L-11-text-AN-IOWA-CHRISTMAS

ANIOWACHRISTMASByPAULENGLEILLUSTATEDFORAMERICANHERITAGEBYDOUGLASGORSLINEEveryChristmasshouldbeginwiththesoundofbells,andwhenIwasachildminealwaysdid.Buttheyweresleighbells,notchurchbells,forwelivedinapartofCedarRapids,Iowa,wheretherewerenochurches.Mybellswereonmyfather’steamofhorsesashedroveuptoourhorse-headedhitchingpostwiththebobsledthatwould3takeustocelebrateChristmasonthefamilyfarmtenmilesoutinthecountry.MyfatherwouldbringtheteamdownFifthAvenueatasmarttrot,flickinghiswhipoverthehorses’rumpsandmakingthebellsdoubletheirlight,thinjanglingoverthesnow,whoseradiancethrewbackabrilliancelikethesoundofbells.Therearenosuchdeparturesanymore:thewholefamilypilingintothebobsledwithafootofgoldenoatstrawtolieinandheavybuffalorobestolieunder,thehorsesstampingthesoftsnow,andateverymotionoftheirhoofsthebellsjingling,jingling.Myfathersattherewiththereinsfirmlyheld,wearingalongcoatmadefromthehideofafavoritefamilyhorse,thedeepchestnutcolorstillglowing,hismittensalsofromthesamehide.Italwaystroubledmeasaboyofeightthatthehorseshadsoindifferentaviewoftheirlatefriendappearingasawarmovercoatonthebackofthemanwhoputtheironbitintheirmouths.4Therearenostreetslikethoseanymore:thesnowsensiblyleftontheroadforthesakeofsleighsandeasytravel.Wecouldhopoilandridetheheavyrunnersastheymadetheirhissing,tearingsoundoverthepackedsnow.Andalongthestreetswemetotherhorses,sothatwemovedfromonesetofbellstoanother,fromthetinytinkleoftheindividualbellsontheshaftstothesilvery,leapingsoundofthelongstrandshungovertheharness.Therewouldbeanoccasionalbrass-mountedautomobilelaboringonitsnarrowtiresandasoftenasnotpulleduptheslipperyhillsbyahorse,andwewouldpassitwithatriumphantshoutforanawkwardnuisancewhichwasobviouslynotheretostay.Thecountryroadranthroughalandscapeoflittlehillsandshallowvalleysandheavygrovesoftimber,includingoneofgreattoweringblackwalnuttreeswhichwereallcutdownayearlatertobemadeintogunstocksfortheFirstWorldWar.Thegreatmomentwaswhenwelefttheroadandturnedupthelonglaneonthefarm.Itranthroughfieldswherewatermelonswerealwaysplantedinthesummerbecauseofthefinesandysoil,andIcouldgooutandbreakoneopentoseeitsChristmascolorsofgreenskinandredinside.MygrandfatherhadbeengivensomeofthatfarmasbountylandforserviceasacavalrymanintheCivilWar.5Nearthelowhouseonthehill,withoaksononesideandappletreesontheother,myfatherwouldstandup,flourishhiswhip,andbringthebobsledrightuptothedoorofthehousewithaburstofspeed.Therearenosucharrivalsanymore:theharnessbellsringingandclashinglikefarawaysteeples,thehorseswhinnyingatthehorsesinthebarnandreceivingagreat,trumpetingwhinnyinreply,thedogsleapingintothebobsledandburrowingunderthebuffalorobes,asquawkingfromthehenhouse,ayellingof“Whoa,whoa,”attheexcitedhorses,boyandgirlcousinshowlingaroundthebobsled,andthedescentintothesnowwiththeChristmasbasketcarriedbymymother.7Whilemymotherandsisterswentintothehouse,theteamwasunhitchedandtakentothebarn,tobecoveredwithblanketsandgivenalittlegrain.Thatwinterodorofabarnisawonderfullycomplexone,richandwarmandutterlyunlikethesmellofthesamebarninsummer:thebodyheatofmanyanimalsweighingathousandpoundsandmore;pigsinonecornermakingtheirdark,brown-soundinggrunts;milkcattlestillnuzzlingthemangerforwispsofhay;horseseyeingthenewcomersandrollingtheirdeep,ovaleyeswhite;oats,hay,andstrawtangystillwiththeliveAugustsunlight;themanuresteaming;thesharpodorofleatherharnessrubbedwithneat’s-footoiltokeepitsupple;themolasses-sweetodorofensilageinthesilowherethefodderwasalmostfermenting.Itisasmellfromstrongandlivingthings,andmyfatheralwayssaiditwasthesecretofhealth,thatitscouredoutaman’slungs;andhewouldstandthere,breathingdeeply,onehandonahorse’srump,watchingthesteamcomeoutfromundertheblanketsastheteamcooleddownfromtheirrapidtrotupthelane.Itgavehimabetterappetite,heargued,thanplainfreshair,whichwasthinandhadnobodytoit.AbarnwithcattleandhorsesistheplacetobeginChristmas;afterall,that’swheretheoriginaleventhappened,andthatsamesmellwasthefirstairthattheChristChildbreathed.8Bythetimewereachedthehouse,mymotherandsisterswerewearingapronsandbusyinginthekitchen,asred-facedasthewomenwhohadbeenthereallmorning.Thekitchenwasthebiggestroominthehouseandallfamilylifesavesleepingwentonthere.Myuncleevenhadacouchalongonewallwherehenappedandwherethechildrenlaywhentheywereill.ThekitchenrangewasatremendousblackandgleamingonecalledaSmokeEater,withpansbubblingovertheholesabovethefireboxandareservoirofhotwaterattheside,linedwithdullcopper,fromwhichmyunclewoulddipabasinofwaterandshaveabovethesink,turninghislatheredfacenowandthentodroparemarkintothewomen’stalk,wavinghisstraightedgedrazorasifitwereathreattomakethembelievehim.Myjobwastogotothewoodpileoutbackandkeepthefireburning,splittingthechunksofoakandhickory,watchinghowcleanlytheaxwentthroughthetoughwood.10ItwasahandmadeChristmas.Thetreecamefromdowninthegrove,andonitweremanypaperornamentsmadebymycousins,aswellasbeautifulonesbroughtfromtheBlackForest,wherethefamilyhadoriginallylived.Therewerepopcornballs,fromcornplantedonthesunnyslopebythewatermelons,paperhornswithhomemadecandy,andapplesfromtheorchar