we had left the snacks for Santa the night before. Daddy insisted that Santa liked coffee, not milk. I remember that Daddy always bought Mama a new dress that I suspect one of her sisters picked out. I can't imagine that tough old farmer actually clothes shopping. I remember Christmas afternoon gatherings with the extended family including dozens of cousins comparing presents.

I remember that one of the adults, usually Aunt Clara, would always remind us that the day was most importantly the day Christ was born. I remember Christmas carols and Christmas prayers. I remember then, as now, that Christmas his holy.

I remember quiet country Christmas mornings.

Merry Christmas friends and kin and happy birthday Lord.