A Curmudgeonly Santa Delivers A Rural Christmas

STORYTELLING | by SHERRY STRIPLING

AS A RURAL MAIL CARRIER IN SNOWY MONTANA, MY GRANDFATHER greatly disliked Christmas.

Almost everyone was away from home on the frontier, and almost all got mail. That intensified at Christmas ― and so did my grandfather’s gruff and fretful demeanor, which made his family tiptoe through holiday preparations.

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On freezing mornings, my grandfather draped himself in a buffalo robe with a lantern between his knees for warmth, urging his horse to pull the sleigh over unplowed roads. In the afternoons, he’d sort mail in town, sell stamps and, to his great consternation, fix sloppy packages.

Another thing he hated about Christmas: Women insisted he eat their holiday baking, something my grandfather, who had a queasy stomach, did his best to avoid.

My grandfather knew every resident and the names of their children. He tried to stay all business but found himself deeply involved in their lives: rescuing livestock or hurrying back after his route to take people to the doctor.

By 1934, he had switched to a Ford Model ‘A’, keeping his horses Bess and Ginger for backup in case of deep snow. That year, after my mother and her sister opened their presents and enjoyed their Christmas orange, my grandfather surprised them by proposing a car trip, the last thing he’d want to do on his holiday.

A mail-order package for a farm family had come in late Christmas Eve, he said sternly. “We’d better take it to them or they won’t have a Christmas.”

He must have gotten satisfaction from the delivery because he talked later of seeing the children playing with their new toys. But he did not accept his kind act gracefully.

“They should have sent in their order sooner,” he grumbled ― all the way out there, and all the way back.