With this Christmas I have been around for 77 yuletide seasons, some more memorable than others, but all treasured for particular reasons.
Like many of my generation, I recall special gifts like Lone Ranger two-gun cap pistol sets, Davy Crockett caps, my first genuine hunting knife and my first .22 rifle. Kids today probably would not get such presents, but we did, along with new shirts, socks and underwear, or even new winter coats, though winter would already be well underway.
When my late wife and I had kids at home we did our best to replicate our own best childhood memories. We had traditional live trees, surrounded by dozens of presents, among which was at least one special “wish list” gift like a Cabbage Patch doll or My Little Pony.
Of course, we had stockings filled with peppermint and chocolate candies too – all gifts but two or three tagged “From Santa,” and the shirts and socks “From Mom and Dad”.
The memories I hold most dear, though, have little to do with gifts under the tree. My folks made sure all my Christmases were special, though I’m not entirely sure where they found the money.
In fact, my most memorable holidays were those of the late 1950s and early 1960s after we had moved to the farm in Dallas County and extra money was scarce. Mom still worked in town, but Dad had left his cow breeder job to fully concentrate on the farm and we four boys (the youngest was born in December 1958, just 11 years after me).
The Christmas experience was more than the day itself. Christmas shopping for we boys consisted of a trip to Commercial Street in Springfield, near my grandparents, where Mom cut us loose with the few dollars we had saved from selling blackberries to peruse the wares in hardware and dime stores. Boxes of fish hooks or lead sinkers might be good enough for Dad and us, but we generally put our treasures together for something really nice – like that set of drinking glasses we bought for Mom to replace those we had broken or lost the previous year.
A week or two before the holiday it became my job to find and cut our cedar Christmas tree. Seldom did I drag one to the house that wasn’t a foot too tall to get in the door.
What I remember best about Christmas, though, is how we shared it with our animals. On Christmas Eve Dad always had us throw down the best of our lespedeza hay for our milk cows, and make sure the hunting dogs were well-fed and bedded for the winter night. In truth, it wasn’t much different from any other night, but Dad took time to make it clear on Christmas that the livestock deserved the best we could give them.
Christmas morning, though, the cows had to wait until daylight. That was the one time we boys took precedence, rolling out of bed as soon as we heard the stove door rattle, the fire begin to pant, and Dad holler from the living room,”You boys can get up, now.”
Fifteen minutes later it was all over – wrapping paper in piles, gifts thrown on our beds, and us pulling on our chore clothes. Breakfast always waited until after milking.
That night we almost always made the 30-mile trip to Dad’s folks near Springfield, weather permitting, where we joined with the rest of the family (Dad was the eldest of nine) to exchange gifts.
It was the only time of the year I saw some of my aunts, uncles and cousins. Most of them had been there for hours before we arrived. I always took a bit of pride in explaining, “We would have been earlier, but we had cows to milk.”
My aunts and uncles understood, but just a couple of the kids. Most of my cousins were city kids. Even then, I reckon, I wore my farm upbringing as a badge of honor.
Maybe even tracking a bit of barnyard muck into grandma’s house, and seldom as well dressed as my cousins, I held my head high. My cousins’ hands were soft, their trousers spotless and their shoes clean and polished. My brothers and I were farmers – just in from milking. No apologies necessary.
Though not much more than a hobby farmer today, I still call myself a farm boy. And I always defer to other folks who show up a little late with mud on their boots because they have chores to do.
That country mindset, perhaps, was the most valuable Christmas gift ever.
Copyright 2025, James E. Hamilton, P.O.Box 801, Buffalo, MO 65622
A former feature writer for Ozarks Farm and Neighbor, Jim Hamilton is a retired newspaper editor/publisher. Hamilton was reared on a small dairy farm in Dallas County, Mo. Contact Jim at [email protected].
