THE PURSE - A Christmas Story

It was Christmastime in Dawson and Dawson was just another small Texas town in the midst of The Great Depression.   Jobs for adults had been scarce that year and non-existent for children.

I was twelve and had never given my Mother a true Christmas gift. Oh there had been those little gifts made at school of colored construction paper or cigar boxes which Mother made on over...but they were not "real" Christmas gifts.

Preparations for the town Christmas were almost complete. A Huge cedar tree, cut from some nearby pasture, stood in the center of Main Street and I watched with childish excitement as volunteers strung the last of the cedar boughs.  Christmas was just three days away.

An older cousin, who had found employment in Dallas, drove into town and when I ran to greet him, he ask if I would be interested in selling some fireworks he had brought with him.  I would receive a nickel for every dollar collected.  Deal!  I would begin the next morning.  I had been to Hampton's Dry Goods store several times and had found a brown imitation leather purse that seemed perfect for a Mother's gift.   It was the prettiest purse I had ever seen.  It was, also, the most expensive. The price was one dollar and fifty cents...two days pay for a man chopping cotton the previous summer.   Now, with a job, I had visions of earning one dollar and fifty cents and the purse would be mine to give.  What a joyful Christmas this would be.  I could give my Mother a "real" Christmas Gift.

The sound of my voice yelling "Fireworks..fireworks" could be heard from a block away, but sales were slow.  Farm boys who had picked cotton for "seventy-five cents a hundred" that fall were not eager to part with the nickels and dimes still remaining in the pockets of their overalls.

It was Christmas Eve and people were beginning to go home.  Stores were closing and I was still yelling "Fireworks!"   I had collected $19.00 from the sale of fireworks and had earned ninety-five cents...not nearly enough for the purse.

I returned to Hampton's store, almost hoping that someone else had bought the purse for their mother.  But there it was...and the price remained the same...One Dollar and Fifty Cents.  I was the only customer in the store and looking hard for a gift that cost less than a dollar. but nothing seemed to take the place of the purse.

Mrs. Hampton reminded me that the store was closing and I inquired if they had considered placing the purse on sale.  Well, they might let it go for $1.25.  I confessed that I didn't have that much and she wanted to know just how much money I had.  I told her and she said she would sell the purse for ninety-five cents.  I told her that I would take it if she would wrap it in Christmas paper.  She shook her head with unbelief....placed the imitation leather purse in a box...wrapped it in beautiful Christmas paper.

Mother died forty years later.  Daddy had died the year before and we were cleaning out the house where they had lived.  One bureau drawer was filled with an assortment of what appeared to be items for the trash.  There it was....the brown imitation leather purse. The imitation leather was almost all peeled away, and the purse was dusty and flat. I had forgotten until I saw it.  Tears moistened my eyes as I realized that the simple gift had brought joy to my Mother for forty years.  Now...it brought joy to me.

"CRAWFISHING"

"You get a line and I'll get a pole...Honey"
"You get a line and I'll get a pole....Babe!
You get a line and I'll get a pole
We'll go down to the crawdad hole,
Honey...Babe be mine!

Most children have never heard that "Old Crawdad Song" and fewer still have experienced the joys of actually going "crawfishing."      Retha Majors gave a birthday party for a five-year-old relative who had come for a visit and, since I was near that age and lived nearby, I was invited.   Most birthday parties in Dawson were semi dressup affairs where games were played in a front yard while all the participants wondered when the "Ice Cream and Cake" would be served.

Retha Majors, one of Dawson "Unclaimed Blessings,"  would "throw" a crawfishing party for her nephew.   She scouted the area and on the appointed day gathered up five or six small boys in her Model A Ford and drove to the very north part of Dawson and parked  on the back side of the old football field near the Dillihay house.   Retha then led her troops over the fence and through the high weeds until we came to a little branch that, except for one deep hole, was completely dry.

The Texas sun was hot, but a large tree over the hold gave shade and created the perfect setting for the school teacher to practice teaching the Art of Crawdad Fishing to little boys.   Retha had brought most of the necessary items required.    First, Retha brought out a large kitchen knife and led us to where some willow shoots were growing and proceeded to cut  the pencil-sized shoots into three to four foot lengths..one for each boy...and one for Retha.   These....were "fishin' poles."

Back under the tree Retha helped us tie one end of a length of string to the end of the willow poles and the other around  the heavy skin of a piece of "Fat Back."     Armed with our fishing equipment we marched to the edge of the fishing hold, admonished to be careful not to fall in, and instructed in the fine art of "crawdad fishin'."

Retha demonstrated just how to lower the "fat back skin" into the water until it reached the shallow bottom.   The "ole crawdads" were hungry that morning and much to our surprise Retha announced that she had one.   The carded had sunk his pinchers into the fat back skin and ready for a meal. Retha lifted the fatback skin and Mr. Crawdad held on for deal life and soon Retha had him on the bank.    He was  BIG...with scary huge pinchers extending from an dirty orange to white body.  The tail that waved was at least an inch long.   Soon all the little boys were bringing more crawdads to the bank and by noon we had caught a "mess."

Retha cleaned the meat from under the tail, washed them carefully, and fried them in a large black skillet filled with bacon grease.   She had brought potatoes to fry as well...and light bread, and butter, and iced tea.  We had been fishing hard all morning and we were hungry.  The crawdad tails were delicious..      And it was time to go home.  Retha's party had been a huge success.   Nap time, probably, came quickly to some homes in Dawson that afternoon.

AND THERE WAS MUSIC IN DAWSON

Church Music

Our church was The First Baptist Church in Dawson after Mother and Daddy joined.    Mrs. Houston Akers, one of the most God like people I ever knew, lived across the street from us and encouraged Mother to take part in all that went on at the church. Mother sang in the choir and meant she was at choir practice after the Wednesday evening prayer services.   I enjoyed choir practice which, to a five year old, was like watchin "He Haw" on television.

The Baptist Church choir included, other than Mother, Miss Katholine Edwards and her Uncle Jim; Ora McReynolds, Herbert McReynolds; Mr. Mosely and his daughters, Lillian and Leona; Mrs. Akers and her daughters, Jimmy Sue and Lady Beth; and others.   Ralph Akers often played the piano. The choir had fun in their pratcie sessions and there was plenty of laughter.   I thought some of their singing was pretty funny myself.    There were several people who took their places in the choir who never knew they couldn't sing, but they "made a joyful noise."   I was usually asleep on the front pew when they finished practice.

MUSIC ON THE RADIO

Nobody had heard of television and very few people had a radio.    We had an Atwater-Kent radio which consisted of a large wooden box filled with large glass enclosed tubes and a speaker that sat on top of the box that resembled a large bass horn.    The front of the wooden box was filled with an array of sqitches and knobs which nobody seemed to know how to operate properly. It seemed that the contraption would work a day or two and be overcome with static.   Daddy would call Percy Gable who would arrive a day or two later to "jiggle" the wires, check the antenna, and put in new tubes.  I liked Percy Gable except for the time he stepped on and broke the paper mache snake that I had obtained at the rodeo at Coolidge.    Musical sounds from the Atwater-Kent in its better moments left much to be desired.

Someone had "rigged" up a radio with a powerful speaker which was located in front of Mike Hoge's Garage.  The huge speaker must have been five feet long and the bell three feet across.  The speaker rested on a base made of heavy wood two-by-fours and had wheels so that it could be rolled inside at night.  Some people said that it would be heard three or four miles away.

Mr. Garner, who lived on the corner across the street from the fire station, has a "crystal set" that could be listened to only with earphones.   He permitted me to listen to "Amos and Andy" one evening and I was amazed that someone could speak through that small contracption.

MUSIC AT REVIVALS

Real music was to be found at the "Revival Meetings" that were conducted at the Tabernacle located across the street from the Cumberland Presbyterian Church and TheDawson Herald which was operated Mr. F H Butler.   The Tabernacle was open on four sides to catch any evening breezes and the roof was held up by large round posts set in the ground.    There was a large platform across the south side of the Tabernacle that held a pulpit at its center which was backed up by three or four crude local made pews for the choir.   More of the crude local made pews sat on the dirt floor and seated, perhaps, four hundred.    Overflow crows would stand on the outside.

Early lighting was, no doubt, supplied by kerosene lamps and lanterns, but by the 1920's the Tabernacle had been wired for electricity.   White porcelain   insulators nailed to the exposed rafters held copper wire wrapped with black cover.    White porcelain  connectors held a bare cord the had a bare light bulb at the end.    One summer evening as a visiting evangelist "waxed eloquently" a large Chicken Snake that had hidden in the rafters slithered onto the cord immediately above the head of the evangelist, apparently intent upon catching some of the many bugs which surrounded the bare bulb.  The evangelist, unaware of what was just two or three feet above his head, continued to preach, unaware that he had lost Center Stage to a Chicken Snake.

Tabernacle Revivals drew people from most all the white churches in Dawson with the exception of the Church of Christ.    That group objected to the use of musical instruments in a worship service the same way the Baptist objected to dancing, going to "picture shows," opening a store for business on Sunday, cussin',   having visitors partake of The Lord's Supper, drinking homebrew. playing cards, mixed swimming, smoking cigarettes, gossiping, and something they called fornication which nobody ever wanted to explain;  and dancing.

Imported "Song Leaders" were rare in Dawson due to the extra expense involved.    Local "Tune Heisters" were well known and some had been to the "Singing Schools" that were conducted in the Dawson area in the last part of the 1800's and the early 1900's.   Singing Schools were lead by "Gifted" singers who had supposedly had some musical training in some far away place.     There was a charge for admissiion to the schools, but the real money was made selling songbooks that each student just had to have.  Songbooks were printed with "Shaped Notes" and the teaching method was sometimes referred to as "Sacred Harp" singing.

Churches in Dawson and in the rural areas all had members who loved to sing or thought they could sing or didn't know they couldn't sing who always sang in the choir during the Tabernacle revival meetings regardless of what denomination was sponsoring the event.    Everyone in Western Navarro County knew who those "High Powered" singers were and part of the "show" was watching the steps employed each night to form the choir.  The "High Powered" singers would arrive early, dressed in their Sunday best which was sometimes a white shirt and tie, sometimes  "bib Over halls" and a blue shirt buttoned at the neck.   The never went to the choir area on the platform.   Instead they took seats in the congregation area …smiled, nodded their heads at acquaintances, and reared back with their arms on the back of the local made pews.

Meanwhile, the local "Tune Heister" has been busy placing the Shaped Note songbooks on the choir pews and when he looks out at the congregation he spies several of the "High Powered" singers and immediagtely makes his way to where "Old Joe Singer" sat and the "recruitment" process began.   He would issue an invitation for Joe to take his place in the choir and Joe would shake his head.   The "Tune Heister" would began his pleading, begging, cajoling…..using his finest skills.   Joe would shake his head some more and smile some more, glancing around now and then to make sure the congregation that had gathered was watching.    Everybody knew that Joe would eventually make his way to the platform and the choir area.  At length, Joe would reluctantly, stand to his feet, look at his wife, and…grin!   The "Tune Heister" would give him a pat on the back and send him on his way to where he wanted to go in the first place…to join the faithful choir members who didn't play the "git me up thee" game.

MUSIC AT FUNERALS

Funeral music was another specialty in Dawson, but funerals required the "elite" of Dawson's musical talent.  Dawson was so small that when someone died everyone in town knew them and any death was like having someone in the immediate family.    Female soloists often performed at funerals, but I was not fond of hearing their singing because most had a "quivering" in their voices brought on by inexperience, fright, and the emotion of the moment.  Sometimes they just broke down and cried.   I was sympathetic when they cried and a lump came in my throat.    My favorite funeral singer was Joe Davis who had a deep voice, had had some voice training, who hit most of the notes, and never showed any emotion.   Joe Davis was a real professional funeral singer.   His specialty was "In the Garden."   Some families had special request like, "In the Sweet Bye and Bye" and "Tell Mother I'll be There" and "Precious Memories."    When I hear those great hymns today my memory calls for sadness, sobbing, and the smell of crushed roses and gardenia.  People would have felt better if the "Booster Band" had sung their version of "When the Saints Go Marching In!"

MUSIC AT SCHOOL

The Dawson Public Schools provided another opportunity for the expression of musical expressions.   School began each day with the recitation of the Lord's Prayer, the the Pledge of Allegience to the Flag of the united States of America, and the singing of "My Country Tis of Thee."     Sometimes, on rainy and/or cold days when playground activity was impossible, teachers would lead pupils in singing the old time favorites of Dawson.   Songs like "O I Come from Alabama with my Banjo on my Knee" or "Old Black Joe" or "Way Down Upon the Suwanee River" and several patriotic songs.   And there were Christmas Carols.

Several new songs were introduced in 1935 to be used for the Texas Centennial the following year.   "Texas, our Texas…All Hail the Mighty State, Texas, our Texas…so wonderful, so great"…ended with, "God Bless you Texas..and Keep you brave and strong, that you may grow in power and worth..throughout the ages Long!"  Someone at the Metropolitan Opera in New York must have written the music.   And then there was, "Beautiful, Beautiful, Texas…the state where the Bluebonets grow, We're proud of our ancestors who fought at the Alamo."

A Miss Griffith came to Dawson as the first music teacher I could remember.    She was a large and very pretty lady who had a big smile and a gentle disposition.  I liked her. She could sing quite well, played the piano beautifully, and beat time with a ruler.   One of her duties was to monitor the room where those who had to remain after school as punishment for misbehaving.   One day I had to stay and she had me learn a new song I had never heard before.      "O Mary, don't you weep don' t you moan,  O Mary, don't you weep, don you moan>  Pharoah's army got drownded, O Mary don't you weep."    And the fact is, I haven't heard it since.

Chapel Services were held every Thursday morning and included singing religious and patriotic as well as traditional Southern songs.    "Dixie" was sung frequently as well as "I Wish I wuz in Dixie."   We sang "Home on the Range" with some degree of regularity.   Some of the older boys would insert some "cowlot" words in some of the songs and cut their eyes at their buddies in crime and snicker.  Sometimes a single grade would be called upon to prepare a program and the class teacher would have the children practice for weeks to prepare for the occasion.

SORGHUM MOLASSES

The economy of Dawson, Texas in 1933 was at an all-time LOW!  Jobs were not be had and barter had become the order of the day.  We lived next to the McReynolds who had a small farm that was almost self sufficient.  Their herd of cows produced milk and meat.  Wagon loads of potatoes were produced and hauled to the barn.  McReynolds corn was transformed into meal at the mill located in the blacksmith shop.  And...in the late summer...there was the molasses operation.

Molasses making began with a huge stack of sorghum stalks freshly cut in the nearby field and stacked near a crusher.  The "Crusher" consisted of two huge cast iron gears mounted on a solid base four to five feet tall.  The gears were powered by a mule hitched to a ten to twelve foot wood sapling which was attached to the gear box.   The mule....hitched to the sapling...moved round and round lead by a rope tied to another small sapling angled from the gear box...a system designed to keep the mule moving.

Molasses making took place in the shade of some "Board Ark" trees that had grown on the fence line at the top of a little rise on the back side of the McReynolds property.   The "Board Ark" trees provided some shade against the August heat...but not much!   And...the fire required to cook the sorghum liquid compounded the heat and discomfort levels.  But...nobody had air conditioning..and August heat was expected and "tolerated" in 1933 Texas.

My Dad was invited to help with the molasses operation and he was to be paid with molasses....however much was to be needed by our family for the next year.  My job was to keep the mule moving and in so doing...keep the gears turning and the sorghum juices flowing into the bucket.  When the mule slowed or stopped I yelled at him to "git up."  When that failed I popped him on the rear with a whip..a measure which usually got his attention and he moved on.

Some of the older McReynolds boys fed the sorghum stalks into the gears as the mule pulled and as the gears meshed...the sorghum stalks were crushed and a watery juice trickled into a waiting bucket. When the bucket was filled it was carefully carried to the "Cooker" and the contents poured into one end of a large metal pan where the juice was heated over a blazing fire.

The cooker was a 12-15'long metal pan that sat over a long fire box sided with stone.   The metal pan had been made with "baffles" six to eight inches apart that permitted the sorghum juice to move slowly from one side of the "Cooker" to the other..around the baffle..and to the other side. Underneath was a wood fire that heated the juice as it made its way through the baffles.  The raw juice was a clear and watery thin, but as it progressed through the baffles...heated by the wood fire beneath..it gradually darkened and became thicker until it emerged on the opposite end of the cooker as...sorghum molasses.

As the thin liquid moved along the heated pan..through the baffles...becoming thicker as it progressed...it, also, created a foamy substance that was skimmed off the surface by the women and girls who stood on each side of the cooker.  The "skimin's" were place in a large bucket and at the end of the day....with the August heat as it was...and with bacteria rampant...the skimming fermented into an alcohol product which, when fed to the pigs, created a pig pen filled with happy, carefree pigs.  The drunken pigs staggered around the pig pen with a silly grin and "oinked" at everybody who came near.

When the thickened liquid reached the final baffle it was dipped from the vat and ladled into large wooden barrels.  The watery green fluid had now turned to a thick brown and smelled with a heavenly aroma.

When the final cooking was completed the large barrels were loaded on a wagon and transported to the McReyolds smokehouse and arranged in a horizontal position on wooden racks.  The sorghum molasses would run freely from the barrel in the early fall, but in January the molasses became so thick that a knife had to be employed to disgorge the molasses from the barrel.

More than one cold morning my Mother sent me to "fetch" a gallon of Sorghum Molasses and I always took a flat table knife to move the candy like molasses from the barrel into my bucket.   And...it was always pleasant to return to the warm kitchen, knowing that the molasses would be the centerpiece of our breakfast.    Mother would have prepared large biscuits in the gas fired oven of the Detroit Jewell stove.  And..there was sausage...made from the large hogs some farmer had brought Dad..to "Pay on the bill."  There were eggs from the Rhode Island Red hens that Mother tended so carefully.  And there was the yellow butter churned from milk that I "stroked" each morning and night from the cow.

The heavy sorghum molasses were mixed with the cold, hard butter, and spread on the steaming biscuits....and, when combined with the aging sausage and the fresh eggs...resulted in a culinary delight, rarely...if ever...equaled!

And to this very day...I continue to enjoy sorghum molasses..sausage...biscuits and eggs.

SPRING HILL CEMETERY CELEBRATES 150th ANNIVERSARY
Dawson, Navarro County, Texas

Dawson, Texas,     Springtime had arrived in Giles Co. Tennessee in 1845 and the Webb Family wagon began the five hundred fifty miles journey to Fort Franklin in the new State of Texas.   Wagon travel, averaging twelve miles per day would consume a month and one half, but that did not include repairs, resting on weekends, visits with friends along the way, and sicknesses.

Most wagon travel was in groups which provided a measure of safety as well as social and physical support. The usual route of travel from Giles Co. would be to Memphis, down to Little Rock, through present day Texarkana, Marshall, Henderson,and on to Fort Franklin. The Webb Family, for some reason, was traveling alone in the late summer and, probably, parted with their group at Marshall and headed almost due West.

The Webb Family had reached the Spring Hill area by August and had camped under the Oak Trees, just North of the Trading Post recently constructed by Dr. George Washington Hill.   Sarah Webb lay seriously ill in the wagon.

Dr. Hill had received medical training, but had, from all accounts,never practiced. He had served, briefly, in a medical capacity in Milam Co. in the 1830's, but his full time from 1836 to 1816 had been given to serving The Republic of Texas.

He was thirty-four when he married the widow of his friend, Francis Slaughter, who had died in 1842. The wedding date was November 17, 1847.

Minerva Katherine Matthews Slaughter had become the third wife of Francis Slaughter in a July 1835 marriage in Maury Co. Tennessee.  The Slaughters had arrived at Fort Franklin December 1, 1835 in company with Robert Harve Matthews, brother of Minerva, and several family servants. Francis Slaughter was serving as Chief Magistrate at Franklin at the time of his death..

Dr. Hill, his wife and her three children, Robert Harve Matthews, and the family servants, probably, made the move to the Indian Springs soon after the marriage in November 1847.

The Webb Family, learning that Dr. Hill had settled at the Indian Springs, may have directed their journey to Spring Hill searching for a doctor to treat Sarah's illness.    The nature of that illness is not not known, but it exceeded the capabilities of Dr. Hill, and she died.

The Webb Family requested and received permission to bury Sara where they had camped and where she had died.  After the funeral the Webb Family hitched the wagon and continued on their journey.

They may have planned to join Jesse Webb who lived near Frankln and who had sold Francis Slaughter 778 acres of land prior to 1842. Forty-five Webb families were listed in the 1850 Census.  The names George and Duska were on her stone marker. Dr. Hill's will provided for two acres surrounding her grave e be used for a cemetery.

Those who "Lie in Peace" at Spring Hill Cemetery have descendents scattered all over this nation today. Descendent names include Ammonette, Barber, Barnes, Berry, Breedlove, Cates, Clemons, Cleveland,Coffey, Cottengame, Davidson, Dickson, Freeland, Fullerton, Hargis, Henry, Hill, Kirksey, Langford, McCullough, McSpadden, Marsh, Martin, Matthews, Miller, Moore, Morgan, Mount, Odell, Parrish, Pierce, Pollard, Porter, Prater, Priddy, Rockenbaugh, Rucker, Sellers, Shaw, Shepard, Sidwell, Slaughter, Smith, Staaden, Stockard, Terry, Thomas, Walker, Webb, Wilkerson, Wilson, Wright, Young, and Younger.

A 150th Anniversary for Spring Hill Cemetery will be held September 19, 1998 at Dawson, Texas.   A procession will leave Dawson at 10:00 AM and will include a buggy of retired Texas Rangers, horse drawn wagons, mounted horsemen, and individuals dressed in period costumes.

The program at Spring hill Cemetery at 10:30 AM with The Pelham "Homecoming" Choir singing  a medly of spirituals and old time Gospel favorites  Many of those in the group will be descendents of slaves buried at Spring Hill Cemetery.

Wreaths will be placed at the graves of Dr G W. Hill (1814-1860) by an official of the State of Texas, at the grave of Ranger R H Matthews (1814-1894) by retired Texas Rangers, and at the grave of Squire Porter who was buried 1866.

Printed booklets are being prepared and will present a brief history of the cemetery and alphabetical and chronological lists of those buried there.

Descendents of those buried there are urged to be present for this celebration and to forward genealogical and any other family information to to Carl W. Matthews, POB 454, Roswell GA  30077.     (770  587 4350)

I REMEMBER CHRISTMAS
Carl Matthews

Christmas in 1928 was my first to remember.  A cedar tree, perhaps twenty feet tall, had been cut from some farmer's field, hauled to town, and stood in the center of Main Street.  My Father and I had made several trips to the huge inside of The Dawson Lumber Co. where several men were constructing a heavy wooden slide that was to serve as a "Christmas Sleigh."  The men had constructed a large seat with a backrest and there was a large rack in back for presents.

It was near dusk on Christmas Eve when my parents and I returned to the lumberyard...and...there was Santa Clause...BIG AS LIFE...sitting in the sleigh.  He was dressed in a red suit and had a long white beard and was full of "Ho Ho Ho's."  The rack back of the seat was filled with beautifully wrapped presents. His reindeer were two of Spart Berry's white mules and each mule had been fitted with the horns of an unfortunate white-tailed deer.  Mr. & Mrs. Wilhite, who operated The Variety Store, soon arrived with their cute little girl, Wanda Sue.  Our parents informed us that Wanda Sue and I would sit on either side of Santa Claus as he drove the sleigh to the Dawson Christmas Tree.

The Annual Dawson Christmas Tree had drawn hundreds of people who lined the sidewalks of Main Street and waited excitedly for Santa Claus to make his appearance.    Finally, the "Magic Hour" arrived and some men opened the huge doors of the Dawson Lumber Company and Santa drove his "reindeer' on to Main Street and turned north.   The huge crowd cheered and clapped as the heavy wooden sleigh slid over the graveled Main Street.   Wanda Sue and I had been instructed to smile and wave at the people and we did. The sleigh moved past The Green Hut, past H. Silbert's dry good store, past the Variety Store, past Lawlers Grocery, past Conners Dry goods Store, past one of the two banks and the telephone office located above the bank, past V T Matthews' Grocery and Wince Lancaster's Barber shop and Mr. Holloway's Grocery where Frank Hopkins worked.

The sleigh moved past W W Wolf's (Hardware, Furniture, & Funeral parlor) and made a "U-Turn" at Ab Dickson's filling station...and south to the Christmas Tree located between the two banks.  Santa climbed on a newly constructed wood platform and began handing presents down to the waiting crowd.   First, there were packages of candy for the children.   Suitors would, sometimes, place a present at the tree for their girlfriends who would pretend to be "so surprised" when Santa Claus called their name.   It was late when all the presents had been distributed and the crowd began to break up.

We lived across the street from the Houston Akers family and two or three vacant lots north of Cousin Will Matthews.   Natural gas had not come to our part of town and we had an open fireplace in the south front room where Mother had placed our Christmas Tree.   Our Christmas tree was a cedar that reached almost to the ten-foot ceiling and mother had decorated every branch.   Red and green paper rope and sparkling silver looking rope were draped over the boughs.  English walnut shells had been carefully opened, their empty halves filled with cloth scraps, were suspended with butcher twine.   There were a few colorful glass bulbs hanging.   And, perhaps, twenty red wax candles rose vertically from special candleholders that clamped to the branches.

Uncle Fred and Aunt Ennis Matthews and their children came to our house after the downtown Christmas Tree and we all crowded into the room where our Christmas Tree stood.   Their children were Buck, Vestal Lee, Doris, Fred Jr., Dewey, Betty Bell, Jack and Joe Kenneth who was a baby.  Mother served refreshments to everyone and when it was near the time for Uncle Fred's family to leave Daddy and Uncle Fred began to light the candles on the tree.   Mother switched off the bare light bulb that was suspended from the ceiling and we watched in awe as the candles flickered in the darkened room.   It was a beautiful sight that lasted for a few short minutes.   Daddy and Uncle Fred began to extinguish the flames as they burned low.

My sister, Jean LaMerle, was born the following March and soon after that we moved to the house just east and across the brook from the Tabernacle.   Several weeks before Christmas Mother was having a meeting of churchwomen in the living room and I had been put down for a nap in the back bedroom.  The meeting was going well and I was not sleepy and began to explore.   Uncle John Morgan, who had visited with us for several weeks that fall, had build a large quilt box for Mother and she was constantly placing items inside.   I tip toed to the quilt box and raised the heavy wood cover and peeked inside.   A quilt had almost covered a red-white & blue drum. Just what I had always wanted!   And there was a belt and holster with two shiny toy pistols.   And underneath that was a large round "Tinker Toy" box.

I strapped the pistols around my waist, looped the drum strap over my head, picked up the two drumsticks, and paraded into the women's church meeting....with a rat-a-tat-tat!   Most of the ladies laughed, but Mother was a little narrow minded about the whole thing, relieved me of my newly found loot, and banished me to the bed...again. I looked in the quilt box a few days later, but the loot was gone.

It was almost dark on Christmas Eve when Daddy came home from the market and we piled into the blue Cadillac with the cloth top and side windows and headed for Grandmother's Sycamore Street house in Corsicana. Grandmother had a decorated tree in the living room and the buffet in the Dining Room was piled high with cakes and pies.  A large turkey was cooking in the kitchen.    There were hugs and kisses and laughter and Granddaddy's breath bore the news that he had already found Merry Christmas in a half gallon Mason jar recently arrived from some East Texas still.

After the Christmas Eve dinner we gathered in the Living Room to look at the Christmas Tree and to enjoy the warmth of the fireplace.  I, probably, went to sleep in Granddaddy's lap and someone put me to bed in the back bedroom.    Mother had me put on my robe and house shoes the next morning and told me that Santa Claus had come during the night.  He had found me despite the fact that we were not at our house.   Sure enough, there under the tree was a new drum...and a holster set with two shiny pistols...and a Tinker Toy box....exactly like those I had found in the quilt box.

The next year I started to school and the Christmas presents....never found in the quilt box again...began to reflect my needs associated with school. There was an easel that could serve as a chalkboard, had all the ABC's printed across the top, and could fold down for a desk.  There was a raincoat and rubber boots for wet weather.  And thee was an aviators cap that covered little ears on cold days and had a strap that buttoned under the chin.  And..there was a B-B rifle with a cocking mechanism so strong I could not work it.   Just as well!

The Great Depression arrived in Dawson, but, somehow, Christmas always survived.   Mother had purchased a string of colored electric lights for the Christmas tree in 1930 and they were still in use when I return home from the Marines in 1945.    The red and green paper rope survived into the late 1930's and a few additional glass bulbs and tinsel were added.  We began to make ring ropes of red and green strips of construction paper at school and with strings of popcorn which we made up at home.  Each year our tree looked ..to me...like a work or art.

The cedar trees were always decorated with great care, but they were dismantled with equal care and concern.   Mother had a large cardboard box for the Christmas decorations and it was carefully packed after Christmas. The twelve-bulb string of   colored lights was replaced year after year in the original box as were the colorful glass bulbs.    Icicles...strips of bright lead that darkened year after year...were carefully lifted from the cedar branches  and placed in a thin box.   The red and green paper rope that lasted and lasted and lasted was put in paper grocery bags.   And the special Christmas Decorations box was closed and put away until the next Christmas.

As I got older it became my duty each year to secure the Christmas Tree.  There were no pine or fir trees near Dawson and we had to make do with cedar trees, most of which did not grow into desired shapes.  As Christmas approached I would keep an eye out for a well-formed cedar tree to prevent having to hunt one at the last minute. My favorite Christmas Tree site was the branch behind Dr. BWD Hill's house, but, in time, the well-formed trees grew more difficult to find.  One year I noticed that trees too large for indoor use had tops that were almost perfectly formed.  I would climb up the tree to the point where I wanted to make my cut and saw away.  I would drag the tree home with the pride that great hunters had when they brought home a kill.

My main Santa Claus gift when I was nine was a real .22 Rifle.   It was a bolt action rifle that had been ordered from Montgomery Ward's catalogue for $2.88.  Most bolt action rifles were automatically cocked when the bolt was closed, but this model did not have such a feature.  There was a knob at the back of the bolt that had to be pulled before the rifle could be fired.   It was a safety feature, but I did not have sufficient strength to pull the knob with my nine-year-old fingers.  Daddy tied a leather bootlace around the knob and I was able to operate it.

That Christmas Day I brought home my first game.   Daddy had worked on an exploratory oil well that Lee McCulloch drilled near the Bermuda Grass pasture that Uncle Fred owned.  The drilling operation had been abandoned, but the wooden derrick still stood and had become a gathering place for crows.  I approached the derrick and the crows were there in great numbers, but each time I got near enough for a shot the crows flew away.  I remembered the deep ditch the drilling crew had dug to run water away from the drilling site and I began to crawl on my hands and knees on the now dry bed of the ditch.   I was careful to keep my head down until I was very close to the derrick.  I waited until the gathering crows began to call to each other.    I had pulled the leather lace and my weapon was cocked.  I eased my new .22 Rifle over the top of the ditch and when my head appeared the crows spotted me and began to fly away.  One hesitated.   "He who hesitates is lost."   The old crow fluttered to the ground and the hunter who bagged a trophy deer could not have been more proud than was I.

Grandmother Coleman had gone to San Angelo to be with Aunt Nina who had cancer and Granddaddy Coleman was spending Christmas with us.  He laughed when I proudly held up my trophy and told him I was going to eat my kill.  He informed me that the crow was old and would be tough.  Undaunted, I cleaned the crow and Mother began to cook it in the frying pan.  It did smell good, just like fried chicken.    And I was hungry.   I pulled a piece of the crow meat from a leg and began to chew.   It tasted just like friend chicken.   I chewed and chewed and chewed.   Mother and Daddy and Granddaddy were trying to keep a straight face as I struggled, but they broke into laughter when I, finally, spit out the unchewable crow.

That was the year Mother ordered a box of fireworks . Dawson merchants sold sparklers, small and large Roman Candles, packages of small firecrackers, torpedoes that could be thrown on concrete and explode, and Baby Giants that made a huge noise, but could blow off a finger.    Mother's box of fireworks had small...very small...strings of firecrackers, sparklers, small Roman Candles and  some items we had never seen.   Several items had small cardboard tubes inset in wood blocks.   Daddy admonished everyone to stay back as he lighted the first one.  There was a "Swisssssh" and a beautiful paper flower emerged.   Daddy had never seen anything like that and when he lighted the second one he stood nearby, hands in his pockets, and bent at the waist...to see the beautiful flower.   But there was no flower.  There was a "Whoossseh!"  A projectile rocketed straight up from the wooden block, inches from Daddy's nose, into the air,  higher than our house, and  exploded with a dazzling array of colored sparks.  Daddy's head moved slowly as his gaze moved from the wooden block to the explosion in the sky, his hands still in his pocket, his face filled with surprise and wonderment. Mother was cracking up with laughter!

The next Christmas was spent at Granddaddy Coleman's farmhouse at Navarro.   No electricity, no natural gas, no running water!     Fifteen people gathered for four or five days. Our family of five, Aunt Nina's three, Uncle Tony's four, Granddaddy, Grandmother, and Uncle Jack.   There was a bed for every adult and children were bedded on pallets on the living room floor in front of the fireplace.    I have no idea of how Grandmother coped with the logistics of serving forty-five meals every day, but she appeared to enjoy every minute and I never heard her complain.

Christmas morning was happy bedlam.   Unwrapped depression era presents filled the underside of the decorated cedar tree and parents made sure that each child received what Santa Claus had left for him or her.   I had a new toy pistol in a nice heavy leather holster.  Granddaddy had no holster for his .38 revolver and wanted me to trade him the holster for the new paint colt that Pet, the bare mare, had recently foaled.  No way!   I had received a red and yellow cast iron cannon that fired a small rubber ball when a firecracker, placed inside, was lighted.  We played in the corncrib and I frightened the smaller children with animal skins that Granddaddy was drying on boards in the crib.

Fifty-four years later I walked around in the now deserted farmhouse.   The chimney had fallen away.  The garage that housed Granddaddy's Cadillac was gone.   The well curbing still stood by the back door.  The crude wooden shelves in the kitchen that supported fruit jars filled with tomatoes and beans and jelly were empty and dusty.  The wood stove had long since been removed.  The heavy blue paper that Uncle Jack had nailed to the ceiling in "The Middle Room" had come loose and hung amidst the cobwebs.  The house, so big to a ten-year-old boy, was incredibly small.

The Great Depression showed few signs of abating in Dawson, Texas and hard times continued in the mid 1930's. One year had been especially bad and money was scarce.  Our family bought groceries, paid the "light bill" and the gas bill, and had money for little else.  I went to bed on Christmas Eve prepared to accept  nothing from Santa.    But Santa did come, much to my surprise, but the memory of that Christmas was another experience.  I had gone to bed on Christ Eve when there was a knock on our back door.   Mrs. Ruth Lawrence, a neighbor who lived two doors east, the mother of my best friend, and one of the sweetest ladies in all of Dawson, had knocked.  "Velma, we had this fruit and some nuts and Christmas candy left over at the store."  The sack and its contents were, I am sure, enjoyed for several days, but that beautiful memory has been  enjoyed again and again more than a half century.

It was the next Christmas that a new red bicycle was delivered by Santa.    Several days before I was in town and a deliveryman  from Waco stopped me and wanted to know where our house was.   He, not knowing who I was, stated that he had a bicycle to deliver there, and went on his way.  I was elated, but there was no bicycle there when I got home.   Christmas morning I looked under the tree and there was no bicycle.   I was almost in tears when Daddy exclaimed that Santa left something on the other side of the bed.  There was that shiny new bicycle.   Mother had told the deliveryman to take the boxed bicycle to Steve Hill's house and Sambo Akers had assembled it.

Christmas of 1938 was the year I sold fireworks for Sparton Duke.   (See The Purse)

We moved to Hubbard in June of 1939 and I was to spend two Christmases there before I joined the Marines.   I had begun to work at the grocery store where Daddy worked and had saved several dollars by Christmas.   I wanted to have a fire in the fireplace during the holidays and paid Mr. Freeland a dollar for a half-wagon load of wood, which he dumped  over the alley fence on to our back yard.   I brought in an armload and Grandmother Coleman and I built the fire.  I didn't   know that willow would crack and pop as it burned and, sometimes, pop small coals on the carpet.  But we enjoyed it.

Christmas of 1940.    Santa brought for  me a beautiful brown tweed suit.  And there were parties at Mae Horn's, at the Reeve's, and at the Anderson's who live north of town.   I had bought presents for Mother and Daddy, for my sisters, and for Grandmother Coleman who lived with us.  I had sent Grandfather Coleman a large can of Prince Albert.   And I bought a glass cream and sugar set for Mrs. Reaves for fifteen cents at Blounts Variety.   That would be my last   Christmas at home for four years.

Christmas 1941 was spent in the barracks at Camp Elliott near San Diego as The 8th Marines prepared to leave January 6,1942 for Samoa.   The Fall of 1942 I had returned from Samoa and on Christmas morning I rode a bus to downtown San Diego and spotted J R Hoge from Dawson, Texas.  We had a great day together.  We had breakfast down town, went to a movie, viewed a captured Japanese submarine, and had dinner at an elegant hotel. The next year Bill Lawrence and I had Christmas Dinner together at Camp Pendleton just before we both left the states with the 4th Marine Division.   I was wounded at Saipan in July, was home on leave that Fall, and on a bus bound for Quantico, Virginia on Christmas Day.

I was a student at Baylor in 1946 and it was wonderful to experience the warmth of family at Christmas.  The streets of Hubbard were filled with well wishers on Christmas Eve and we went to Christmas church services, grateful that the war years had ended.

Elaine and I lived in Connecticut for ten years when our four children were small and there were memorable Christmases there.  The children were always excited as we tromped through the snow  to cut a tree behind our house.   More excitement as we decorated the tree with large pine cones sprayed with red paint and with large red bows.  And there was the year when we had stashed Santa Clause at the farm house up the hill and the snow was deep on Christmas Eve. The car stuck in the driveway as I brought the presents home.    I loaded presents on a large toboggan, a family present.  I looked up and Elaine had walked through the snow to help.

We established a tradition of attending Christmas Eve Midnight Services at the Congregational Church in Washington, Connecticut.   The choir would sing, the pastor would present  the Christmas story, and, when the electric lights were turned off, a single candle burned in the darkness.  That single flame was given to light a second candle and the process continued until all who had come for worship held a lighted candle in their hand and the church was, again, filled with light.   The Choir   and congregation sang "Joy to the World" as we filed out  the front door and into the snow.  Lighted candles filled the churchyard and we could still hear the choir as the church chimes pealed the midnight Hour and announced that it was Christmas Day.

I loved Christmas then...I love Christmas now.   But it wasn't the gifts that made me love Christmas...or the fire burning in the fireplace...or the fruitcakes or turkey dinners.     I loved the warmth of family .....the laughter of my Grandmother...the mischievous smile in my Daddy's eyes....the joy that my Mother received in giving...the true fellowship of  friends....the expressions of love for one another and mankind.

I DON'T NEED FINE GIFTS AT CHRISTMAS JUST GIVE ME  AN HONEST HUG JUST TELL ME YOU LOVE ME.
1997

THE GREEN HUT

Uncle John Ponder came each day to Matthews Market to order hamburger meat and to prepare the meat for use at The Green Hut. Uncle John would bring a small white porcelain pan and some corn meal. He would visit while he rolled the hamburger meat into small balls and rolled the balls in the corn meal. Each little balls was rolled with exactness and stacked carefully in the white porcelain pan.  Uncle John usually related stories from the "Olden Days" and they were often interesting and humorous.

"The Green Hut" was for many years an institution in Dawson.  It was one of several mobile "restaurants" in use in Dawson in the early years of the 1900's.   "Uncle Steve" Hill and his family had built and operated one for some time and, later, used it for a chicken house at their place located on the western edge of town.  The units were originally used on Saturdays when they were pulled into position by teams of horses and pulled away after the day's business was completed.   The "Green Hut", always operated by the Ponder family, outlasted the others and, apparently, began to operate throughout the week.  It was a chore to move the units and "The Green Hut" began to be left in place overnight.

The original unit...mounted on a wagon bed...was, perhaps, six feet wide and fourteen feet long.  Tall people could not stand erect inside because of the low ceiling.   Food...hamburgers, hot dogs, chili, etc. was prepared inside and served to customers who stood outside. Kerosene lamps and lanterns lighted the inside and outside and a smelly kerosene stove cooked the food.  The unit was parked paralleled to the sidewalk and was entered by employees by means of high steps at the rear.

The height of the unit was inconvenient for customers and employees and one week the wheels came off and the unit lowered to the street.  "The Green Hut" became a permanent fixture on the street in Dawson.  An inside serving counter was installed that had room for five or six persons, but sales through the serving windows was always brisk, especially on Saturdays.

"The Green Hut" eventually was wired for electricity and when natural gas came to Dawson in the 1920's gas was installed.  "The Green Hut" was, by then, an institution whose fame had extended far beyond the limits of the little town of Dawson.   It was located on the main road...let's not call it a highway...between Corsicana and Waco.  People who traveled that road began to make a point of stopping at "The Green Hut."

"The Green Hut" was showing its age in the 1930's and the Ponder Family had a new building constructed and moved it on the same spot where the old one had stood for many, many years.  The old unit was moved to the Ponder's back yard.  I was with Paul Ponder when he began dismantling the inside. It was a gold mine.  Nickels and dimes and quarters and..sometimes..half dollars had been dropped through the years into the cracks of moldings and under the counter. Paul would not permit me to have any of the money.

"The Green Hut" existed for, perhaps, forty or fifty years. It sat on the street.  It was wired for electricity.  It was piped for natural gas and water.   Dish water was thrown on the street.   Years passed before anyone happened to think about the fact that "The Green Hut" existed without paying any city or county taxes.  It existed without having a recorded deed.  It had operated for all those years on "Squatters Rights" and was eventually closed.

"The Green Hut," however, remains in the memory of those who knew it as that little building that sat on the street in Dawson, Texas, across from  The Dawson Lumber Company..and just north of the Cotton Belt Depot..and...that never..in all the world was there a hamburger as good as those created..at "The Green Hut."

Carl W Matthews
POB 454
Roswell Ga   30077