Stealing holly and crocheting
My mother in law, the late great Evelyn Hatcher Brooks Causby, loved holly bushes. When she lived in the “big” house those lovely bushes surrounded her home. She’d go out and clip holly when it neared Christmas and had it in almost every room. It added such a great amount of cheer.
One year, the bushes didn’t produce much. They bloomed early because of a warm late winter and then it got really cold and killed the blooms. One morning we were in the car going somewhere and she wanted to drive around the Calhoun Recreation Department. Little did
I know that she had a mission. She shared with me that one time she noticed holly growing along the fence that surrounded the rec.
As she drove along the fence, my eyes caught the sight of red ... lots of red ... tiny dots of red. It was a glorious sight of thousands of holly berries that had turned bright red just in time for the season. She pulled over and produced two pairs of scissors, one for me and one for her.
“I scoped this place out earlier and just look at all those berries,” said said, tickled to death over her find.
I, on the other hand, was a wee bit worried that it may not be legal to take these berries. “Oh,” she stated in a matter of fact manner, “We pay taxes. It’s just fine.”
So we spent the last half hour getting bunches of holly for Mother to put in vases and jars around the house. “It just isn’t Christmas without holly.”
I must admit that I kept on watching for a blue light and a siren to approach us as we stole that holly, but nobody ever bothered us. That’s a fond memory I have of Mother. She was the most adorable, little, feisty lady. If the police had come by, she would have greeted them like old friends and said in her most South Alabama accent, “You don’t mind us getting this beautiful holly, do you, sugah?” And she’d probably bat her eye lashes and giggle. Oh, she was good, just like her sister, our Aunt Rosie.
One Christmas I learned how to crochet. A wonderful lady and good friend named Betty Carver taught me how. She gave me some crocheted Christmas ornaments she had made, and I loved them so much I asked her to teach me how to crochet. I already knew how to knit, but not crochet. She taught me well. I made ornaments for everyone and also knitted some slippers — lots and lots of slippers.
Truth be told, I was so sick of crocheting and knitting that I really haven’t done anything like that again.
The first year I ever taught school was 50 years ago when I became an eighth grade English/Literature teacher. Mrs. Mattie Lou Strain was the principal and she ruled the roost. Make no bones about it. It wasn’t known as Strain’s Academy for nothing. She had a Christmas party that year for all the teachers and I think I was part of the program she had. Once she found out I had a double major with drama, I directed the plays and other activities.
Traditional eggnog was served. I love eggnog ... love it! When I took my first sip from the little cup that matched the punch bowl, I realized that it had a wee bit of a punch itself. And it was wonderful. It seems, though, that some of the tea totalers were not happy with this discovery. Heck, I was young. I had no problem with bourbon, and what was so funny is that one of the older teachers provided the extra kick. I still laugh about that to this day. I add Jameson Irish Whisky to mine.
One time, Bill and I pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store and we saw a friend walking back to his car. He had on a red flannel shirt with black pants. His hair was white and long and so was his beard. Our youngest child’s eyes were big as saucers. He just knew he was seeing Santa Claus. And in a way he was.
Harold Summerville had been the band director at Calhoun High School. When he retired, he drove a tour bus for a while. Then he became Santa Claus. He was the best I’d ever seen. When he saw us that evening, he came over to our van and spoke to our kids. Hartwell was enthralled. Harold gave all the kids lollipops. I will never ever forget him and how he made that Christmas season so special for one little boy.
As you read this, Christmas is a week away. I hope it snows.