- Blue Ridge Life Magazine : - https://www.blueridgelife.com -

Earl Hamner Remembers A Nelson County, Virginia Christmas

Photo By Nelson County Life ©2005-2008 : The boyhood home of Earl Hamner in Schuyler, Virginia. The old home is currently being restored. [1]

Photo By Nelson County Life ©2005-2008 : The boyhood home of Earl Hamner in Schuyler, Virginia. The old home is currently being restored.

Schuyler – Nelson County, Virginia
Earl Hamner [2] first wrote this story for our printed edition of Nelson County Life in December 2006. Earl is a treasure for this county, and though many younger generations don’t even know of The Waltons television series [3] based on his life growing up in Schuyler, his stories are timeless for any age. The Christmas favorite, The Homecoming [4], eventually evolved into a series that lasted more than a decade on CBS television [5] and now in reruns on The Hallmark Channel. [6]

Actors reenact The Homecoming at The Earl Hamner Theater in Afton, Virginia named after the Nelson County native. [7]

Actors reenact The Homecoming at The Earl Hamner Theater in Afton, Virginia named after the Nelson County native.

Earl Hamner and sister Audrey, chat with fans at a book signing in The Walton's Mountain B & B during his last trip to Schuyler in 2007. [8]

Earl Hamner and sister Audrey, chat with fans at a book signing in The Walton's Mountain B & B during his last trip to Schuyler in 2007.

At this special time of year, we felt it appropriate to share this story once again for our web readers.

Earl is a special and dear friend to us, and to thousands of other people around the world. He has enriched their lives for decades with his stories.

Merry Christmas Earl, and Merry Christmas to everyone from Nelson County Life!

A CHRISTMAS MEMORY
By
Earl Hamner

When I was growing up in Nelson County during The Great Depression all the seasons seems filled with a sense of wonder. I remember the dogwood spring, the watermelon summer, the russet and golden leaves of autumn and frosty mornings that marked the waning year.
With the coming of fall the pace of our lives quickened. The cry of the blue jay and the crow became more strident, a warning that winter was about to descent upon us. The world became alive with intense color as the leaves turned watermelon red, lemon yellow and pumpkin gold.
After the frost killed the vines in the vegetable garden we gathed the last of the green tomatoes and the following day my mother’s kitchen would be filled with the pungent aroma of green tomato relish.
Finally the long silent winter would flow down from the mountains, across the sleeping fields, the frozen lakes and ponds and into the woods and hollows where only the deer and the beaver, the squirrel and the rabbit were at large.
The first hint of Christmas came with the arrival of the mail order catalogue from Sears and Roebuck. We called it the “the wish book” and while the great winter storms raged across the Blue Ridge, we would gaze wistfully at each page and dream our Christmas dreams.
Charlottesville was twenty-four miles away, and a walk down Main Street during the Christmas season was as awesome as a journey through the ancient Baghdad. Unlike the muddy country roads we knew the city had paved streets with stop lights and streetcars and fancy window displays. We were foreign to all that sophistication and we showed it in our country clothes and country ways. We had little money to spend, but we did a lot of window-shopping while music provided by the Salvation Army at street corners playing a tinny version of “It Came Upon The Midnight Clear.”
We had pickled out our Christmas tree in July. We found it while picking blackberries up on Witt’s Hill. It was a six-foot tall cedar laden with pine cones and a pungent evergreen scent. A week before Christmas we brought it inside and set it up in a corner of the living room. We strung lights on it and its fragrant presence permeated the house. It was as if we had captured some wild thing in the woods, brought it home and tamed it with tinsel and home made icicles.
Ideally there was a snowstorm on Christmas Eve. If the flakes were small my Grandfather would predict the storm would continue for days. Sometimes it would diminish gradually at dusk, the moon would rise, and we from our window we would witness a frozen cathedral of trees with crystal icicles clinging to the branches.
On Christmas Eve, bundled against the cold, we crunched our way down the snow-covered path to the Baptist Church. The steepled, white clapboard building beckoned with the warmth of a pot-bellied stove and the sounds of country voices celebrating the birth of Jesus.
The highlight of the evening was The Christmas Pageant. Mothers has worked for weeks to improvise costumes for shepherds, wise men and the Holy Family, Others had rehearsed the actors who would portray Mary and Joseph. A manger had been set up and a doll, the symbol of the Baby Jesus rested in the crèche. Our Minister read the story with such power and drama that it was as if it were taking place right before our eyes:
“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night”
As as he read, three shepherds approached and with the wise men gathered together to admire the Baby Jesus. All the while the choir hummed “Silent Night, Holy Night.” We were transported to Bethlehem. No more stirring drama was ever witnessed on the Great White Way itself.
When the service was over Santa Claus arrived.
We knew he was really Mr. Willie Simpson who sang so loud in the choir. We recognized his voice from his ho-ho-ho’s. From a burlap sack he distributed a single orange to each of the children.
We walked home through a frozen landscape, the sounds of our footsteps muted in the snow, the melodies of the old time carols still resounding in our ears. The crystals of snow sifted down through the crusted overhead branches. In our hearts the spirit of Christmas had awakened. We did not feel the cold. We held oranges in our hands.