A Country Christmas When the World Was at War

This is a story about Christmas long ago and far away. Maybe there’s a lesson or two for modern times.

My Great-Grandfather Gordon was bouncing around Kansas and Missouri in the early years of the last century, mainly as a handyman and farmhand. He eventually cobbled together enough savings to buy a small farm in New Hudson, New York, a small rural town in the Allegany Foothills in southwestern New York State, near the Pennsylvania border.

He packed up his family and went east. The move coincided with the beginning of the Great Depression. Farm production couldn’t feed the large family, and his oldest son left the land. That was my grandfather.

He found work as an electrician and drove a school bus to make ends meet. He was starting his own family, and work for an electrician was scarce during the 1930s, especially in rural America.

Then World War Two broke out, and Grandpa found work in Buffalo, a considerable distance from home. Gas was rationed, and in winter the drive was often treacherous. He spent most of his time commuting from his brother’s house in Erie County while trying to get home most weekends.

It was on one of those rare visits home that my grandfather went for a late-night walk. The family lived in a place called Black Creek. Population 150, with a general store that also served as the Post Office and gas station. His mind was heavy. Money was still scarce and Christmas was coming. He had four young kids at home.

During the walk, he stopped and talked with a neighbor. The other man was throwing away four old runner sleds. Mr. Gordon asked if he could have them.

The family remembers that over the next several weeks, whenever he was home, Grandpa would work late in the garage. He cut narrow slats of wood and pieces of rope. He sanded metal and meticulously used a paintbrush.

On Christmas morning, my mom and her three brothers jumped out of their beds and wide-eyed stared at what appeared to be four new sleds. Each one of them also received an orange.

They spent much of the day, aside from Christmas dinner, on their sleds.

I first heard this story when I was a boy. More than 50 years ago. My mom and my uncles all recalled it was their finest Christmas memory. Two uncles, John and Frank, died 25 years ago. My mom passed away in 2005. Uncle Paul died in February 2018. I paid him a visit in September of 2017. He led a great life and remained a font of stories until the day he died.

None have touched me quite the way a tale of a wartime Christmas so very long ago still does.