“’Tis the Season”

Tybee Island has turned crisp and sunny again, which cheers both Calista—my PTSD service dog—and me. I can always tell she’s happy: she’s got that spark in her eyes, and her tail won’t stop wagging.

If only my seventy-five-year-old rear end could wag too! Instead, we content ourselves with a stroll down Solomon toward the creek, lost in thought and memory.

I’m sure Momma, bless her dearly departed soul, has decked every corner of her heavenly home with holiday finery. She adored the “feelings” of Christmas—its warmth and goodwill—and over the years I grew to love the season, even though it still aches sometimes.

Since she passed, I always feel a twinge of dread as Thanksgiving approaches. Yet I do look forward to hosting “deer camp” in the weeks before: my “boys,” now grown men and many retired, gather to sip whiskey, spin tall tales, and recall the biggest bucks we bagged—and the ones that got away. But when deer camp ends, Thanksgiving looms, and my emotions get tangled.

Back home, from the day before Thanksgiving until January 2, we lived under a truce of “peace on earth, goodwill toward men.” Don’t misunderstand—the rest of the year wasn’t a free-for-all of yells and curses, but my parents carried a lot of unspoken tension. Dad’s unhappiness and discreet wanderings were front-page gossip in our small town, and coming from “between the tracks” only amplified the whispers.

Yet during the holidays, something softened between them, and Momma was free to decorate and cook to her heart’s content. Every season you’d step inside and be greeted by her kitchen’s aroma and her tree—first aluminum, then green plastic—always heavy with her prized ornaments. Beneath it lay presents wrapped by her arthritic hands, each bow placed just so, each gift tagged in pencil.

When the Sears Christmas catalog arrived each year, she’d hand it to me and let me circle three or four must-have items. As I grew older, my wishes shifted from toys to practical or cherished gifts, though some childhood toys remain vivid in my memory.

We even had theme years: the Daniel Boone Christmas with a coonskin cap and plastic flintlock, the Davy Crockett year with vinyl buckskins and a toy Buck knife, and the Swamp Fox year with a smattering of “Army stuff.” I’d play frontiersman in the backyard, lather my face with soap, and “shave” with an apple-tree twig while talking to my men about that day’s mission.

Then came the cowboy era—Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Wyatt Earp, the Rifleman, and “Wanted: Dead or Alive.”

Momma gifted me pearl-handled Colts, a white cowboy hat, a guitar (in a nod to Willie Nelson’s warning about cowboy sons), Bluntline Specials, and a .30-30 plastic replica of Chuck Conner’s rifle with a circled lever.

Even now, in the 1850s log cabin at Tranquilla II, those guns hang on the wall beneath the only deer I ever mounted, crowned by a handmade beaver hat from Larry T. Miller. Some gifts become too precious to ever part with.

One year, Momma thought I had musical talent—though I didn’t—and bought me a keyboard, hoping I’d learn Elvis music. I never got past Row, Row, Row Your Boat, but it led to a piano I never asked for. I took lessons from Mrs. Wilcox, even did a recital in a white dinner jacket—terrible, of course. Someone bought that piano at the estate sale; I hope they tuned and enjoyed it.

In high school, Mrs. Allo, the choir teacher, asked me to mouth songs, but always gave me speaking parts in The King and I, My Fair Lady, and The Music Man. At our 75th-class reunion, I shared those memories, hoping to leave classmates smiling—and I think I did.

Then there was the pool table in the laundry room. I taught myself angles and trick shots from library books, practiced solo until I got good, and at the Caldwell County Times, sneaked off on breaks to play with Johnny “Mac,” who taught me to lose a quarter bet graciously—and to hustle better. Those lessons still served me well at Crazy Horse Billiards in Murray in the late sixties.

Momma met two significant women in my life. The first was my “practice wife” of ten years, for whom Momma insisted we wear matching Christmas outfits—plaid sweaters, brown car coats, even a bright red reindeer jumper one year. We wore them proudly because we loved her.

Recently, friends Tim and Matt visited FArmstrong and spotted my fifty-year-old corn-cob Churchwarden pipe—its stem patched with black tape. It was one of seven Momma bought me from the Sears catalog in my twenties. I burned through six; this one remains. Someday after I’m gone, Matt and Miss J will figure out its fate, but every time I smoke it, I remember how much Momma loved giving during “’Tis the Season.”

After seventy years, I’ve realized that though Momma disapproved of some of my choices, I never doubted her love. Maybe that’s the real lesson: pause, remember, and share love with those who need it most. Tonight, before you turn in, think on that—and spread a little warmth after all, it’s “’Tis the Season.”

A GIFT FOR YOURSELF OR YOUR FRIENDS AND FAMILY!

BETWEEN THE TRACKS – Short Stories by Darryl Armstronghttps://a.co/d/9bFfP9y

AVAILABLE AT AMAZON NOW in HARD, SOFT COVERS, OR E-BOOK!!! For the quickest delivery!  I am pleased to announce that my first collection of short stories is now available at Amazon. At Amazon, you can get a hardcover, paperback, e-book, or read it free on Kindle Direct with your subscription. Go to Amazon for those details. GET A SPECIAL SOFT COVER EDITION WITH EXPANDED ART AND PHOTOGRAPHY at https://Books.by/Darryl-Armstrong  for only $19.99, which includes FREE SHIPPING!!! (10-12 Days Delivery)In this, Darryl Armstrong’s first eclectic collection of short stories, you’ll meet a diverse cast of characters, each with their own unique story. Encounter an angel without wings, an unlucky cat that saved a life, kids that will make you smile, and others who will bring a tear. Meet Jesus at Publix, the inventor of the slow cooker, and experience a confrontation with a supernatural presence. Read stories about beloved and eccentric Southern characters and love found and lost.