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The following article was published in the Charleston Post & Courier's Business Major, a featured monthly column in the Business Review Section on December 10, 1999. When Christmas lasted longer than just one dayBY DOROTHY P. MOORE Special to the Post and Courier My father-in-law, William J. Moore, now 97 years old, wrote this story in 1989, and it has been a family heirloom ever since. It celebrates Christmas holidays in Mocksville, North Carolina, probably between 1907 and 1909. In later life he would become a corporate executive, a business consultant, and an entrepreneur. Whether any of these accomplishments exceeded the joy of those long ago Christmas holidays is doubtful. We made no effort in those days to compress Christmas into one day. Beginning about Thanksgiving we reached for Christmas and daily could feel the warmth beginning to glow. By December the fire was brighter and gaining. Other holidays meant little in comparison. My brother Paul, my older sister Clara and I talked about Christmas for we could see the evidence mounting in the kitchen. Hot food was never skimpy at our house but these days before Christmas Mama collected currents, citron, glazed fruits, candied pineapple, figs, raisins, English walnuts and other materials for the Rocky Mountain fruit cake. I remember walking into the warm kitchen where Mama mixed our own white flour, sifted time and again with the hand sifter and added fresh butter from our churn to those delicious things she knew so well how to put together. The cakes were large round layers almost one inch thick and covered with half an inch of ground fruit and stacked four layers high with filling separating each layer. The chocolate cakes were baked into similar size layers which were separated by ample icing and covered with dark fudge, thick and sweet. The top and outside of the coconut cake were completely covered with sweet fresh coconut which had been made by cracking the coconut shell with a hammer and peeling the dark fiber from the white meat with a sharp knife. The pieces of coconut were hand shredded into long thin curly strips. There was always coconut milk left over, this we were given to drink. A rich looking pound cake without icing would be added to the supply. This was my father's favorite. Now came pumpkin pies made from the pumpkins grown in our big garden, cut up, peeled, stewed into bright yellow filling and poured into pans lined with pie dough. Dinners were slowly getting themselves together for the days before and during Christmas. Grain fed, fat hens of eight or nine pounds would be parboiled and roasted a golden brown to be served with rich gravy over corn bread dressing. Home made jams, jellies, sweet potatoes baked in the shell and candied in the dish would be served with many other delicious vegetables. There was a large variety of home made pickles including peeled peaches, pickled sweet and spicy. To keep all these things proper company there were breads, hot biscuit, corn bread, home made salt rising and large yeast made loaves. The Parker House rolls with slightly brown tops standing high above the edges of the pan were so light you could almost blow the center out of them. We did not know the word but our anticipation was increasing. Even when we were small our parents had channeled us to the Methodist Church and Sunday School. A few days before Christmas, this attendance in our eyes began to pay dividends. This is how I happened to be sitting on the bench with my brother in the church listening to children large and small recite short Christmas stories and poems. Our sister Clara was on the bench with the girls. The last recitation ended, we stood up and with the other children walked up to the rail and were handed a medium size paper bag. We grasped the twisted top of the bag which was about half full, marched up the aisle and out the church door headed for home. Among other things, the bag contained an orange, an apple, one tangerine, a bunch of cluster raisins, an oversize striped stick of candy, chocolate drops and some hard mix candy. To understand the true value of this treasure you must know that at no other time in the year did we see an orange, a tangerine or the raisins except these and what Santa Claus might bring. You shared most things with your brother and sisters without question but this was your very own, you shared with nobody. You ate some and strung this tasty treasure over as many days as you could. The second great joy of Christmas had arrived, the treat, and there was more to come. A few years later some wise adult got the idea that treats should be discontinued and we should bring a package wrapped in white to be given to the poor. The joy of helping the poor never equaled our loss of the treat. The spacious rooms in our house were being decorated for Christmas. We had two immense holly trees in the front yard. The one on the south side had bright green leaves and the other on the north side had leaves with shiny red berries. From the woods a short distance down the lane below Mr. Young's house we brought running cedar, mistletoe, evergreens, cedar boughs and sometimes small branches filled with red maple leaves. These brightly decorated rooms furnished the proper setting for Santa Claus who we knew would arrive unseen and unheard except perhaps a tiny sleigh bell from a reindeer stomp on the roof. We talked about him and hung onto every word everyone else said or read to us about him, that is Santa Claus. No St. Nick nor shortcut names, pure Santa Claus. So jolly, so bright, so dependable, we were ready and waiting. We had never seen him but he knew us and he would be here this very night. Only exhaustion would put us to sleep, maybe as late as half past nine. The morning I popped awake in an instant. Tucked under layers of quilts next to my brother I was snug and warm in this cold upstairs room. In total darkness I knew it was here, it was Christmas. I lay still letting the quiet happiness circle all around me, fill the air, the room, it was pure joy. I could have walked on it without touching the floor. I found my brother was wide awake too, but he had said nothing. It was time for action. We went across the dark upstairs hall, down the long cold stair steps into the large front room. There was no light except the big fire in the fireplace that flickered light and shadows on the chairs and walls of the room. We could see our stockings hanging full from the mantle. Mama made no effort to get a robe or shoes on us until we had that long filled stocking in hand, our very own and personally stuffed by Santa Claus who had come and gone while we slept. One by one things came out of the stocking, an orange, the second one I had seen this year, an apple, some Brazil nuts, English walnuts, Filberts and hard mix candy. Near the top was a mud pig, baked china, with a slot in his back and rattling inside were four silver half dollars. Once before in my life I had temporarily had wealth but here it was again, totally unexpected. Next came a toy six or seven inches long, made of two tiny wood slats separated by another slat near the bottom and fastened together at the top by a strong twisted string. A little multicolored cardboard clown, with his hands hooked on the string hung below with arms and legs attached to the body so they moved freely. By depressing the bottom of the sticks the clown rose in the air, swung over the top, came back or stopped in mid air as you wished by depressing or loosening pressure on the sticks. He could stand directly on his head over the top supported by outstretched arms for an indefinite period. No one but Santa Claus could have ever thought up such a joy giving toy and if he had bought it at the store it would have cost Santa Claus fifteen cents. By the time we had reached the bottom of the stocking it was still black night outside as we bundled into our coats and caps to head across the yard to Mr. Young's. It was always our hope to get to Mr. Young's before he got up. Mr. Young, though not related to us, was a sort of adopted grandfather, friend, advisor and refuge in time of trouble or happiness. Today we tipped across the long porch, turned the door knob of the door which was never locked and yelled "Merry Christmas." Mr. Young was already sitting in his chair beside the big fire burning in the grate. The Rayo lamp stood on a beautiful old table before the fire. It had held lamps for many years as the table had belonged to Mr. Young's mother. A small Christmas tree stood on a covered box, its limbs hung with ropes of popcorn and colored ornaments, many hand made. There was a present for each of us, Paul and Clara. These were in Christmas packages with an unwrapped toy for each. Mr. Young had set one of his music boxes to playing soft music. We loved these for he told us they came from Europe many years before. We had Christmas at home and another at Mr. Young's immediately thereafter and it was not yet daylight. A few years later when my two younger sisters, Mary Ella and Amy, had added enough years to run fast in the dark, they joined the trip to Mr. Young's. We gave Mr. Young his presents and headed across the dark yard to our back porch and into the dining room. Breakfast was on the large table which was covered by a snow white table cloth and lighted by an oil lamp. We bowed our heads as Papa returned thanks and even though we had sampled a few chocolate drops we were ready for hot biscuits broken into halves and covered with ham gravy. The plate included a slice of country ham and an egg from the abundance of our hen house. As I walked to the fireplace after breakfast, I knew Christmas was here at last, the greatest day of all the year. I was ready to enjoy it for a long time, maybe as much as eighty years. I must add one other incident to this Christmas. After breakfast my father walked across Mr. Young's yard, through the back lot and a hundred yards down the lane. He stopped in the woods at the two room house whose foot high foundation timbers rested on four large corner rocks allowing a clear view of the bare wind swept ground underneath the floor. The house was made of rough sawed lumber never planed smooth and unpainted inside and out. In answer to his knock the door opened and he went inside where a man, his wife and two small children were near the fire. The two children were on the floor in front of the fireplace with about a quart of raw peanuts poured on the hearth. Wanting the children to have Christmas the father paid five cents for the peanuts at Mr. Call's store. He had no more money. Papa gave them the large burlap bag he had brought which was filled with food, some children's clothing and two toys. When Papa came back I listened until he had finished telling my mother what had happened. I was overwhelmed with sadness and pity for the family but I was too young to question how Santa Claus could have missed these children. I tell you this now because it is part of this Christmas and the memory also has lived for eighty years. For Questions/Comments about this site, contact moored@citadel.edu. Site designed by Jackye Cocoros. |