Talking Southern – Christmas Memories

     Your compiler lived in Brooks till shortly before his third birthday, then spent the next thirty or so years of his life trying to get back there.  By Christmas Eve, 1996, his lifelong dream had been fulfilled, and he, his wife, and two young sons, Niel and Hampton, who were five and two, respectively, were living in his grandparents’ old, red-roofed farmhouse on a hilltop in Brooks, the boys sharing the back bedroom that had been their grandfather’s when he was growing up.

     They had moved to Brooks in August that year– their house in Gwinnett County sold and they had two weeks to clear out, so packing and moving had been an exhausting and time-compressed process.  In fact, on their first night in the house in Brooks, Niel, the older son, came in after the boys had been put to bed, complaining, “Hanton won’t quit crying, and I can’t go to sleep.”  

     Your compiler’s wife, who always has terrific suggestions, said, “Niel, why don’t you sing to Hampton and I bet he’ll go to sleep then.   He loves to hear you sing!”

     So Niel says, “OK, goodnight,” and then heads back through the house toward the back bedroom.  As he rounded the corner from the dining room to the parlor to the back hall, he started yelling in a sing-song manner, “HANTON IS AN UGLY, STINKY BOY AND IF HE DOESN’T SHUT UP AND GO TO SLEEP, I’M GOING TO THROW HIM OUT THE WINDOW!”   Hampton’s crying went from  a soft whimper to a bellowing, “Waaaaaah!   Waaaaaah!   Waaaah!”

    Moving forward in time from late August to December 24, after Christmas Eve service at church, your compiler’s wife put the boys in the tub so they’d be clean to see what Santa had brought next morning.   As the bath neared completion, and in fact after Niel had gotten out and was drying off, your compiler took his grandmother’s old schoolhouse bell, held the clapper, and slipped outside to the pasture fence and rang it. 

     He hurried back in the house to see what the effect was.  Nothing.  “Do yall hear anything?” he asked.  “I keep thinking I hear bells ringing. I’m going to go outside and see if I can see what it is.”   He slipped back out to the pasture fence and rang the school bell again, then scooted back inside, in time to hear  hyper-excited five-year-old Niel yell, “MAMA, BATHE HANTON IN THE DARK.  THOSE ARE SANTA’S BELLS AND HE WON’T STOP IF HE SEES LIGHTS.”   He jumped into his bed and began to “snore” loudly and somewhat convincingly.  Hampton by this point was crying as your compiler’s wife was drying him off.

    Then Niel  whispered, “Daddy, go out and see if you can see him,” then hollered, “MAMA, WE HAVE TO GET THESE LIGHTS OFF!”  So your compiler slipped back outside, then came back in to report.  “It’s hard to tell, but it looks like Santa saw lights on and heard yall carrying on and making noise, and flew on over.”   Niel burst into tears.  “But I bet if yall turn off the lights and quit making noise, that he’ll be back.  He’s probably just gone down to the Sykeses to leave things for Bert, and then will double back here when he’s done there.”   Never were children’s Christmas Eve snores more convincing. 

     Merry Christmas, everyone!