San Joaquin Valley, Lancer Ranch
According to the open dictionary on my desk, the word ‘tradition’ is defined as
‘an inherited, established, or customary pattern of thought, action, or behavior.’ This certainly holds true when referring to my Christmas Eves - past and present. Dining on sweets and drinking eggnog while decorating the Christmas tree remain my fondest Boston memories of holiday traditions which, thankfully, followed me to California.
Another interpretation of the term ‘tradition’ is ‘a belief or story relating to the past that is commonly accepted as historical though not verifiable.’ ...
“Is this a pickle?” Squinting, Kinsey viewed the glass ornament inches from her nose to take a closer look.
“Ah. Not an ordinary pickle, young lady.” Taking possession of the ornament by hooking his index finger through its loop made from a golden ribbon, Scott held it up to the lamplight. “This is the Christmas Pickle.”
Kinsey’s doubting expression shifted from the item dangling on Scott's finger to Teresa’s hand placing a delicate silver angel on the tree. The angel, along with the other beautiful blown glass ornaments, patiently waited in a trunk each year to be unpacked on Christmas Eve.
Scott raised an eyebrow. “Are you questioning the validity of this pickle?”
Coughing to capture the younger cousin’s attention, Teresa shook her head and silently mouthed the word ‘no.’
“No...Scott…” Kinsey slowly mimicked her friend’s gesture. “I can clearly see it’s...a pickle.”
Scott observed Teresa’s nod of approval while she chose another ornament from the trunk. It took little effort on his part to restart Kinsey’s questioning. “However…”
“However, I see no reason why a pickle should be displayed on a Christmas tree.”
Teresa rolled her eyes. Scott smiled at her before returning his attention to the Doubting Thomas. “You poor child. You have no knowledge regarding the legend of the Christmas Pickle?”
“Well..she won’t know the true legend if she hears it from you, brother.” Johnny, with the remains of a peppermint stick parked in the corner of his mouth, emerged from the other side of the tree to retrieve the pickle ornament from Scott’s hand.
“I disagree, brother. Being the oldest and wisest I’m certain my rendition of the legend is indeed more accurate.”
“Well, big brother, I know you hate to be proven wrong -”
“True. But my disappointment is only surpassed by my little brother’s when he’s shown to be grievously mistaken.”
Grinning, Johnny removed the peppermint stick from its location to use as a pointer. “Hold on now, I think we’ve seen how stubborn you are when your opinion is called out for a challenge.”
Appreciating the jousting, Scott placed his hands on his hips. “And I'm certain we've witnessed how riled up you get when your vast knowledge is dismissed.”
“Murdoch.” Teresa pleaded as she took possession of the ornament in question. “Must we be subjected to this silly discussion over a pickle every Christmas Eve?”
Remaining silent, the patriarch calmly filled two glasses of eggnog.
“Don’t be pokin’ fun of my vast knowledge, big brother. I took half-pint’s suggestion. I’ve been broadening my horizons.”
“Keep eating those peppermint sticks, little brother, and see what else joins your broad horizons.”
Teresa raised her voice, her usual ploy to sound more assertive. “This needs to stop. Now.”
Smiling, Murdoch handed each of the young ladies a glass of eggnog. “We would have better success asking the Pacific waves to cease coming on shore. May I suggest sitting down? A healthy dose of eggnog should help us get through the inevitable debate. Considering there’s a new member in the audience, I predict the legends will be longer this year. A refill of our glasses may be necessary.”
Johnny’s drawl signaled the brotherly sparring was far from over. “What’s the saying? Age before beauty?” He stopped to admire his reflection in one of the ornaments. “You go first, Scott.”
Scott frowned. “If I'm not mistaken, the protocol on a sinking ship is women and children first.” His dimples appeared ushering in a boyish smile. “Johnny, you have the floor.”
“How about settlin’ this like men, big brother? We’ll flip a coin.”
“Agreed, little brother. As long as it's not your two-headed nickel that conveniently appears in situations like this.”
“My sons.” Murdoch held up his pocket watch. “There are only a few hours left of Christmas Eve. Perhaps we should get started. Scott, enlighten us.”
“Very well.” With a raised eyebrow and a lukewarm stern expression to hide a grin, Scott stood patiently in front of Teresa. “I know you have it. Hand it over.” The possession of the glass pickle was reluctantly given to the evening’s first orator.
Clearing his throat, Scott assumed the persona of a great communicator and with a resonating voice, he began. “The legend begins with Mr. John C. Lower. Born a Bavarian, Mr. Lower, like many of the immigrants from that region seeking a better life, sailed to the United States and settled in Pennsylvania. A few years later, tensions growing between the North and South ultimately led to the American Civil War. Mr. Lower, moved by the call of patriotic duty, enlisted the 103rd Pennsylvania Infantry.”
Kinsey smiled. “He was a Billy Yank just like you, Scott.”
“Indeed he was, Freckles.” Scott sighed. “Unfortunately, the Confederates captured him in North Carolina and like thousands of Union soldiers, he was sent to the prison in Andersonville, Georgia.”
His cousin’s smile dissolved. “Oh, no…”
“Wait! Don’t despair. This legend has a happy ending.” Seeing Kinsey relax and take a sip of eggnog, he continued. “By Christmas Eve, Private Lower was starving, weak, and near death.”
A duet of female voices echoed through the great room. “Scooooott…”
“Best get to that happy ending, big brother. Your audience is about to turn on ya.”
“Quiet, little brother. Ladies, if I may proceed? So...with his dying breath-”
Groans were heard as Murdoch raised an eyebrow. “Scott.”
“Yes, Sir. Everyone calm down. The end is near.”
Johnny chuckled. “Sooner than you think.”
“So with his dying breath, Private Lower asked one of the guards for any kind of nourishment in order to live and someday rejoin his family. It being Christmas Eve, the guard felt compassion for the poor man and offered him a pickle. Miraculously, John Lower recovered and credited the pickle with saving his life. After the war ended, he returned to his family in Pennsylvania and began a Christmas tradition of hiding a real pickle on the Christmas tree each year, with the first person to find it being assured of good fortune in the coming year. This ornament represents the pickle that saved Private John Lowers life. The end.” The storyteller took a bow as his audience applauded.
Johnny continued to clap as he joined his brother in front of the Christmas tree. “Well done, Boston. It’s a cryin’ shame no one believes it.”
Scott smirked as he handed over the glass pickle. “I object on grounds my brother is trying to sway the jury with his own self-serving opinion.”
“This isn’t a courtroom, son.” Murdoch handed his oldest an eggnog. “Sit down.”
Johnny held up the ornament in question and cleared his throat. “The legend of the Christmas Pickle by John Valens Lancer.”
Scott raised his glass in a salute. “John Lancer. A man of few words...hopefully.”
Looking at the ceiling, Teresa puffed out her cheeks and slowly exhaled.
Undaunted, the evening’s second rhetorician commenced. “The story begins with two Spanish boys - I believe they were brothers - traveling from boarding school to be home with their family on Christmas Eve. As they traveled through the town of Myra, a fierce storm blew in from the coast. The smarter, younger brother -”
“Now we know Johnny’s story is far-fetched.” Scott sipped his eggnog and smiled.
“As I was saying, the smarter, younger brother decided they needed to find a place to stay until the storm passed so they stopped to stay at an inn.” Johnny’s voice grew ominous. “Now, in this town lived an evil innkeeper who hated children. As the two brothers entered the inn, the man grabbed them, cut them up into little pieces and stuffed them into a pickle barrel.”
Kinsey gasped. “Sweet, fancy Moses! I need another drink.”
Scott sat back. “And visions of sugar plums bounced out of our heads.”
Teresa stood pointing a finger at the younger brother. “Johnny! You promised last Christmas Eve to leave out that part of the story!”
“Hold on. All right. I’ll try to remember next year. Let me finish.”
Murdoch’s low rumbling voice confirmed that his youngest son should indeed finish the tale quickly.
“Also in the town of Myra was a bishop named St. Nicholas. Hearing about the evil innkeeper’s horrible deed he prayed to help the poor boys that had gotten themselves in a pickle.” Johnny laughed as his family remained silent.
Scott leaned over to whisper in Kinsey’s ear. “Johnny’s the only one who thinks that joke is funny.”
“It’s said that St. Nicholas’ faith was so pure and strong, God listened to his prayer. When the bishop opened the pickle barrel the two brothers were found whole, alive and well. So…” Holding up the glass ornament, Johnny announced. “A pickle should be hung on the tree each Christmas Eve for prosperity and good health. The end.”
The group expressed their appreciation with clapping and offered a refilled glass of eggnog to the storyteller.
Murdoch stood and claimed the glass pickle ornament. “So, my children, after you retire for the evening this pickle will be hidden on our Christmas tree. The first one to discover it tomorrow morning will receive an extra gift. Anyone caught in the middle of the night cheating-” The patriarch's eyes settled on his two sons. “- will be disqualified.”
... In my opinion, when both these definitions of tradition can be combined...well, that’s the perfect Christmas Eve.
~S.
Scott rubbed his eyes and closed his journal. Seeing how late it had gotten, he fell in bed for a few hours sleep before Christmas morning officially arrived. As he drifted off, he heard his father’s voice boom from somewhere downstairs.
“JOHN!”
Scott smiled. He should tell his little brother about the creaking fourth and seventh stairway steps. Maybe by next Christmas Eve. Maybe.
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