* * *
Fern Hampton had persuaded the Friendly Women’s Circle to sell the cookies and hot chocolate in order to raise money for Brother Norman’s shoe ministry to the Choctaw Indians. Ordinarily, their fund-raiser for the Choctaws was the annual Chicken Noodle Dinner held during Corn and Sausage Days. But this year, the Circle had used that money to buy a vanity for the women’s rest room.
In mid-December, Brother Norman had mailed the Circle a Christmas letter in which he’d expressed his happiness that the Lord had blessed the good ladies of the Circle, then asked their prayers for numerous Choctaw children who’d stepped on rusty nails and nearly died of tetanus. It was due to a shoe shortage, Brother Norman explained, because certain donations they had been counting on had not come through. He hoped it wouldn’t lead to amputations, but he couldn’t be sure. He asked them to be in prayer, but only if they had the time. He didn’t want to inconvenience them.
Fern felt terrible. She tossed and turned all that night, tormented by the thought of shoeless Choctaw children hobbling around. When she woke up and opened her closet to get her slippers, there were her shoes, lined up in neat rows. She counted six pairs. “Lord, forgive me,” she prayed. “I’m the Imelda Marcos of Harmony.”
She began working the phones, summoning the Friendly Women to action. She divided the women into two committees, the hot chocolate committee and the cookie committee. She drafted Ellis Hodge to haul three tables over from the church basement and set them up in her garage. Then, to ease her guilt, she went to the Kroger and bought two hundred Styrofoam hot-chocolate cups with her own money.
Fern had been feeling dispirited, but this noble cause revived her and gave her purpose. She cleaned the garage and took a load of junk to the dump, where she rooted around for shoes for the Choctaw children. She found five perfectly good pairs. She shook her head at the waste. She thought of her father, who had grown up so poor he had to share a pair of shoes with his brother. “He wore the left shoe, and I got the right one,” he’d told her. “We had to hop to school.”
People these days don’t know what it’s like to go without, Fern thought to herself. Maybe that Eddie guy on the radio who Dale listened to was right. Maybe these were the last days, with all their greed and filth and violence. People laughed at Dale, but maybe he had a point. They wouldn’t be laughing when some wacko terrorist took over the progressive Nativity scene. She made a note to herself to ask Dale for extra security at the hot-chocolate stand.
People have been upset with Bea Majors for her newspaper column. Miriam Hodge complained about it at the meeting of the hot-chocolate committee. “Experience with firearms preferred! I can’t believe she wrote that. It makes us look like crackpots.”
That was Miriam for you, Fern thought. She liked Miriam, but believed she was a bit naïve, that she got a little carried away with this love-your-neighbor stuff. She’d given Miriam something to mull over. “You know, Miriam, what would happen if everyone thought like you? We’d all be speaking Chinese, that’s what.”
Bea began writing the church column back in 1971, at the request of Bob Miles’s father, who had run the Herald in those days. Bea hadn’t asked the elders or anything. She just started writing the column, along with her editorial comments. If the church was sponsoring an event she didn’t approve of, she wouldn’t mention it. Or worse, she’d mangle the announcement on purpose.
Like the time I’d invited my professor from seminary to speak at church and Bea had misquoted the date so people wouldn’t show up. Bea thought he was a menace, because he’d written a book questioning the Virgin Birth and suggesting that some of the red verses in the Bible might not have actually been said by Jesus.
“It’s right there in red ink,” she’d said. “How can he deny it? It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
She’d changed the date in her church column to confuse the liberals, who’d shown up that Sunday to have their sin glossed over, but instead heard a rousing presentation from the Friendly Women on the wide path that leads to death.
It was difficult to work up enthusiasm for Christmas in my present surroundings. Between Bea’s newspaper column and Dale’s formation of a Quaker militia, my Yuletide passion had withered considerably. I still had three days of vacation left. I kicked around the idea of taking Christmas Eve off and visiting my in-laws a hundred miles away. But the last time I’d done that, Dale had taken advantage of my absence by inviting Billy Bundle, the World’s Shortest Evangelist, to speak at church. I’d simply be trading one mess for another.
The Tuesday before Christmas, I was seated at my office desk working on my sermon, when the phone rang. Frank picked it up. After a short pause, he yelled back that it was my wife. “She doesn’t sound too happy, either,” he added.
I picked up the phone. “Hi, honey. Is everything all right?”
At first, I couldn’t understand what she was saying. I could only make sense of an occasional word here and there. “Pigs everywhere…Dale…tearing up the yard…geese…cows…Come home now!”
It was three days till Christmas. If I started driving now, I could be in Mexico before Christmas Eve. They’d never find me there. I could change my name and hide out in a monastery. But the obligation of family weighs heavily, so I went home instead to face whatever problem Dale had left in his wake.
He was still there when I arrived, stowing the ramp on Ellis Hodge’s livestock truck. My wife was in our front yard nudging a pig out of her flower bed. A goose came my direction with a purposeful waddle, looking considerably agitated.
“Grab that goose, would ya?” Dale yelled.
I wasn’t sure how to grab a goose, so I stepped aside and let him pass.
“What’s going on here, Dale? What are all these animals doing here?”
“Today’s the only day I could get Ellis’s truck, so here I am.”
“What am I supposed to do with these animals, Dale?”
“Oh, just keep ’em fed and watered. I’ll be back to get ’em on the twenty-eighth, just as soon as we get home. We’re leavin’ for the sister-in-law’s house on Christmas afternoon, but we’ll be back on the twenty-eighth, the thirtieth at the latest.”
He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and studied it. “Well, gotta go, Sam. Gotta get the manger set up. Then I’m off to target practice. We’re practicin’ our night ops tonight. I tell you, Sam, I never knew having a Nativity scene was such work.” He shook his head at the complexity of it, then climbed in the truck. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Ellis said to be sure and save the manure. He wants it for his garden. Just put it in your garage and he’ll be by for it later.” And with that, he wrestled the truck into first gear, moved forward with a lurch, and drove down the street.
I turned toward my wife and offered her a weak smile. “Hi, honey. So how’s your day been?”
“Sam Gardner, if you think I’m going to have these animals in my yard, you have another think coming. I want them out, and I want them out now!”
“Well now, honey, it’s only for a few days, and I bet we’ll hardly notice them after a while.”
I managed to corral the livestock in the garage before supper, but as we sat down to eat, the telephone rang. It was Uly Grant from the hardware store.
“Say, we got a goose down here, and someone thought it might be yours.”
“Could you describe it, please?”
“Uh, sure. It’s white and has kind of an orangish beak, and it looks mad. It’s hissing a lot and stamping its feet.”
“Yep, that sounds like one of mine,” I said I’ll be right over.”
Fortunately, Uly had duct-taped its beak to keep it from biting anyone, though it still managed to clobber me in the head with its wings before I could wrestle it into the trunk of my car.
“So is it a pet, or what?” Uly asked.
“No, it belongs to Ellis Hodge. We’re using it for our progressive Nativity scene at church. The animals are at my house.”
I drove t
he goose home past Dale’s house. Dale was up in a tree, stringing wire to a floodlight. The manger was erected on his front lawn. I could glimpse blue shag carpet covering the manger floor. Ten feet above the manger, tied in a tree, was a mannequin I recognized from Kivett’s Five and Dime, garbed in a flannel shirt and blue jeans. I pulled over for a closer look. Dale climbed down from the tree.
“What’s Ned Kivett’s mannequin doing up in the tree?” I asked.
“That’s the angel of the Lord,” he explained.
“Oh, I see. I always thought angels of the Lord had wings and wore white robes.”
“Yeah, well, Ned said I could borrow the mannequin so long as I didn’t change its clothes.”
I peered closer at the angel of the Lord. There was a sign I hadn’t noticed at first, tied to a branch beside the angel. All Flannel Shirts Now 10% Off During the Christmas Season.
“I’m glad you stopped by, Sam. I need someone to help me test the sound system.”
“Tell me again why it is we need a sound system?”
“For the commercials for Clevis Nagle. I talked him into donating half the cost toward renting the sound system.”
“Will we be doing anything else with the sound system? Perhaps playing music or Scripture readings?”
“Nope, just the commercials for the movie theater,” Dale said. “That was part of the deal if Clevis paid half of it.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Now, Dale, I might be mistaken, and please correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that if Clevis only paid half, and his commercials are the only thing we’re using the sound system for, then we’re paying Clevis money so we can advertise for him.”
“Well, I suppose if you wanna be pessimistic, you can look at it that way. But he didn’t have to pay any of it at all. Then we wouldna even had a sound system. This way, we have the only Nativity scene in town with a sound system.” He beamed at the thought of it.
It had been a long day, and I was tired. Plus, the goose was thrashing around in the trunk of my car, so I let the matter drop.
When I arrived home, I put the goose in the garage and removed the duct tape from his beak, receiving a peck on the head for my troubles. I went in the side door to the kitchen. My wife was standing at the sink washing the supper dishes. “How’s our goose?” she asked.
“All tucked into bed.” I picked up a dish towel and began to dry and put away.
“How long will those animals be in our garage?”
“Just until the twenty-eighth, but no later than the thirtieth.”
She sagged at the sink. “I could smell them during dinner.”
“Maybe we could start eating in the dining room,” I suggested.
“Tell me again why we’re doing a Nativity scene this year.”
“It’s easier,” I said.
“For whom is it easier?”
The secret of marital longevity is knowing when to change the subject. “How about guessing what I got you for Christmas,” I suggested.
“Not livestock, I hope.”
“No, not livestock.”
“Jewelry?”
“No, it turns you green. Remember?”
“Not all of it turns me green.”
I told her I didn’t want to risk it.
“What I could use is a new toaster,” she said, turning toward me and smiling.
I grimaced. “I don’t know. They’re pretty expensive. You think you’ve been good enough this year?”
“I’m putting up with your livestock, aren’t I?”
I was glad I had splurged and bought the four-slotter.
Off in the distance, toward the Asa Peacock farm, I could hear the occasional bark of gunfire.
“Sounds like Dale is up late tonight,” Barbara observed.
“Sounds like it.”
“I wonder if he got many volunteers.”
“I know Bea volunteered, and Fern Hampton’s nephew, Ervin.”
“I feel safer already.”
It was late. Now that we were feeding livestock, we’d have to rise early. I was lying in bed, waiting for Barbara to finish in the bathroom so I could brush my teeth when I heard a thunderous BOOM! I raised up out of bed and peered through the window. There was a faint orange glow on the horizon.
“What was that?” Barbara called out from the bathroom.
“I’m not exactly sure.” I pulled on my pants and shirt and walked toward the door, with Barbara right behind me. Just then the high wail of the fire station alarm split the evening air. We hurried out into the front yard. Up and down the street, I saw lights flickering on and people coming out of their houses to stare at the sky.
Barbara reached over and took my hand, her face tight with concern. “What do you suppose is happening?” she asked again.
“I’m not sure. But whatever it is, it can’t be good.”
Seven
The Progressive
When I arrived at the meetinghouse the day before Christmas Eve, Dale Hinshaw and Asa Peacock were waiting in my office.
“It’s not my fault,” Dale said, as I came through the door. “You shoulda told us you were coming. It wasn’t my fault it blew up.”
“What blew up?” I asked, wading into the conversation at midstream.
“My pickup truck,” Asa moaned. “I heard shooting in my back field last night. I thought it was hunters. When I went to run ’em off, Dale shot at me and hit the gas tank. I barely got out before the truck exploded.”
Dale reddened Well, what did you expect? It was pitch black. How could I know it was you? Besides, you said we could use your field for our security training.”
“You didn’t tell me you were going to be out there at night,” Asa complained.
“Will someone please tell me what this has to do with our church?” I asked.
“Dale said the church’ll buy me another truck, since they were there on church business,” Asa explained.
“Wasn’t your truck insured?”
Asa glared at Dale. “Try telling that to Dale. He’s my insurance agent, but he said this type of thing isn’t covered, that the church has to pay for it.”
I stared at Dale. “Let me get this right. You blew up Asa’s truck and you expect the church to pay for it?”
Dale shrugged and looked helpless, as if the matter were out of his hands. “Asa’s policy doesn’t cover acts of war.”
One more day, and it would all be over. Dale would be gone to his sister-in-law’s house a hundred miles away. The progressive Nativity scene would be done with, at least for another year.
“Dale, the church didn’t ask you to provide security for the Nativity scene. That was your idea. Now you’ve blown up Asa’s truck. You’re his insurance agent, so you figure out a way to pay him for his truck.” I spoke slowly so he would understand.
“I want a 1968 red Ford,” Asa said. “Just like I had.”
“Asa, can’t you see I got more important things to worry about just now?” Dale said. He turned toward me. “Ned Kivett wants his angel of the Lord back. We can’t have a Nativity scene without an angel of the Lord. I was thinkin’ maybe I could borrow one of your boys.”
“Borrow one of my boys? What would you do with him?”
“Dangle him from a branch over the manger. It’ll only be for a couple hours. He can wear long underwear so he don’t get cold. All he has to do is yell, ‘Glory to God in the highest!’ every now and then.”
“I don’t think so, Dale. Why don’t you make an angel of the Lord out of plywood like the Baptist church?”
He frowned. “That won’t do. Dang that Ned Kivett anyway.”
“I would love for you to stay and visit,” I lied, “but I have work to do.”
I ushered them to the door, said my good-byes, told Frank not to let anyone in, then locked my office door and lay down on the couch in my office—an unsold remnant from a church rummage sale years before. I could feel a throbbing pain start at the back of my head, move over my scalp, and
center itself between my eyes. A Dale migraine.
Twenty years before, I had sat in this very office and confided in Pastor Taylor that I wanted to be a minister, having mistaken Miriam Hodge’s compliment on my Youth Sunday sermon as a sign of God’s call. Now it was too late. I was tied to the tracks and the progressive Nativity scene was steaming toward me—my punishment for taking the wrong path in life.
Pastor Taylor had suggested I find another vocation and volunteer in the church instead. “You don’t want to do this,” he’d said. “Your life isn’t your own, and the pay’s lousy. People hound you all the time. Why don’t you get a normal job and volunteer in the church. You don’t have to be a pastor.”
But I was young and pigheaded and couldn’t be dissuaded. In arrogance born of youthfulness, I presumed I would be a better pastor than Pastor Taylor and could easily master the challenges that had discouraged him. I hadn’t counted on Dale Hinshaw.
I knocked off at noontime to eat lunch with Frank at the Coffee Cup. It was more crowded than usual, the farmers having come to town to buy Christmas gifts for their wives. We had to sit on stools at the counter, beside the Juicy Fruit rack next to the cash register. Large, pear-shaped men lined up behind me to pay their bills. I spent my lunch craning my neck around to answer their questions. “Yes, I’m fine. She’s fine, too.” “No, I hadn’t heard that joke. I’ll have to remember it.” “Last Sunday’s offering was fine, thank you, did you want to add to it?” That usually silenced them.
There were a few comments about the progressive Nativity scene. Didn’t we think ten dollars was too much? Why had Dale shot at Asa? Would he be shooting anyone else? Was it safe to take their children? I assured them the money was going for a good cause, Brother Norman’s shoe ministry to the Choctaw Indians, and that we had told Dale not to bring his gun.
Christmas in Harmony Page 5
