A Christmas joy-ride part II

True story of one Wyoming Christmas
 
 
By Sheila Hart 
 
(Reprinted from a Dec. 25, 1937, issue of the News Letter Journal)
 
Editors Note: This week’s installment of the History On Main Series continues with the writing of Sheila Hart, a story which was printed in the 1937 edition of the News Letter Journal. Leonard Cash will continue detailing Newcastle’s history into the new year, starting with the agriculture building that was once located downtown.
 
With out many chores the days passed quickly enough; there was much wood to be hauled and chopped; wild game was plentiful and formed a large part of our daily menu antelope ranged near in bands of from ten to fifty; deer in the timber a few miles away, and jackrabbits were so numerous that an hour’s hunting gave us enough to last for a week.
When the snow crusted over and coasting was good on the slopes, father made us a sled from the forked branches of a box elder tree. The under side of the forks was planed smooth and finished with long strips of iron that bound a big dry goods box. Two of the precious boards from this same box (lumber, remember, was many long miles away) made the seat of the sled and mother padded it with a piece of carpet. Many happy hours were spent coasting on this little sled. It has been preserved and will some day be sent to the State historical museum.
And the fame of the warm hospitality radiating from our dugout home spread afar. Many a lonely cow puncher rode miles out of his way to eat a meal cooked by a woman’s hands. Many a worn pair of mittens mother quietly mended as their owners ate, warmed his chilled body and reveled in the companionship of us children—for some of these men had not seen a woman or child for months. Surveyors and civil engineers scouting for the rich coal and mineral lands known to lie near, stopped at the dugout  for a rest and a “square meal.” Of one such party a man who was later to become one of the greatest statesmen of the west—Frank W. Mondell. Today, seated in his offices in Washington, Mr. Mondell enjoys telling of his “royal feasts” he shared in this and other pioneer homes. 
But this is a Christmas story, and I must tell you how we brought Santa Claus and the Christmas spirit to the lonely valley.
Out little sister was only three and her faith in Santa’s safe arrival never wavered. The rest of us were older and wiser, but even while our reasoning told us that Santa could not carry a very heavy pack over all that distance for just one family, our hearts began to thrill with the air of mystery that pervaded the little dugout. 
Much whispering and planning behind the curtains which separated the beds from the rest of the room; much scheming to get the others out of doors so that we could talk with mother in private; feverish working on homely gifts and toys after the little sister was safely asleep.
A few days before Christmas one of the cowboys from the YT ranch rode up to our door asking if we had seen any of the YT horses down that way—“some of the pesky critters were always getting’ away from the ranch.” We tried to look interested and deeply concerned, though we knew very well that every one of those precious horses was safe in the corral at the YT. It was not to look for stray horses that he had taken the cold three-hour ride, but to see if he might catch a glimpse of our sixteen year old May, whose arrival in the valley had been an event of great importance in that girl-less region.
But we welcomed him warmly, for in his saddle bags he brought our longed for mail—letters and Christmas gifts from relatives and friends “back home,” and best of all, we children thought, a package of real Christmas candy and other goodies sent by the big brother who was at work in Sundance, the nearest town.
An invitation had been sent by the Brewer family, our neighbors six miles up the valley, to spend Christmas day with them and no journey to Europe was ever anticipated with greater excitement and pleasure than was that trip.
Christmas morning dawned clear but the sky clouded and a heavy snow began to fall just as we were ready to start. Old Tom and John stood yoked and ready, the wagon bed was piled deep with blankets and comforters, we four children and mother snuggled down into the warm folds with hot stones and flat irons at our feet. At the last moment father brought out a big umbrellas for the snow was wet and we would stick our heads out from under the blankets.
Father walked beside the wagon bundled in his great coat and felt boots, his cheery “Whoa haw! John Gee-up Tom!” the crack of his long whip and the creak of the heavy lumber wagon were music to our ears; for we were young, it was Christmas Day and we were on a journey!
After a while, the snow stopped falling, the road was more plainly marked and father climbed up into the wagon to ride a while. He stood up in front cracking the whip over the backs of the oxen, trying to hurry them out of their sober pace. Failing in this, he seized the umbrella, held it straight out in front of him and suddenly opened it wide. Old John gave one startled look back over his shoulder snorted with surprise, lifted his long horns high in the air and set off at a lumbering gallop dragging gentle sedate, unwilling Tom along until he too caught the spirit of excitement, and finally they were both on a dead run, the wagon rattling and bumping along behind them, the dog barking and all of us screaming with laughter.
We had never heard of a joy-ride but that was one, and the most exciting one I have ever experienced, though I have travelled over that same trail years later, seated deep in the soft cushions of a powerful motor car with a not too careful driver at the wheel. Still later, my father, then a white-haired man of 75, speeding through the air in swift bird-like flight, pointed out to my husband, the same trail over which I had traveled as a child, lying like a slender silver ribbon across the surface of the earth three thousand feet below.
A warm welcome awaited us at the Brewer homestead, and a bountiful dinner was served at noon. Roast venison, chicken, wonderful home made pickles and preserves, delicious buffalo berry jam, pies, cakes and crullers, made a feast truly “fit for a king.” The carefully made gifts were exchanged and rejoiced over—knitted wristlets, mittens made from buckskin father had tanned, embroidered by mother’s skillful fingers; handkerchiefs carefully hemstitched; old dollies in gorgeous new gowns and with a supply of dollbed linen that would heart of any doll housewife; doll packing boxes; odd little pretty things made from bits of silk or ribbon that had been treasured for years on a gown or in a piece bag every, however small or uncouth, glorified by the loving care with which it had been planned and fashioned.
Many a Christmas day has passed since then, but not one has lingered in our memories as has that one when we were so far away from all that would bring the birth of the Christ Child to mind. No Christmas chimes to ring out the glad tidings of “Peace on earth, good will to men;” no church service with its glory of Bethlehem’s star; only the spirit of loving and giving that has come down to us from the long ago when the three wise men journeyed to Bethlehem and “saw the young child with Mary, his mother, and fell down and worshipped him; and when they had opened their treasures they presented up to him gifts gold and frankincense and myrrh.”