Damian's (the boyfriend's) family runs a small general store (yes, believe it or not, they still have those) which looks like something straight out of Little House on the Prairie except that the labels on the cans have brighter colors and the meat counter is probably a little less suspect.
Only a little less suspect, though, because sitting directly in front of it was a dog of dubious parentage surrounded by a circle of middle-aged characters who were former coal miners (and looked it). Each had clouds of cigarette smoke issuing from his mouth and held a paper cup with emitting a smell which nearly overtook the cigarette smoke (each man, that is. The dog didn't get a drink until later.)
So this is how I met Batman, and Ox, and P.C., and Eric (who had somehow escaped the nickname storm of 1984). I was introduced to Pooch (the dog) and immediately asked to step behind the meat counter-turned-bar and pour myself a cup of Scuppernine (sp?) wine. It was fabulous. Sweet and clear with a strong Welch's grape juice flavor, and enough alcohol to warm me from the toes up. We sat there in the warmth and I listened to a complete discourse on how coal had built Tracy City, followed by a discussion of how Alabama's football team played like a bunch of girls this past year. This comment was immediately followed by a "Beggin' ya pardon, missy. No offense." None taken, but it took me a minute to say this because I was still wondering at people who actually still beg pardon.
To make up for the "playing like girls" comment, P.C. showed me his prize possession, a photograph of Jackie Mitchell (one of the first - and few - female pitchers in Major League baseball) striking out Babe Ruth. The conversation then deteriorated into a loud argument concerning the forward pass rule in football, and I tuned them out. The argument ended with Eric saying, "I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm just saying what I know." Which apparently appeased everyone.
So we all popped mints into our mouths so as not to offend Nanny's nose with the scent of alcohol, and crunched over the snow-covered hill to Nanny's house, where everyone else in the family had gathered for the last advent candle. By "everyone else" I mean literally DOZENS of people. They immediately surrounded me (the new person) and started filling my mind with details of who was related how. Eventually we settled down, with Pooch laying across my feet, and one of the characters from the store read the Christmas story from the Book of Luke. His wife (a surprisingly neat and particular woman) read "The Gift of the Magi." Another one of the characters said a short prayer and we lit the candle which stands for "Joy."
I'm a Baptist, and we don't necessarily do the advent thing. But what I learned that night was wholly unrelated to the process and tradition involved in Advent.
I learned that there is a warmth from chicken and dumplings and scuppernine wine not unlike the filling warmth of the bread and wine served by the Savior's hands at the Last Supper. There is a warmth of new family and holding the hand of someone you love while the Christmas story is read, which must be much like the warmth that the Christ-child felt when He met His new family, and His mother touched his face for the first time. And there is a warmth that comes from a large dog snoring peacefully on top of your feet which is not unlike that warmth that would come from settling back into a manger filled with hay, bundled up in soft rags.
I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas.
