Long wait for tree tested kids yule spirit by Byron Crawford The Courier-Journal Wednesday, December 10, 1997 to be included in MAMA a work in progress by Ron Whitehead Every Christmas season, Kentucky writer-poet Ron Whitehead is visited with the memory of a cedar tree in a snowstorm in the dusk of a long-ago Christmas Eve. It was in the early 1960s. His family lived in a farmhouse southwest of the Centertown community in rural Ohio County. Ron, the oldest of five children - with one on the way - was 12. His father, Edwin, worked for the Peabody Coal Co., sometimes seven days a week. His mother, Greta, looked after the children and managed their chores on the 70-acre farm. Christmas was coming late that year to the Whitehead place. It was a busy time for Rons folks. Peabody Coal was building the largest drag line in the world, and Rons father would be the operator. Uninformed sightseers might call the machine a giant steam shovel, but all the Whitehead children knew better. CHRISTMAS WAS, by far, their favorite time of year. Their mother made popcorn balls, baked cookies, cakes and other delicacies; there were plays at church and musical programs at school, and scuffles among the children over the Christmas catalog. The old Victrola earned its keep, playing scratchy favorites of the season. Rons mother would decorate the front of the house, and if there was enough snow, she would build snow castles in the front yard. She and the children would string large blue lights, icicles and strands of popcorn on the Christmas tree - which they usually cut from a grove of cedars somewhere in the countryside. The children had often heard the stories of how their father had gotten only an orange for Christmas in the Depression days when he was a boy, but things were better for them in the early 60s. There were always toys under their tree on Christmas morning. And though they lived in a strictly disciplined home where little open affection was displayed, Ron knew that his parents loved him. THERE HAD BEEN some outright grumbling among the Whitehead kids about the lateness of getting a Christmas tree that year. But their grumbling went only so far. Most Kentucky children back then knew better than to demand things of their parents, even if it might have been justified - as was certainly the case withh the Whitehead childrens Christmas-tree complaint. Here it was, Christmas Eve, a snowstorm swirling, daylight fading, and still no tree. The Whitehead kids imagined the worst. But just then, their mother appeared with the familys old double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun under her arm and ordered the children into the Chevy pickup. We drove slow through the storm, down the side road by our house, Ron Whitehead says. About a mile down the road into the storm, my mom pulled over and said, Come on. We all climbed out of the back of the pickup and followed. We walked a ways, until we came upon a cedar tree. Mama said, Get behind me. THE CHILDREN stood for a moment, like toy figures in a snow-globe, with flakes floating about them - listening to the snow - as their mother loaded the old 12-gauge, raised it to her shoulder, clicked off the safety and emptied both barrels at the six-foot cedar, which quaked for a second, then fell. In the same tone of voice, mama said, You all get the Christmas tree and come on. Whitehead recalled. The children let out a yell, loaded the tree and headed for home, laughing all the way. Ron Whitehead, who now lives in Louisville, would later study at Oxford University; would teach literature at the University of Louisville; would write books and lecture around the world. But he has never forgotten that Christmas Eve in Ohio County when his mother brought down a tree with one shot. His soon-to-be released book, The Beaver Dam Rocking Chair Marathon, (Bops, Crack, Boom! Press) contains the story in a poem titled Mama. Byron Crawfords column appears(ed) on the Kentucky page Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays in The Courier-Journal.
Posted on: Wed, 20 Aug 2014 11:32:09 +0000
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