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Cultural Background |
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Storyteller's Cabin |
So Mama was faced with the hard job of raising my brothers and sisters and me alone. She could barely pay our bills, but there was really nowhere else we could go. We all slept in the same room, and there was barely enough food to make it through the day. When winter came, the bitterly cold winds would blow through the holes in the walls, and we'd huddle up against one another to keep warm. But we had many happy days - more than some families I know. I guess if you don't know what you're missing, then what you got is good enough.
Like I said, where we grew up was very remote. There was only one winding dirt road which lead into the mining town, and it took so long to get there that we'd take combined trips with our neighbors to get supplies. Now when I say "town," I ain't talking New York City here. Our "town" had about three buildings: a bank, a barbershop and a company store. But to me, going to town was an adventure, for it was my only contact with the outside world.
I remember Christmas being a very special time for us. All the families would decorate the local church and fix these huge dinners. We'd sing and laugh and have the biggest snowball fights you ever saw. And on Sunday, our own family would make a special trip to the cemetery to decorate Daddy's grave with Christmas flowers and ribbons. We figured he ought to celebrate with us, for Mama always said that he was still around, even though we couldn't see him.
As you may imagine, there wasn't much gift-giving going on in our neck of the woods. In fact, I really didn't know that people gave gifts during Christmas. That is, until I made a trip to town one day and saw a funny sight in the store window: a picture of a jolly old man in a red suit, jumping down a chimney with what looked like a bag full of presents.
"Who's that?" I asked Mama, pointing at the picture.
"Nothing, honey," she said, quickly turning me away. "It's just a picture."
Well, me being four years old at the time, that answer wasn't nearly good enough. Every time we'd pass that store, I'd tug Mama's sleeve and ask over and over again, "Who's that man?" And I began to notice that she was very reluctant to answer. In fact, it got to the point where we'd avoid the store altogether, and she'd send one of my older brothers in to get whatever we needed.
But one Christmas, I eventually wore her down. The mining town was filled with even more pictures of this mysterious old man, and I could barely contain my curiosity. So when I asked again, this was the answer my mama gave me:
"His name's Santa Claus, dear. It's just a Christmas story some folks tell. He's not a real person."
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