Christmas Story #7

Was Amos a Christmas Angel?

                It almost seems like yesterday. If I look out the window, I imagine myself as a child coasting down an ice-covered hill, or bursting in the door after school shouting, “What’s for supper, Mom?” Well, I’m the Mom now, and it’s Christmas time again, but for a moment, my mind slips backwards, and I’m a child again…

                “Sue, hurry up or we’ll be late!” Mom’s voice cut through my Saturday morning fog. I could tell she’d been baking again, and the smell was driving me crazy. I hauled up the quilt one more time, stretched and rolled out.

                “Honestly, Sue. I need some help around here. Why don’t you get a quick bite, and I’ll put this last pan of cookies in the oven. After breakfast maybe you’ll give me a hand washing up the pans, and I’ll start another batch.” It was more of a statement than a request, but I was used to Mom and her way of getting all her jobs done. Christmas was only three weeks away, and she was a veritable whirling dervish in the kitchen. Savory smelling meat pies one day, fragrant fruit cake the next, and endless batches of cookies and fudge. Dad and my sisters and I sure enjoyed Christmas, and Mom was never happier than when a table was laid with an assortment of her goodies. Today, however, she was donating some decorated Christmas treats to a local fund-raising bake sale, and she needed some extra hands. I couldn’t see any sense in it though. Shouldn’t everyone be able to provide Christmas for their own families? I didn’t get all this “giving” at this time of year. If people didn’t spend all of their money on foolish stuff, they’d be able to buy enough gifts for their kids. My folks were able to, and they weren’t rich. At the ripe old age of thirteen, I thought I had it all figured out.

                We lived in a small house in the country, and my school was a short five minute walk away. Each day I passed a little old farm house that looked as if no one lived there. There was never a light on, or clothes on the line, but I often heard sounds coming from the back. My friends thought I was hearing things, since they never seemed to be able to hear the same sounds I did. It sounded like hammering and sometimes rasping sounds, like a saw. I always figured some old guy probably lived there alone, like a hermit maybe. With all the snow that had fallen in the last few days, the old house with the crooked fence leading up to it looked just like some of the Christmas cards Mom was getting ready to mail. (Another one of her endless little jobs that seemed pointless to me.) This was a quiet little village, and a good spot to spend Christmas. My sisters and our friends  and I liked to go coasting down behind neighbors’ barn, and then run home for some hot chocolate.

                Today, however, Mom needed me, so we were off to the bake sale. Everything went really well, all the goodies sold out, and Mom and her friends are quite delighted with the amount of funds raised. “Can you imagine, Dorothy? This is the most we ever raised, and will the Lion’s Club ever be pleased! They can make this go a long way.” Every year was the same. Mom and her friends raising money to help out some family too lazy to budget for Christmas. Oh well, I was off the hook for the rest of the weekend.

                Mom went in one direction, and I wanted to walk home, enjoy the snow. As I passed by the old place down the road from us, I heard the familiar hammering. Out of curiosity, I stopped and leaned on the fence, stretching over to try to catch a glimpse of whoever was making the noise. All of a sudden, the noise stopped. It almost seemed as if the invisible person could hear me listening! I held my breath and waited for it to start up again. Instead, crunching footsteps in the snow warned me that I was about to meet the mysterious neighbor.

                A large figure in a shaggy old coat fixed me with a stare. He was heavily bearded and his black eyes struggled out from under thick brows, but for some reason, I felt no fear. Of course I was within running distance of my own yard, but I still waited for him to chase me away. A lot of older folks don’t like teenagers hanging around, so I didn’t have reason to feel any differently.

                Not a word was spoken for a moment. I stared at him, and he stared back. Gradually, I noticed his big hands were covered with sawdust, and what looked like blue paint, so I knew he was the “carpenter” I’d been hearing.

                “Can I help you?” he rumbled in a deep voice. He carried a faint accent, but I couldn’t tell what country. It sounded very pleasant and I replied, “I’m sorry for bothering you. I pass by here every day and I can hear you working. My family didn’t know anyone was living here. My name is Sue, and I hope you don’t…” He had already turned his back and with a motion of his hand, beckoned me towards his barn. Inside, it was actually a woodworking shop, a toy shop. Wow! The stuff! Any kid would have loved to see this. Shelves with air planes and yo-yos and wooden puzzles, all smooth and painted bright colors. Larger things, like wagons and sleds were set on the floor, waiting for a coat of paint.

                On a counter top was a box full of smaller items that looked like they could be tree ornaments, and he noticed me looking at them. “Ah, these are my favorite things to make. I love to sand these ornaments, and paint them all sorts of colors. Every year some family will take them out and remember how they got them. It is the best part of Christmas, you know, the remembering.”

                At his words I thought of how cross Mom and Dad would be if they knew where I was, but I wasn’t in the least scared of him. He seemed very gentle and kind, and since we had assumed all along that no one lived here, I was curious about him.

                As if reading my mind, he nodded and said, “I’m Amos. Most folks don’t remember me, but about this time every year when I get really busy, sometimes people hear me. I hope I didn’t disturb you. But there is so much to do, and only days left to do it, I must work a little harder. Most of the big pieces are done, they need some painting or sanding, but I always leave the Christmas ornaments ‘til the last.”

                “Are you a toy maker for some store or something? I’ve never seen so many wooden toys in one place before.” In fact, I’d never seen wooden sleighs like his before, except in Mom’s Christmas magazines. Most kids my age or my sisters’ liked the real fast “Sno-Racers” or “Sno-Boards” but here I was admiring these old-fashioned toys.

                “Well, no, I’m not working for anyone in particular, but some families really like these kinds of toys. They’re simple and beautiful, and last forever. When I was a lad, my father built a sled like this for me, and I never forgot it. It was red, with metal runners he hammered out in the forge, and was it fast! I felt like I was flying. Every year when the first good snow falls, and I hear you kids next door, I remember that sled all over again, and it makes me think of my father.

                “Yesterday I had a good day, and I finished up this box of stars and angel ornaments. Tonight I will sand them nice and smooth, then put a coat of paint on each. I hope the family that receives these will keep them safe, year after year, and think of a happy memory each time they hang one on their tree. That’s what really counts, Susan, the memories. Isn’t there something that makes you remember something special at Christmas too?”

                When Amos called me “Susan”, a long lost memory hit me. No one ever called me that, but the last time I could remember hearing it was a long ago Christmas. “She’s so tiny, don’t you think she looks more like a Sue than a Susan?” my Dad whispered to my Mom. It was the first Christmas I could really remember, so I must have been about three or four. “Well, most of the family has already been calling her Sue, so when we sign the note to Santa, I’ll just put ‘Sue.’”

                I could still see that note after all these years. Mom had a habit of keeping all kinds of stuff we kids made, pictures and drawings and class projects. Santa’s letters were no different, and on the bottom of each one of mine were big letters written in crayon “Love, Sue.” It was an honest mistake for Amos to call me Susan, but it gave me a warm kind of feeling.

                “Do you give all this stuff away, Amos? I mean these Christmas angels are gorgeous. Even the ones at Mom’s Craft Fairs aren’t nearly as nice. These are one of a kind, special. How many do you make?”

                “Oh, I don’t know. A lot. Whatever is needed. I get my list, and try to make everything on it. I’m usually given enough time. There are so many families in need this time of year. Times are hard for so many. Parents have to buy fuel and food, the winter is so long. Everyone needs warm clothes and things for school, and there always bills to pay. If one of my simple gifts makes it easier for some family, that is thanks enough. I never meet them, of course, but each Christmas, when they take out their holiday things, they will remember. You see, Susan, that is all that really matters. The warmth that comes with the remembering.”

                I could see where this was going. And I understood. This dear old man worked lovingly to craft special toys and keepsakes for others to make their Christmas happier. Not too different from my Mom and Dad, really. Their methods were different, that’s all. I was beginning to see some sense in it after all.

                Amos bent his head, ready to go back to work, and I knew it was time for me to get home.

                “I’d better be going, Amos, you’re busy and Mom must be wondering where I am. Maybe I’ll stop in again, if that would be okay.”

                “Of course. If you can hear me, then stop in. There is something I want to give you. This angel I finished yesterday, it’s dry now. I would like you to have it for yourself. Each year when you place it on your Christmas tree, you will remember me, and as the years pass, you will tell your children about this. They will learn to love your memories and your stories, and always know how important they are to you.” And with that, he turned back to his work, and I slipped out the door, quietly.

                All the way home, I thought about our conversation, and I admired the ornament. She was beautiful, and I could hardly wait for Dad to put up the tree.

                Things went on and as luck would have it, the Christmas tree was up a few days later. That evening, I carefully tied a piece of ribbon to my special ornament, and placed it near the top of the tree. I stepped back to admire it, and Mom noticed me.

                “What’s that, dear? Something you made at school?” Mom seemed to forget that I wasn’t six years old, and we didn’t make things at school anymore.

                “It’s a Christmas ornament that Amos made for me. Isn’t it beautiful? He hand-carves these and then sands them and paints them. Each one is a little different, and you should see all the toys he makes! How come you and Dad never told me about him? He has some neat workshop, it’s way better than Uncle Ted’s. And he gives it all away.”

                Mom sat down rather quickly, and her face looked funny. “Amos who, dear? Where did you find this?”

                “I didn’t find it Mom, Amos gave it to me. He lives in that old run-down farmhouse down the road. I pass it every day when I walk to school, remember? I told you that I was always hearing sounds from there, but until today I never saw anyone. I stopped by the fence on my way home from the bake sale, and he heard me and asked me in. All the things he makes, Mom, why don’t you and Dad go over and see? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

                She took a deep breath. “Sue, I’m going to tell you a story. You might find it hard to believe, but let me finish it.”

                With her eyes full of tears, she began.

                “If Amos were alive, he’d be at least two hundred years old.” She heard me gasp, but she continued.

                “Many, many years ago, according to my grandmother, Amos and his wife were farmers here. They built that tiny little house, had a baby girl and were very happy. Amos’ wife had a wonderful sense of humor, and was a great cook, and he loved to carve and whittle by the fire in the evenings. One winter night on the way home from town, the horses broke away from the sleigh, and it rolled over. Amos’ wife and daughter were killed. He was devastated. His whole life revolved around his family, but now he was alone. Many evenings after that, people could hear him at work in the barn, but few saw him. He was so full of pain, he couldn’t even speak to people. He was very talented with woodworking though, and often at Christmas time, some poor family in the area would wake up Christmas morning and find a beautiful wagon or sleigh with toys in it parked on their doorstep. No one ever saw Amos. But who else would it be? There’s no such thing as Santa Claus…Is there?” Mom asked the question as if speaking to herself. She got up slowly and walked over to the tree. She reached up, and removed a little gold star from a branch.

                “Do you see this? This little wooden star that I have treasured for years? I know you and your sisters think it’s ugly, but to me, it’s beautiful. Amos made this star, and my grandmother’s family were the lucky ones that year. Oh, they weren’t lucky by today’s standards, they barely had enough to eat. But Amos picked their house that year to leave the wonderful gift. He left so much more than toys, Sue. He left hope. He left precious memories. Christmas is more than things you get, it’s the love you give. With his own strong hands, he built these wooden toys, and found his way through his grief by giving them away to a family he felt needed them. Always a house where there were children and always a house where there was need.”

                I took a minute to mull this over. Amos and our conversation were as real as the snow in the lane, but Mom was telling me he didn’t exist. Impossible, and I told her so.

                “Well, Sue we’ll go over there right now, if you want to. Here won’t be there. The only stories I have are the ones my Grandmother told me, and now I’m telling you.”

                Amos’ voice was ringing in my ears. “As the years pass, and you have children, you will tell them about this…” What was this all about? I thought I had the answer.

                “Well, okay Mom, let’s go over. But tell me this. If Amos isn’t real, and if he picked a house that was in need, why did he give me this Christmas angel? We have plenty to eat, and get lots of stuff at Christmas. All his stuff is pretty old-fashioned, and I don’t know if I’d want any of it anyway. This ornament is nice, and I really like it, but I don’t need it. It’s real, though, Mom, so if Amos isn’t, where did this come from?”

                As we spoke, Mom grabbed a flashlight and we were pulling on boots and gloves, and making our way down the road. Some stars were popping out, and the moon began to glisten on the snow, and Mom didn’t seem ready to answer. In just a few minutes, we reached the little crooked fence. The roof of Amos’ barn shone in the moonlight, so we had no trouble finding our way. There were no lights, however, and I felt disappointed, because I knew in my heart that Amos was gone.

                At the doorway, Mom snapped on the flashlight. Nothing. There was no one. All we could see were tons of cobwebs. It was pretty obvious that nothing had been going on here for a very long time. Mom was right. But it had seemed so real.

                “See, Sue, although Amos always chose a house in need, he also chose someone in need. This year, you don’t seem excited by Christmas. In fact, you scoff at the preparations everyone else is making. When I work at raising money to help someone, you think that’s a waste of time. You think those families are lazy. But, Sue, sometimes our choices are very limited. We need to help others. I think this year, you were Amos’ person in need. How come no one else ever heard any sounds from here? You weren’t the only person passing by every day. He chose you. Can you remember anything he said?”

                Remember it? I could have repeated it. But it was becoming clear. Amos said that it was the remembering that was important, and now I could remember Mom taking that little star out of the box every year and smiling. She was remembering her grandmother’s story. She had told it to me, but in typical teenager fashion, I had chosen to forget. Now, all those old stories were becoming important to me. Amos was right.

                Back home, reality set in. My sisters were their obnoxious selves, and as everyone with younger sisters knows, the closer it gets to Christmas, the worse they get. They weren’t interested in stories or memories, but then, until this week, neither was I.

                In the evenings, I helped Mom with her various projects and went with Dad sometimes on mysterious deliveries. Obviously, they knew what Christmas was all about, and had no trouble sharing it. After my experience with Amos, I understood it better. In some small way, my family was trying to instill in me the importance of helping others. As Amos had done many years before in the only way he knew how.

Many years have passed and with age comes wisdom. I am left to wonder, was Amos a Christmas angel? Santa Claus? Or the figment of a child’s imagination? If he was, his purpose was clear. Each time I looked at my special ornament, however humble it may be today’s world of glitter and sparkle, I feel flooded with warmth, and I want to be able to pass that warmth on to my own children, as predicted. And if I close my eyes, I can still hear Amos’ soft, accented voice saying, “The only important thing is…the remembering.”