Santa’s whiskers made Christmas real as could be|Special Christmas column

Published 12:00 am Sunday, December 20, 2009

The following was written in 1984 by then Vicksburg Post Executive Editor Charles J. Faulk, who grew up in south Warren County and spent more than 50 years recording the daily events of Vicksburg for this newspaper. When first published, the following was one of his Neighborly Yours columns. He repeated it each December until his death in 1990. We offer it to readers again this year.

This is a Christmas story about a little boy who many years ago lived with his mother and daddy in a two-room house far, far from town.

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They were happy; no thought that they were poor; or that he had less than his playmates who lived down the road a piece. The boy knew that when he grew up, things would turn out all right; his parents had told him so time and time again.

The family farmed — had chickens, hogs and a few cows. The little boy had chores — shelling corn, packing stovewood, gathering eggs. But he spent a lot of time digging holes in the bank by the side of the house and hauling the dirt in his play truck. There were no playgrounds, but with a kitchen spoon he would create marvelous figures in the brown soil.

He dreamed a lot, too. He could never decide what he wanted to be when he grew up; a president of the United States like George Washington, or an engineer on the railroad, like Dave Kennedy who ran the Bumble Bee, the passenger train that passed his house every morning. The latter life seemed more exciting. Kennedy blew the whistle as nobody else in the world, and when his big engine sped by, he’d lean out the cab waving to folks along the way.

In their little house, his mother read stories to him at night by the light of the kerosene lamp. Tiring, he would move to the lap of his father, whose winter evenings seemed occupied with cracking pecans or peanuts on the arm of his rocking chair, using his Barlow knife as a hammer. The shells went into the nearby fireplace.

The lad liked the way his daddy rubbed his back. His hands were calloused from hard work, and scratched lightly as they moved up and down his spine. He’d tell stories about when he was a little boy, helping his father drive an ox wagon or fording Bayou Pierre with a load of cotton headed for the boat landing.

To conclude the evening, his mother read from the Bible, and he said his prayers before being tucked in. He slept on a cot in the front room by a window, and outside on moonlit nights he could see the cistern, the fence and on the hill a persimmon tree where possums gathered on fall nights when the fruit got ripe and yellow.

As Christmas neared, he grew more and more excited. Santa Claus was one of the very real people in his world, and he knew that the jolly old fellow spent most of the time at the North Pole making toys for his Christmas mission. Once when he went to town he had seen Santa at The Valley Dry Goods Store checking his lists so he wouldn’t miss anybody, but except for trips like that, he busied himself with his elves in his workshop. The boy tried awfully hard to be good, especially when somebody was watching, for he had been warned of the ashes and switches to be left, instead of toys, for the bad little girls and boys.

By Christmas Eve, he was beside himself. The hours dragged by, until it seemed the clock had stopped. Even after sunset and supper, time hesitated like it would last forever. But finally his bedtime came and he climbed under the quilts, covering everything but his nose and the top of his head. His feet were against the warming iron, which was then customary to eliminate the chill of cold covers. In spite of his excitement, he fell asleep almost instantly.

He was awakened as if by a dream. He could sense movement close by. Santa Claus had touched his cover, he knew it. But he lay still, not a move or a sound. He had to pretend he was asleep, else Santa might be spooked.

Then there was the feeling of hair on his face. It seemed to move from side to side as if Santa were leaning close to get a better look at the boy, and his whiskers were brushed against his nose and tightly closed eyes. He almost couldn’t stand the way they tickled.

His heart pounded in his ears. He strained to keep his breath even, but still it came and went in little jerks. He knew his eyelids fluttered, but he squeezed hard to keep them closed. He could neither feel nor hear movement, only the hair pressing against his face, and then nothing. The room became as still as a tomb.

How long he lay there with his eyes closed he never knew. By and by, though, he opened them just enough to peep through tiny slits, but there was only darkness, and a few faint shadows from the low-burning kerosene lamp across the room.

He opened his eyes wider. The fireplace was dark and still, he could barely hear his sleeping parents as they breathed deeply in their double bed nearby. All else was quiet.

He knew Santa Claus had been close enough to touch, but the jolly old man had departed too quickly to be seen. He raised himself to his elbows and peered out the window hoping for a glimpse of the miracle sleigh and its driver. The yard, the fence and the persimmon tree were but shadows in the dim, ghostly light. He looked to the sky, where only stars shone. Regrettably, Santa and his reindeer had already zoomed out of sight, headed for other children’s houses on his happy trip around the world.

The only thing that moved as the little boy gazed out the window on that Christmas Eve was the family cat. As he watched, it strolled nonchalantly away from the house, crossed the cover of the cistern and disappeared in the night.

Unbelievers in later years would argue that the hair that brushed against the lad’s face was the cat’s tail wagging back and forth. But of course the little boy knew better. It was Santa Claus — it had to be because the next morning a little red wagon had been left by the fireplace, just as promised. And in his stocking that hung from the mantelpiece, an orange, apple and some nuts were stuffed.

The reason I know so well how the incident happened: I was the little boy whose face was brushed by Santa’s whiskers.