A Voice from South Central Kentucky: Christmas Memories

One of my enduring Christmas habits is listening to Truman Capote’s “A Christmas Memory” in a lamplit room alone with only my own memories. As Truman Capote recites in his high-pitched sing-song voice, with 2020 stripped to its barest essentials, and Christmas rapidly approaching, I cannot help but think of holiday traditions of years past that have, themselves, disappeared with the loss of loved ones, changing work schedules, or simply changing times.

A Christmas postcard from 1909 in the collection of the author.

As a small child, Christmas was an opportunity to see my oldest brother who never lived in the same town as myself but was leading some exotic life unknown to us in Nashville, Seattle, or who knows where in-between.

A snowy winter scene in front of the simple farmhouse that sheltered three generations of the author’s family in Alvaton, Warren County, Kentucky.

For me the excitement of Christmas morning couldn’t be withheld much past 5 a.m. I would drag the rest of the family out of bed so I could fulfill my own dreams of opening the gifts under the tree in the warmth of the woodstove in the den. Perhaps my most treasured gift of those years was a blue Bigfoot Power Wheel. Without changing out of my one-piece pajamas I donned my coat and hat and rode it across the cow pasture to show off to my Granny who hadn’t even had time to come to the house to celebrate Christmas morning.

The author on his treasured Bigfoot Power Wheel, circa 1986.

Christmas evenings were spent with the Ragan family. Although of no direct kin to myself, this family forms as important a place in my own heart as any blood relative. Always at Carolyn’s house, the kitchen would be abustle with the women laying out all of the potluck side-dishes and desserts brought by the more than 30 people filling the house while the men sat around dissecting the current University of Kentucky basketball season.

Jam cake was always an important part of any family Christmas gathering. This recipe belonged to the author’s great-grandmother, Lurlie Lee Donoho Greathouse.

Being one of the younger kids there, I floated between the various rooms soaking it all in. After the huge meal enjoyed on card-tables spread throughout the house, a Santa Claus would materialize out of nowhere to distribute the gifts spread under the tree with the giver and receiver being decided by drawing names at Thanksgiving. The Christmas way out in the country at Carolyn’s house that stands out the most is the year Santa came to deliver gifts and due to an unfortunate patch of ice outside the door, ended up in the boxwoods, snagging and shedding his beard on the way down. This was the final year I believed in Santa.

Western Kentucky State College students building a snowman in front of the historic Pan American Mills on Adams street in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Photograph in the collection of the author.

The days leading up to Christmas were spent driving out to Richard Cassady’s on Blue Level Road to look at his over the top Christmas and light display. Another day in the week before Christmas would be spent by my Dad and I driving to Logan County to take a fruit basket to his Aunt Annie Myrtle, Uncle Hobart, and Aunt Nell. This adventure to the country was an opportunity to hear stories of the area and people where Dad grew up and to step inside the simple farmhouses these reminders of earlier times lived in. Stopping at Uncle Hobart and Aunt Nell’s usually presented an opportunity for an amazing dinner (otherwise known as lunch) she just threw together with provisions on hand.

Atha James Hunton, the great-grandfather of the author on a snow covered Adams Street in Bowling Green, Kentucky.

Christmas Eve was always spent at cousin Kenneth’s where he, as a trained chef, would prepare an amazing meal for the random group of beloved people assembled that year. He absolutely loved giving gifts and assured that a hand-chosen, wrapped present was under the tree for everyone.

The author’s cousin, Kenneth C. Jenkins, doing what he loved most; entertaining guests on Christmas Eve. Photograph in the collection of the author.

These gatherings, in addition to the too numerous to name or remember other parties, church events, and Christmas cantatas constitute an amazing wealth of souvenirs I treasure; one of which is hosted by the primary author of this blog. Withdrawing from this memory bank is much like reaching into a tin of old-fashioned hard Christmas candies. The options are numerous but all are sweet. Much like Capote, these memories are “an irreplaceable part of myself, . . . Loose like a kite on a broken string” as they hurry towards heaven.

The author’s mother and her cousins celebrating Christmas at a family gathering, circa 1960. Photograph in the collection of the author.

My own father, oldest brother, Granny, Cousin Kenneth, Sheila, Ms. Ragan, and all of those great aunts and uncles, amongst many others, are no longer with us but their memories endure this time of year and perhaps even stronger in 2020 as we struggle to hold on to what is normal and no doubt crave any sort of tradition we can find.

Illustration and text from a childhood memoir written by the author’s great-grandmother, Lurlie Lee Donoho Greathouse. In the collection of the author.

With 2021 rapidly approaching and thoughts of vaccination providing a light at the end of the tunnel, I cannot help but dream of new traditions to come and despite the horrible year it truly has been, I am in fact excited about what the future may hold for this season in coming years.

Illustration and text from a childhood memoir written by the author’s great-grandmother Lurlie Lee Donoho Greathouse. In the collection of the author.