Little Ethel:

A Christmas Story of Faith and Family 

(From the book “Walking My Father’s Fields: Love Letters from a Daughter of the Land” by Vernie Lynn DeMille)

 

Principle #6: The love that binds a family, the love that has the power to bind the world, is eternal 

 

November 2006 

I saw it while I was rummaging through my mother’s pictures. She has so many that I believe I was meant to find it, to remember my childhood and be reminded of a time long before I was born; before my mother was born; when the woman I called Grandma was a small girl. It’s such a small thing really to have had such an impact on my life, and I don’t believe I fully understood what that impact was until I held that tiny three by five-inch photo in my hand and stared into the face of a child I had heard of in a story from the time I was old enough to crawl into my Grandma’s lap. 

It was my favorite story. 

It’s odd that it should have been my favorite story, odder yet that my Grandma would have told it to me in the first place. It’s the kind of story I would tell my own children in order to warn them of dangers and to remind them of things they shouldn’t do. But Grandma told it, and I remember every word. 

 

December 1978 

“It’s so deep.”  With my nose pushed in like a Boston terrier’s against the picture window in the dining room, I stated the obvious in the way that young children often do. The snow was deep, three feet at the last measuring and still falling.  Snow wasn’t unusual.  We lived high in the Cascade Mountains of Northern California, outside the small town of Montgomery Creek, and it always snowed; most of the time I thought of it as a marvelous thing. It was deep enough to tunnel through and build forts, endless mountains of it.  Of course, all of that snow meant that my father also had to tunnel from the house to the barn in order to milk the cows and tunnel from the house to the car and from the car to the driveway and from the driveway, which was very steep, all the way to the road so that we could make our way to the grocery store or to church.  But in my own insular little world I only saw beautiful snow as I sat by the huge window, sipping hot apple cider made from our own apples and waiting. 

 

It was two days before Christmas, and they were due to arrive any minute.  We knew they were coming.  They had never not been there for Christmas, and they were as constant as the sunrise.  It would be hard to see them because of all the white snow; their old car, lovingly called “The White Hornet,” would blend into the scenery and we would only be able to see them by their headlights.

“Here comes the White Hornet!” my Dad would call, and we, my brothers and I, would press up against the window calling, “Where?  Where?” 

 

Then my mother, whose sweet soul couldn’t stand to see us disappointed, would say, “Don’t tease them.”  And then turn to us and say, “They’ll be here soon, don’t worry.”  It was all part of the fun, Dad’s teasing, and Mom’s comforting.  It added to the anticipation, to the joy at their arrival. 

 

Finally, when the day and my mother’s nerves had worn on, we would see their lights round the last turn on Old Cove Road, and pandemonium would ensue. For all of our waiting and watching, we were never ready to rush out and greet them. We would have to rush first for coats, hats, mittens, and boots. When we were as wide with wraps as the snow was deep, we would run out the door and trip over each other on the way to their car. 

 

And there they were, the two most beautiful people in my world: Grandma and Grandpa Stratton. 

 

Grandma would hop out of the car with her arms spread wide and gather all of us up in a hug.  She always smelled so good.  Her bright red hair would be tied up with a piece of wrapping yarn, red because it was almost Christmas, and she would be wearing the cream sweater with the green zig zags.  Her smile and kisses were warm and sweet.    She was perfect.  She always sat in the passenger seat because she never learned to drive a car.  My Mom said once that Grandma never learned because Grandpa didn’t have the patience to teach her, which is probably true.  But I think Grandma was content to be a passenger and sit back and enjoy the journey; it was just as much fun to go somewhere as it was to finally get there.  Wherever she went she would look everywhere and drink in the views.  She could tell you in detail about all of the things she had seen; she was a first rate observer.

 

On the far side of the car, just putting his canes out and pushing himself up was the man I loved as much as I loved my Dad.  Grandpa would raise one of his hands as he leaned against the car and call out a greeting, his smile so full of love and pride that I can remember the glow of that feeling still today.  He was always so proud of the children we were and the people we were growing into, and we knew it.  I didn’t realize at the time how lucky I was to have someone love me that much. 

 

Hugs would be shared all the way around, Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad, Kirk, Kris, Aaron, Jared, and I.  Everybody had to get their fill of hugs before we could unload.  I’m still amazed at how much stuff could fit in the back of that little car.  We never doubted that there was a Santa at our house.  He arrived every year with the White Hornet.  It was an unspoken rule that we weren’t really supposed to count the presents and compare who had the most, but I always did it anyway.  There are benefits to being the baby in a big family; I usually had a lot of presents.  We would pack in the presents and pile them under the tree, and they would spill out at least five feet onto the rug around its base. 

 

I lived in a Christmas card setting, high mountains, snow, a huge light-covered Christmas tree, and enough presents to rival Toyland.  Now, we had a lot of presents, but they weren’t all from a store; in fact, I would say most of them weren’t.  We used to wrap our own toys and give them to each other just because it was so fun to see something wrapped.  Every year the local school held a “Santa’s Workshop” for the children in the area.  Everyone in the community donated items, and then the children could go in and choose one gift for each member of their family.  The gift would cost only 10¢ and that was only to cover the cost of the wrapping paper. 

 

I remember seeing my brother come out with a pair of old beat-up roller skates. The rubber wheels were gone, so all that was left was the metal. I was so excited to get those skates I couldn’t stand it.  It didn’t matter that they were going to shake the teeth out of my head if I tried to actually skate on them; they were from my brother.  My Mom still has this horrible old fruit bowl that one of my brothers picked out for her at the workshop.  I don’t think she’d trade it for all the crystal in Tiffany’s.  It sits in a place of honor on her kitchen countertop, always full of bananas or apples. 

 

After the presents were brought in from the Hornet, the suitcases had to be unloaded.  Grandma supported every cliché about women when it came to packing.  I don’t know why she had to pack ten different outfits for their stay at our house because if memory serves, she wore the same thing most of the time.  I guess she wanted to be prepared.  She would always bring her own pillow too.  It had a satin pillowcase, and I just knew that it was the kind of pillowcase that a princess would use.  Then there was the makeup case.  It was a fascinating mystery—creams, powders, lotions, and perfumes.  She would open the lid and it smelled like bottled Grandma.  I wish I could find an air freshener that smells as good as that did to me. 

 

Yes, Grandma’s cases were amazing and fantastic, but the true wonder was Grandpa’s medicine case. 

 

Grandpa was taking vitamins and minerals before it became the popular thing to do.  He was taking zinc, B12, and magnesium every day when the doctors were still saying that it didn’t do you any good to take vitamin pills.  He may have lost the full use of his legs, but the rest of his body was as healthy as a horse.  He even had a mortar and pestle.  I would watch him grind up all of the vitamins that had been so carefully pressed into nice little pills, mix the dust with his Metamucil and drink it all down like it was lemonade.  It disgusted and fascinated me at the same time. 

 

They would bring persimmons with them; I never ate them as a child because they looked a little too slimy.  I eat them now and enjoy them as I remember my Mom and Grandma would.  They would sit at the table, eating persimmons, drinking rose-hip tea, and catching up on all of the latest news.  We would hear about Paul and Marla, about Whitney and Bernice, about Grandma’s sisters, and Grandpa’s family.  I didn’t know half of the people, but I would sit with them and imagine that I was a grown-up lady visiting and sharing all the news.  Without fail my mother would say “So, tell me what else” during the course of the conversation.  It has become my Mom’s signature statement.  One of my niece’s when she was about two years old, when asked “What does Grandma say?” would answer “So what else.”  My Mom is a conversation connoisseur. 

 

The evening meal would be a joyous time. It seems that every meal at our house was a joyous time. It wasn’t because of the food we ate though my mom is a fantastic cook; it was simply the joy of being together. Meals were filled with laughter, stories, full stomachs, and full hearts. 

 

When all traces of the meal had been cleaned, we would sit in the glow of the Christmas tree lights. I’m sure that there must have been talk of Christmases past and hopes for the future, but I don’t remember much besides the tree and the lights. The tree was acquired by means of a lengthy tradition. On the day after Thanksgiving, or shortly thereafter, we would all trudge through the snow out to the truck and pile in. We would drive for what seemed a long time (mostly because there were usually six people piled into the truck, and going any distance with that many people in such a small space seems to last a long time) and then stop beneath a forest of huge pine trees. Out we would fall and begin our trek through more snow. My Mom has amazing taste in Christmas trees.  She can spot the perfect tree at 100 yards, but she doubts her own ability. Because of this doubt Mom would usually find “the tree” within the first ten minutes of the yearly tree hunt, and we would then spend another two hours tramping through the snow looking at every tree in the forest “just in case” we might have missed one that was better. We invariably returned to the first tree. She carries this ability into the realm of shopping. She can find the perfect gift within ten minutes too, but she has to see everything in the store and the warehouse in the back just to cover all of her bases. 

 

After the tree was picked out, with Dad shaking his head and Kris muttering, the cutting down would commence. We had a large room and Mom wanted a big enough tree to fill the space, so Kris would scale up into the tree to cut it down and Mom would keep saying “Don’t cut it too short! Make it just a little taller!” When it was finally down it would be twenty feet tall and would have filled our barn. So home we’d go where Kris would trim off about twelve feet of tree; and up it would go. The lights would go on first and then the ornaments would come out. My Mom never picked themes for the house and tree like people do these days. Instead the tree would be covered with memories. As each ornament came out of the box she would tell us it’s story, whether it was from her childhood or from last year’s kindergarten class. 

 

I helped her hang many of those ornaments just a couple of years ago, and she told the same stories.  I could tell a few of them, and we wept together for the joy of the memories and the sorrow that those who gave them to us are gone now. When it was completed, it was a masterpiece, glittering and bright. I could sit for hours watching the lights and hearing the softly scratchy sound of Christmas songs on the record player. The Walton family would be singing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!” while I snuggled next to Grandma on the couch and felt that everything was perfect. It’s amazing to look back at the child I was and realize how precious it was to feel so full of joy from having a full tummy, warm toes, and a room full of family. I forget sometimes as I get older just how precious those things really are. 

 

Just when I was sleepy enough to start nodding off against Grandma’s shoulder, we would retire to our room for the night. Grandpa would get to sleep in my bed, Grandma and I would stay in my brothers’ bed, and to this day I have no idea where my brothers slept. All I knew was that I got to share with Grandma. She would change into her nightgown, use some of the magic potions from her makeup case, then lay in the very center of the bed, propped up on her satin pillow. Aaron, Jared, and I would all climb up onto the bed with her, waiting impatiently for bedtime stories to begin. Without fail she would ask “What story do you want to hear?” and our answer was always the same, “Little Ethel, tell us about Little Ethel!” She would laugh in a perplexed sort of way and say, almost to herself, “Why do you always want to hear about Little Ethel?” But we never doubted that she would tell us. 

 

Summer 1921

“In those days” Grandma would begin, “we didn’t travel by cars; we had to ride in a wagon. So your great-grandpa, my Daddy, would hook up the team and we would drive to our cousin’s home. It took a long time to get there so when we went, we stayed for several days. There were lots of grown-ups and even more children, and we all liked to play together. Now Little Ethel (here she would pause and explain that Little Ethel was called Little Ethel because her Mother was called Big Ethel) and her brother had a ball that all of the cousins loved to play catch with. So after supper the children were sent to play in the field beyond the barn. It was lots of fun with the children running here and there in the field and around some large bales of cotton that had been harvested earlier in the year. One of the older cousins threw the ball and it fell beyond where the children could reach it. So Little Ethel climbed up on top of the cotton bales and made her way to where the ball had fallen into one of the open bales. It was evening, and beginning to get cool and when it gets cool the snakes try to find places that are warm to stay for the night, but Little Ethel couldn’t see that a cottonmouth snake was coiled up inside the warm cotton. All that she could see was her ball and so she reached her little arm down to get it and when she almost had it, the snake struck and bit her on the wrist.” 

Grandma always paused here and would show us on her own wrist just where Little Ethel had been bitten. I can remember picturing myself as that long ago little girl being shocked at the pain of a snake bite. “We all screamed for the adults, and Little Ethel’s father came running and scooped her up while one of the men hooked up the horses and wagon to take her to the nearest doctor. Her father drove the team as fast as he could while Little Ethel’s mother held her in the back, but the trip to the doctor’s took over an hour and by the time they reached him it was too late to save her and she died.” 

 

Christmas 1978 

That was the end of the story, Grandma never elaborated on what happened after Little Ethel died. She would go on to stories about Toyland and fairy tales, and I don’t think I ever thought any more that Christmas about the little girl who died 50 years before I was born. Christmas morning would arrive, with all of the excitement you would expect, but none of the chaos. My Mom insisted that we eat breakfast before presents, and when we were through the presents would be handed out one by one and would be opened in the same way. That way the joy of giving as well as receiving could be shared with the whole family. It seemed to last forever, it was so wonderful to be sitting there amidst wrapping paper and bows and all the treasures that Santa had brought. 

I don’t ever remember feeling the “after-Christmas letdown” that people talk about. For me the whole day was wonderful, the days that followed were just as wonderful. Grandma would walk with us to the top of the driveway and exclaim over the view of the barnyard just as she would if we walked a half-mile further and could see the entire Mt. Shasta valley. She saw beauty and joy in things that others would have passed by. We were sad when they finally climbed into the White Hornet and drove away. We would wave until they made the last turn far up the hillside and we knew they couldn’t see us anymore. We would miss them, but it was part of the experience; the joy of their arrival, the sadness of their departure, and the knowing that we would see them again soon. 

 

November 2006 

 

So I sit here tonight, staring at this small picture that has started my reminiscing. A little dark-haired girl stands beside her brother on a flower-framed porch. A sweet smile is on her face and in her eyes, while her brother grins with the exuberance of boyhood. Her little hand rests on his head in a gesture so natural and comfortable that I don’t imagine it was contrived for the photograph. 

 

It makes me sad. I think of how short her life was, perhaps only two years past when this image was taken and I can’t help but wonder how her short life and tragic death touched those around her. 

 

What happened to that grinning young boy who seemed to love his little sister so much? I never thought of it as a child, but now that I have children of my own I wonder at what an agony it would have been for her mother and father to drive to the doctor’s with such fear and hope only to return home again with such pain and loss. I wonder if Ethel rocked her baby girl on the trip home from the doctor’s and wept over her lifeless form. It breaks my heart to think of it. I think of the family waiting at home, the young cousins anxious to hear news of their playmate. I think of my Grandma. She was just a little girl herself, only five or six at the time. I don’t know how the death of that child affected the others, but I can see what influence it had on my Grandma and on my mother and on me. 

 

Grandma knew what loss was.  She understood that life was neither fair nor easy, but she never let that destroy her optimism. Life is hard? Yes, but life is also beautiful. Life ends? Yes, but life also goes on. 

 

I believe that Grandma learned at an early age to never take beauty and joy for granted. Perfection isn’t a place you get to and start setting up house; it’s found in countless tiny moments every day that God grants you the gift of breath.  Joy is in the way the sunlight hits the clouds after a rainstorm.  Perfection is in the way the wind throws the leaves across your path as you walk home from the grocery store.  Beauty is in the smile of the young woman you complimented on the way home from work. And most of all I believe that Grandma learned that the deepest heartache and the truest joy is found within our own families. She never let an opportunity to say “I love you” pass her by because she never knew when the opportunity to say it would come again. 

 

I think the loss of a childhood friend affected Grandma in countless ways and helped to make of her the woman she became. Because of the woman she was, my own mother learned to be generous with her time and talents—to go the extra mile because it never hurts to make sure that everything is just as it should be, not just with trees and gifts, but with hearts and homes. Mom always has a smile and a kind word; she never lets an opportunity to say something kind get by her. Life is too short to spend it with a frown on your face so she smiles wherever she goes—not because she has never known sadness or disappointment but because she chooses to see that there is more to life than that. 

 

Joy is a gift that flows from God; you have only to open your heart to it. 

 

It hurts, because along with the joy is the knowledge that it comes with a price. My grandmother and my mother, like our great mother Eve before us, understood that the price for joy is sorrow, but it is worth the cost. Would Ethel have traded one beat of Little Ethel’s heart if she had known there would be so few? I don’t think so. Did she regret having had a child just because she lost her so soon? How can you regret beauty or malign joy? 

 

Christmas is nearly here, and there is a stirring in my heart for the souls that have come before me. I see this little girl and it occurs to me that she will never be forgotten so long as I remember her and tell her story. My grandmother will live on because I have taught my children about who she was. My mom will be forever treasured in the hearts of her children and grandchildren. And beyond all of us, there is a voice that whispers to my heart and tells me that there was another life, in another time, full of joy and sorrow, beauty and perfection that made all that I feel possible. If my heart breaks at the pain of a mother’s loss, He takes my broken heart and heals it with the Father’s gift of faith. I think of all that the Savior’s life teaches about finding joy in small things, about looking past pain to choose the better part of faith. My family has taught me that, not just in words, but in every deed. 

 

Grandma and Grandpa are gone now. Little Ethel and her mother and father are no longer separated by death, but rather joined by it. I miss them.  Some I never knew, and some I loved as much as it is possible to love. This gratitude for a family who cherishes the good and forgives the bad, who looks for the joy and endures the sorrow fills my soul.                 

 

I long to see those whom I have loved and lost long since.  I wish to tell them of the legacy of faith and family that I will pass on because of the lives they lived. But for now I am content to be as I was as a child watching the White Hornet pull out of sight on a winding mountain road. I know that I can’t see them anymore, but I know that I will see them again soon and until that day I will treasure every moment I have here. 

 

I will open my heart to the joy that God has in abundance for those who desire it. Because isn’t that what the Christmas story truly tells? To learn to bow to the will of God, no matter how difficult, and to find that there is peace in the midst of trials, and help when the night seems darkest. If the glory of God could reside in such a humble place as a stable, then why could joy not rest in my own home? I will seek it every day, glean it from the enthusiasm of my children, gather it in their laughter, and treasure it in my heart for all eternity.