"Remember! If you're bad, all Santa will bring you is a lump of coal." For children down through the years, perhaps this dire warning struck fear in their hearts, a fear as hard and cold as a piece of shiny black anthracite.
But for me, coal conjures up memories of Christmases at my widowed grandmother's house. Christmas was never fancy there. The walls and ceilings were heart-of-pine brought from their deconstructed home place in the mountain and reused to build their home in The Valley when my father was a teenager. My grandfather's generation knew the term "repurpose" long before it became trendy. The living room was dim and a bit musty because during the winter, my grandmother shut herself up in the kitchen and her bedroom where she stayed snug and warm. A gas space heater glowed in the kitchen. It replaced the old Franklin stove where we once warmed our hands over kindling, and where I listened to my grandfather’s stories.
But at Christmastime, the living room came alive. A freshly cut cedar tree from the home place presided over the room from a corner, always the same corner year after year. The tree looked festive with strings of colorful lights. My grandmother added scalloped, silver metal reflectors she bought in town to make the lights sparkle even more. Brightly colored gifts wrapped in dime store paper lay beneath the tree.
My family’s last name was Smith. Probably earlier in her life, my grandmother was called Ma Smith, as we called our grandfather Pa Smith, but the Ma was dropped. My sister, brother, and I called her “Smith.” She embraced the name, and she signed her Christmas cards “Smith” with an ink pen flourish under her name.
Every year the mantle was decorated with three special statues– brown camels bearing the Magi who were seeking The Christ Child. Of course, they weren't walking in desert sands in search of the star above Bethlehem; they were traveling through fresh green cedar branches and berries gathered from trees in her yard. Above the mantle hung the picture that stayed there all year, Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. The picture added a bit of irony. There they were, the Wise Men searching for Jesus, and he was right there hanging above them in a frame on the mantle the whole time.
Below the mantle, an old gray fireplace of mortar and stone illuminated the room. Smith didn't burn much wood in the fireplace. She mostly burned coal. A worn metal coal scuttle filled with extra coal brought in from the wintry chill stood at the ready by the hearth, along with a small ash shovel and a poker.
The fire glowed deep red in the fireplace, its warmth inviting and satisfying. During the holidays, I hurried out along the path between her house and mine, the chilly wind’s icy fingers reaching through my winter coat. I sat in a rocking chair near the fire and warmed my feet, mesmerized by the fiery coals.
She passed away in 1988. I was in France with a group of my students. I couldn’t get home for her funeral. Sometimes she is in my dreams. I never see her or touch her, but I know she is there. I feel her presence. When I awake, I feel refreshed, as if I have enjoyed the company of someone sacred.
I can still remember the smell of coffee brewing and homemade buttermilk biscuits baking in her kitchen. Her pear preserves and butter could turn simple foods into an afternoon feast. What a pleasure it was to enjoy my own Southern Dickensian Christmas with my grandmother Smith.
