Appalachian Christmas Memories: Part Six

Going to Mamaw’s and Papaw’s

Shared by Susan

I remember piling into the car and heading up the holler to Mamaw and Papaw’s, coats buttoned tight and gifts balanced on our laps. Their house always smelled like wood smoke and something good cooking, and you could feel the warmth before you ever stepped inside. Mamaw would fuss over us the minute we walked through the door, touching our cheeks and saying how much we’d grown, while Papaw stood back smiling, glad just to have us there.

We didn’t rush at Mamaw’s. Chairs got pulled closer, coffee was poured, and stories started up without anybody asking for them. You could hear the clock ticking and the fire popping, and it felt like time slowed down on purpose. Even now, when Christmas comes around, that’s the feeling I look for most, being welcomed in, being known, and knowing I was exactly where I belonged.

The Christmas Turkey

Shared by Sarah

When I was a girl, Christmas turkey didn’t come from the store. I remember going out with Papaw early in the morning, the ground crunchy under our boots, the cold biting at our noses. I stayed close behind him, trying to step where he stepped, proud as could be to be included. When he brought that turkey home, Mamaw took over like she always did.

She showed me how to clean it proper, telling me what to do and what not to waste, talking the whole time about how things used to be done. I watched close, my hands cold and my heart full, knowing this was something important. These days, I buy my turkey right off the shelf, already wrapped and ready to go, and I’m thankful for that ease. But every Christmas, I still think about that cold morning, Mamaw’s steady hands, and how proud I felt learning something she knew by heart. Those are the memories that stick, even as times change.

Learning on Dad’s Chevy

Shared by Tom (Tommy)

It was right before Christmas when Daddy made me that promise. If I could learn to drive his car, really learn it, then I could drive us to Mamaw and Papaw’s on Christmas Day. I was old enough for a license, but that didn’t mean much when Dad’s car was a stick shift and I’d never driven one in my life. And not just any car, either. It was his pride and joy, a ’55 Chevy he took care of like it was one of the family.

We practiced on back roads where nobody else had any business being. Dad sat real calm in the passenger seat, telling me when to ease off the clutch and when to give it a little gas. I stalled it more times than I can count, my heart pounding every time it bucked and jumped. Dad never raised his voice. He’d just grin and say, “Try it again. You’ll get the feel of it.”

By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, my left leg was sore and my nerves were shot, but I could drive that Chevy well enough to make him proud. Christmas morning, when I slid behind the wheel with my coat buttoned tight and the family piling in, I felt ten feet tall. We made it to Mamaw and Papaw’s just fine, and I’ve never forgotten that drive. It wasn’t just about getting there. It was about Dad trusting me with something that mattered.

Christmas Eve Errands

Shared by Rose

I remember how Christmas Eve was its own kind of busy, nothing like the rush folks talk about now. We’d head into town early, coats pulled on over whatever we had on, running last-minute errands before everything shut down. Daddy would park wherever he could find a spot, and Mama would make a list in her head instead of on paper.

There might be a stop at the hardware store, a quick run into the grocery for one thing we forgot, and maybe a visit with someone we hadn’t seen in a while. People lingered then. Nobody seemed in a hurry to get home. By the time the sun started dropping, town felt quieter, like it was settling in for the night.

When we finally headed back toward home, Christmas felt close enough to touch. Supper would be simple, and we’d go to bed knowing morning wasn’t far off. That feeling, the waiting, the knowing without seeing yet, is what Christmas Eve still feels like to me.