Christmas in the Country

For as long as I can remember I've wanted to live in the country—buy some acreage in the woods and build a little log house with a large screened-in porch where I can sit on a  summer evening, relax on the porch swing, watch the stars twinkle in the sky and breathe deeply of the cool country air.  I imagine a big red chicken coop in the yard and two goats in a pen. Daisy and Dusty. (Oh yes, I've named them. Somebody stop me before I start describing the perfect rose hedge bordering the white picket fence for crying out loud.) As fate would have it, however, I married a city boy with no pinings for country air nor cravings for the piney woods so here we sit in the neatly paved, well manicured suburbs, and here we will undoubtedly stay.

Sigh.

Me, Grampy, Mandee and Mike in Texas, 1979

But there was a time in 1979 when my dream was briefly realized. We were living in Dallas, Texas. Mike's job seemed stable enough and we got a bee in our bonnets to buy a house. With remarkably little persuasion I convinced Mike we needed to move ourselves and our three small children to a little rural town called Kaufman, Texas. It was about an hour south of Dallas and looked exactly like Mayberry RFD. We found a five acre parcel of land off a dirt road out in the wooded countryside,  smack dab in the middle of nowhere. It was conveniently located 19 miles away from the nearest telephone and/or convenience store, and it looked like heaven to me. We purchased a brand new double wide, plopped it down parallel to the little pond across the road and right next to a grove of walnut trees. We then went back to the city, packed our bags and like Lot, fleeing the city of Gomorrah, we left Dallas behind with nary a glance backwards. Well I did at least.

That summer  I planted and tended the perfect vegetable garden, gathered wild Mustang grapes, canned a bazillion jars of jelly, and watched my children run outside half naked, barefoot, free and happy. I even had a rooster scratching in the yard that I'd rescued from a busy city intersection in Dallas right before we moved, and I wanted for nothing...except a front porch. I could see it in my mind—rustic and sturdy. A place for me to sit out at night after the kids were in bed and play my guitar with only the glorious stars and acres and acres of deep, dark emptiness for company.

The pond across the road and my newly plowed garden

It was a few weeks before Christmas that Grampy called to say it was high time he and mama drove out from California to pay us a visit. My mother in law never showed up without her white glove, so in preparation I cleaned the house from rafters to baseboards, set out the lame plastic floral centerpiece they'd bought us the Christmas before and mentally prepared myself for the invasion of my in-laws.

Part of the house and the tire swing as seen from my garden

Much to my surprise, (and I'll never forget this as long as I live) Grampy arrived—on time and  alone. He pulled into the yard in his beat up old pick up truck....which was carefully packed high with pieces of his prized scrap lumber. You remember his rather large collection of used wood he'd pilfered from construction sites for years and years. Well he had come out to Texas to share the wealth! He'd come out to Texas to     build me my dad-gummed porch!

I watched in awe the next few days as, tool belt in hand, he nailed short 2x4 weathered scraps of wood into place to build the deck off the front door. Each piece was varied  in color. Some were gray, some were dark brown, some were paint spattered, white, black or red and, once assembled, they made the most beautiful  12' x 7' deck I'd ever laid eyes on.  I was a happy country girl with my mis-matched quilted porch. Grampy stood back and admired it with me, then decided we needed a proper roof for covering —but he didn't have any pieces long enough to serve as posts.  He gazed off into the woods then picked up his chainsaw and took off into the brush. I watched as he cut down several young poplar trees, stripped off the branches and dragged them back to the house. He then fashioned them into supports for his hodge podge construction of multi hued lumber that formed the roof.

Can you see me? Standing back of the property in the woods

He finished the project within a week's time. It was a job well done, sturdy enough to survive Armageddon and just about the best Christmas present I'd ever received. I was living in the lap of luxury in my opinion, and felt gloriously  spoiled. The next day Grampy drove into town to the feed store and came back with six newly hatched chicks. He said we needed more than a scraggly old rooster if we expected to eat eggs for breakfast. The kids were in hog heaven and even the old barnacled rooster loved those chicks and managed to keep his good eye on them night and day.

A few days later, with a final admonishment to the kids to eat their broccoli and watch for ticks, Grampy climbed into the cab of his pick up and  left for home. Later that night as I sat out on my porch with our little black dog quietly snoring beside me, I played every country western song my father ever taught me on my guitar,  serenading the crickets and the vast dark emptiness around me. It was the best audience I'd ever had.  As I leaned back under the blanket of stars with a deep contentment in my soul, I thought of Grampy and how honery and cantankerous he can be, yet how he drove all the way to Texas to build me a porch for Christmas. With a deep sigh, I looked up at the twinkling heavens and said thank you to the creator of all that glory and I whispered, "I can't ever possibly be happier than I am at this moment. This is exactly where I'm meant to be."

And it was.