Long ago in a big family living near the Virginia-North Carolina border, the Christmas visits were magical, unpredictable and occasionally frightening.
Photo Above: The family of Eula Walters’ childhood was close at all times of the year. Granddaughter Lillie Ketterman’s new artwork depicts Santy on a good day. © Lillie Ketterman
Nestled between the Blue Ridge Parkway and the bottom of Fisher Peak Mountain—with its highest point in Carroll County, Virginia—our small farm gave back to us, the Golding family of 10, all things necessary for our survival. The rich soil produced an abundance of food. Scraps fed the barnyard critters, that would, in late fall, provide a fattened hog for slaughter, as well as a Sunday dinner rooster, whose long, sharp talons no one would miss.
If we hankered for other meat, opossums, groundhogs, rabbits and squirrels were abundant. Our only supplements required to get us through a long, cold winter were a 100-pound sack of pinto beans, sugar, coffee and salt.
The thought of those long, cold winters brings Christmas Memories to my long-ago childhood mind. As far back as my memory takes me, Santa (Santy Clause to us) was a part of Christmas, in some way, at our house. Although the farm produced our sustenance, it did not provide money to buy Christmas gifts. Those Christmas Eve visits by Santy Clause more than made up for the scarcity of gifts.
My earliest memory of the old man occurred the Christmas before I turned 4. Christmas Eve, 1947, found Mother baking pumpkin pies in the wood stove, while the four of us at that time played “Grab a toe” beneath the kitchen table. Suddenly, a loud knocking and HoHoHo-ing sounded at the door. Before we could run to Mother, Santy appeared, dressed in a red suit and wearing a scraggly beard. In a flash, he reached under the table, grabbed me by the foot and tossed me in his burlap sack. Screams of terror, pounding fists and Sister Shirley wielding a broom caused him to spill me out. He grabbed one of the pumpkins as he ran out, holding his back, with his HoHoHo sounding more like OhOhOh!
Santy always managed to vary his method of surprising us. One Christmas Eve, as the hour grew late, Mother told us that Santy had come and gone, leaving no toys, because we had been too loud. Saddened and chastised, we lined up for the nightly trip to the outhouse. Lo and behold, there on the porch was a pile of toys, oranges, peppermint and horehound candy sticks.
We quickly forgot about the cold air as we played with our new toys in just our underwear. A wagon for Brother John, books and barrettes for my older sisters, Shirley and Janet, and a coveted black baby doll for me.
As Christmas grew near the next year, John began devising a plan to have his much-worn wagon traded in for a new one. On Christmas Eve he placed the crippled wagon directly in the path Santy would use. Surely, he would see it and take pity. We were quiet as four mice as we waited for his appearance. Suddenly the quiet night burst forth with sounds of yelling, tumbling, ohs and ouches. And what even sounded like curse words. We ran outside to see Santy tumbling down the hill, and toys flying every which way.
“I’ll never bring him another blankety-blank wagon!” he was muttering, as he limped around to the far side of the house.
“Santy cusses just like Daddy does!” John exclaimed.
My most memorable Christmas of all occurred the year I was about to turn seven. We had waited till past our bedtime and the old fellow hadn’t appeared. Reluctantly, we went to bed.
Just as sugar plums began dancing in our heads, our bedroom door squeaked open and Santy Clause walked in. Shushing us with a finger to his lips, he began his tale.
“My sleigh is parked near the Blue Ridge Parkway, by the barn,” he told us. “My elves are minding the reindeer who are stomping to take you for a ride. If you pile into the sleigh, they will fly you up the parkway and sail over your house.”
We scrambled from our beds, wide-eyed and ready! Then we remembered that our coats were in Mother and Daddy’s room. We couldn’t go out in the cold dressed as we were. To make up for our disappointment, Santy dumped his sack of toys out on our bed. We were so busy grabbing our own that we didn’t notice he had left the room till we heard the scraping of hooves, elfin laughter, a red light bobbing in the air, as Santy Clause shouted out, “Merry Christmas to you all, and to all a good night!” How could such a Christmas Eve ever be forgotten!
The end of Santy Clause at our house was just as dramatic as the beginning. One hot July day when I was 9, John and I were snooping in the attic of one of the outbuildings that Daddy loved to build. Out of a dusty box, almost hidden by rags, we pulled a Santy suit, pointed hat, beard and all. We quickly dressed John in the suit, stuffed rags in the middle and ran to find our parents to show them how clever we were. One look at their unhappy faces told us we had made a big mistake. John handed the suit to Daddy who walked away with it, never to be seen again.
If only they had known that we were completely innocent, not realizing what we had stumbled upon. Sadly, Santy never again visited us on Christmas Eve.
The next Christmas, Santy was put to rest for me, once and for all. On Christmas Eve 1954, we all climbed into Daddy’s new-to-him pickup for a ride down the Blue Ridge Parkway into town. We drove into our little town of Galax just as the coming darkness was lit by the most amazing sight we had ever seen. The entire town was ablaze with lights. Street poles, signs and store fronts were magical. I held Mother’s hand tightly as we walked the streets. A tiny tea set in the window of Vass-Kapp Hardware store caught my eye. Mother told me I could have it, but that Santy would not be able to bring me anything. I quickly agreed, and sleepily rode home, gazing at the millions of twinkling stars from the open back of the pickup.
Suddenly, I knew.
There is no Santy Clause. I was holding him in my arms. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I fell asleep.
The next morning I woke, older and wiser. The gifts under the tree were marked for our new baby brother and signed from Santa. A new generation of Christmas traditions had begun.
I’m sure that my four younger brothers and sisters made many good Christmas memories of their own, but I will forever treasure my own memories of those early Santy Clause Christmases of my past.
The story above first appeared in our November / December 2024 issue.
