Chinaberries and Beyond

Chapter 9

SPEECHLESS AND CHRISTMAS—GRADE 4

My fourth-grade classroom was in one of the lower brick buildings next to the sweet shop. There, after lunch, we could buy treats like candy, popsicles, and some school supplies. It was adjacent to the other fourth-grade classroom as there were two classes for each elementary grade level. Instead of meeting a new teacher, I had Miss Cranford again. We no longer sang the good-morning-to-you song. For devotion, we sang “America” and said the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag. Daily, each student also recited a short Bible verse, and together, we’d say the Lord’s Prayer. In addition to church, I was already saying it at home too.

When we met in the other fourth-grade teacher’s classroom, under her leadership, I became president of the Brownies. She’d talked the group through simple voting procedures. But that patient teacher had to tell me every word to say if we ever were to start a meeting. When Cassie became a Brownie, she thought she learned a new health song to fix her hair. She sang, “Milk, milk, we all like milk. Milk’ll make your hair fix. Milk’ll make your hair fix.” She drank milk, but her hair didn’t change; it was not “fixed.” Later, she realized she had substituted the words hair fix for healthy. Milk was supposed to make her healthy.

Starting as early as October, we’d discuss Christmas with great anticipation. Then, with the beauty of the fall leaves and Thanksgiving excitement gone, December’s wintry chill disrobed Belmont of most of its color. During trips to the spring, the wintry, naked tree branches and scattered evergreens along the path revealed a different kind of art. Our statuesque chinaberry tree stood with clinging clusters of ripened, golden-tan berries. The clothes and linens hanging on our clothesline got as stiff as boards. On gloomy, frigid days, the four neighborhood houses had smoke streams coming from their chimneys.

To get us through to spring, the family needed warmth, a hot stove for cooking, and water. As for every winter, a new pile of coal was delivered in late fall. The truck came down the red-clay, seldom- used roadway between Mr. Shoemaker’s and Miss Dexter’s pastures. Passing the far side of our chinaberry tree, it went under our wire clothesline and cut across our front yard of wild winter grass to get to the far side of our house. There was kindling inside to start the fires in the heater and cook stove, but like the coal, the wood pile soon needed replenishing.

Sometimes, Rich helped Millie and Gwen carry in wood and fill buckets of coal for the night; we called that night work. As our chores shifted, I began helping Rich with wood and coal, the palms of our hands becoming messy and black.

By December, we had firm ideas for our Santa Claus lists and asked for the toys we hoped to receive after a year-long wait. When one of us was bored, he or she would come out with, “Let’s talk about what we’re gonna git for Christmas!”

Mo could hear us talking from about anywhere in the house and would let us know if we were thinking unreasonably. “If y’all don’t be good, Santa Claus’s not gon’ bring you anything,” she’d warn us. “Nothing but a big, fat hickory set’n in the corner.”

We knew to be good. After each reminder, we were cooperative and respectful when she’d ask us to do something. That include tasks we normally frowned upon such as emptying the slop jar used during the night. (We didn’t run to the toilet in the dark.)

Finally, when it was time to search for a Christmas tree, most of us followed Mo to the edge of the pasture and through the woods. Bundled up, we found a tall, narrow cedar that could fit in the limited space in our house. Mo cut the tree down with our ax, and we dragged it home.

The tree filled the room with wonderful redolence. We put it up in front of the back window and decorated it with round, colorful, metal bulbs and bell-shaped ornaments. Small bits of cotton representing snowflakes were stuck all over the tree with the largest portion covering the base. A gold, cardboard star Mo purchased at Joe Farrington’s dry goods store went on top. As the Christmas excitement escalated, days seemed to go by slowly, and we frequently wanted to know how many more days we had to wait for it. When one of us would ask, “How many mo’ days ’fore Christmas?” Rich or an older sibling might say, “Not tomorrow, not the next day, not the next day, but the next day.”

During the evening on Christmas Eve, most of the children in my family walked through the woods and Belmont Abbey to O’ Conner’s Grove Church for a Christmas pageant that always included the manger scene. With Miss Cranford’s guidance, church youths displayed their talents, and my memorized parts became increasingly longer as I aged. At the end, every child along with siblings who did not participate in the program or did not attend received a brown bag that contained fresh fruits, nuts, and small pieces of hard Christmas candy.

Rushing home through the woods, we shivered in the cold. Dusk quickly became darkness; the sky allowed stars to gradually peek through. The night was still with just the sounds of our footsteps rustling on the fallen leaves. Over the bare treetops, melodious chimes from Belmont Abbey rang out “Silent Night,” “Joy to the World,” and “It Came upon a Midnight Clear.” The sounds were as crisp and clean as the frigid air. I was mesmerized by those tones that echoed the songs we had sung in church earlier all about Jesus’s birth. Mo said that was what Christmas was all about, not just getting toys. It was as if heaven had opened up and miraculously created the magical sounds that floated over the woods to our small neighborhood and made Christmas real.

We finally reached the clearing by Mr. Frazier’s toilet. Our hearts were warm, and the heater inside our home warmed our bodies up. The excitement over new toys had peaked, and that night, we each went about “setting for Santa Claus,” what we called preparing a personal spot for our toys. We lined the well-used, wooden kitchen chairs up against the kitchen wall. The chairs’ thick finishes showed layer upon layers of paint and white and red trim. A small slip of notebook paper or a piece of brown grocery bag had a name and the list of items we wanted Santa to bring and was placed on the seat of each chair. Since Christmas was special, Mo baked a pineapple layer cake, Santa’s favorite, and a coconut layer cake especially for the family. Otherwise, she didn’t like to bake cakes because she didn’t trust our oven’s temperature.

As soon as darkness fell, Rich, Cassie, and I made tents in the same small bed. We burrowed beneath the covers and chatted about what Santa would bring us. I listened attentively as Rich lay by the window explaining how Santa would come flying through the air. He pulled back the lace curtain and held up the blinds enough to peer out. Staring into darkness, we saw red lights gliding high in the sky that convinced us Santa was looking for our house. We were ecstatic, and after expressing all our thoughts including what we’d play with first and what we’d share, we had difficulty settling down. Finally, we fell asleep on that longest night of the year.

The next day came. All of us were excited when we entered the kitchen to see our gifts. A variety of brand-new toys, clothes, and fruit had been placed on and in front of each chair according to the lists. The pineapple cake had been cut, and beside it, a bit of black coffee was left in a white, chipped cup. The room was so cold that the icing on the cakes had frozen. It was an exciting day as Cassie and I played with dolls and other toys while eating fruit and candy. Indeed, Christmas morning was a magical time. We soon became as tired as our parents, who’d slept late.