Why I believe

First of all, let me say that we are mountain folks, Appalachians and have been in the Appalachian Mountains since the 1750s. Mountain folks are simple, soft spoken and on the quiet side (I broke out of that mold). My Daddy fit that mold perfectly. He spoke little, was not one to say things like "I love you" or "I'm proud of you". He used to kid that he told Mama he loved her when they got married and if that changed he would let her know.

Mama was the gift giver, the hugger, the talker. She was the one who decorated lavishly for the holidays, especially Christmas. She was the one who bought the presents, who read us stories. Daddy just "hmmphed" when we talked about Santa and Christmas. He watched us open presents, but never went on and on about them like Mama did.

Christmas was a wonderful time, a time of food, comfort food, mountain food... family - yes lots and lots of family gatherings AND presents. Big extended families always meant lots of presents. Many were simple, many family members had little to give but everyone gave what they could. My Grandma was the best. She started buying right after Christmas so every single person had a gift under her tree.

After the family gatherings on Christmas Eve we would come home, my little brother and I would get PJs on and with the awe of a child pour a glass of milk and put out two - exactly two cookies (one from each of us). Mama told us we had to be in bed and asleep for Santa to come. We giggled and snickered, promising each other we would stay awake though we never really did.

Each Christmas I remember hearing the jingle of sleigh bells and the sound of hooves hitting our roof. I just was never able to wake up enough to go to the window and look. Sometimes we would be up at 3:00 am trying to open the presents Santa left.

Then when I was 11 years old my Daddy brought home a helicopter with a 3 foot cable and a crank on the end. He would crank like crazy and the helicopter would fly! It was a Daddy toy and he would put it up high in a closet so we couldn't get at it.

In the summer our next door neighbor Kitty took care of us while Mama and Daddy worked. I couldn't get that helicopter off my mind and told Kitty I needed to go in our house to get something. I suspected Daddy had hidden his helicopter in the tall shelved closet at the end of the hallway.

I went in and down the hallway, opened the doors to the closet and used the shelves as a ladder. When I was at the top I hung on with one hand and felt around the top shelf with the other. Several things fell out with a jingle and jangle.

I looked down... and climbed down. There in the pile of things from the top shelf were sleigh bells. I picked them up and shook them and immediately recognized the jingle I heard each Christmas as I fell into slumber. I was horrified. I was betrayed. My childhood came crashing down around my ears. I put everything back, knowing that what the bigger boys said had to be true. There was no Santa.

I never told my little brother, didn't tell anyone. I did determine to stay awake Christmas Eve and look out the window. I figured it was my Mom. She was the one that decorated and went on and on about Christmas.

The year went quickly, too quickly for an 11 year old who had grown up too fast. I was quiet during the Christmas Eve celebrations. I obediently helped pour the milk and put out exactly 2 cookies, knowing it was for naught, wondering who actually would eat them.

Mama told us we had to go to sleep so Santa could come. I teared up and cried in my pillow a bit, knowing big boys didn't cry. I cried because I knew Santa wouldn't really be there.

I stayed awake, waiting. I was going to look out this time, see the lie in person... maybe look my Mom in the eye.

After my little brother was sleeping soundly my Mama looked in. I breathed slowly, pretending to be asleep. She left. The front door opened and closed quietly.

Then the sound of sleigh bells and the thumping that I always thought was tiny reindeer hooves landing on the roof.

I quietly got out of bed. The bedroom door was open a crack and I looked out. Mama was quietly putting presents under the tree. So, who was jingling the sleigh bells?

I ran on tiptoes to my window, pushed back the curtains just enough to look out. And there he was, he was real!

There stood my Daddy, coat on, cigarette in his mouth as he made snowballs and threw them on the roof, one after another in a pattern that the next day would look like 8 reindeer had landed. Occasionally he would shake the sleigh bells quietly so 2 little boys would hear them in their sleep. The whole time he had the biggest grin on his face.

Somehow the mantle of Santa had wrapped itself around my Daddy that night as he stood there. It wrapped itself around that simple mountain man and he was transformed in my little 11 year old heart. My Daddy WAS Santa that night.

The next morning I watched Daddy closer. He had a quiet smile on his face as little brother and Mama went on and on about Santa. I never told anyone about that night for years.

Many years later I asked Daddy for those sleigh bells when I had a little girl named Kelly. I told Daddy the story I am telling you. He got up, went to his closet and brought them to me with tears in his eyes. I hugged Santa right then and there and told him I loved him. He told me "same here". As I drove home the power of who I was to become hit me and I wept. My Daddy had passed a heritage of quiet love along to me.

That Christmas I waited till my little one was asleep, The mantle of Santa fell on me as I quietly went outside and began to throw snowballs on the roof and occasionally jingled the sleigh bells.

My little one is grown now, the sleigh bells are still in my closet but they still have the same magic. Occasionally I shake them, hear them jingle...

And I believe all over again.

Memories of Lone

As Christmas approaches, folks often stop and think of the warm memories of family, food and presents wrapped and waiting under a tree. I often wonder if those who knew my family shudder in their remembering as they think of the two little heathen hillbilly youngin’s my folks raised.

Christmas was a perfect season for little boys to get into trouble. We did our best, though, as we tried to be good and stay on Santa’s “good boys and girls” list. Getting up at 3:00 am on Christmas morning doesn’t count. We made it past Santa’s visit, so we were okay! Smelling the perfumed Avon hand cream, telling Mama how good it smelled and then pushing it up and into her nose AND nostrils as she smelled it is something that could have been an accident.

What hounded me, what haunted me each year of my childhood were four red elves made of ceramic. They each held their bodies in poses worthy of an acrobat as they formed the letters “NOEL” with their arms, legs and bodies. Mama would sit them on the mantle at Christmas where they would call to me, mock me with their little painted on smiles and oh so perfect spelling… “NOEL”.

At some point every year I would sneak in and rearrange the elves to spell “LONE”. Sometimes it took days, other times just hours for Mama to see the rebel elves and rearrange them correctly. I would rearrange them time after time, sometimes dozens of times in one Christmas season. It was a battle to see who eventually won on Christmas Eve. I went to bed more than once giggling because I knew Santa would see “LONE” as soon as he came down the chimney. More than once I rushed into the living room and found the elves rearranged to “NOEL”, apparently by Santa himself.

Even into my high school and college years I fought the battle with the elves and would rush home from college just to change their twisted bodies to my rebellious “LONE”. There was something like poetry in it. I felt like the beatnik poet standing before an unappreciative crowd reading a cerebral piece few understood and fewer respected.

Mama was never sure exactly who did it. It was a silent battle fought on the mantle of our home. For most of those years I didn’t think Daddy even knew. I thought he just didn’t notice. I thought that until 1977, the year after Daddy and Mama moved to Cherokee Lake in Tennessee to enjoy an early retirement.

As we all aged, our family no longer gathered as we did years before. I try to be the one who holds the families of our clan together with calls, visits and planned parties. It became more difficult as children and grandchildren grew up and scattered. Knowing that my folks couldn’t be with the rest of the family for Christmas was always sad and back in ‘77 I decided to spend a few days with them before Christmas day.

As I sat with Daddy and watched a program on TV, Mama hurried out the door to get to the grocery and buy all the fixings for a huge ham dinner. We sat watching the TV for about 30 minutes after she left. Daddy finally looked over with a crooked smile and said, “Well, you better get to work if you are going to do anything with them elves”. He nodded toward the bookcase across the room to four red ceramic elves. Their mocking faces were almost pleading for my touch. I quickly got up, rearranged the elves to spell out “LONE” and sat back down. Within minutes Mama was home and the elves were forgotten.

As I left for home on Christmas Eve, I hugged Daddy and Mama and looked over Mama’s shoulder to see that the elves were still in the positions I left them. I went home victorious that year, with a little help from my Daddy.

He is gone now and Mama isn’t sure what ever happened to the “NOEL” elves. I would love to have them, to place them on my mantle, always spelling “LONE” just because of the silly memories of my childhood. I wonder how many years Daddy knew it was me moving the elves? That disciplinarian Daddy, who made me walk the straight and narrow, turned his head for all those years to allow me that piece of fun.

So, in the spirit of the season, here is wishing you wonderful memories of “LONE”.