Christmas Lights in a Wad

by Phil Truman

Thought I'd share a story with you this month as we head into The Season. It involves a couple friends of mine. Intimate friends, I guess you could say, because they wandered into my mind some years ago as conjured-up good old boys.

I've known these two fellas quite awhile. They were born with bits and pieces of the same assemblage of virtual DNA as a dozen or so flesh and blood men I've known over the years with, I suppose, a few bits my own psyche thrown in. They show up in my stories every now and then, because I like them. Honest, hard-working, loyal and unpretentious, they're as common as the good earth, and they make me laugh. I'm hoping maybe this little story will give you some of that, too.
 

Driving down County Road 52 the old rancher could see his young friend had gotten himself into another pickle, so he braked the one-ton and wheeled it onto the gravel driveway leading the fifty yards up to the mobile home.

"What is it you're doing, Punch?" White Oxley asked. He'd shut the truck down and stepped out, not expecting a simple answer. Punch's big blonde retriever and whatsit mix, Doolittle, ambled over to give the rancher a "howdy" sniff and get an ear scratch.

White stood looking up at his friend perched atop a ladder leaning none too securely against the roof line of the trailer. He lifted his Resistol straw off his head to better block the low afternoon sun. In his left hand Punch held a wad of green wires with little protruding light bulbs while he tried with the other to extract one end of the string. He glanced down at White.

"Well, what's it look like I'm doing?" He spoke with irritation, returning his attention to the snaggle of wire and lights.

"My first thought was some kind of alien life-form had landed on your roof, and you'd got up there and nabbed it," White answered. "But then I seen it was some kind of electrical thing, so I figured you'd come up with a peculiar sort of suicide attempt. I'm just here to talk you down, son."

"No, it ain't none of that," Punch said, not seeing the humor. "I's hanging these dang Christmas lights for Jo Lynn."

"Well, I ain't no expert on hanging Christmas lights, like you," White said. "But wouldn't it be more simpler and smarter to untangle that string of lights on the ground instead of up on that ladder?"

Punch lay the wad of lights on the flat roof, and looked up at the sky. He sighed loudly. "Yes, it would," he answered. "I just didn't think it'd be this complicated when I started. I's in a hurry to get back to my ballgame."

White pictured the scene: Punch had done something stupid, had got Jo Lynn mad at him again, and

was trying to make up for it by agreeing to do any blame thing she asked him. This happened on a pretty regular basis. Over the years, White'd come to think Jo Lynn used this tactic regular to get things done around the place.

"Well, why don't you come on down from there before you break your fool neck, and I'll help you get all that straightened out."

Once Punch descended, they moved to the vinyl picnic table sitting in the yard. Doolittle tagged along. White straddled a bench and sat, took the ball of lights and started working on it. Punch and the dog watched, the man mildly impressed with his friend's patience and tenacity with the task.

"I don't understand why Jo Lynn wants them lights up, anyway," Punch said.

"It's festive," White said, pulling on a loop of wire. "Your women like festive. Makes 'em feel like things look better'n they actually are. That's why they watch all them TV shows about weddin's and such."

Punch took about a half minute to consider all that. "I got to get her a Christmas present. I ain't done that yet. You got your wife anything yet?" he asked.

"Yep," White answered.

"What'd you get her?"

"Something nice; something she won't expect."

"I ask Jo Lynn what she wanted and she said," Punch switched to a mocking falsetto voice. "Oh nothing really. I got everthing I need." Doolittle perked his ears.

"Uh huh. You know that's a test."

"A test?"

"Yessir, when they tell you they don't really want nothin' for Christmas, it's their way of seein' what you'll come up with. And then they'll look at what you do end up gettin' 'em on your own to determine your devotion to them, one way or t'other."

"Do what? Why, holy cow, it's just a dang Christmas present."

"I know, I know. But your women look at things different than you and me. We see Christmas presents as merely something that'll come in handy, like a new compound bow or a set of socket wrenches or a flat screen TV for the garage. They, on the other hand, take them as a measure for the depth of your relationship."

"No way," Punch said, shaking his head and grinning back at White thinking this was another one of his friend's jokes. White loved to pull his leg. Doolittle decided to take a little nap.

"I'm dead serious, boy. You got to think long and hard before you decide what to give 'em, they take that into account, too. Like I said, needs to be something nice, not necessarily practical, and something she won't expect."

Punch nodded, scrunching his brow as he submerged deep in thought. After a bit, he snapped his fingers, his face brightened. "I got just the thing. I'm going to get her a bus ticket to go visit her momma for a month. She won't expect that."

The old cowboy looked at his friend, then down at Doolittle, who raised his head and looked back, apparently laughing. White unloosed the last tangle in the string of lights and stood. "Let's get these here lights hung up, son. I 'spect I'll have to come back in May to help you take 'em back down."

Phil Truman is the author of the award-winning historical western novel,  Red Lands Outlaw, the Ballad of Henry Starr;  a sports inspirational about small town schoolboy football entitled GAME, an American Novel; and Treasure Kills, a mystery adventure in a small town.

Phil's new fiction series, West of the Dead Line, the Complete Series, is available in electronic format at Amazon.com. Set in Indian Territory, the collection of short srories is based on the life and times of Deputy U.S. Marshal Bass Reeves.

 

The Question of Santa

by Phil Truman

Doing a little departure from my usual post for the sake of the season's spirit. Hope you enjoy this small Christmas tarry.

Last month I introduced you to White Oxley, a minor character from two of my novels, and possibly one of my alter egos. He's back here again this month.

White is an old codger who has taken on life as best he can. Sometimes it's joyful, sometimes it's painful, most times it's a puzzle. But, like a lot of American heartlanders, he has the strength of character to get through whatever comes his way. His priorities have always been God, family, country.

Now in his elder years, White considers it his mission to pass on the values he has gained to the generations after him. Here's one such episode:


"Is Santa real, Gramp?"

The boy's gramp, White Oxley, drove on quietly for a few seconds, trying to decide what tack to take with this question. It was one of those a child asks whose answer would become a defining moment in that young life. Most parents preferred to put off answering such questions. White could think of three: Is Santa real? Is the Tooth Fairy real? and What is sex? White had to be careful how he answered.

They were headed over to Tulsa. Jakey had spent the night with them out at the farm, as was his habit on Fridays. The boy's grandmother needed to do some Christmas shopping, so they'd all piled into the pickup to make a day of it.

"Why you asking a question like that?" It was a stall tactic. White looked over at his wife in a silent plea for help. She smiled and winked, but said nothing. She always did this to him, taking delight in letting him dig a big hole before she came to pull him out.

"Sammy Botts told us Santa's all fake," Jakey answered. "That grown-ups made him up. That parents are the ones who put presents under the tree on Christmas Eve."

Jakey was in the first grade, the toughest of all school years: the start of reading and writing, math, homework, and no front teeth. Also, some know-it-all older kid usually came around to break the news about Santa and such to the last of the innocents.

"Edie Jean started crying when Sammy said that," the boy continued. "And started pounding on him, until Miss Birney stopped her."

"Well now, why'd Edie Jean do that?" White asked, still hoping to divert the subject.

"She said she asked Santa to give her daddy a ride home on Christmas Eve. He's in the Army fighting bad guys somewhere far off," Jakey spoke it as a matter-of-fact.

"Well…" White said. He sighed and looked to his wife again, but she'd turned her face toward the

window, studying the passing countryside. White figured she was thinking about her brother Ben and that sad and empty Christmas back in '68.

"Is he, Gramp?" the boy implored again.

"What do you think, son?" White asked.

"I think he's real," Jakey said, nodding.

"Well, there you go," his gramp said. "As long as that's what you believe, then he is. Believin' is a powerful thing."

White glanced over at the boy. Jakey looked thoughtful, so White continued.

"Sammy Botts just ain't got all his facts. Parents do put some of them presents out on Christmas Eve, but that's only because Santa asks folks to help out. You see, there's a whole lot more kids nowadays compared to when I was a kid. It's just more easier for Santa to get it all did that way before Christmas morning.

"So you tell Sammy he's got it wrong. That if he was to believe Santa's out there, like you, then by damn, he'd be out there; if he don't, he won't.

"White!" his wife said with that admonishing tone she used when he swore.

White went on. "Seems to me, though, life'd be a whole lot more fun if you was to believe in Santa Claus."

"Yeah," Jakey said starting to smile.

"One more thing," White said. "Monday morning I want you to go up to Edie Jean, and tell her this. Tell her it come from your gramp who happens to know Santa personally.

"You tell her that Santa will try his da…his goldurned best to pick up her daddy and bring him home, but that it ain't entirely up to Santa. You see, a soldier ain't likely to leave his buddies behind if they need his help. Could be her daddy won't be able to make that rendezvous with Santa. But if he don't, it won't be because he don't love his baby girl. No sir, jist the opposite. He loves her so dang much he's willing to stay over there to take care of those bad guys so's to keep her safe back home; to make sure she has a happy and peaceful Christmas.

"You tell Edie Jean, she needs to believe, too, and that the day is comin' when her daddy will be home."

"Okay," the boy said. 

White wheeled the pickup into the mall parking lot. "You think Santa is still here?" Jakey asked. "'Cause I want to go see him again."

"Why, I believe he is," his gramp answered.

White looked at his wife and winked. She touched a tissue to her eye and blew him a kiss.

You can read more about White Oxley in Phil's novel GAME, an American Novel, an Amazon #1 best-seller in sports fiction. White also plays a part in Phil's other best-selling novel  Legends of Tsalagee, a rollicking tale of mystery and adventure in a small town. Truman's third novel, Red Lands Outlaw, the Ballad of Henry Starr, is an award-winning historical western about the life and times of an Oklahoma outlaw.  His western short story “Last Will for an Outlaw” appears in LaFrontera Publishing’s anthology, Dead or Alive, released June 2013.

Phil's website is http://philtrumanink.com/