I was finishing up our next post when I came across this little jewel. I gave it a quick read and realized this is the perfect time of year for a repost. I was saddened as I scanned the words, we all end the year with high hopes for a better year to come. Sadly I realize this is not the case this year, as a matter of fact little has changed for a great many.
But as I read, I came to realize the slight glimmer of hope. Funny thing hope…like dry kindling it doesn’t take much of a spark to start a roaring blaze.
So…if I may ask for just a bit of your time, please stop for a few minutes. Stop and discover how the “true” meaning of Christmas can be found in of all places…a simple cardboard box. When you are finished look around you…you just might see a faint little flicker, hope is still alive.
“Christmas gifts in short supply,” “Shop early to avoid empty shelves,” The black Christmas of 2021.” The headlines go on and on. If a body allowed themselves, all this bad news can really drag a person down, make ’em believe Christmas and all it stands for can be contained, held captive on some random cargo ship floating just off the coast somewhere.
But don’t you think on it, no sir, don’t you think on it one bit. I got some good news for us all. They may be tellin’ us the holidays are being held captive, but they’re wrong! Let me tell you why.
The Owens family are the stars of our little story, I’m sure you’re familiar with the Owens and big David from the book snippets. We join them on a very special day, up early, cleaned and pressed, David’s hair combed and oiled, his four sister’s hair carefully brushed and garnished with pretty bows of leftover fabric. His Ma had the entire clan ready to go before sun up. The girls, bubbling over with excitement, picked, poked, and giggled at each other, all the while David looked to the Heavens and rolled his eyes. He couldn’t let ’em see his excitement, after all, while his Pa was at work he was the man of the house. This meant someone had to be the voice of reason.
You see friend: before cellular phones and tablets, before designer purses and Nike shoes, before those robot vacuum cleaners, and that creepy Alexa lady who talks to you at home even in the most private of situations, before Atari, PlayStation, and X-box. There was something more… a simple dog-eared cardboard box, but contained within that humble box, well… contained there was everything Christmas was about, everything Christmas promised and everything Christmas was, and as kids, they looked forward to its yearly return with as much excitement as Santa Claus, maybe more.
Since it was Christmas basket season, that meant anything was possible, maybe even probable. Most folk have been fortunate enough to have never seen one, and that particular memory, like so many things from our past, seems to be slowly fading into obscurity. But to David and his sisters, all the magic and wonder of the holiday season was waiting for them inside that box.
Oh, it’s all there…you just gotta know what to look for, the Christmas story in its entirety. From the simple to the sublime, the mundane to the magical, the humble to the most high. And like all good things (I mean really good things), very little, if any, money is required.
David and his sisters didn’t know “poor”, to them it was simply”life” and life needed no special words to quantify it, it simply was, and that was that. But… it was a different time and folks defined “poor” differently than we do now.
There they were, like a momma duck and her babies, all waddlin’ up the narrow road into town. If they were lucky, a neighbor would stop and offer a ride, if not there was plenty to talk about on the five-mile hike. All the children could talk about were those boxes and what wonders waited inside. Each shared tales about what they hoped to find within, minds raced and imaginations soared as tales of last year’s treats and which ones were favorites flew through the cold air.
Before they knew it, the lodge came into view and they could see the line of folks wrapping around the building like a black snake, all patiently waiting their turn. Now before we go any further we need to get one thing straight friend…this wasn’t charity. Around here folk look out for each other, we share the gift as well as the burden. We didn’t need the government, we didn’t need a handout, and we didn’t need some politician deciding what our folk deserved. We had neighbors and friends who cared, and felt the pain of hardship like we all did.
The sights, sounds, and smells in that building were in a kid’s eyes, beyond words. Boxes packed full of holiday greatness were stacked floor to ceiling. The aroma of chocolate, citrus, cinnamon, and other treats unknown floated about the room before simmering into an aroma that brought goosebumps to the skin. The roomful of voices and excited clamber mixed just as easily, composing a soothing hymn. This must truly be what Christmas was all about, those children were in Heaven and never wanted to leave.
A booming HO, HO, HO, snapped them to reality. The three girls pulled and tugged at David’s shirt, begging to go see Santa. David shot his ma a pleading glance.
Oh fine, she replied. Take your sister and go see Santa, I got some things to drop off at the tables anyway.
Without waiting on their brother, the girls ran to the short line of children, all waiting to tell the Jolly ol’ elf their most private of wishes. David knew it as soon as he laid eyes on the ol’ boy. The yards of red velvet and white fur trim couldn’t hide the tin toys and whistles dangling just below Santa’s coat. The ivory pipe he held clutched in his teeth could belong to no other, it was ol’ Shag Branch in the flesh. The wonderful ol’ man sat there, his lap full of children. From time to time his head fell back as a thunderous laugh filled the room. Shag was in his element, he loved those children and they loved him in return. Christmas seemed to fit Shag, his well-worn stories of travel to far-off and exotic lands were replaced with reindeer tales, elf updates, the intricacies of toy manufacturing, and flight zones. The children (young and old) gathered round him as usual, mouths wide open and eyes star-struck as they absorbed the tales like raindrops on dry clay.
Mrs. Owens used the opportunity to finish some business. She placed a large basket on the table under the watchful eyes of the chief and mayor. A loud gasp was heard from both as she laid six fresh baked “cornmeal” pies in a neat line. Quit that she scolded as she swatted away the mayor’s hand. Those are for the raffle, you want a taste then go buy ye’selves a ticket.
Grumbles were heard as the two men turned to go in search of the ticket table.
We’ll be back Mrs. Owens replied Mayor Weaver, yea said the chief, with winning tickets too.
I hope so boys, she answered, I hope so.
To be perfectly honest; each family was to get just one box, but the men behind the tables, well… they knew things, the kinda things only a small town knows. With a wink, a finger to their lips, and a quick shush, a box appeared before each of the children. The girls could scarcely wrap their arms around the treasure. Once the boxes were held tight against they’re chests, they were quietly scatted outside.
Ma led her little band of ducks to a large sweet-gum tree, there beneath the gnarled branches, they examined their spoils.
One large frozen roasting hen
Cans of pumpkin, green beans, corn, and untold other vegetables
A bag of flour, cornmeal, and sugar
A large bag of tree nuts
A bag of pretty ribbon candy, creme drops, horehound candy, gum drops, and a box of Cracker Jacks
A large poke of oranges and a few grapefruit
But the best lay hid at the bottom. All four filled their mouths with gumdrops and began to dig. I found it yelled the youngest, soon followed by the other three. Four pairs of hands lifted the prize into the air. A brand new pocket New Testament. Still cold from the frozen chicken, leather bound with gold letters on the outside and red letters on the inside. (The red letters are the important ones).
Mrs. Owens let her little ones enjoy their newfound prizes for a few minutes before giving word that it was time to make the way back home. David secured each girl with their own box before picking up his own. The little band began the journey back home.
The journey home was dominated by tales of Santa and the things he might bring. A thankful grin lay across the face of both David and his ma. The hope and dreams of the three girls lifted their hearts and made the steps lighter.
As the four marched, the wind brought the scent of cinnamon and Liquorice to the nose. The aroma mixed and mingled with the scent of citrus and apples until finally joining with the smell of cardboard and the cold of the chicken. The end result was nothing short of magical.
We all have special “triggers” in our lives, simple little things such as a TV. show, a special taste, a smell, or a familiar tune. Something so small and innocuous that it means nothing to others, but to us, those “little” things have the power to instantly transport us back to simpler times and our childhood, or treasured memory. The smell of a Christmas basket is one of mine, and I’m sure, for David and his three sisters as well.
Remember when I said those boxes contained Christmas? Well…let’s talk about that a-bit shall we?
You may be, (and I pray that you are), unfamiliar with the concept of a “Christmas Basket” and what it meant to so many mountain families, not to mention children. Every year when the leaves began to change, local churches, businesses, friends, neighbors, heck, most of the whole town came together in the spirit of Love and Sacrifice. A humble yet grand effort to gift another with a simple respite from worry.
Food drives would be held, bake sales and raffles. Collection plates circulate in churches, meeting halls, and even local beer joints. Most everyone gratefully shared what little they had, no avenue was left unchecked in the effort to fill as many boxes as possible.
Do such labors work? Do these humble actions of neighbors have lasting effect. Well…here sits an old man, typing away at his keyboard. As I write this story I smell that box, and I feel the cold from the frozen bird against my face as I walk home. I feel the weight as I carry it close to my chest. The smell of citrus, chocolate, and cinnamon fills my head and I’m transported back, way back.
Strip away the tinsel, the twinkling lights, and the greenery. Remove the silver, gold, and blown glass. Forget about spending money you don’t have, to buy people you don’t like, things they don’t need.
Just an old cardboard box, much like an old wooden manger, both filled with hope, joy, and promise. The return of which was looked forward to every year at this special time. Remember that pocket New Testament those little ones were so desperate to find too? Oh, it was there in that manger as well. Oh not a little book mind you, but nothing less than the word manifest in flesh, the Christ child. A promise made, a promise fulfilled.
Oh, I nearly forgot; Remember those pies Mrs. Owens baked? There’s a lesson there as well. In my simple mind, I believe God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost are best described as a cornmeal pie cut into three slices. Each is separate at the surface, but the middle, the ooey gooey sweet part, is still as one.
Mary had a little Lamb, so very long ago.
Though our sins be as crimson.
The Lamb can wash them white as snow.
My sin debt was paid in that manger long ago.
And now where that Lamb has gone, I shall surely go.
MERRY CHRISTMAS from the Tin Cup Clan. It’s been a wonderful year, God has allowed me to continue sharing these tales with you even though the doctors tell me otherwise. We thank each of you for your prayers and support and continue to pray that the Lord bless you and your Loved ones without measure.
So…next time you hear or read of all the evil afoot in this ol’ world. Stop a second and think of Big David and his sisters, a corn meal pie, and a humble little “cardboard box.” Then with a deep breath, smile a bit and smell the citrus. God’s got this, I promise.
Please like and share this story. I’m certain we all know others who need to read it. I don’t get out much anymore so leave a comment or two as well, we certainly enjoy reading them. THE TIN CUP CLAN