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By Becky Nichols

The dusk of evening was almost upon us and the air was cold and clear. It was that kind of air that makes your nose red and your cheeks all tingly.

I was bundled in a navy pea coat, scarf, jeans and high top tennis shoes. I also had on a red toboggan cap that came down right to the top of my eyebrows. This type of hat made my ears poke out funny and my bangs stick out even worse. I had lost a tooth, so to boot, I was snaggletooth.

The backyard of our house stretched a mile, all the way to Jones Creek, a world in which I had grown up since birth. I knew every inch of that creek . I could walk it in the dark or light. I knew where the creek was shallow and where it dropped off- knew where the dreaded snakes were rumored to live and where the sweetest blackberries grew.

Jones Creek was my world and I loved it.

My father, whom I called “Daee” had chosen on this fine afternoon, to burn up some brush piles. He loved to burn up brush- old piles of limbs, tree trunks, trash and the like. This was way before city rules and regulations, fire codes and such. Not that my father was a fire maniac! On the contrary, he had a deep and reverent respect for nature and the world.

But he had an equally intense love of reducing a pile of rotten limbs and uprooted tree stumps, to cinders. He would then be able to plant or create what he called a “Pretty Place.”

Daee waited always for the proper and safe kind of day-no wind, wet and always, always our fires were right in the open of a field, with no low hanging trees in the way.

As we would clean the woods, we’d pile and pile, and then one day I come home, Daee would take his old can of gasoline from the back of the truck, a couple of matches, a sack of marshmallows and off we’d go. Excited beyond words, I’d follow him, dancing and jumping in front of his broad steps.

That great moment of wh-u-u-u-u-u-mp when the match hits the gasoline covered branch pile is emblazoned in my memory. Winter, spring, summer and fall, in the country and in town-when Daee was ready to burn trash -that was it.

He’d trickle that gasoline in and out of the branches, in and out of the stack he’d go.

“Stand back”, he’d order, strike a match and with a flip of his wrist, toss it into the pile. W h-u-u-u–u-u-u-ump-all would go up in a blaze. Wow! what a sight.

On cold winter afternoons, we’d stand there rubbing our hands together and remark again and again on what a fine fire it was.

After awhile, we’d get into the truck and ride around “checking on things.” Later we’d return to find the embers burning low and we’d take out the marshmallows.

Daee would find a couple of green sticks and load up on roasted marshmallows. Mine always caught on fire and fell off the stick. Daee’s were always lightly brown on all sides.

This particular afternoon was Christmas Eve. The sky above was dark, deep-purple- blue and the sun was going down. My stocking was ready to be hung. My letter to Santa had been written.

All we had to do was to read the Christmas story from Luke and listen to the “Night Before Christmas.” After that I would chose one present to open, and place my offering of milk and cookies on the table in front of the chimney.

I would then review any problems that Santa might have coming down our chimney. Inevitably I would demand that we put out the fire in our fireplace. It was of great concern to me that this would cause Santa to overlook my house.

And then I go to bed, listening, always listening for the sounds of reindeer landing on my roof.

There are times in my life when Christmas and Santa Claus and reindeer have been as real as anything I have ever known -times when all the wonders of the universe seemed to come together for one sensational, shining moment.

That cold December 24, 1954 was one of those moments.

Daee and I were standing around a late afternoon brush fire, his fingers wrapped around my little hand, my world so perfectly ordered, my Christmas all set, the embers of that fire burning low, the silhouettes of the trees around us- it is no wonder that when I looked up into that night sky, I saw clearly a distant sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

My mouth flew open in amazement and I looked up at Daee. His eyes were also looking up at that same night sky.

“Well, what about that!” was all he ever said squeezing my hand.

I never knew how he knew what I saw. We never talked about it. We never had to.

To this day as I look up into the night sky of Christmas Eve, I think of that splendid magical moment.

And, yes, I still see a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

Becky Nichols is a librarian for the Selma-Dallas County Public Library.