It’s not that we weren’t allowed. We just knew weren’t supposed to — talk, that is. Under the canopy of my grandparent’s pyracantha tree, my brothers and I would quietly sit. Not in the folding lawn chairs mind you. On the grass, sitting cross-legged, listening to the adults.
The time these gatherings took place was always the same: late afternoon, before the sunset and the mosquitoes arrived. I can’t remember the names of most who stopped by to chat. The retired fireman who lived next door was a regular as were the husband and wife down the block who made honey.
The one exception is Reed Christmas — a man whose weathered Stetson, old bandana and high screetchy voice, always made me think of that staple of Western movies, Walter Brennan. The only difference? Mr. Christmas was a real Cowboy, running a working ranch, maintaining fence lines, birthing, branding and driving cattle to market.
“Sit a spell,” my Grandfather said, simultaneously rising to fetch another lawnchair — as it happened, setting it right next to me.
“Thank you kindly, Bill,” he replied, “Don’t mind if I do.”
From the way those gathered acted, I knew this man was special. They treated him with a kind of reverent expectation, smiling and silent as he walked from the sidewalk to his seat. Later, much later, I learned he was a war hero, having fought in many of the most ferocious battles in the Pacific. Mostly, they valued his quick wit and hard earned wisdom.
“This is Mr. Christmas,” my father said, looking in my direction.
I stood, extending my hand, “Nice to meet you, sir,” and then, my curiosity getting the better of me, added, “Is that your real name, C h r i s t m a s?”
“Well,” he said, with a wink, “As long as I make my mother proud, she’ll let me keep using it.”
Turning toward my Dad, I furrowed my brow in response. The adults chuckled. My 10-year-old brain was at a loss.
“You sure have a way with words,” someone quickly chimed in as I returned to my spot on the grass. While I replayed the exchange in my head, those gathered followed up with a question about his herd.
Slowly stroking the stubble on his chin, “Funny you should ask …,” continuing, “That dern bull caused me a lot of grief today, a helluva lot.”
At that point, Mr. Christmas had my attention. He’d just used a bad word and you weren’t supposed to use bad words.
Leaning in, I looked up, gluing my eyes to his as he related the story. It was both exciting and terrifying, and almost like I was there.
Branding time. A wild bull. Bucking. Bronking. Kicking. Yelling. Bleeding. Bruises and cowboys flying through air. Pure chaos.
“And that’s when I reached out and grabbed that onry old cuss by the leg and began pulling, “he said.
Heart pounding, I could no longer contain myself. Without thinking, I jumped up, “You were pulling that b u l l by the leg?!”
The brim of his hat lifted, and he slowly nodded while taking in the group. “Yes. Yes,” he said, “Just like I’m’a pulling all of yours.”
A brief moment of silence followed before laughter broke out.
Later that evening, long after the mosquitos arrived and the sun had set, I tapped my father on the shoulder. Together with my grandparents, he was watching the local evening news.
“Dad,” I asked, “Did Mr. Christmas pull that bull’s leg or not?”