Hayrides and Hot Chocolate Memories

Childhood Christmas memories usually bring my Dad to mind. I think about two things my Dad loved to do more than anything else during the Christmas season. The first was reading the account of Jesus’ birth from the Gospel of Luke in the Bible. Next was singing Christmas carols, whether through congregational singing on a Sunday morning or riding in the back of an old flatbed truck full of hay and bundled up parishioners.

This particular Christmas, in the early 70’s, I’m stretched out in a red bean bag chair wearing long underwear type pajamas, pictures of GI Joe covering the cotton material from top to bottom. The scent of the scotch pine tree covered in silver tinsel and large brightly colored bulbs permeates the living room of our home at 506 Rosemary St. in Patterson, La. Adorned with glass Christmas bulbs of every shape and color as well as every homemade decoration made in Sunday School, Kindergarten, or Vacation Bible School, our tree may not have been majestic or awe-inspiring to some, but it was beautiful in the eyes of a 7-year-old boy. I picked it out with my mom and dad a few weeks earlier, brought it home in my Dad’s old Chevy Impala, and with reserved frustration, wrestled that prickly pine into a flimsy red and green metal stand and made it our own.

If my Dad had not been the local preacher, I’m sure a cloud of profanity would have floated over the swamp as he fought to get the tree in the stand while listening to my Mom telling him it was not straight, not centered, not this and that.  But eventually the tree made it in the stand, up right, somewhat centered and in the living room in front of the large window that faced the street. From there, we commenced to decorating our piece of holiday magic.

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It’s Christmas Eve. It’s a night of anticipation, excitement, and sleepless giddiness knowing in a few hours presents that have sat under our tree for weeks will be opened and enjoyed.

It’s Christmas Eve. It’s a night of remembering the true meaning of Christmas, why we celebrate, and what should be remembered and shared more than tinsel, gifts wrapped in colored foil or blinking lights.

It’s Christmas Eve. It’s a night when my Dad opens his worn and much used Bible where he finds the appropriate chapter and verse and reminds our family that:

Jesus is Born – Luke 2:1-20 (King James Version)

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.

And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:) To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them,

Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. 
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. 
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. 
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, 
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child. And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.

But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.

A smiling dad with tears in his eyes closes his Bible and begins to pray. Mom is wiping her eyes with a Kleenex, my teenage sister is listening and acting cool, grandmother is quiet and content, and I’m pondering angels and camels, shepherds and stars, and what’s in that big box with my name on it that’s sitting under the tree.

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A few years go by and excitement is building as Christmas gets closer and closer. It’s the middle of December, on a Saturday night and a group of all ages have gathered at our small church to go Christmas caroling.

The bundle of old sheet music with the words to dozens of traditional Christmas hymns had already been taken down from its stored place in the choir rehearsal room; volunteers who did not want to go caroling were mixing cocoa and milk in the church kitchen; and adolescent boys like me and my two best friends, Ray and Lonnie, were milling around taking inventory of the girls our age who had said they would be going on this hayride and Christmas caroling adventure.

Although very cold weather was a rarity in December in South Louisiana, it always seemed to turn cold on the days leading up to the night of caroling. Of course, I may be remembering this tradition always taking place on a very cold night, which could or could not have been the case every time, but for the sake of having wonderful memories of the times our church would go caroling, I will say it was always cold on that night.

Wearing heavy coats, gloves and wool caps, everyone climbed up a rickety old ladder and found a warm spot on a bed of hay in the back of an old orange and white flatbed work truck that had been provided by Mr. Robert Shivers, a member of our church who owned a construction company. Blankets were passed around, the ladder pulled up onto the truck and with a jerk and a sputter, off we would go. I can’t say how many people anticipated the event like me, Ray and Lonnie Ray did, but we couldn’t wait to ride around town, stopping in front of different homes and businesses, singing the old Christmas hymns.

Keep in mind this was about 1975 or ’76, so the style of winter wear for a 11 or 12 year-old-boy was an NFL team jacket: a fake wool jacket with fake leather sleeves and of course in the color of our favorite team, black and gold, the colors of the New Orleans Saints.

Our cold weather wardrobe also consisted of blue jeans, a long underwear shirt, a t-shirt or two and always a lumberjack plaid flannel shirt on top. Rabbit fur-lined leather gloves and a wool stocking cap, usually in Patterson Lumberjack red and black or LSU purple and gold or New Orleans Saints black and gold were the top choices. I cannot lie; it would be high school before any of us realized it was not cool to leave on the furry white cotton ball that adorned the wool caps back in that day. A minor fashion faux pas for a kid who, despite his lack of fashion sense, did in fact have several pairs of Chuck Taylor Converse tennis shoes, in different colors and in both low and high tops.

So here we were, dozens of smiling parishioners riding around town, singing and singing, waving at passing cars and keenly awaiting the next stop. Once stopped, everyone would climb down from the truck and go to the door of someone who would be surprised by a group of happy carolers singing at the top of their lungs, all in a joyous chorus of Christmas merriment. There is something wonderful about seeing the surprised look and huge smile of a person who is greeted by carolers, standing in their front yard on a cold December night, and knowing someone remembered them and made an effort to warm their soul with Christmas cheer.

Angels we have heard on high
Sweetly singing o’er the plains
And the mountains in reply
Echoing their joyous strains

Angels we have heard on high
Sweetly, sweetly through the night
And the mountains in reply
Echoing their brief delight

My dad tried to visit the homes of people he knew who were ill or home-bound, or perhaps someone who lived alone or did not have family close by. We visited friends and acquaintances, all of different faiths and walks of life, colors, and backgrounds. Each one would be made happier, even if for a few moments by our caroling congregation.

Shepherds, why this jubilee?
Why your joyous strains prolong?
What the gladsome tidings be
Which inspire your heavenly song?

Come to Bethlehem and see
Him whose birth the angels sing,
Come, adore on bended knee,
Christ the Lord, the newborn King.

After a couple of hours, we would return to the church for snacks and of course hot chocolate. I can vividly remember my Grandmother Sallie standing in the tiny church kitchen stirring a big pot of hot chocolate. She would give me a warm hug when I returned from caroling, my cheeks and nose red from the cold, taste buds anticipating the mug of hot chocolate sprinkled with tiny marshmallows melting into a creamy froth of sugary goodness.

This Christmas tradition memory would not be complete if I didn’t mention something about laughter, hay fights, the giggles made by kids and adults alike when halfway through a song everyone realized they couldn’t remember a certain verse and it would be too dark to try and read from our sheet music, and of course, prayers voiced out loud at the home of every person we visited.

I can still see my dad, wearing his old coveralls, his LSU stocking cap sitting straight up on his balding head, standing under the glow of a porch light, holding the hand of an elderly man or woman and saying, “Do you mind if we pray with you before we leave?” Of course, the person would say and with bowed heads we would stand close together under a cold and clear, starry night in our little town, each one of us warmed inside by the joy we all received on the night of our Hayride-Caroling-Hot Chocolate Fellowship.

Today, I can imagine my dad is looking down from heaven, singing heavenly Christmas Carols, embarking on a “streets of gold” hayride with family and friends who are now with him, enjoying an endless cup of hot chocolate, filled to the brim with tiny marshmallows.

May this Christmas be filled with laughter, singing, family, fellowship, memories, friends, and as much peace, love and joy your heart can give and receive. Merry Christmas.