Reminisces of Childhood Christmases
I arrived in the world with a Christmas Curse. Datchie died four years prior to my arrival.
Dysfunctional was not a known adjective in my mother’s matriarchal family, but the adults with whom I associated could have been a case study in the annals of human behavior.
Males in the family who would have the most influence on my life had been called to Glory or somewhere else prior to my arrival.
My grandfather, son of the Confederate Veteran, and grandson of the Revolutionary War (1812) Veteran farmed in the Yellow Creek Valley all his life. During the winter of 1926/1927 traveling to Clarksville, Tennessee with a mule drawn wagonload of tobacco from the valley, he became drenched by a cold rain, did not change his wet clothes, developed pneumonia and died on February 13, 1927. His offspring called him Papa and his ghost hovered over my childhood life.
Papa married on the seventeenth day of September, 1895 to my grandmother who was called Mammy by her issue; Mammy died in her ninety first year on April 21, 1966. Papa and Mammy gave the planet ten citizens, one of which held Christmas a hostage to all who came after.
Papa owned a Model “T” Truck which was a luxurious ride when compared with a mule drawn steel tired wagon over dirt and gravel roads. One Summer Sunday in the early 1920’s the family loaded their cane bottom chairs on the truck and “went calling” on friends. Mammy took a spill from the truck broke her leg and remained a cripple for the remainder of her life.
The oldest son was nicknamed “Datchie” and he, like his younger male siblings was bad about “taking to drink” and he was responsible for making Christmas the worst season of the year for the family. As a child I thought the curse was just cast on me, but as I grew older and discussed the family’s Christmas with cousins, I realized it was an epidemic which spread through the entire family.
Datchie migrated to Detroit, Michigan during the Great Depression and froze to death in the snow, his body was found on Christmas Morning, 1934. His “taking to drink” was the primary reason for the debacle, his death held Christmas hostage. He overshadowed my Christmas spirit even though he died four years before I arrived.
I shuddered whenever Christmas was coming because I knew it would not be a “Joyous Season”. My spinster aunt, my elementary school teacher and I would trudge into the hills and pick out a Cedar Sapling that looked the part of a Christmas Tree, cut it down, drag it home, mount it and decorate it.
Ivory Snow was not only good for washing fine delicates, but enough of the stuff mixed with water formed a thick paste that we would scoop up with our hands and drag it through the boughs of the Cedar Tree, final result looked like snow on the branches. Then we would string popcorn and make chains from red and green construction paper for decorations.
The spinster aunt was a horrible woman, a child abuser of sorts. She would walk down the aisles of the one room school and for no apparent reason, knock some child completely out of his seat. I was the victim more times than I care to recount. One man I know is deaf in one ear today because of one of her well aimed punches.
Datchie had two younger brothers who died from alcohol related illnesses, they, too, “took to drink”.
Long about mid December, presents would be showing up under the Cedar Tree. I would creep in and read the names on the tags. All of them would be “To Mammy”, and there would be lots and lots of them.
On Christmas Eve, the spinster schoolteacher aunt who dated a bread salesman, would take off into the night with the bread man to parts unknown.
My Uncle, Datchie’s youngest sibling, would leave to some “Honky Tonk” in some other county and leave the old crippled Mammy and me alone.
Now, the family had been conversing periodically throughout the season about how terrible it was to see Christmas coming, because that is when Datchie was found dead in the snow.
Mammy would, on Christmas Eve, gather her presents from under the tree, carry them into her bedroom, lock the door, open her presents and cry. That left me alone with the old Shepherd Stock Dog, so I’d put on my coat and go outside and put my arm around my pal and we would sit alone on Christmas Eve.
Christmas morning would arrive and I would go look under the tree and find peppermint candy, fruit, and one fantastic Christmas Morning there was a Radio Flyer Wagon. Then I would go outside to try and hear the Choate Family on Nubbin Ridge shoot off their annual stick of dynamite.
This was an annual occasion for these folks, one large stick of dynamite placed atop a fence post and then “BAM”, the whole world could hear Christmas Morning had arrived.
Mammy would have laid out all her presents on the beds in her room and have them arranged as museum showpieces. Later in the day her children and their families would arrive to view the presents Mammy had received. Each one trying to give more to Mammy than their siblings.
There would be silk handkerchiefs with money in the box and goodies that were unbelievable, but there were always the tears and the talk about how sad it was, Datchie was found dead on this day.
The real spirit of Christmas and what the real meaning was all about was never totally opened in my mind’s eye until I arrived in Chicago for Christmas of 1950. I saw for the first time, beautiful decorations, heard fantastic Christmas Music, was indoctrinated with the Christmas Story from the Gospels and had Elmer Huizinga draw my name in our 8th grade class at Englewood Christian School. WOW, some magic stuff which I’ll always cherish and is now in the hands of my son for perpetuation.
However, in my career when need arose for someone to work the Christmas Holiday, I was readily available, Datchie and his debacle had conditioned me.
Thanks to you folks at CCHS, I was able to bury Datchie and his Ghost of Christmases Past.
The rest of the family never did overcome.
Wishing for all of you the very best for the coming year
Robert McClurkan (Dixie)
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