Home : The Voice : December 2002  

Voices

by Vic Jameson

Grandma, Grandpa, and the
Christmas Eve Sandstorm

It was, they decided, going to be a real, genuine, old-fashioned western Christmas Eve to remember.

After all, three generations of the family would be represented by one or more members—and in some cases eight or ten from several branches (and roots) of the family tree. Somebody guessed that fortynine men, women and children had arrived in time for dinner.

As custom demanded, Grandpa provided a turkey for the seasonal feast. The preliminary preparing of the bird was taken care of in an oldfashioned way that is hard to describe delicately. The bird had given Grandpa a jolly chase around the back yard until the old man finally cornered it in what once had been Grandma's garden, tramping the stalks while the turkey squawked as though its life depended on it — which, of course, it did.

None of this pleased Grandma and led to stern words between the two grandparents. It did not help that half-choked giggles and guffaws of uninvited spectators were heard from behind the fences as the drama took place and five or six boys hidden in the bushes tried loudly to imitate the squawks of the bird as it raced to its last roundup.

But such incidents are endemic to most all family get-togethers. The ritual was exciting for all who watched and heard it—except, of course, Grandma and the turkey. The more experienced uncles and aunts quietly changed the subject to head off further argument.

Grandma was in charge of the feast and especially the cooking of the turkey, though as years went by she was content to let women and girls take over some of the heavier tasks. The men and boys, having watched with guarded eyes as the turkey disappeared from sight, would carefully disappear as well. But Grandma was not fooled; she would let the farce go on until she needed male help and meanwhile let them think they had escaped their chores.

It had been a hard, dry summer in the valley—the worst in a number of drought years and drier still in the fall and winter. All around the grandparents’ little farm, landholders were selling their long-held properties to developers, or giving up their beef and dairy operations to conglomerates they had never heard of before, many of them sacrificing their long-held dreams as they held back hard tears. Many a word they would not use—or hear—in church settings had been muttered between gritted teeth as such transactions were completed. Grandma’s own garden plot had mostly succumbed to the dryness and, as she pointed out to her husband of 53 years, needed no help from old men or crazy turkeys. Even the luckier farmers had at the least reduced their plantings and some had sought menial work in the town to gain enough money to save their farmlands.

But heartaches and fuming were put aside for the day and happier thoughts prevailed. Earnest discussions, childish cheer, and the latest gossip filled the air. Meanwhile Grandma’s instructions to anyone in or near the kitchen grew more specific and spread to men and boys who thought they were safe from assignments but were not. Under her instructions they put eating utensils in place along with plates, salad bowls, cups, glasses, and napkins on tables throughout the carefully maintained old house. The preacher, a nephew of some and a cousin of others, was called upon to say grace. He had completed giving fervent— and lengthy— thanks to the Lord and was beginning to admonish any sinners present when his voice faded and disappeared. He may have said something more but if he did only the Lord might have heard it. Faster than Uncle Ned could have said “Amen!” the house and the air turned dirty brown. It was a sandstorm —something with which every resident of the area was familiar, but a foe nobody could conquer.

The storm hit with little warning but with great strength. Doors slammed. Pictures rattled and fell off the walls. Babies cried and grown men felt helpless. A second gust and there was the sound of metal creaking before the wheel atop the windmill’s base gave way. The pipe that had once carried water to the house now flooded the ground around the mill and its tank, forming an ugly puddle that inched from the ruptured tank, toward the house. And the wind, laden with dust that blinded and stung, shook emotions as well as bodies.

Over the din the voice of Uncle Fred, brother of Uncle Ned, was heard with a bellow much like that of the storm itself:

“Sandstorm! Sandstorm!”

It was news that everyone knew; but it also was a call to action. To their credit all those who moments before had been captivated by the scene set to work doing what they could. Doors and windows that could be closed were shut and stuffed with towels or rags. Food was covered as best it could be, in the living room, kitchen, even hallways. Wind and sand quickly took possession but not before its victims had done their best to protect and prevent. Then there was little to do but wait, crowded into whatever shelter was at hand.

Sandstorms in the plains of the Southwest have been known to last for days. In such cases many businesses, schools, and services simply shut down until nature has completed another phase of devastation. Dirt-laden gusts seem never to end. Radio and television bring news of what sturdy residents are living through but these often crackle hopelessly with static. And many, like those fighting the blur at the grandparents’ home, wonder why they and their forebears had been so senseless as to settle here anyway.

Not all sandstorms last for days, but seem to make up in ferocity for their short lives. The storm that put its brand on the Christmas Eve family gathering was of that sort. After what participants called at least half a day (the U.S. Weather Service gauged it at 87 minutes) the wind died away and the first signs of order emerged. Women and children resumed preparations for dinner. With water salvaged from the mostly-drained tank, water for drinking—iced tea, coffee, punch, was found crunchy but drinkable. Vegetables got varying acceptance depending on how well their coverings had withstood the chaos. And the turkey, safely tucked into the oven through it all, was tasty if a bit overdone.

And second-cousin Elias, chewing in a corner on his curved-stem pipe all the while, announced in a foghorn voice, “I reckon the devil has come and gone.” Whereupon Grandpa, as if he were a stern schoolmaster, grumbled for all to hear, “No devil around here!” and with that marched up to Grandma with a large box held clumsily in his hands.

“Aimed to give it to you for Christmas,” he said to her, “but with all these goin’s on I reckoned giving it to you on Christmas Eve was good enough,” and he put the box beside her.

She looked at him. “Open it?” she asked.

“Might’s well,” he said. And the crowd of onlookers who had stopped whatever they were doing to watch and listen chorused, “Open it!” Tailings of the storm drifted through the house, yard, and neighborhood as if to emphasize its power as the old woman began carefully to unwrap the gift. “Bought it at Fowler’s Hardware,” he said. “Attachments and all. Claimed to be the best one made.”

With that she began pulling something from the box, with her husband’s help. The old man had spoken true. It was there, a Mach 99 Self Propelled model vacuum cleaner, with all the trimmings.

“Well I’ll be,” she said to nobody in particular.

Then she turned to Grandpa and said quietly, “Well, then, Merry Christmas, you old coot.”

“And Merry Christmas to you, you old grouch,” he replied.

It was about that time, when the women were examining Grandma’s new vacuum cleaner and the men were congratulating Grandpa for what they called “Playing the trump” in the experience of marriage, that the flash of a star broke for a split second through the murky sky. It was there for an instant, then it was lost in the dust. Evidently no one saw it; in any case no one mentioned it at the time.

But the next year at the annual family get-together, Uncle Edward mentioned having seen something like a star just about the time Grandma was opening her vacuum cleaner, but with all that was going on he had said nothing about it.

One or two others said yes, now that he mentioned it, they had seen something like a comet, just for a second. And strangely enough, the next year, and the next after that, and for years and years, when stories of the old times were told and retold, more and more people remembered having seen something brilliant and beautiful moving swiftly through the sky on the night when the sandstorm hit Grandma and Grandpa’s house, on Christmas Eve.