A Few of My Favorite Things About Christmas
Christmas in the West in the 1800’s. For some reason, I get warm-and-fuzzy feelings thinking about the wide open spaces, deep snow, tall pines, warm hearths, homemade gifts, sleigh rides, fiddle music, shy cowboys asking for a dance at the Christmas ball–Whoops! Sorry, I drifted off there for a second!
You can see why I write this stuff!
I’d like to share with you three of my favorite things that put me in mind of a Western Christmas: a certain book, a certain song, and a certain poem. Maybe they’ll set you to dreaming about a Cowboy–er, I mean, an old-fashioned Christmas, too!
Born to an affluent southern family, Nannie grew up in post-Civil War Virginia. Her home and community were spared much of the desolation of war, leaving her to blossom in a world that clung to the most genteel Southern graces. Her petticoats were ironed daily, she never cooked a meal or did her own laundry, but she did learn the most useless graces of high society. Her mother was a vain woman who enjoyed being the belle of the ball and was pleased to groom her daughter for the same fate.
Nannie only felt strangled by the shallow, societal confinements.
In 1880, she had the opportunity to visit a cousin in wild-and-wooly Kansas. Nannie jumped at it. Right from the start, she fell in love with the freedom of the West. No one judged her there; no one treated her like a hot-house flower. What you wore or who you ate dinner with didn’t impress anyone. Folks were measured by their sand, not their silk breeches. Hard work and honest words were all that mattered.
While there, she met the man who epitomized these traits. Walt Alderson had left home at the age of 12 to make his way as a cowboy. He spent years learning to be the best cowboy he could be with the ultimate goal of running his own spread. In all that time, he never made one visit home.
Then suddenly, his future rolled out before him. He and his business partner purchased some land in Montana and started the work of building a ranch. For whatever reason, Walt decided in the midst of all this to check in on his family. The night he came home, Nannie was sitting on his living room settee.
Nannie’s recollections of building a ranch in the wilds of Montana with Walt are fascinating, detailed, peppered with humor, and always honest. She went from gliding across hardwood floors to sweeping dirt floors covered with canvas. She went from living in an antebellum mansion to a drafty, two-room cabin. She went from swirling about at parties with young men in perfectly tailored suits to dancing with dusty cowboys in patched up dungarees.
She had to learn to cook and her tutors were those trail-hardened ranch hands who treated her like a princess and readily forgave her for the rocks she called biscuits. She survived bed bugs and blizzards; delivered children with no midwife and stared down Indians. Nannie even shot a rattlesnake who attempted to take up residence in her kitchen. She readily admits she had moments when she felt sorry for herself, but, mostly, Nannie counted her blessings. She loved her life. She loved the way of life out West.
Like Walt, quitting was never part of the plan, even when the stock market crashed and Indians burned their house. For ten years they worked and slaved to forge a home from the beautiful, desolate, wide-open country in Montana. Even when Walt died, leaving her a widow with two young children, Nannie cowboyed up. She made ends meet; she raised good kids.
The next time your microwave goes on the fritz or you forget to pick up milk at the store, pick up a copy of A Bride Goes West. I guarantee this American woman will put things in perspective for you.
THE SONG–Two-Step ‘Round the Christmas Tree. I was in Wyoming on my honeymoon when I heard this song for the first time. It truly has special memories for me. Give a listen and get to dancin’!
The Poem–The Creak of the Leather. The absolute maestro of cowboy poetry is the legendary Bruce Kiskadon. And if this poem doesn’t make you want to strap on a pair of spurs and jump in the saddle and ride out and cut down a Christmas tree, check your pulse!
THE CREAK OF THE LEATHER by Bruce Kiskaddon (1878-1950) It’s likely that you can remember A corral at the foot of a hill Some mornin’ along in December When the air was so cold and so still. When the frost lay as light as a feather And the stars had jest blinked out and gone. Remember the creak of the leather As you saddled your hoss in the dawn.
When the glow of the sunset had faded And you reached the corral after night On a hoss that was weary and jaded And so hungry yore belt wasn’t tight. You felt about ready to weaken You knowed you had been a long way But the old saddle still kep a creakin’
courtesy Wind River Studios
Like it did at the start of the day.
Perhaps you can mind when yore saddle Was standin’ up high at the back And you started a whale of a battle When you got the old pony untracked. How you and the hoss stuck together Is a thing you caint hardly explain And the rattle and creak of the leather As it met with the jar and the strain.
You have been on a stand in the cedars When the air was so quiet and dead Not even some flies and mosquitoes To buzz and make noise ’round yore head. You watched for wild hosses or cattle When the place was as silent as death But you heard the soft creak of the saddle Every time the hoss took a breath.
And when the round up was workin’ All day you had been ridin’ hard There wasn’t a chance of your shirkin’ You was pulled for the second guard A sad homesick feelin’ come sneakin’ As you sung to the cows and the moon And you heard the old saddle a creakin’ Along to the sound of the tune.
There was times when the sun was shore blazin’ On a perishin’ hot summer day Mirages would keep you a gazin’ And the dust devils danced far away You cussed at the thirst and the weather You rode at a slow joggin’ trot And you noticed somehow that the leather Creaks different when once it gets hot.
When yore old and yore eyes have grown hollow And your hair has a tinge of the snow But there’s always the memories that follow From the trails of the dim long ago. There are things that will haunt you forever You notice that strange as it seems One sound, the soft creak of the leather, Weaves into your memories and dreams.
Of course, though, the most wonderful, most amazing, most old-fashioned thing about Christmas is the birth of a savior two thousand years ago. Remember and celebrate the Reason for the Season: the One who was born to die for mankind.
And I hope you all have a very merry, very blessed, very old-fashioned Christmas!
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