Christmas 1932, memoir excerpt

The penultimate installment of Alice Anderson's story...

Christmas 1932, Part 4

The Torgersons were old, at least in their seventies, and they were Seventh Day Adventists and Norwegian. They didn’t hold with frivolities and did not even acknowledge Christmas. Papa said he was sure they would come, if only to remember their childhood in Norway where they, too, had eaten lutefisk and pickled herring. We invited them and they accepted. We walked on to call on Rod, munching on the thick sugar cookies Martha Torgerson was famous for.

Rod’s farm looked like a picture out of a story book. Gates hung straight, the mowing machine was under cover, harnesses and bridles hung uniformly by the horse stalls. Everything about the farm was neat. We sat down in his little house and explained our purpose. “Christmas Eve? Sure, I’ll come up after I’ve done the chores. That’ll be nice. Christmas Day I’m walking to Clear Lake to be with Mother and Rose.”

One more to go. Jimmy Trotter. Why had the folks invited Jimmy? I wondered if Jimmy knew he should clean up before he came. He often worked for us during spring plowing. Jimmy walked with a decided limp, and he had other ailments too. Mama often voiced concern for him. “Probably the way he eats,” she would mutter.

We stood on the rambling porch. There was no chance of being invited inside. Even Jimmy, who was certainly no socialite, smiled broadly when invited. “Been a long time since I really celebrated Christmas Eve,” he said.

On Christmas Eve day we skipped along the cow trails to the woods. We would cut our Christmas tree, the one we had pruned and cared for since it was just a tiny tree. The wooden stand Papa had made the first year they had been on the farm was retrieved from the attic. The tree stood nude and green in the front room. Papa was in charge of clipping the candle holders onto the branches. Mama arranged the decorations. We put the candles into the holders.

The table was ready, food had been prepared for many days. John and I peeked through the front room curtains for our guests to arrive. We could see the lantern carried by Sivert Torgerson, swinging slowly, as they trudged up the road. Across the field and toward the woods we caught glimpses of Rod’s lantern. He would probably arrive before the slow going Torgersons. A knock at the door announced Jimmy’s arrival.

Comment from the coach: I love how Alice weaves snippets of dialogue into her tale to capture the personalities involved. Dialogue is one of the most powerful tools in a writer’s box, allowing writers to show, not tell.