The Christmas Visitor

By Jeffry L’H. Tank

A short introduction

This story is dedicated to my Mother for whom it was written and to the memory of my Father whose family tradition provided the inspiration.

While my other tales of Christmas have been entirely fictional in nature, as I struggled to find a fitting tale for this years effort, I remembered something I have heard often concerning the best subjects for any author, namely, write about what you know or what you feel; in other words, write from the heart. Thus it was that this tale came into being, and while on the whole it is a fictional tale, it encompasses parts that are based on real life experiences. I’ll leave it to reader to decide which is which.

The Tale

It was another Christmas evening as I sat by the fire, listening to its pleasant crackling while awaiting the appearance of my yearly Christmas visitor. Outside the wind had picked up and I could hear it blowing around the corners of the cabin, whistling through the barren tree branches and rattling the shutters. Every once in a while it managed to find its way down the chimney and stir the flames in the hearth, but the warmth of the fire invariably chased it back up the chimney stack and back into the night. It was as if it was a game played between two old friends, each knowing the inevitable outcome, yet they continued to play it as if grown accustomed to one another. While I sat there my thoughts drifted back through the years to that day when I first found this little bit of heaven I have called home for nearly 20 years now.

It had occurred during a late fall ride to enjoy the colors as the trees shed the last of their leaves covering the forest floor with their fading glory before finally turning a muted brown and eventually, adding another layer to the forest mulch. As I motored along the numerous roads that wander through the Blue Ridge Mountains and crisscross the Parkway and Skyline Drive I had found myself riding along Rt. 211 where it intersects the drive. Just as I was approaching the edge of the park land proper on the western slope I happened upon a For Sale sign next to a hard packed gravel drive that lead into the forest. While I hadn’t been planning on looking at property that day, the location seemed intriguing and not having any particular plans or being in a rush to return home, I decided to explore what lay at the end of the gravel drive. Not long after turning onto the driveway I came around a sharp bend and there it was. Even before parking in front of the old log cabin I felt that this just might be the kind of place that would make a perfect get-a-way and future home when I retired. After a stroll around the clearing in which it sat, I felt that indeed this was could well become my future home.

The structure itself was not much to look at from the outside but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it fit me perfectly, being not too big nor too small and surrounded by a lovely plot of land sitting just on the edge of the park land bordering Skyline Drive. The structure itself was just under 900 sq ft according to the flyer provided in the box on the front porch and, as far as I have since been able to ascertain, dated back to the mid eighteen hundreds. It consisted of a sturdy, single level rough hewn log cabin, with several large windows on the western side that provided a wonderful view down the mountain and of the river valley below. The doors and shutters where also of the same rough hewn wood typical of many mountain homes from that period. Peering in through the windows, I could discern the open layout of the main living area with a large hearth on one side and several doors along the other side that I assumed led to the bedrooms and bath. Having seen that much I decided it was worth further investigation so decided to ride back down to the entrance of the driveway and call the realtor’s number that appeared on the sign. Another half an hour and she showed up and we returned to the cabin which she unlocked and then showed me around the interior. It didn’t take me long to decide that this was exactly the type of dwelling I had been hoping to find in such a location. Of particular interest to me was the root cellar that was reached from either the outside through a slopping storm door leading to a store stairway, or from the inside down a narrow staircase at the back of the open kitchen area. Like all root cellars it had that wonderful earthen smell, cool, dark and moist.

By the end of the afternoon the paperwork had been started and several months later the title was turned over to me and I began to spend many an enjoyable weekend here. Since my retirement some years ago I have made a number of improvements and modifications reflecting my own personal tastes, and the structure and I have become accustomed to one another as old friends invariably do.

My thoughts returned to the present as I sat watching the firelight and glancing out the window at the heavy layer of snow outside. The blanket of white cascaded down the mountainside, appearing and disappearing among the barren trees, thinning as it reached the valley floor where strings of lights lining the roads sparkled in the descending twilight. The fire, the snow, the valley lights below and the Christmas tree standing in the corner of the room all lent themselves to the feeling that this was indeed Christmas Eve, and that within my small world upon the mountain side at least, everything was as it should be on such a night.

Again my thoughts drifted back to my early childhood years growing up with my family and our life overseas. Because of our exposure to a number of different cultures, mixed in with my father’s German background, our Christmas celebration had grown to be somewhat unique and included some rather unusual traditions. One of the must unique traditions was the one my father had carried forward from his family, starting with the first year of his marriage well before my sister and I came along. This tradition consisted of having candles clipped to the branches of the tree in special holders, as well as hanging sparklers on it.

In addition the tree was placed in a special stand that revolved and contained a music box that played several old traditional Christmas carols. Each evening, as the tree revolved, he would dim the lights, then light the candles one at a time. With the lighting of each candle the pattern of shadows dancing on the ceiling would constantly change, an effect that was almost mesmerizing. After they were all lit, he would proceed to light the sparklers one at a time as the tree continued to revolve. The whole effect was quite stunning and I was always fascinated by the sparklers shooting forth twinkling bursts of tiny stars that would descend through branches before winking out of existence. Then he would snuff out the candles one and one, and the shadows dancing on the ceiling would slowly die away with them, till we were once more sitting in a darkened living room, with the smell of wax and burnt iron fillings from the sparklers slowing fading. My father took great joy in performing this ritual to the delight of not only my family but also the many visitors who came by during the season and it is one of my fondest memories from my childhood.

Picking out the right tree was in itself quite an enterprise. Every year my Father and I would head out one evening on our great quest for the perfect Christmas tree. Since, as noted earlier, our families stand revolved, choosing a tree took some time and effort as it had to meet several very stringent criteria. Most important was that it had to have a very straight trunk so it would balance properly in the stand and it had to be uniform in shape since any bare spots would be revealed as it rotated. The other major requirement was that it needed to have branches strong enough to firmly support the candles and have enough clearance above them to prevent the tree from catching fire, as well as having open areas below some of the branches where we would hang sparklers. It often took my father and I an hour or more to find just the right tree and no doubt some of the Christmas tree venders we visited must have been rather puzzled by all the care and consideration we devoted to the task. My father had no qualms about having the vendor stand there holding tree after tree and rotating them slowly as my father and I would discuss its various merits or shortcomings. Because the nature of my father’s job required long hours at the office, this was one of the few events that he and I had an opportunity to share, thus making the occasion all the more special for the both of us. While my Dad and I embarked on our quest, my sister and mother would remain at home clearing away a corner in the living room for us to set up the tree upon our return.

While my thoughts were thus engaged there came a soft, familiar knocking at the front door, and my attention returned to the present. A moment later the door opened and my visitor entered the room, a swirl of snow blowing in as he turned to shut the door. Hanging his great coat on the hook by the door, he bent down to remove his boots and bring them over to place them by the fire before drawing up the chair he always sat in during his visits. He was a tall, older gentleman, standing a good 6 foot 2 inches and of slim build even for his age, slim almost to the point of lankiness. His hair had thinned somewhat and was touched with grey at the temples. Yet his appearance has remained basically unchanged during the years since he first started visiting me during the Yule Tide season after I had moved to my retreat in the Blue Ridge. Settling himself in the chair opposite me in front of the large fireplace, the ever present twinkle in his eyes caught the light of the fire, the quiet interplay reflected in his broad smile. The edges of his thin lips quivered with some secret mirth that, like the twinkle in his eyes, had become so much a part of him over the years. While he may have changed very little, time had not been so kind to me. My hair was now completely gray, what little there was, and the wrinkles on my face gave clear evidence to the passage of time since my retirement. My movements too had slowed, acts that once were so effortless, seemed now to take greater and greater energy and more purposeful thought. His comparatively youthful presence and easy grace of movement only served to heighten my awareness of my own aging with the passing years. Still, it was, as always, a joy to see him again, sitting there by the fire, his company having become so much a part of my Christmas. Every year since I first moved here he has visited without fail, regardless of the weather, road conditions, any force of nature or act of man. I am not quite sure what I would do on Christmas Eve should he ever fail to show, but I am certain my evening would be empty and without joy. I have no doubt that neither would I bother pulling out the box of old family ornaments or traipsing out into the cold and down the trail to the patch of woods where years ago I had planted a small groove of pines to cut and bring inside each year to decorate if I ever thought he would no longer come visiting on this day.

Just as time had taken its toll on me, so had it taken its toll on the old family ornaments that I decorated the tree with each year. The assortment had become sparser, age and the occasional accident taking yet another. At first I had tried saving the pieces, in some faint hope I could repair them, but then I realized the futility of any such attempts to repair globes of such thin glass and of such fine detail and delicacy. Perhaps at first I had been unwilling to accept the inevitability and finality of life and its sundry belongings. Now, however, I have learned that in the end, we must accept the fact that all things pass and in so doing we also learn to cherish the memories, even if the object of those memories no longer exists. This is but one of the many lessons my caller has taught me over the years of our association. Lessons that serve as the cornerstone upon which our relationship has been built and that have served to bring us ever closer together in spirit, and strengthen our shared emotional bond.

Once settled, we sat in silence for a few moments, our legs stretched out before us warming our soles at the fire. The warmth radiating from fieldstone hearth felt good as we pressed our feet against its coarse surface and watched the flames dancing in the great hearth. After a minute or so I got up and went to the kitchen to prepare us each a steaming hot toddy, made with a good measure of fine brandy, in large earthen mugs. I then prepared us each an ample portion of mincemeat topped with a sliver of hard sauce, placed everything on a tray and returned to my place by the fire.

We soon became deeply involved in a most animated discussion on a wide variety of subjects, ranging everywhere from current events and politics, always one of his favorites, to the latest news on the scientific fronts, which has always been one of mine. Every once in a while I would catch him looking over at the tree as if trying to discern which ornaments where missing from the previous year, not as though from any great concern, but rather as if he was playing some silent memory game as though to help lock in the evening and store it away with all the other Christmases we had shared.

Eventually the conversation would turn to events from past and the retelling of stories from all the wondrous places my family had lived in. Again, as always, one of our favorite topics was the retelling of various Christmas adventures, stories we had shared many times over the years, yet never lost interest in sharing once more. Christmas tales of events in such far away and exotics places as Thailand and Libya, locations where celebrating Christmas with all its trappings was, to say the least, quite a challenge. We shared a quiet chuckle as we reminisced about the year when my father had arranged for several rather sad looking fir trees to be flown in while the family was stationed in Libya back in the late 50’s. At that time living there required that our main source of food stuffs such as meats be flown in by military aircraft since the local meats were considered unsafe for our consumption. Therefore convincing the military to make room for any extraneous items had presented something of a challenge to my father, which, I suspect, made it all more interesting for him. My visitor smiled as I once more related the tale of how, after the tree with the straightest trunk had been selected, with the help of an old family friend they had proceeded to drill holes in it. Then cutting off branches from the other trees, they had glued and wired them into place in order to build a single tree that would allow the old family tradition to continue, even while living on the edge of the Sahara desert. It had been a rather sad looking affair, yet with enough tinsel and ornaments it had fulfilled its role and our families Christmas celebrations had taken place as usual. Finding branches strong enough to support the candles had been an even greater challenge, thus requiring the addition of support wires to prevent them from sagging unduly and setting the entire ensemble ablaze.

Then there was the year when the family tree had indeed caught on fire and from that year forward my mother replaced the bucket of water she had in former years kept close at hand, with several small portable fire extinguishers. In all the years that we celebrated the tradition she was, I suspect, never quite comfortable with the whole affair of the actual lighting of the candles and sparklers, yet it was quite obvious that she enjoyed the tradition as much as the rest of the family, friends and neighbors who shared our tradition with us over the years.

Eventually the familiar stories ran their course, our mirth became satiated for another Christmas season and we sat in silence in front of the slowly dying fire, each with our separate thoughts and memories from the past. Finally it was time for him to leave, yet as was always the case each year, he would make any number of false starts before finally getting up to go, being as hesitant as I for the evening to end.

Finally, rising from his chair, he placed his drink and mincemeat, as always still untouched upon the mantle, pulled on his boots and made his way to the door. Throwing his greatcoat around his shoulders he stepped out into the chill December night. I stood there at the doorway watching him depart until he disappeared into the swirling snow and noted as I did each year how he left no impressions in the deep unblemished snow that was so brightly lit by the porch lantern, and thinking how unaffected he appeared by the cold. Finally, when I could no longer make out his receding silhouette, I closed the door and returned to my chair by the fire and fell asleep as its last embers cooled in the great hearth, while the memories of all my Father’s yearly visits danced in my dreams.

The End

As always, in the spirit of the season, let me express my wish to all who may happen upon these words and thoughts, that the season find you well, warm and surrounded by family, friends and good cheer.

© Jeffry L’H. Tank

Thanks for visiting VirginiaWind.

Travel | Back Seat | Byways | Specials | Letters | Tips | About Us | Privacy | Disclaimer | Search