Mrs. Teabody Goes Home for the Holiday

Eighth generation poses wearing Christmas cracker hats

Clear Ridge is just that --- a sudden rise out of the woods of Plum Hollow, a  CLEAR unwooded RIDGE that runs north and south between two lines of blue mountains. Rounding the bend after Flemings' farm, the tiny hamlet comes into view, a cluster of dwellings perched high above. Freda Booth's house anchors the view north as it is tucked into the wood's edge. In between, all the land on the right hand side of the road--all the way to the top has been "our" land for as long as I have been alive, for as long as I have made this trip to HOME. A straight stretch past the Millers-- now Truaxes --, a curve to the right and a climb and the urge to look at Gobbler's Knob is irresistible. There it stands majestic as it always has to the six generations of Henrys who have grown up watching the sun rise over its isosceles triangle shape. In its shadow lies the farm, hilly, precipitous, a pond, Bald Hill standing in sharp contrast to the woods that flank all of it. At the summit of Back Hill, it is a quick roll past Lou's store on the left, Coverts', Tressa Miller's and at the stop sign there is nothing else to see but Uncle Merrill's house and  to start recalling a thousand memories but the goal is reached, the house that has set on that spot since 1799 surrounded by the  unchanged wash house, the  evolving tractor shed, the  newly red-sheathed milk house, the imposing barn, the delicate corn crib, the rich-smelling granary.  This is, has been and always will be HOME.

We park our car among the cars of our family. All my brothers and sisters are already here and today we shall have the next two generations in attendance as well: our funny and handsome nephews, our beautiful and kind nieces  - - all in the company of their tolerant spouses managing their little children although the oldest third generation is Mitch and he is far too handsome and over six feet tall, and Luke lets us know he will be driving in a few months. Growing like bad weeds are the shy smart Alexa and the not-to-be-ignored ebullient Noah and Jake. Toddling about are beautiful Emily with her penguin, the adorable Gavin on his very first visit north, long-haired, self-assured Adelynn and bright-eyed and brand new Aubrey, the chunk.

Doug makes a prayer of Thanksgiving and plates are filled. Conversations go everywhere overlapping in this tiny house of three small rooms and though changes have been made it is easy enough to sit and remember decades of Christmases here in this living room--the tree always in the same place even though today's tree is tiny and boldly fake. It takes no effort at all to recall familiar and bedraggled Christmas decorations of yore: furry white garland, oversized and fitful strings of multicolored bulbs that almost crackled from bad wiring and years of abuse, the blue perforated metal star that somehow managed to top the tree in spite of all our best efforts to destroy its structural integrity. We all had a hand in "placing" shiny silver icicles on the tree making it glorious in all its sparkle for what could be more incredible than bringing a tree indoors? Oh, the wonder of it! The smell. The soft pine needles filling the air with their scent.  My eyes find the stair door and my memory takes me time traveling.

Christmas mornings we huddled together in our pajamas in the  unheated upstairs for no one was allowed to enter the living room until everyone was awake and standing on the stairs oldest to youngest. My mother opened the stair door and we raced to find our stack under the lit and shining tree. Santa did not wrap but he did place gifts in order and we easily found the stack that was ours. Did it matter what was in our stack? In a home where subsistence living was the rule of the day a pair of ice skates seemed like the whole world inside a box, a sled the equivalent of six trips to Disneyland, a ball glove like a  ticket to the Super Bowl. It was just us, just Mom and Dad watching from the couch. Before very long my father would slip next door as the dad across the lawn slipped into ours because tradition held that the first visitor must be a male to insure  good luck in the coming year. There was nothing else traditional or especially grand about the morning, about the day. We played with our toys; we colored; we ate  shredded wheat for breakfast. After lunch the visitors would arrive, the handsome uncles, the beautiful aunties our cousins in tow. We shared our excitement, our stories enhanced by these beloved and warm and funny visitors. Family.

This pre-Christmas missive started with the desire to show how wealth has driven a wedge in front of what is truly important in life. I planned to speak of my earliest lessons that warned of a life based on material wealth: the story of King Midas, the scripture verse about the camel passing through the eye of a needle more easily than  a rich man can enter the Kingdom of God, about Scrooge's rejection of the love of his young life in his quest for material wealth. I planned to quote the Beatles and an article from FORBES magazine citing statistics that show that one's emotional well being rises with income but not much beyond $75,000. It's an important truth to be shared, of course, but it pales in comparison with the story that emerged instead: Home. Family.

I will remember Christmas 2015 because of moments with my family: Trish and Chris and Gavin's first trip north, our first look at baby Aubrey's bright blue eyes, Noah and Alexa's being able to solve a puzzle that baffled their college graduate elders, Jeff's write up in a newspaper article, Dirk and Kim's incredible boys. Toward the end of the visit, I dragged the oldest male of the eighth generation out to the granary to show him the Henry barn quilt. Two hundred years ago, the first generation of Henrys decided that Clear Ridge was a fine place to put down roots. Looking into his handsome resolute face, I knew that somehow those roots would continue to produce generations  who eventually come to realize that family trumps wealth every single day of the year. Merry Christmas!