Perhaps Christmas is magical to little kids because they hear that God came to Earth as the baby Jesus. But most likely, the magic comes from the story of Santa Claus.
I know, because I was once a kid. I didn’t understand Old Testament prophecies fulfilled, a virgin birth, or redemption from sin. I didn’t know what “virgin” meant, nor did I know what “sin” was. While kids might not appreciate God’s greatest gift to mankind—the miracle in the manger—they fully understand the excitement of a new toy under the Christmas tree.
We could celebrate Christmas at school—and we didn’t call it Winter Holiday or some other politically correct label. We called it what it was—Christmas—and we sang Christmas carols about God’s love coming to Earth as a baby.
In the 1950s at Pine Run School outside Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, everyone gave the teacher a present, most of which were homemade.
We students went out to the forest, cut down a tree for the school, and decorated it ourselves, usually with crepe paper, construction paper, pine cones, goose or turkey feathers, and whatever else we could find. Sometimes, one of the wealthier families contributed some store-bought Christmas ornaments as well. The local Lions Club would come to school and give us what they called “treats.” And treats they were! We usually received a popcorn ball, an orange, and some hard candy, including a candy cane.
We also had a Christmas show for our mothers. Most dads couldn’t come to the Pine Run Christmas Show because they were busy in the mines or on their farms during the day.
A side note is appropriate here. I was happy that we were a farm family because of the scary stories I’d heard of mining accidents and the way miners were once treated. We had a nearby coal-mining village, Eagle Valley, where miners and their families lived in company housing. Their tiny shotgun houses were like slave shacks. They were called shotgun houses because they looked like they had been scattered around in an instant, and they all looked the same.
Miners weren’t paid in money but in script that couldn’t be spent anywhere but in the company store, which sold everything the miner needed but at high prices. The company store offered easy credit, but the miner was soon so much in debt that he couldn’t pay it off, and he couldn’t leave the mine until the debt was paid. Only death could release the miner. Maybe not even death. Remember Tennessee Ernie Ford’s song “Sixteen Tons”? People liked the song, but few understood how accurate it was. These miners truly owed their souls to the company store.
Most of us farm boys at Pine Run School were trappers and hunters. In the weeks before Christmas, I was hoping to catch a mink and buy everyone in the family something special. One mink pelt sold for $20—a fortune! We would check our traplines on the way to school, and on our walk home we would hunt for something to shoot for our families’ dinners, usually a squirrel, rabbit, or the occasional treat—a pheasant! That meant carrying our guns to school. We would put our rifle or shotgun in the cloak room when we arrived and pick it up when the school day adjourned. Thousands of boys (and some girls) carried their guns to school, and decades passed without an incident. But as I’ve said, America was a different place then. We began each day in public schools with a Bible reading and prayer. We felt accountable to one another and to a holy God who would hold us accountable for our conduct. At my age (now 77), I still can’t understand why America wanted to rid itself of that system.
As I mentioned, few fathers could come to the yearly Christmas show, but our mothers would arrive at Pine Run School with Christmas cookies, puddings, pies, and other wonderful Christmas food. In exchange, we gave the mothers some joy: our singing! I was always a bad singer and still am. I was instructed to lip sync when the other kids were singing. Years later, when I toured with rock bands, I was ordered to play my bass and lip sync while the better singers sang!
We had two little risers to stand on during the performance. The smallest kids stood on the floor, the next smallest on the first riser, and the big kids on the second riser. I got to stand on the top riser because I was 10, but I stood on a couple of books on my riser because I was small for my age. Being small was my cross to bear until I was 17. But I can hardly tell you how happy I was to be on the second riser behind the other kids that day. You’re about to learn why.
After a generous meal of cookies, pie, cake, candy, and other goodies, it was time for the show. We took our places on the risers, and each student recited a Christmas poem.
The main part of the show was the Bible reading from the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 2: “And in those days there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.” I found it all heartwarming but not particularly entertaining.
Then it was time for the singing. The teacher stood in front of the choir and directed us, while one of the mothers accompanied us on the pianoforte. We had the worst pianoforte ever. The forte was intact, but many of the keys were missing, and after 50 years of pounding and other degrees of abuse, it was completely out of tune.
I stood on my books on the second riser with two rows of kids in front of me. Mary, a tall sixth grader and a head taller than I was, stood beside me. The mothers smiled at their sweet cherubs, ages 6 to 12, on the floor and risers.
We made it through “Jingle Bells,” “Frosty,” and “Rudolph” nicely. Then it came time for the final song and showstopper, “Silent Night.” I couldn’t help but join in, even against orders not to. It was beautiful, in spite of that piano.
That’s when Mary took the opportunity to vomit. Violently.
The first volley was projected about 5 feet forward and equally wide. Most of the kids were in rapt singing and kept going. But the looks on their mothers’ faces meant something had gone terribly wrong. Several kids turned around to see why their mothers were panicking and how their backs had gotten wet and squishy. For them, the second volley made a frontal assault. It was a truly amazing amount of vomit.
The singing stopped; the wailing started. As the puked-on kids made a run for their mothers, the third volley was released. The kids who had been hit in the back, then the front, were once again struck from behind. I still remember the screaming, the crying, and their mothers’ soft reassurances. I felt lucky my mother wasn’t cleaning chunks out of my hair and clothes.
As I sat on the back riser observing it all, I started singing: “We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas!” The teacher told me to give it a rest. Nobody was in the Christmas mood, and I wasn’t a very good singer.
On the Caylor Farm, our Christmas would begin around December 21. Daddy would take us kids into the forest to saw down a tree. We dragged the tree through the snow back to the farmhouse and set it in the living room corner. That corner was a great place for it because we didn’t have enough decorations to cover the whole tree, and there was always a bad side of the tree that the corner would hide. Believe me, a natural tree that has never been pruned or shaped is nothing like the trees we have now. Deciding which side was the bad side was sometimes difficult, as we had several choices.
It seemed that every year our decorating task got easier because there were fewer decorations than the year before. Back then, every store-bought ornament was made of fragile glass, and the family would groan each time we heard another bulb hit the floor. Whether the family suspected I was the clumsy culprit or not, I was never chastened.
On Christmas Eve, after the cows were milked, Daddy and Mother would read to us the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke, pray for us, and then kiss us all good night.
The Caylor kids went to bed, but I didn’t sleep very well. My big brother Mo and I shared a bed and listened for Santa. The wind blowing against the old farmhouse supplied us with lots of false alarms. I’d whisper, “Mo, did you hear that? Is that Santa?” Mo would whisper back, “No, that was a windowpane rattling. Now go to sleep.”
In spite of our excitement, we somehow fell asleep. I dreamed of Santa and of the new toy he had for me.
On Christmas morning, Daddy milked the cows by himself and finished up in time to join the family around the Christmas tree. I didn’t realize at the time that the early solo milking was an additional present. I only knew the cows had been milked and Daddy reappeared to join Mother and us kids.
I’m not sure how my parents could afford gifts for everyone in our family of nine, but each of us got new underwear, socks, mittens, clothes, and a new toy—like the Belknap Blazer wagon I got when I was 4. One item I often requested but should not have received was a new pocket watch, which morphed into loose gears and springs before day’s end. I guess Mother and Daddy didn’t mind my curiosity about how watches work.
After we opened the presents, it was time to dress and go to Christmas dinner at Grandma and Grandpa Pete Noerr’s farm near Punxsutawney.
There always seemed to be deep snow, and our farm lane was an obstacle course. To leave the farm, we could drive up the hill one way or up the hill the other way. Daddy was an expert with momentum, and we usually made it to the top, where we could get onto the main road. We backseat kids would push hard on the front seat to help us up the hill. I’m not sure why we thought that was helpful, but Daddy never told us it wasn’t. If we had chains on our tires, we entertained ourselves during the 12-mile trip by singing Christmas carols to the rhythm of the chains. We especially liked to sing, “Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go.” The song had just the right rhythm for chain accompaniment, and the lyrics were true!
When we got to Grandma’s house, we usually parked the car at the top of their lane because the drifting snow had closed it to traffic. We walked through the deep snow down the lane, carrying Mother’s wonderful cakes and pies and presents for Grandma Edna Mae and Grandpa Pete.
The Noerr farmhouse was warm and full of good smells and my wonderful relatives. Aunt Pat and Uncle Jim were there, along with their five kids, Carol Kae, Dick, Dave, Connie Mae, and Claudia Rae. My Aunt Anna Mary brought her daughter, Patrice. I always felt sad for them because Patrice’s dad Clarence had lost his life in World War II when his fighter plane crashed. His body wasn’t recovered for years, and nobody knew if he was alive and a POW, or dead. Waiting for that kind of news must have been awful.
We would all be there to celebrate our love and enjoyment of one another. I usually took a cousin or two with me to Grandpa’s barn to visit his huge Belgian horses. We had carrots or sugar to bribe them close enough to pet. Daddy warned me that Belgians had a mean bite, but I never was bitten.
Grandma liked to sing grace rather than say it. The song was always the Doxology: “Praise God from Whom all blessings flow.”
One time on the way home, Daddy announced that he would rather hear Grandma say a proper grace instead of singing the Doxology. The Caylor kids took a quick vote and replied, “We like the way Grandma does it!”
I was introduced to cottage cheese at Grandma’s table, and after I took a bite, I promptly spit it back into the bowl. Since I hated the taste, I figured everyone else would hate it. But after spitting mine out, nobody else wanted any out of the serving bowl. I congratulated myself for saving them from having to eat any!
I’ve left out 95 percent of the memories I could share. For now, just know that my life in the early 1950s was full of wonderful people and great memories. Even as I write this story, tears are forming. Good tears of gratitude for a great childhood and for a large and loving family.
Maybe I didn’t understand the Christmas miracle of God’s love, but I felt secure and happy in my family’s love for me. And that was enough for a little boy.
This article was originally published in American Essence magazine.