Christmas In The Holler

 A short story by David W. Thompson

Story cover by Erika M Szabo

Christmas was coming, and the goose was gettin’ fat—or so the young’uns have been singing for a month of Sundays. But the geese were already headed for greener pastures this late in the season. Our only hope of a decent holiday meal was waiting for me in the thick woods surrounding our cabin. 

I reckon if Ma had her druthers, she’d take a fat roast turkey over an old, dried-out, and chewy goose anyway. I sure would rather sit the river’s edge and wait for one of those geese to come floating by than trudge through the frozen-up hills praying for a stray gobbler to make a fatal mistake. But we play the cards we’re dealt. That’s what my daddy always says, and lately, our family wasn’t dealt no winning hands.

Things been bad for most of the folks in the holler though, so wasn’t no sense in me flapping my jaws over it. Folks just look at ya funny anyways. Still, I prayed extra hard last evening. I asked the Almighty again to make sure Pa was safe. Mining was a dangerous job.  I prayed for him to be home for Christmas. Things weren’t the same since he took that job at the new coal mine over in Mercer County. Ma said he sent home every penny he could, but things were still as tight as a frog’s backside, and that’s waterproof.

Next, I asked about the Neely family, who lived further up the mountain. I figured things had to be hard on them since Mr. Neely rolled his old Farmall tractor last month and broke himself up right smart.  “Love your neighbor as yourself,” the good book says, but what was a body to do if they was hurting just as bad? Quit your whining, Francis. I thought as I pulled on my best pair of socks—the ones Ma darned up for me. I wiggled my toes into Pa’s hunting boots. Ma packed some cotton scraps (left over from the Easter dress she made for Sally Mae) into the toe part so my feet wouldn’t woller around too much. Dressed as warm as I could get (and still walk), I grabbed Pa’s old double barrel 12 gauge and a pocket full of shells. I smiled, remembering the first time I shot that gun. Pa warned me to keep the butt tucked tight against the pocket of my shoulder, but my arms were short and weak, while my determination was long and strong. When Pa pointed out the target, I let the gun stock slip under my arm and yanked the trigger. The blast knocked me over quick as one of the football players I saw on Mr. Myer's television set once. Pa said that as soon as we had the money, it might be best to start me off with a secondhand .22 rifle instead, but money was hard to come by.

A brisk breeze and wet snowflakes slapped my cheek when I opened the door. I stepped out quietly, not wanting to wake the young’uns, but Ma still heard.

“You dressed warm enough, Francis?”

I nodded. “I’m good, Ma. Thanks.”

“You want me to fix you something? Won’t take a minute. Cup of coffee, maybe?”

That one caused me to pause for a minute. Ma always said I wasn’t old enough to drink coffee.   

“Maybe when I get back. I packed some deer jerky and a chunk of the bread you baked yesterday.” I turned back toward the door.

“Do your best, son, but don’t shoot any hens, and be safe out there.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I closed the door, leaving the wood stove's warmth behind.

I followed a well-worn trail down to the river. ‘Coon and ‘possum tracks were all over the mud bank, but I was after a fat turkey. I decided to move across the holler to a stand of beechnut trees. The turkeys wouldn’t be too far away if the nuts were dropping.

Water seeped into my right boot when I crossed the river, and I shook my head. That was careless, Francis. You don’t need frozen up toes.

Moving uphill. I found the old log Pa, and I used to sit on when we were squirreling. He only let me watch after the old gun knocked me on my backside. I didn’t care. It was enough being out in Creation with my Pa, loving every minute of it. Truth be told, I wasn’t it no hurry to shoulder that gun again. It was a few years before he trusted me to have another go at it, and it didn’t kick near as bad as I remembered.

I sat on that old log, half-rotted after all the years, remembering Pa, our time together, and worse—our time apart. My eyes got wet, and I wiped at ‘em, saying a silent prayer that he’d be home soon. Then, a follow-up request that the turkeys would be moving soon. It was cold. Sure, my fingers and toes was gettin’ numb, but I swear to Goshen, my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders either. My head was nodding, and I almost forgot why I was out in the Creator’s frozen paradise.

When the sun was straight up in the sky, it offered a bit of warmth. At least the crust of snow and ice on my coat and hat thawed out. I hoped the layers of wool would keep me dry as the water dripped off my hat and down my neck. A shiver ran down my back.

Nothing but songbirds were moving, and there wasn’t enough meat on them to feed Sally Mae more or less the whole family. Mr. Roosevelt said we was in a depression, and there wasn’t nothing great about it. “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without,” he said. Doing without was hard on the young’uns, though. Money was tight, and game was hard to come by, with everyone looking to the woods to feed their families.

I was taking a notion to move further up the mountain when I heard something moving through the brush to my right. Hard to get an aim on any critter coming in that way, at least for a right-hander like me. I scooted around on the log seat and pulled back the hammers on the shotgun.

Pa said never point your gun at something you didn’t want to shoot and to keep your finger off the trigger until ready to fire. So, I had the gun pointed in the right general direction so old Mr. Turkey wouldn’t see my movement, and my finger rested outside the trigger on the trigger guard.  Something else Pa said was a good hunter never took more than he needed, but there wasn’t much chance of that.  And all I needed right now was for the majestic bird to take a couple more steps. My mouth watered at the thought of a slice of juicy turkey breast. I swallowed it down and held my breath.

One more step, two, and…

A small hand pulled aside a branch, and Silas Neely poked his head out. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I let down the hammers on the shotgun. Silas was young to be out on his own, but with his Daddy laid up, I reckon that made him the man of the family—for a while, anyway. I waved, hoping he wouldn’t mistake me for a critter. He nodded and walked toward me. The shotgun resting on his shoulders was as long as he was tall. A piece of baling twine served as a sling to help him carry it, and a thick wrapping of tape held the stock together.

“Guess we’re after the same thing, Francis. You have a hankering for a Christmas turkey, too?” Silas asked. His eyes were deep and sunken, his cheeks hollow. I wondered if he’d been sickly.

“I sure am,” I whispered. “You must've put on a growth spurt, Silas. You’re as skinny as a ribbon snake and look like an old mule off its feed.”

Silas looked down at the ground and scuffed his boots in the leaves. When he raised his head and looked at me, his eyes were deep-set and shadowy. His pant leg only reached to his shins, about the same length as his oversized coat. A worn hat, two sizes too big, was pulled down low on his forehead, and a turkey wing bone call hung around his neck. I guess I stared at the double patches on his britches a bit too long. His face turned all red, and he kicked at the leaves again.

“Ma’s been right busy with Pa and the babies. Little Sarah’s sewing ain’t too good, but she does her best,” he said.

“That’s all right. Turkeys don’t care none, and I hear tell you’re a fine hunter.”

Silas looked up and smiled. “Pa says I’m near ‘bouts a man now.”

“I was thinking I’d try on up the mountain a ways. No sense in us hunting on top of one another. There’s a decent grove of persimmons up there, and the beechnuts are hitting the ground here. But where would you rather try? Both spots are promising.”

“I’ll head up if it’s all the same to you, Francis. Pa and I took a gobbler up there last spring. It’d mean much to Pa if I took another one there.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it. “Good luck to you, Francis.”

“You too. Hope you get a good ‘un.”

I sat back on my log and watched him walk away, slumped over like he carried a fifty-pound sack of ‘taters on his narrow shoulders. Something must’ve flown into my eye about then. My vision blurred, and I wondered what Christmas would be like at the Neely house.

***

Long after the sound of Silas moving through the woods stopped, the birds started singing again. A pair of squirrels chased each other around a big oak tree, paying no attention to me. Reckon they figured I was just a thick branch poking out of that log and no threat to their play at all.

The hairs sticking out under my hat and those little hairs in my nose were froze up into icicles. Despite the cold, I smiled as I watched the squirrels’ antics, and I realized I best keep an eye on ‘em. I might need them for dinner—if the turkeys didn’t cooperate.

The sun was getting lower and peeking through the trees on the west side. It shouldn’t be long now. The turkeys would be moving and headed to their roost. The thought no more than jumped into my head when I heard a shotgun blast uphill from where I sat. Maybe Silas got lucky. For a moment, I was jealous, then felt ashamed of myself. Pa said you shouldn’t envy a neighbor’s good fortune. I reckon the good book says something about it, too.

The shotgun roared again. I heard Pa’s voice then, clear as day. “Pay attention now, son. Silas must’ve busted up a whole flock of birds!”  

My eyes got watering, and I wiped at ‘em with my coat sleeve. Did hearing Pa’s voice mean something bad happened? Like some omen? As soon as my eyes cleared, sure enough, a big gobbler came busting through. He stopped for a second to look behind, and my gun spoke. The big bird dropped where he stood.

Pa always taught me to respect the life of the game we’ve taken, but I had to restrain myself from hollering and hooting. My family would have a fine Christmas dinner. Now, if only Pa would come home.

I knelt by my prize turkey, admiring his full, sleek feathers and wide tail fan. His spurs were nearabouts two inches long and the biggest bird I’d ever seen by far.

“Thank you for the gift of your life,” I said. “Your sacrifice will feed my family on the holiest of holy days and it will not be forgotten when we sing the Creator’s praises.”

I cleaned the bird, saved the gizzard and liver, tied a piece of twine around his feet to carry him across my shoulder, and sat down to wait for Silas.

***

I couldn’t help but smile all over myself as I waited. Ma and the kids would be tickled pink when I walked in the cabin door with our Christmas turkey slung over my shoulder. I was planning my entrance—wondering if’n I should pretend to have been skunked. I imagined the disappointment on everyone’s faces and decided against that.

I didn’t have long to wait for Silas. I heard him stomping through the underbrush and could tell he carried out more than he carried in. I smiled at his good fortune. When his figure appeared, it wasn’t a turkey I saw, and I stared, trying to make out the furred critter he struggled to carry.  I stood and walked toward him, and the ringed tail identified his prize as a raccoon.

“I see you had some luck, Silas. Congratulations.”

“You too? I heard you shoot.”

I held up my turkey.

“I reckon I messed up, Francis. I was cold and started thinking I wasn’t gonna see nothing. All I could think about was not having any meat to take home for Christmas. Then this ‘coon poked his head out of that hollow sycamore tree and started scrambling down. I figured a big old buck ‘coon was better’n nothing. As soon as I shot, a whole flock of turkeys took off. They was practically on top of me, but I never saw or heard ‘em coming. I took a shot at one but missed him clean. Ma hates ‘coon though. Had too much of it lately, I reckon.”

Silas stared at my dressed turkey and licked his lips. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes.

Visions of Ma pulling a golden-brown roast turkey out of the wood-fired stove danced in front of my eyes.

“You of a mind to trade that fat ‘coon for this scrawny bird?” I heard myself ask. “Heck, I’d a never had a chance at him if you didn’t run him to me.”

Silas licked his lips again and stared at me to see if I was teasing. He shook his head.  “I appreciate the thought, Francis, but my Pa don’t abide by no charity.”

“Charity? Hellfire, Silas. Baked ‘coon is my family’s favorite meal. You should see the young’uns squabble over a chunk of ‘coon. You’d be doing us a favor, truth be told. But I understand if you don’t want to give it up…”  

“Pa wouldn’t want me to…”

“It’ll be our secret. Like I said, I only got the bird 'cause of you, so I reckon he’s as much yours as mine anyway.”

Silas stared at the turkey like it was the world's salvation, then dropped his head and held that ‘coon all the tighter.

“Mmm Mmm, Ma sure would be happy about that nice ‘coon. Best eating in the woods, Pa always says.” I told him.

Silas gave me a look I couldn’t make out. Then he nodded his head and smiled.

I slipped the bird off my shoulder and hung it on Silas’. I reached for the ‘coon, and he paused only a second before turning it loose.

“Merry Christmas, Francis.”

“Merry Christmas to you and yours, Silas.”

***

We walked a short way together before the trail forked, and we said our goodbyes.

The trail got steeper as I approached home. My boots grew heavy as if they were filled with lead sinkers, and I wondered if it was from the cold or my worry over what Ma would think about me giving away our turkey.

My little brother Billy met me at the door, hope shining in his eyes.

“Whatcha catch, Francis? Did you get us a big ol’ turkey?” he asked. The light in his eyes faded when I held up dinner.

 “Oh, Ma, it’s another stinking raccoon,” he said.

“Since when did you turn your nose up at raccoon meat, Billy Ray? ‘Sides, I know your brother did his best. Now, you apologize right this minute.”

Billy dropped his eyes to the floor. “I'm sorry, Francis. He is a nice fat ‘coon.”

I ruffled his hair and smiled. “It’s fine, Billy.”

Ma laid out a supper of fried squirrel and biscuits. The two squirrels didn’t go far between me and Ma and four young’uns. But I wasn’t much hungry anyway. Besides, Ma made the best biscuits in the whole county.

After dinner, I helped wash the kids up and got ‘em tucked into bed.

“I know it’s kind of late, but I’ll fix us a couple of cups of coffee if you don’t think it will keep you up,” Ma said.

“That would suit me fine,” I said. “I do still have a bit of a chill.”

I busied myself with wiping down the old shotgun while Ma started the coffee. When I was done, she placed a steaming hot cup before me.

“Now, tell me all about your hunt, Francis, ‘cause I reckon you left out a few parts. Sheriff Giles stopped by. He left just before you got back. He said the Neely boy was toting the biggest tom turkey he’d ever seen and the boy seemed bashful about how he came about it. He’d been hunting along the same patch of woods as you. You know anything about his good fortune?”

I looked down at my cup of coffee and thought for a moment.

“I asked Pa about something the preacher said one time, Ma. It was about the right hand not knowing what the left hand was doing. Pa said he wasn’t as smart as the preacher, but the way he figured it, if you did something good for someone, you should keep shut about it. If folks knowed you did good, then you were just pumping yourself up, and then the good didn’t count.”

Ma’s eyes got wet, and a tear slid down her cheek. I’d never seen Ma cry before, and it upset me greatly.

“I’m sorry, Ma. I know we needed it, and you were counting on a turkey.”

“It ain’t that, boy. I couldn’t be prouder of you. You did just right.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I reckon you’re old enough and deserve to know, Francis. That ain't all the sheriff stopped to say. There was a cave-in at the mine, son.”

“A cave-in? Was Pa hurt? What else did the sheriff say?”

“That’s all he knew, or maybe all he would say. I’ll be on pins and needles until I know, but news travels fast in these hills. So, say your prayers extra hard tonight.”

***

That night, sleep was harder to get ahold of than a greased pig at the county fair, and I don’t think the coffee had much to do with it. My gut was twisting and turning—it felt like two tom cats fighting over a can of sardines in there. ‘Course, my brain wouldn’t shut up either. It kept throwing more “what-ifs” at me than the law allows. Leastwise, there ought to be a law about it.

It had been a long day, though; eventually, my body had enough. But I hate even recalling the dark dreams I was tortured with, and I ain’t gonna dwell on ‘em much. Suffice it to say I envisioned my Pa trapped and broken in a pitch-black hell hole of a mine, his funeral after that, my family’s grief… well, I reckon almost every possible horrible outcome.

I remembered hearing his voice in the woods—an omen? Please, God, don’t let it be so!

I dreamt of Pa, but in my dream, a demon took him over and was after me to drag me to perdition. I screamed at the demon and felt him grab my arm.

Pa’s voice said, “It’s all right now, Francis.”

I could smell meat burning. Was I already in hell?

“It’s all right, son. I’m home now.” The voice sounded like Pa, but I was afraid to open my eyes…afraid of what my waking eyes would see. A demon? A ghost?

I remembered what my Pa said the day he taught me to swim. “Even the bravest man gets scared, Francis. They just don’t let that fear whup ‘em.”

I forced my eyes to open.

“Is that you, Pa? Really you?”

“In the flesh, son. Lordy, I’m proud of you, boy. Merry Christmas.” He grabbed me up in a hug so tight it hurt, but I didn’t complain a lick. Pa was home!

***

A week ago, I went home to the mountains. A dear old family friend had passed away, and we went back to pay our respects. My Neely was ninety-nine years old and only missed his hundredth birthday by a few days.

After the service, Silas introduced himself, which was a good thing as I’d never recognized him otherwise. He walks with a cane these days, and his hair is the color of fresh fallen snow. He said he lost his wife last year and was all alone in the world.

“Reminiscing is one of God’s finest gifts to us older folks, don’t you reckon, Francis?” he asked. “I can still close my eyes and recall when our families were poor but richer than we knew. I dread the day my memories fade, old friend. They are all I have left.”

I nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.

“I haven’t forgotten what you did for me, Francis, For us.”

Sally Mae was the last of us to live in the home place, along with her husband and two teenage boys. She’d found this old notebook I used to scribble my thoughts in long ago, boxed up with some of Ma’s belongings. I hadn’t read what I wrote back then for many years. And there’s been a few—between that Christmas and now. Over the years, a golden-brown turkey or a fine smoked ham always graced our table. And most years, we had more set before us than we could have hoped to eat.

I got home from the mountains just in time for our Christmas. My wife baked a pheasant for our holiday meal. A turkey is too much for just the two of us anymore. That pheasant was something to brag about and left me licking my fingers—or would have if my wife wasn’t watching. But to this day, that baked ‘coon, on the Christmas day my Pa came home? That was the best Christmas dinner I’ve ever had.

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.