Opinion & Comment

Mountain Christmas

APPALACHIAN NOTEBOOK, BY STEVE ODEN

It's holiday time in the mountains, where so many wonderful Christmas traditions originated. Wherever I travel in the Appalachian region, I am delighted to find that old rituals still celebrate the season.

Of course, we all know about the popularization of "Country Christmas" trends, but this is a relatively recent development due, in large part, to mass marketers of home furnishings and the songs of recording artists. I prefer the older observance of Mountain Christmas, with roots going back to the Eighteenth Century when Appalachia was sparsely populated.

My own Appalachian ancestors were Scotch-Irish immigrants who settled in the "highlands," inter-married with Cherokee Indians, hunted game with smooth bore muskets, and scratched out a meager living on rocky hillside farms from North Carolina to North Alabama. They lived in a land of harsh beauty: steep forested mountains, bleak sandstone bluffs, swift rivers rushing down into isolated valleys.

They were folks not given to "easy pleasures;" in fact, their existence was hard, often bordering on starvation. Death from sickness, injury, or deprivation was a fact of life. Families lived far from their neighbors, and self-reliance was the main ingredient for survival.

These early Appalachians were independent souls, suspicious of strangers, but with a close-knit sense of community. They followed, mainly, Protestant religious strictures that came across the wide Atlantic Ocean from English and Scottish homelands. Among these was the observance of Old Christmas on January 5-6. An obscure highland ballad, "Cherry Tree Carol," preserved through the centuries in Appalachia, tells of Mary asking Joseph to gather fruit for the infant, Jesus. Apparently tired from the journey to Bethlehem and dazed by the attention of the angels and wise men to his new son, Joseph replies: "Let the Father of the baby gather cherries for thee."

Then Jesus spoke a few words, a few words spoke He, 'Let my mother have some cherries, bow down low cherry tree.'

The cherry tree bowed low down, bowed low down to the ground, and Marry gathered cherries while he stood around.

Then Joseph took Mary on his right knee, 'What have I done? Lord, have mercy on me.' Then Joseph took Mary on his left knee, 'Oh, tell me, little baby, when thy birthday shall be.'

'On the sixth of January my birthday will be, when the stars in the heavens shall tremble with glee.'

Hearing this song to the accompaniment of a hammered dulcimer and guitar for me conjures up images of mountain Christmases in the past, when my grandparents were still alive and their large families returned to visit.

Cedar trees decorated with paper rings, fruit and popcorn; hog killings a few days before the big feast, when the table would groan with fresh pork tenderloin, ham, and sausage; the coming and going of aunts, uncles, and a myriad of cousins and more distant relatives, gathering at the old home place to laugh, cry, and love . . .

Boxes of golden raisins and bowls of walnuts; shaking the pecan tree and gathering nuts for pie and fruit cake; wondering where the men-folk disappeared regularly, only to return in a few minutes red-cheeked and breathless (later learning they were nipping moonshine in the mule barn); shiny 50-cent pieces and old Liberty dollar coins pressed into the palms of children by generous adult visitors . . .

Men and older boys shooting shotguns, rifles and pistols in the air at midnight on Christmas Eve; persimmon pudding; firecrackers and bottle rockets; big sticks of peppermint candy, shattered with a hammer into bite-size pieces; my great-uncle who carved wooden "play-pretties" (spinning tops, slingshots and whistles) for the children . . .

My grandmother letting me explore the cigar box that held my uncleÕs war medals, which I thought were pretty and wondered why she cried . . .

Sorghum syrup, thick rind bacon, chocolate gravy, and cathead biscuits for Christmas breakfast; the Christmas morning hunt, and the pile of quail, rabbits and squirrels brought back to the dinner table; playing with the hound dogs and chasing the yard chickens; my grandfather "supping" his coffee from a saucer while he listened to holiday hymns on an old Zenith radio . . .

And, best of all, hearing stories told around the fireside of ghosts, supernatural events, livestock-ravaging panthers, giant bears, legendary hunting dogs, and eccentric family members.

I dimly recall those Mountain Christmases of the 1950's, before rampant commercialization of the holiday. It was a time of celebration for simple, hard-working, God-fearing folk who, this one time of year, lavished on themselves and their loved ones a little extra food and fun. Granny sometimes called it the familyÕs "Christmas frolic," but the ritual always began and ended with a prayer of thanks for earthly blessings and eternal salvation.

Across Appalachia, families still observe Mountain Christmas in varying ways. I hope yours is happy. When the peace of the season settles on the hillsides and in the valleys, may your fire be bright, your plate full, and your home full of love. Amen.