Coal Camp Christmas Memories: School, Snowflakes, and Simple Joy

Chapter 1 – Before the Season Begins

Coal camp Christmas memories

I reckon Christmas always starts earlier in a coal camp than it does anywhere else. Not the decorations — those came later, simple as they were — but the feeling. These coal camp Christmas memories carry a soft kind of excitement that settled in right after the first cold snap, when the mountains turned blue-gray and the air felt thin enough to crack.

The grown-ups tried to play it cool, saying things like, "It’ll be here soon enough," while rubbing their hands together by the coal stove. But us kids? We felt it humming under our skin. Christmas in a coal camp wasn’t about gifts — most years, we weren’t sure if there’d be any at all. It was about everything the season stirred up: music drifting from the church, cedar cut fresh from the ridge, the smell of Mama’s gingerbread (made without ginger, but good all the same), and the hope that maybe, just maybe, the whole world softened a little in December.

Down at the company store, that’s where the first true sign of Christmas showed up. You could

smell it before you even stepped inside — cinnamon sticks in jars by the counter, oranges stacked in little pyramids, peppermint lumps wrapped in paper. Mamaw Elsie kept everything

tidy and warm, her smile quick as a spark when children pushed through the door hoping she’d give out samples.

And Papaw Henry — well, he pretended to be all business, weighing flour sacks and counting change. But every now and then you'd see him glance toward the little shed behind the store. The one with the tiny stovepipe puffing out curls of smoke. We didn’t know then — not for sure — what he did back there. But rumor ran wild among the kids, and every December it grew louder: Papaw Henry is Santa’s helper.

Folks laughed about it, but we didn’t. We’d seen the way he looked at children, soft and thoughtful, like he was memorizing their faces. And we’d heard the stories — toys showing up in coal-camp houses that couldn’t afford them, carvings so fine they looked store-bought even though we knew better.

That shed was magic. We were sure of it.

School was the other place where Christmas took root early. Our teacher — Miss Hattie Lou (Hattie Lou Morgan until we choose) — had a way of making even multiplication feel warm. But in December, she came alive. Miss Hattie Lou Hattie Lou always began December the same way — by opening every window curtain wide to let in whatever pale morning light the mountains offered. "Christmas needs light," she told us, tapping the frost from the glass with her knuckle. And somehow, even on the grayest days, the room felt brighter when she said it.

She’d bring out a worn cardboard box from the closet — the one every class before us had added to — filled with scraps of ribbon, bent paper stars, bits of yarn, and a handful of ornaments made by students long grown. She held each piece gently, like she was touching history.

“We'll make our mark on this box too,” she said. “Every class leaves something behind — a spark of Christmas for the next ones who sit in these desks.”

It wasn’t much, but in a coal camp, tradition carried more weight than anything money could buy. And we believed Miss Hattie Lou when she said our little paper stars mattered.” And every one of you will make something for it.”

We’d cut paper snowflakes, glue chains together, and sprinkle glitter the way miners spread dust — everywhere and impossible to clean up. Some kids made stars. Some painted wooden circles Papaw Henry cut for her every year. She always said they were gifts from "a friend of Christmas," though her eyes slid toward the window when she said it.

When a child finished an ornament, she’d hand it to Miss Hattie Lou Hattie and ask if it could go on the tree. And she’d say, “Of course, sweetheart. But make another to take home. Every tree deserves a bit of sparkle.”

Most of us didn’t have real ornaments at home. Our trees were cedar branches wedged into buckets of coal slack, decorated with popcorn strings and whatever Mama could find to make do. But that one special ornament — the one we made at school — felt like gold.

And that’s how Christmas began in our coal camp: not with money, not with presents, but with little hands crafting stars, with the smell of peppermint and cedar, with a teacher’s voice singing the first lines of a carol while she swept glitter from the floor.

It was simple. It was small. But it was ours.

To Be Continued...