Appalachian Heritage

\ U Old Christmas» i Bennie Lee Sinclair m^m^m VASiZ g^^fe)^^fe:.W:-^C9J ^v:{¿AÇ:. M:Îïï<â 8 One wondrous night when I was three my parents bundled my older brother and me into the car and away we drove, higher and higher into the North Carolina mountains, to Great-Grandmother's house above Fruitland. There, to my amazement, we celebrated Christmas for the second time in as many weeks. I was overjoyed to receive a pair of white boots to wear with my new white fur coat, and out into the starry evening I went to play with my cousins. A light fall of snow had turned the whole world white, and we managed to soak our mittens and scarves by the time we were called back in to hear Great-Grandmother read the Christmas story from the King James Bible. "Little" Great-Grandmother was an awesome person with her regal bearing and high lace collar giving dignity to her 4-foot 10-inch frame. Red hair, only lightly salted with gray, and a pert pretty face made Lizzie Sinclair a memorable person even to us children. And when the family gathered around to hear her read, the story of Jesus' birth seemed to come to life. I remember the prayer at midnight, and the wonder of being allowed to stay up to that unheard-ofhour . It was one of the earliest times I recall being aware of wonder around me: the small house on the high hill and its fine view of valley, stars, and snowscape seemed as fine as any storybook painting. I did not know then the reason for our visit—that it was January 6, "Old Christmas" to scattered congregations and believers in Southern Appalachia— the "true" Christmas to these good people. I had no idea of the rare day or the events that shaped it—the centuriesold conflict of an old calendar with the "new"—or that I was participating in a rapidly vanishing folk custom. I only knew that it was one of the happiest times of my life, surrounded by family and snow, and the vast starry distance of the mountains. Far away a war raged, and three of the rosy-cheeked uncles who held me high on their shoulders would soon be a part of it—one of them to spend the next snowy Christmas in Stalag Luft 14, a German prisoner-ofwar camp in Bavaria. Two, including the youngest, Ray, sixteen, would soon be headed for the Pacific where, only raw weeks past, the infamy of Pearl Harbor had occurred. But happiness reigned as Great-Grandmother held the world at bay with her faith. Up and down the valley perhaps the farm animals kneeled as we believed, to honor the Christ child. Already Great-Grandmother was marking her calendar to chart the next twelve days' weather, for it is Old Christmas tradition that the twelve months to come are forecast therein. Luckily we could not forecast our future to dampen the wonder of that evening . I did not know the changes war would bring, or that my father, already suffering health problems though a young man, would die prematurely, followed shortly by my brother, and Uncle Ray. I did not know that my mountain kin—uncles, aunts, and cousins—would soon uproot themselves to California, a continent away, or that divorce would become a new and painful solution for others, including my parents. The traditions accompanying GreatGrandmother 's beliefs—solid family ties, roots sunk deep into the hilly land of ancestors—would be violated. There would be no more Old Christmases for me until, as an adult, I considered it as an alternative to the earlier tinseltrimmed , gift-oriented, tension-filled December 25th. Not quite sure of the rationale of this picturesque holiday, I researched it to learn it was first celebrated in England in 1753, when the Gregorian calendar shortened the Julian year by eleven-plus days, upending the true birth date of Jesus as far as the strictly religious were concerned. The English and Scots Highlanders who were then settling these Southern mountains lived a strict and isolated existence. Not until my father's generation would they truly begin to 9 migrate and leave behind the old customs . I was asked to present the "Story of Old Christmas" at Furman University, where it has since become a tradition in years when it and the end of winter break coincide. Students and faculty revere the peaceful, uncluttered relevance of this unspoiled date. A singing of ballads and hymns from the period, decorations of native flora, traditional refreshments of apple grog and gingerbread , and, most of all, good fellowship create a holiday to cherish and remember . And, in my home life, "Old Christmas " has again become a private, precious family time. When a light snow falls on the green-and-gold and cherry blooming, as tradition says it should, in our mountain pasture, and Stony the pinto mare kneels dreaming in her stall, it seems that Great-Grandmother's wishes have come to pass. In the twelve days following, of "Old Epiphany," I study, like her, the weather, and dream of the garden, the spring, the year to come. "Old Christmas" in Appalachia At midnight January 6 all the farm beasts kneel and winter blooms unfurl green-and-gold and cherry as Great-Grandmother prays the Christ Child's name aloud on this His true birth day and after counts the fogs upon her mountain land trie icestorms winds and rains twelve days into new year for all foretells to come according to her plan her rugged Baptist teaching of this most precious day the calendar neglects and holds it sacred yet exhorting us to wish that false day quickly past false animals and blossoms replaced by those which labor going down upon the straw the meekest native flower a gift upon the snow. Gentle Men I often wonder what makes a man gentle. One of my uncles was that way. Quiet spoken, patient, eyes that laughed but always seemed sad. He gave me hope. No one else I knew was that way. He taught me to draw things. Look for the lines, he said, and it worked. Lines are always there, he said. Sometimes around things you want to draw, other times around men. My grandmother told me once, bending over and down into the oven, striking a large sulfur match on a bright box, "He came home from the war that way. He wasn't that way when he left." Wrought Iron He burned the chestnut rail fence his grandfather built and erected wrought iron around the family cemetery plot. The sharp spikes stabbed the old man's heart. Whippoorwill vespers were barred from the marble slabs. The sun didn't warm the wood; sleet coated the iron. Workfolks say the old man's ghost clangs his broadax on the iron fence. -Deborah Hale Spears -Edward C. Lynskey 10 ...