I’m sorry that my Christmas story for this
year is so late. If you read my
entry for December you may know why.
Old S.C. is back, a little less rough around the edges than he was in ‘A
Mighty Minty MORNING on the Ice,’ but still prone to course language. I hope you aren’t offended by that.
Something
from the tackle box:
When the men went into the house and saw the
child with Mary, his mother, they knelt down and worshiped him. They took out their gifts of gold,
frankincense, and myrrh and gave them to him. (Matthew 2:11 CEV)
It would
be a calm but cold night, old Sam Cass had decided as he walked the mile and a
half home from his job at the B&M service station and convenience
store.
“Only six
o’clock and it’s already darker than a sack full of ice holes,” he mused to himself, the same musing that he made every
night as he made the walk home in the months of December and January.
“Got
damp daylight savings time can kiss
my bass.”
Despite
the grumbling, Sam was in a pretty good mood, as he usually was most of the
time. His constant chatter, rife
with course language even when no one else was around to hear it, was a habit
going all the way back to his childhood.
He came by it honestly, as his dad had been just the same. Sam was much like his father had been
in many ways, - but not in all ways.
“Sure
hope old Rudy ain’t too wound up for his dinner when I get home. Can’t help but hardly step on that damp cat’s paws two or three times
before I can get the dank cat food into
the dank bowl! Har,
har, and that’s the dank truth, har, har, har.”
Old Sam
loved his cat Rudy, who’d showed up and moved in with him at his shack on the
lake over 16 years ago now. They
understood one another and enjoyed as close of a relationship as an old tomcat
and a crusty old duffer could either want.
But the
anticipated affections of an old cat waiting for his dinner was not the only
thing old Sam was looking forward to tonight. It was Christmas Eve and Sam would be going to the Midnight
Candlelight Service at the Episcopal Church after a few hours of ice
fishing. Now, it might surprise
the reader of this story to learn that the thought of going to a church
service, and staying up late into the night to do it to boot, would lighten the
mood of anyone possessing the crude mannerisms held by our old friend Sam, but
such is the case.
If you
would know the whole truth, I should tell you that Sam could be found in church
every Sunday morning! In fact, no
local who knew him could recall a Sunday morning when Sam hadn’t been in church
from the time he was an infant.
This can be accounted for by the fact that his dearly loved mother made
him be there every Sunday morning until he reached an age where he could
willingly promise her that he would be there every Sunday morning on his own
until the day he should die. Sam
loved his mom – and he always kept all of his promises.
Now this
is not to say that Sam could always be found in the same church every Sunday morning. That was not part of the promise. There were six churches within an hour’s walk of his shack
on the lake and Sam attended them all on a regular rotation system. First Baptist, St. Agnes Catholic,
Pilgrim Congregational, Laketon Methodist, St. George Episcopal, and the New
Life Original Four Square Gospel Holiness Temple, all saw his presence in that
order before he started over again.
He liked variety in his worship more than his dear mother would have
probably approved of, her having been a staunch Baptist through and through,
but, again, that hadn’t been part of the promise.
The
strict rotation was ignored for certain special Holy Day observances
however. Easter Sunday was always
spent at the Baptist church of his childhood, Ash Wednesday always found him at
St. Agnes, Good Friday was at the community service hosted by the Methodists,
and Christmas Eve was always with the
folks at St. George. As he often told his cat, Rudy, “No one
puts on a fancier Christmas shindig than those ‘piscopals do! Too bad I can’t take you with me to see
it!… Although… they do bless their critters inside the church every summer.……
hmmmm….”
Home now,
Sam let himself in and almost tripped over Rudy twice between the door and the
bag of cat food waiting on the counter opposite the door. The shack only had three real rooms, if
you didn’t count the glassed in mudroom, coat rack, boot scraping, front porch
you had to walk through to get to the only door. It had been Sam’s home since he was fifteen and had moved in
with his mom the year after his dad had died in the wreck.
Without
dad’s pay mom’s work at the cash register of the B&M wasn’t enough. They’d
had to downsize from the larger place they had lived in on the other side of
the lake. The new place wasn’t much,
but Sam had always liked it. As
soon as Sam was out of school he took over his dad’s old job in the garage at
the B&M fulltime. Things got
better for a while, and they talked about moving into a bigger place again, but
then mom got sick and followed dad into the Promised Land. By the time he was twenty two Sam had
the place all to his self and didn’t see the need for any more room. That was a long time ago now. Rudy liked it too.
“Well Rudy,
is you ready to go do a little fishin’ with me before I leaves ya to go listen
to that fancy Christmas music and bible story readin’ by candlelight service
over at the ‘piscopal church later on?”
Rudy did
not look up from his dish, but Sam knew that he would go. Whether it was in the boat or riding
the fishing sled over the ice, Rudy always went out with Sam whenever he went
fishing. The cat seemed to love
being on the water as long as he didn’t have to get into the water. It was
one of the things that kept the pair so close knit.
“Well,
you’d dank well better hurry up and
get your pie hole filled then! I’m
headed out to the porch to suit up and get the damp sled ready right now.
Won’t take me five damp minutes
before I’m ready to go, so fill yer guts and come on! – har, har, har.” Sam
knew the cat would be ready to head out when he was. Ten minutes later they were on their way.
If there
wasn’t any snow Rudy liked to walk ahead of Sam as he pulled his sled across
the ice. The sled would carrying
the ice spud, lantern, tackle (including a rod given him by a very nice young
man he’d met on the ice just a year ago now) and two buckets, one to sit on and
own to toss fish into. Sam would
follow Rudy and chop out his holes wherever the cat decided to stop and sniff
the ice. You can pooh-pooh the
system if you want to, but Sam caught more than his share of fish in this way.
“Fancy
electronic fish-finders is all fine and dandy I guess, but who needs ‘em when
you got a cat that can smell those dank fish
right through the ice like you can old buddy!”
The cat
was taking him a long way across the lake tonight, three quarters of the way
across the lake in the direction of the place where Sam had grown up. On these longer excursions Sam liked to
sing on the way. Sam actually
possessed a pretty decent singing voice, which was why folks didn’t mind that
much when their church came up on his Sunday rotation. (Although, you could never be quite
sure what kind of lyrics to the hymn tunes might come out of his mouth the
minute Sam stepped out the front door of your church.) In keeping with the
season, he decided on a bowdlerized secular Christmas jingle tonight.
“Ohhh – Rudy the pink
nosed kitty cat – had a very snot-ty noooose. And if you ev-er saaaaw it, - you would say that it was
grooooss! All of the other pussy
cats – used to run away in fear. – They didn’t want old snot-nose – to come and
chew upon their eeear! Har-har-har. Whad ya think of that little tune, ya old waste of cat
food? Har-har.” Rudy just stopped and sniffed the
ice. “Well, - if this is the spot,
then this is the spot, - ain’t it!”
In ten
minutes time the lantern was lit, a hole was in the ice, and Sam sat on a
bucket with a line down into the lake and a purring cat in his lap. The perch were there sure enough, and
over the next hour or so Sam hauled them up and out at a steady pace. He had his two dozen plus one limit
some time before he really needed to head back in to clean up and make it to
St. George’s on time for the service, so he sat there and just thunk for
awhile.
He could
see the lights on in the old place.
When he and his mom had moved out the place had been bought by a Joe and
Marge Bignall. They had both been
four years older and five grades ahead of him in school, but Sam knew them. Joe and Marge had gotten married the
summer after graduation from Laketon High and the old Cass place would make a
good starter home for the young man and his bride. Not that they planned to live there a real long time, as Joe
would someday be a partner in his dad’s local hardware store, and they could
move up. Sam knew that they had both
hated to see little Sam and his mom have to move out at the time, but the place
was going to be sold one way or the other, and they agreed to meet the asking
price, which was pretty nice when you think about it.
The
Bignalls still lived there. Dreams
don’t pan out for lots of folks I guess.
The hardware had folded and was sold at a loss. After that Joe went to work at a
furniture wholesale store in the next big town down the highway, where he did
OK, - until the MS put him in a wheelchair.
Fairly
late in their marriage Joe and Marge had had a daughter, whom they loved, but
who was a problem for them growing up on account of booze and bad company. Same old story. The daughter had married poorly and
both she and her husband were now in prison, down for quite a while for
engaging in a variety of criminal activities. This was hard enough on Joe and Marge - without considering
the little ones – Ned, Mike and Little Joe – aged eleven, eight and five – who
had been living with Grandpa and Grandma Bignall for the last three years – and
probably would be living with them for the next seven or eight years at
least. Good boys, a joy to their
Grands, but a hard row to hoe for them nonetheless.
Sam had
seen Marge just that morning, when she came to the B&M to pick up their
rusty old wheelchair-lift van that Sam had put a set of new/used snow tires on
for them. Nope! The Bignalls would
never be moving up from the place they’d bought from Sam and his mom as a
starter home all those many years ago.
“Ya know
what, Rudy? I’m thinkin’ maybe we
ought to slide on over to the old place and leave some of these pretty perch by
the front door. I know they like
‘em. Joe used to fish with me
onest in awhile afor he got chair-bound, and he never minded taking the extras
home. I’m dank near certain they’ll still be at the Methodist church for another
hour yet, as their Christmas Eve blast only started about half an hour
ago. They’ll never even know it
was us! Har-har-har! Wha’d ya say, ya
snot-nosed old bass turd?”
Rudy just
got off of Sam’s lap and hopped up on the ice sled.
In another
ten minutes it was done. Of course
the footprints in the snow, coming up off the lake, leading to the front door
where the bucket of fish was set, and then running back down to the lake and
heading off in the direction of old Sam’s shack, would be a dead giveaway. But what did that matter? On the way home across the lake Sam
felt as talkative as usual.
“Rudy,
I’m sure glad you reminded me of those six candy canes I had in the pocket of
my overalls. They sure looked
pretty hanging around the rim of that dank
fish bucket! Har-har-har. How about another song, in keepin’ with
the season.”
Sam
thought for a minute, then struck up one he didn’t sing often, but which he had
always liked from the time he was a kid.
“Ohhhh –
Good King Wenceslas looked ouuut – on the feast of Steee-phaaaan. – When the
snow lay ‘round abouuuut, - deep and crisp and eeee-vaaaan! ……….”
And so
old Sam sang in his heart all the way home, and then on to the best midnight
candlelight Christmas service he could ever remember the ‘piscopals ever
putting on for him.
Something to
take home in your creel:
The
wealth of the Magi had very little to do with their gold, or their
frankincense, or their myrrh. It
had a great deal to do with their hearts.
I hope your holidays were filled with generosity and goodwill towards
all mankind. Blessings be upon you
all my friends. M.J.
