The Christmas Pageant

      Never a Christmas season comes, that I don’t think of one particular Christmas pageant I helped to orchestrate. My husband pastored a small church sitting about a half mile off the beaten path. It sits cozily in a curve where two country roads meet. The curve hugs and squeezes in a peaceful, quaint cemetery that is well over a hundred years old, fenced in as if to keep out the frustration, pain and troubles that would disturb this sacred place.

     The church itself is like a little chapel, small, pews too close together and too close to the pulpit, and a narrow isle that seemed to gather us close to one another.  There is a tiny stage, just large enough for a good sized pulpit and two small one-man pews.

     This particular year, I wanted to involve the children in a Christmas pageant and I did not let the facilities deter me. The manger scene would be directly in front of the pulpit. There was room for the shepherds’ camp fire in front of the pews on the right. Three wise men would make their entrance on the left.

      Bath robes were gathered for the wise men and Joseph. The striped towels in my linen closet worked nicely for the tiny shepherds. I just pinned two towels together on one end, slipped  the towels over the little tow heads and secured them around the waist with a cord or rope. Sheets, folded, wrapped, and draped outfitted the angels and Mary. I ironed metal coat hangers, hooks removed, between sheets of wax paper to make wings for the angels. Sticks, straw, and hay were gathered and we were all ready except for the manger.

     The manger was easily constructed. Crude limbs and weathered boards were hurriedly tacked together. Straw and a blanket were added and it made a rather impressive manger, howbeit rather unstable.

       Using a doll to play the part of Baby Jesus, had never appealed to me. A real baby would be ideal but Mary and Joseph were much too young to be trusted with a baby and the manger was not quite sturdy enough. Then I had the idea of placing a light in the manger to represent Jesus.

      "How appropriate.” I thought. “Jesus, the light of the world.”

     So it was! A light bulb would represent the light that came in the time of great darkness. I placed it in a small baking pan so as not to touch the straw or blanket. Can’t be too careful.

     Now we were ready to begin. Miniature players took their places as an adult read the script, pausing for the cast to take their places or to sing old familiar carols.

     Gary, our son, was Joseph, dressed in his dad’s heavy bath robe. His job was easy, just kneel and bow his head over the manger. The light, (Baby Jesus) shinning on his face, was a beautiful sight. Our daughter, Julie, was Mary. She sat beside the manger, radiant and pure in her blue sheet and white tablecloth head dress.

      I crouched behind the pulpit directing the spot light, dimming the lights here or there, igniting the shepherds’ campfire and bringing a suspended star to life. All was going well until I heard a commotion in front of the pulpit, in the barn so to speak. I peeked from behind the pulpit and saw Joseph in all his splendor, lying on the front pew. The shepherds had hurriedly retreated back to the campfire and the wise men thought it wise to back away from the prostrate Joseph, leaving behind the carefully wrapped gifts.

     Of course, I left my position from behind the pulpit to check on Joseph to discover that Mary was now standing; (not in the script) and the manger was flat on the floor; straw scattered; Baby Jesus was nowhere to be seen; and a light bulb still glowing  was wobbling back and forth where the wise men should have been. The warm robe and the heat from the symbol of Baby Jesus was just too much for Joseph. He had fainted and fell face first into the manger, sending it and its contents flying.

     How we recovered, I’m not sure. Mercifully, we were near the end. The children were gathered together to finish the carols as Joseph recovered.

     I often ask myself, “What good have I done these fifty plus years as an assistant in the ministry?”

     My  answer is probably 'little'.  But if one child felt the mystery, joy, and wonder of reliving the birth of the savior; if one child seized with joy the truth and hope of that wondrous event, it's been worth it all.

The Cotton Carnival

     The weather was perfect the whole week of the Cotton Carnival. The days were warm and sunny, almost hot, the evenings cool and damp. A dusty fog hang over the fairgrounds.

     The smell of cotton and the pungent odor of trampled fall grass mingled with the wonderful aroma of corndogs and cotton candy. Children giggled and begged for one more ride as they pulled their parents from one ride to the next. Mysterious faces peeked from veiled tents inviting you to come see the fattest woman in the world or the Lost Princess of the Nile. A strong muscular man decorated with tattoos stood in the doorway of a huge enclosed truck, daring you to come see the two headed snake and the hungry man-eating crocodile inside. Their hideous images covered the truck in an indelible scene. Games of chance challenged your skills of basketball, pitching, and rifle shooting. The smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and funnel cakes pulled from all directions. But, we had saved our money to ride the defying Ferris wheel.

     There she was, right in the middle of the fairgrounds, two giant wheels side by side, suspended just enough to dangerously miss the earth beneath while sweeping the night sky above.   The rickety seats, with safety bars ajar rocked back and forth between the wheels. The seats creaked and the well-worn chains clinked against each other.  Lights blinked around the circumference of the giant wheels then ran back and forth along the spokes to the center hubs.  A dirty, burley, indifferent short man with his hands on the controls idly waited for the line of pensive adventurers to grow long enough to fill the ride.

     “There was still time to back out. But other people had lived through this.” 

     Then suddenly the line was moving. It was time to make a decision. No, too late, the short man was waiting for us to get in. He snapped the safety bar and our seat moved backwards rocking back and forth. As each seat was filled we moved backward and higher until we were at the very top of the giant wheel. We laughed and screamed as the Ferris wheel seat swayed forward, then backward at its highest point overlooking Sikeston. Suddenly with a jerk, the seat began to move, slowly at first and then rapidly around and around as the wheels turned. Just when fear had given way to fun, it was over and the short burley man was hurrying us off the wheel.

     This rare visit to this annual event sparked grand imaginations.  Oh to travel from one town to the next, to live in a trailer decorated with hangings of silk and satin edged with tassels would be so romantic. No school, and all the time in the world to while away the hours on the floor of a carnival tent or to play with new found friends in the cool grass between the house trailers seemed divine.

     Rain moved in Saturday evening, the last night of the carnival. Low hanging gray clouds replaced the clear blue skies, forming the perfect back drop for the brilliant colors of fall.  The warm stillness of early fall gave way to a cool dampness that urged the leaves to loosen themselves from the branches from which they had danced all summer. Whirling to the earth in their last dance, they covered the ground outside the window like a red, brown and golden blanket. Winter was near.

     A warm fire burned in the pot-bellied stove and the wonderful smell of Sunday dinner filled the house. I pulled on a sweater and positioned myself in the front window to watch traffic that might pass on the dirt road in front of the house on the hill.  There was little traffic this morning, but the damp air carried the sound of an approaching vehicle.  I immediately took notice.

     An older car came into view and passed by slowly. The couple in the front seat looked tired and unkept. The car was packed with blankets, clothes, carnival decorations, and prizes.  A girl about my age lay on top of all their belongings, near the ceiling of the car. She looked cozy and warm, wrapped in a blanket. She, no doubt was on her way to another exciting carnival. Her hands were under her chin as were mine and for just a moment our eyes met.  We were two children with a longing for a taste of the life of the other.

     What did she see in the blue eyes staring back at her from between simple curtains? Perhaps she saw security, stability, and a chance to go to school. Did she see a chance to make forever friends that you didn’t have to leave behind?  Did she dream of no more traveling, of sleeping in a real bed, of home cooked meals instead of left over hot dogs?

     We often overlook how blessed we are in our quest for the unknown, our wanderlust for adventure, and our weariness and boredom of the ordinary. But of such is the catalyst of creativity, maturity, invention and progress.

Snake Bite

                It was springtime. School would soon be out for the summer. The garden was planted and Daddy was busy “getting in” the crops. Dew berries, the first fruits of the season, grew along the fence row that bordered the cotton field. These wild black berries, once covered with snowy white blossoms, now yielded red and black berries. Bobbie, Patsy and I checked on them periodically as we chopped cotton nearby and judged that they were about ready to be picked.
                Horace and his family lived in a small house in the cotton patch beside the fence row. Patsy, our niece, was the most important person in that house hold for Bobbie and me. She was just a few months younger than Bobbie and was like another sister to us. We did everything together and had made plans to go dewberry picking together.
                Early Saturday morning, Bobbie and I thought we saw Patsy step off her front porch and head toward the fence row. And was that a bucket in her hand? Bobbie and I raced up stairs to get a better look. Sure enough. There she was, picking berries on the back side of the fence row. Was she trying to hide? At any rate, she had a head start! Anger and indignation welled up in us. “How could she? She’d surely get them all before we could get down there.”
                Suddenly we saw Patsy running toward her house. She rounded the end of the fence row, tossed the bucket of berries toward the front steps of her house and without breaking speed headed toward our house. “I’ve got to get to Mammie.” She yelled!  Mama, Mammie to her, could fix anything.
                “Oh No!” Bobbie and I shouted together. “Patsy is snake bit!” All hard feelings rapidly melted away.
                We raced down the stairs and to Patsy as fast as we could. We lifted her, Bobbie on one side, me on the other and carried her to the front porch of the house on the hill. Mama sensing the problem yelled to Ray, working under the mulberry trees on the latest broken thing, to go get Horace.
                Ray jumped in the truck and took off to the bottom land where Horace was breaking ground. He ignored the well- traveled road and took a short cut through the field. The old truck was doing its best, rocking back and forth as it cleared mounds of dirt and cotton rows. The side slats on its bed separating and slapping each other as the bed rose and fell.
                Meantime, ama grabbed a chicken, a pullet that was not quite big enough to eat, rung its neck to kill it, cut it open and pushed Patsy’s hand, the location of the bite, into its warm innards.
                I was in the fourth or fifth grade at the time and had been studying first-aid. We had recently covered what to do in case of snake bite. As soon as Patsy was in Mama’s hands, I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a rusty paring knife. I was so thankful the lesson on snake bites was fresh in my memory. I hurried to Patsy ready to cut the fang marks and suck out the poisonous blood.
                Mama and Patsy rejected that idea but that did not deter my frantic insistence. Horace arrived in record time. He picked up Patsy, stuffed her in the car and they were off as fast as his 38 Chevy would go, stirring up a cloud of dust and throwing gravel. The nearest doctor was eight miles away in Sikeston.
                “Do I keep the chicken?” Patsy asked. Horace grabbed the chicken and threw it out the car window somewhere between the house on the hill and the Matthews junction.
                Patsy survived the snake bite, just a little swelling. But, I think that concluded the berry picking for that season and cancelled the hopes of a berry cobbler.

Mary gets Married

Mary stepped out the screen door and closed it quietly. She looked up the dirt road toward Elbridge for a glimpse of a wagon or just a cloud of dust.

"Would he come?"

She pulled at her collar then, glancing down, smoothed the sides of her clean cotton dress. She felt the small wad of bills in the patch pocket, money saved from picking cotton.

"That won't be enough money to start a house whole."
" Oh well," she thought, "Will may have called the whole thing off without even talking it over with me. Was this even a wise thing for a fifteen year old girl to do? "

She reached for the small bag at her feet. "Most girls her age were marrying, but that didn't mean she had to. Will was so melancholy, so quiet. He was a farmer unlike the loggers she had grown up with." She glanced back into the house through the screen door. Her mother stood over the kitchen table with her back to the door.

"She knows I'm getting married," Mary thought, emotions pulling her both ways.

Her mother, Winnie Virginia, had been widowed twice and now eked out a living by moving her family from one logging camp to another, doing their laundry and cooking.

Mary reached for the handle on the screen door just as Will pulled into the yard in a wagon pulled by a couple of mules. Dust rose in a choking cloud and blew toward the house engulfing Mary. Chickens scattered, squawking and waddling clumsily on their short spider legs toward shelter under the porch.

Will was handsome in a clean white shirt and a thin black tie. At the sight of Mary, he removed his hat. His slim face, tanned by the sun and wind showed a tattle-tale white forehead, a farmer's tan. Indian summer had arrived in the foothills of Tennessee and his one and only jacket lay beside him on the wagon seat.

The day was warm with a soft breeze rustling the dry leaves still clinging to the trees and rearranging those blown into the fence row. The grass and weeds were brown but still held fogs of grasshoppers and mosquitoes seeping the last possible moisture from the hollow stems.

Mary yelled goodby to her mother. Without turning from the oil-cloth covered table, Winnie whispered, "Goodby," and continued to wipe the table, mingling her tears with every stroke.

Life had been hard for Mary's family. She and her older sisters had helped their mother with  laundry and cooking in the logging camps for years. Selina had since married and moved away, escaping the hard work and stigma of a widowed family. Versy was little help. She was cronically ill and needed help herself.

"What would she do without Mary?"

Payment for her labor was food for the family, most of the time after the loggers had eaten, kerosene for the lamps and wood for the stove. Winnie carefully guarded and rationed the flour, sugar and canned vegetables gathered from family gardens.

"I'll be back soon." Mary yelled to her mother, holding the small bag in front of her and hoping her mother didn't notice it.

Will helped Mary onto the wagon. Will, a man of few words, smiled and Mary could not remember if he complimented her or even if he said anything at all.

They rode in silence for a few minutes. Mary's mind was racing. Doubts, fears and second thoughts crowded her mind. "Can you trust men at all?" She glanced at Will. "I guess he's a man. I think he is 21, maybe 22. I don't know. Where will we live? How will we get by? Will I be widowed with children like Mama?"

Mary glanced back in the direction of the house. "Will, stop this wagon right now!"

"What!"

"Stop! Stop now?"

Will pulled the mules to a stop, wondering how hard it would be to get them going again.

"I want to see that paper right now!" I"m getting off this wagon if you don't have the papers."

She was referring to the marriage license. Will pulled the marriage license from his back pocket. Mary looked it over, reading every line, folded it, gave it back to Will and said, "Ok then." And they were off to Hornbeak, Tennessee where they were married by Squire Fields on October 12th 1912.