A White Christmas

Winter storms were tough in the Oklahoma hills, and as a child I cherished the days I could see a few inches of white gold piled in blankets around the little farmhouse.  I remember days of longing to see a white Christmas.  But those occasions were very rare, because most of the time wind, rain or ice prevailed instead of snow, bringing treacherous moments to those who were thrust out into the icy elements for survival.

However, the ice storms were an exhibition of untainted grandeur: just to be able to observe the encrusted diamonds on the frost bitten branches of the trees. But at the same time the cold winds could rip a person into shreds.   Three to five inches of the powdery white organic beauty would have been a welcomed sight.

But over these past nearly 30 years, of living in the northern country, I have experienced many white Christmases.  This morning as I gazed out my back patio window, there was the beauty of God’s creation that spoke to me in unbelievable ways.  I no longer have to dream of a white Christmas.  I just sit and look out the window of this snowy splendor, and thank God for his many blessings to me throughout this past year, and all through my life.

In reminiscing over those days many years ago, I was reminded of what life was like growing up on that little farm.   I decided to pull out chapter 2, a short story taken from a description of memories of the first 14 years of my life. 

Chapter 2

A LIFE REMEMBERED

Life was hard on that little Country farm carved out of ten acres in the Oklahoma Hills. But a backward glance would reveal how wonderful it would be just to relive the peace and tranquility of those early years.

It was cold in the winter especially early morning before the little wood stove could be stoked up. It rested gracefully on the linoleum rug of the living room floor, which doubled as his mother and Dad's bedroom. This rug, with its years of ware and tare showed lines where the pine boards crept right through the oil painted figures. The cracks and knot holes in the pine board flooring served as a vacuum cleaner and left space enough to suck the dust right out of the house and on to the ground.  Folded newspapers were found placed around window facings to keep out the chilly winds. The house where traveler was born was only three rooms not three bedrooms.  In his day, homes were judged by the number of rooms they possessed; not the number of bedrooms.   And in his case, there was no bathroom, no running water, and no gas heating. A dug well stood about 50 feet from the back door, with a rope to draw up buckets of water as needed. But on many occasion, the rope would break which meant that water had to be carried by hand from a near by brook, or water from the stock pond, which was used for baths and washing clothes. A large galvanized tub sat on the back porch, under the drains of the roof to catch rainwater to be used for taking baths. In the summer time or in warm weather, the bathtub was moved under the maypop vines that grew from the ground below the porch and served as curtains while the children took their baths. But it was home for five children, mother, dad and grandma who had lost her husband years before. Later a couple of rooms were added on to the little dwelling, which made space for an uncle and a new little brother, to move right in with them. At about the same time his oldest brother left for the army. Now with five children at home, mother, dad, grandma and uncle are all under the same roof.

It was extremely cold, when the children had to get out in the rain or snow to take care of the few farm animals. After that, they headed to the wood stove to warm and wait their turn at the family wash pan and water bucket before getting a good warm breakfast and catching the old rattle trap bus to go some ten miles to school. But life was grand. It was enjoyable in spite of the hard times. And the problems people face in the city today in this hurry-scurry society sometimes makes us wish we could experience those cold crisp mornings once again.

There was nothing like the springtime. Summers were very hot and humid, but spring and fall were heaven on earth. Traveler would never forget those warm nights out in the front yard listening to his grandma's tales of her early life or to the odd spelling of bumblebee, by an old uncle who lived in a little one room cabin about 200 yards from the back door. At the same time the traveler’s oldest brother would fly through the air turning a flip after jumping off the top of the house and landing feet first on the grass. He had to impress the family with his somersaulting skills, which he probably learned on the telltale diving tower constructed of logs and a single wooden board in the family stock pond. And who could forget those fun filled days of fishing with the family as often as possible from this little pond, or swimming if the water was clear enough after a heavy rain. The overflowing creeks drew he and his brother to the grand-daddy crawfish. The Traveler and his brother nearest in age, made many wonderful memories together. They would never forget the smell of salt bacon tied to twine from a feed sack to lure those big daddies right into their hands as they latched on the meat with two big tough claws. They would come up with a name for each one of them as they flew through the air with their tails flapping in the wind.

Fair time must be given to mention the most celebrated activity of the children. That, of course, being the three major sports of back yard baseball, front yard football and basketball at the sagging hoop hanging on the blackjack tree by the hen house. They all were professionals, and carried such names as (the man), Stan Musial, Mickey Mantle, Yoga Berra and Warren Spahn.  Each name of course depended on what position they happened to be playing at the time. And the real art of the game was learned by slinging hand made red clay baseballs off the end of long persimmon sprouts, which were used for their bats.  Another activity was throwing ink balls to each other, making them curve with their great pitching skills. When they needed to practice the proper swing, that was done simply by picking up rocks, tossing them into the air and swinging for the hills with a bat carved out of an old board with a chopping, ax. The second oldest brother was most responsible for these games. And it must be stated that that brother went on to be an “all stater” and had opportunities to go on to the major leagues.  But he chose other avenues for his life. But at that moment major leagues was only in their fantasies as they listened to the zing of the rock as it flew over Mr. Myers fence.  A voice could be heard from the stands. There she goes, way back, it might be out of here, it could be, it is a home run. Of course the voice being mocked was that of Harry Carey, who at that time served as announcer to the Saint Louis Cardinals, along side of Joe Garagiola and later Jack Buck.

When friends came by, or at least three of the brothers could get together at one time (which was at least once a day, in fair weather) a path was worn for the base lines right out of the beautiful green Bermuda grass in the yard. On a Sunday afternoon, when they could get enough friends together, the game would have to move to a larger baseball park that actually had three bases.  Instead of sandlot baseball, this game was called cow lot baseball.  And the bases were actually made out of cow chips.

There was never much time to leave the farm. The only places of interest were the gas station and grocery stores in Oakman and Francis, where twice a day one could hear the whistle of the locomotives as they made their way through these tiny little villages. A real thrill, though, was hooking up Ol' Bob the little family pony, and riding to see granny and paw-paw. That little horse was amazing. He doubled for riding, or pulling a sled as well as plowing all the garden areas. On rare occasions the children had an opportunity go to the big city, of Ada about 12 miles away with a population of between fifteen and seventeen thousand people. But the fondest memories of all were those long drives to the little community church as the old 1940 model ford pickup rattled its way down the graveled road as toes dragged through the sandy spots where the rain had washed out the gravel. But those were the “good Ol” days; the days which will never be forgotten, although they will never be seen again. They can only be relived in the mind of the traveler and those who were fortunate enough to live in those times in that area.