Dear Listmembers:
The following is a piece I saw a few years ago on another mailing list.I
have changed a few items here and there. It never fails to make me stop and
think at Christmas time. I always like to send it out at Christmas, sort of
like "Its a Wonderful Life" always plays at Christmas.
WEARY FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW
Again, before the Christmas holidays descend upon us in a few days and the
year 2001 rolls around ;
As I write this, no snows have graced our countryside though in the
forecast more frequently now. Christmas Eve perhaps? No matter our ages,
no matter where we live, there is something childlike in us that wants to
rush from the warm bed covers on Christmas morn to be greeted by a coating
of
snow to make the world all safe and pure again.
If we bundle up like our mother told us to, complete with sweater, coat,
scarf, hat, mittens, and boots, maybe we can look outside this Christmas
morning. There is not a sound as we close the door behind us. It's as if
the world were still asleep. The only sound is the whispering of the
winter breeze through the bare trees. We stop and listen and suddenly
realize
that it is the wind we're hearing. It is the whispering sound of voices from
our past - those dear family members we talked to last week, desperately
attempting to explain what life is now like in the town they knew so well.
Their voices are muted but yet clear in your heart. They are arguing
amongst themselves about what all this means. As suddenly as the whispers
wafted through the air, they cease. We glance down in the drifting snow
and there are footprints ... weary footprints in the snow. They are walking
determinedly down the road as if they were on a quest to find something -
anything they might recognize. Almost afraid to take a deep breath in the
cold morning air lest they see the steam escaping through our lips, we
walk as quietly behind them as we can putting our footprints within theirs.
As
they come to the end of the street they stop, uncertain which way to turn.
Slowly, some with a noted limp which we know came from an old Civil War
wound, they proceed They are making their way down town, a long walk in
this frigid air.
Something akin to a gasp is heard from one of the old warriors as he espys
a statue on the courthouse lawn. They make their way to the bronze figure
sheathed in ice and an old man's fingers trace out the wording engraved in
the plaque below. A tear drops from his eye as he traces out his name, his
rank, his outfit! As he looks upward he is taken aback for a moment as he
looks upon his own likeness. "Killed in the line of duty with the Orphan
Brigade." As his shoulders begin to tremble, an old pioneer lady walks
slowly to his side and takes his hand in her. Gnarled in pain, she gives
him the strongest squeeze she can and whispers, "They remembered you
John,they remembered." The tear, now frozen upon the wrinkled cheek is soon
melted by the smile that breaks forth on his face.
A child steps out of the crowd now, a beautiful little girl who had been
stricken in the peak of her childhood with cholera, and she dashes across
the street to an empty lot. "Papa, papa," she cries out excitedly,
"where's
our house." "What happened, Papa?" The group carefully walks across the
street to stand before this gaping hole, each remembering all the
wonderful
things that they had shared there. "Martha, all of our children were born
there and during the big earthquake, all our neighbors took shelter in our
parlor." "Remember when we watched the big circus parade as it passed our
house?"
Another stronger voice is heard now as he stands before a large store. The
lights had been left on all night for Christmas Eve, it's garish neon
lights flashing out "Season's Greetings." Red, white, green and orange
lights flashed off and on around the window as a pudgy Santa Claus rotated
round and round squeaking out a "Ho, Ho, Ho." Mini skirts graced a
blindly staring mannequin; leather jackets draped over the shoulders of a
young
man astride something that looked like a monster in chrome and black. Signs
announced that ear piercing and tattooing were available by appointment
only. The group steps back not believing what they are seeing. They stand
back as if hypnotized by the sight.
Finally, they approach the courthouse. The door is unlocked as if
welcoming them in. They cautiously enter the old oaken door and start
walking down
the hallway. They are greeted with a wall of pictures of the former county
clerks, circuit clerks and lawyers. All of a sudden the age and weariness
seems to be dissipated as they eagerly go from picture to picture
"William,come here!" "Here's your grandfather!" "Why that no
good .... he
should never have been elected, fixed the election he did!" Mothers reach
out and
trace the outline of the faces of the famous men who held court in this
building. Memories of trials, precious remembrances of marriage licenses,and
those dreaded taxes. Hearing a noise, the group darts into the
shadows as they watch a well dressed young man hurrying down the hall with a
box
in his left hand with some sort of a handle on it and hear a sound coming
from it saying "you've got mail." He grumbles quite out loud about having
to
leave his family on Christmas Day to handle this drug case. Drug case? Did
he need medicine? Was he a doctor as well as a lawyer? After his passing,
the settlers turn down another familiar hall and come to the Sheriff's
office. Whose pictures are these they wonder? FBI Most Wanted it says.
Murder, non child support, bank robbery? Who are these awful people and
why are their pictures in our courthouse? Has the world gone mad?
Growing weary, the group makes their way back outside. The precious
stillness of the morning has been broken now by sounds of rushing
carriages, strange though they seem. Beeping horns and screeching tires
have broken the solitude of their memories. People were dashing here and
there on their way somewhere. Did they still go to grandmother's house for
turkey, cornbread stuffing, cranberries and pumpkin pie on Christmas Day?
"This is surely a strange world now," they uniformly say to themselves.
Somehow they don't feel at home here anymore. Their time is past.
To a person, the small group prepares to leave. Suddenly they are jostled by
a crowd who doesn't sense their presence. These new people are rushing
to the steps of the courthouse and gathering in some pre-determined pattern.
The settlers pause, curious as to what is happening. Suddenly
everyone seems to be where they are supposed to be; each is holding a candle
and a book. A man steps out of the crowd and stands before them and
raises his hands. Suddenly, the group's voices break forth into the old
time Christmas carols; Silent Night, Hark the Herald Angels Sing". Song
after song rings forth and the visitors to the times find a place to sit on
benches around them. No one seems to notice that there are a few more
tenors and sopranos singing in the back of the gathering crowd. No one
hears the excited cheer when the visitors recognize someone who is their
great-great-grandchild and praises God that they are singing and not in that
group of strange pictures in the courthouse. They clap and sing,
joining with the heavenly hosts that Christmas morning and now they knew
the answer to their quest. They had been important, each in their own way.
They had helped mold the next generations and some of them were holding in,
honoring the family name. A unanimous shout of victory went up from the
visitors and it was loud enough to stop the singing and cause the crowd
which had gathered to turn around.
"Season's Greetings?" It's "Merry Christmas" They all know
they heard
those exact words but strange, all they saw were some weary footprints in
the
snow.
Debbie Jennings
debbiej(a)iquest.net
"Following the footprints through time"
Researching in IN,KY,TN,NC,PA,NJ,VT,NY,MA,MD,
VA,CAN,GER,ENG