My mother was a wonderful storyteller. Especially at Christmas time she would be asked to tell stories at church or community functions. Several weeks ago my sister sent me a file of Christmas stories Mother told. One of my favorites came out of her own childhood during a worldwide pandemic that took the lives of millions. And I wanted to share it with you as we seek to emerge from such a plague.
It was in the Spring of 1918 that my family sold everything at an auction and set out from Oklahoma to homestead in New Mexico. This was an exciting adventure for my brother and me, who were 7 and 5 years old.
Part of our journey was made by train and the rest in a covered wagon that Papa purchased along the way. In order for us to live until our house was built and our crops harvested, Papa worked with a road construction gang with all of the families living nearby in tents. This was just like a camping trip that lasted all summer.
Cold weather hit in the early fall. At the same time the flu epidemic struck our country. It was quite frightening because people were dying everywhere.
We moved into a house in Cimarron and managed to get one bed set up before we were stricken. My brother walked through deep snow for a doctor only to find when he arrived at the doctor’s office that his own temperature was 105°.
The four of us were sick in only one bed. A kind Mexican man came every day to check on us and care for our needs. My aunt, who was a nurse and very dear to us, came to care for us and literally saved our lives.
When Christmas drew near Mama was still in bed recovering from pneumonia. Papa was too weak to return to work yet. More than anything else, Brother and I wanted a Christmas tree because the Swearingen family next door had an enormous one that turned round and round on a track playing Christmas music. We only needed to climb a mountain to get one, but Papa was not yet strong enough to cut and bring one home.
On Christmas Eve we hung our stockings near Mama’s bed so she could see us open them on Christmas morning. I can see them yet, long brown stockings like all the children wore in that cold country hanging from nails on the wall. We were not expecting much because everyone had been ill for so long.
Christmas morning we rushed into the room long before daylight. Our stockings hung there on the wall just like we had left them, flat and empty. Brother darted back to his room where no one would see him cry. I looked forlornly around the darkened room.
“Brother! Oh Brother!” I cried, “We’ve got a tree!” There in the corner stood the most beautiful tree we had ever seen. My doll and his skates were hanging on the tree, but for a long time we didn’t touch them. Kneeling down beside the tree, we folded our hands and gazed at it.
Our neighbor had climbed a mountain and cut a tree just for us. Papa and my aunt had gone downtown after we were put to bed and brought decorations for the tree. Truly this was a Christmas never to be forgotten.
Mildred Young
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