"Backward, turn backward, oh Time in thy flight And make me a boy again, just for tonight!"
It's Christmas Eve, which is just about the fittingest moment we can think of for a bit of backseat driving and the needling of old Father Time. And if the latter should heed our plea to throw his jalopy in reverse gear, just think of the fun we'd have.
Because, if it was of a night before Christmas, and we were a boy again, Mother and Daddy would be there waiting for us to go to sleep before he banked the fire In the bedroom grate and she stuffed the stocking which hung at the south end of the mantlepiece (Large gifts such as wagon, pop-gun, tool chest, games and fireworks would be stacked between the shaving stand in the corner and the old straight chair by the window.)
Sometimes it would be a long wait, what with Old Stuff being so excited over Christmas hopes and prospects that he couldn't to sleep. But finally, we did, and then came the dawn, and the shaking down and rekindling of the coals in the fireplace, and grateful appraisal of our Christmas loot by the light of same.
We would dress in a hurry so as to join whoever it was that had beaten us to the draw and was already shooting firecrackers in the front yard. We called them "Chinese Firecrackers," and they were quite small, relatively harmless, and came in packages of fifty or so, with their fuses plaited, and you could buy a package for a nickel at Carter's Bookstore, just east of Leyser's on Washington Avenue.
Maybe it was Bob Cannon, or his brother Tim, or both of them who had gotten up ahead of us, or it might have been Roscoe Smythe from across the street.
Anyhow it was the beginning of a long and wonderful day, during which we would compare our gifts with those of others in the neighborhood, visit back and forth, and undoubtedly eat more was good for us. Miss Maggie (for Mrs. John A.) Cannon, was our patron saint next door, always touched off these gustatory ventures with her famed "biscuit and fried-ham" deal before our own breakfast was ready.
We cannot remember a single instance when Annie Redmon, who was Mother's cook and our mammy, wasn't on hand to cook Christmas Dinner. Of course, Mammy's faithfulness was backed up by the logistics of the situation, in that she lived "on the yard." But we yet treasure the memory of what a joy she was the three of us.
Well, if we are a boy again, so is General Paxton, who lived about half a block up the street (and we're talking about that grand old thoroughfare "South Broadway" as it used to be), and George Griffin, just across the way. And Galla is getting several pocketknives which he doesn't need especially, while his kid-brother John, who wants a knife the worst kind, is drawing a baseball.
One of the day's finer gifts is the stuffed elephant, from Genevieve Wheatley to Hanway Grasly, with wonderful flapping ears and "tushes" too, and a red blanket with a star on each comer, and mounted on a platform with wheels and a tow-line. There's a "Merry Christmas and God Bless You" from Hanway's sainted mother, "Ju Ju," and from her mother "Gran."
And there was the five-dollar usual gold piece from beloved Mrs. Leroy Percy to enrich the little Crump boys Christmas and add to Old Stuff's golden memories.
Up and across the street a little ways, Judge Emmett Harty is home for Christmas from the University of Virginia, and his big brother Joe ditto from Boston Tech.
Well, let's leave that first decade of the century, and come on down to date. There's a lovely letter from Hazel Houston in Orlando, Florida, making nostalgic mention of happy days in Greenville with her husband "Sam," son Skipper, and daughter Carol, and filled with fond memories of the many kind people they knew here.
(Carol still calls' bread, butter and sugar a "Brodie Crump sandwich.") Sam (or W. M.) Houston was an Air Force colonel who was lost during a flying mission in the Hawaiian islands a years ago, and his widow, a beautiful redhead, is still lost without him.
And now, to quicken our Christmas spirit, here comes Slim Hollman with a bouquet of mistletoe, which he jarred loose from its moorings in the tree top tall with his trusty twenty-two. Thanks, Slim, and we've parked it over the portal through which the girls must make an entrance here, and are hoping for the best.
Merry Christmas!
—B.C.
