It would be so nice to have a heartwarming Christmas miracle to write about today,but that's rarely how things happened on the creek. Let me set the stage for you.... The mailbox was in Kentucky and the house stood at the foot of a big hill in the middle of nowhere Tennessee. The road between was hotly contested. Neither state felt responsible for scraping the snow so we were often trapped days after everyone else had forgotten it even snowed. It was Christmas Eve.The kids were dressed in red fuzzy pajamas with feet sewn in. They had just left a plate of cookies for Santa (with a carrot for Rudolph) under the tree. Nobody wanted to go to bed.We heard someone in the yard caterwauling, "I dream of Jeanie with the light broooown hair."
"Is it Santa? Is it Santa?" the boys chorused.
Looking out the window, we saw that it was undoubtedly not Santa. A jolly fellow we'd never seen danced unsteadily across the snow with our big Saint Bernard, Bandit.
We called the Tennessee police. They said it was not their jurisdiction. We called the Kentucky police. They said it was not their jurisdiction.
We called out to the jolly fellow to ask his name. Even in his drunken state, he introduced himself as we all do in the South by telling us not only his name but all the people we might know who were his aunts,uncles and cousins. We called everyone with his last name and finally got a cousin to agree to pick him up. Santa really did come early that night in the form of Cousin Earl.
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