So it was
on that long journey into childhood,
when few moments had accumulated
in Memory and fewer still as Family History,
before special days became Traditions,
the first Christmas I remember
began in a snowdrift east of Cheyenne.
My father's truck stuck fast near the cattle gate
at the turn-in
to one straight mile of dirt road
leading to my grandfather's church
and the four room parsonage
miles from any ranch house.
Already bundled for cold, my brothers and I
pushed back the canvas door of Dad's homemade canopy,
climbed out of the truck bed to breathe air
untainted by exhaust.
We leaned against the wind-driven snow,
scarves tightened over our noses, and
headed down the road toward parsonage lights
my parents assured us
they could see -- a family of pilgrims,
refugees, seekers of safe harbor in the storm --
Dad, Mom, the youngest brother carried,
we three older boys
-- all huddling as much as trudging allowed in a blizzard
-- all hoping the lantern in the truck bed would burn
long enough to save the television
with its huge cabinet, to keep
its tubes, its tiny screen from freezing in the arctic night.
And then we were welcomed in,
warming under blankets on the living room floor.
And the small blue pilot light of the gas furnace
that was the star of our arrival
became morning sun,
and my father and grandfather
were settling the television console into a corner,
our truck miraculously in the yard,
the night journey already lost
to the harrowing snows of yesterday.
And I sat up in my travel clothes to air
full of women's voices and festive cooking in the kitchen.
And then it was, as it would be always from that day,
a real Christmas and the promised New Year.
