Untitled Document

Dear reader,

When I taught art, one of my best student's father was an unassuming writer and story teller. His profession then was a postmaster and he grew up with a mother who told stories to her children and anybody who would listen.

When we first met, we became instant friends and I consequently became a fixture in his family. When I left teaching and moved away, we came acoss each other again by chance and I offered to illustrate this award winnning story.

I kept the sketches with me when I moved back to Illinois, started the Bishop Hill series and turned my sketches into an etching. While researching Bishop Hill's history and current activities, corn was very important to the Bishop Hillians and to this day, there are demonstrations and lessons at Harvest Days on the making of corn dollies.

Jordan Murray

P.S. I think you'll find this story very emotional and universal as it gives some insight of the hardship many people from any culture had to endure. The author wants you to gather your children around you as you read it aloud.

Christmas 1870

Written by George O. Martin Jr.

Illustrated by Jordan H. Murray

Robert moved the slide bolt with his elbow and pressed his shoulder on the wooden door to open it into the small house. He caught the edge with his back as soon as he passed through the frame and with a nudge of his upper arm and a step backward, replaced the door against the jam. The same elbow then moved the bolt into its place. "That should keep the December wind outside. Here, is this what you wanted Ernestine?" He moved forward and placed the armload of dry corn stalks on the floor, next to the rocking chair where the woman sat.

She had followed his movements and seen the yellowed plants as he crossed the room and was already smiling with satisfaction when he asked the question. "Yes, Robert these will be perfect. Thank you dear. Was it cold out? I can hear the wind howling, but is it a cold wind?" Her question followed him to the coat hook next to the door while her fingers automatically began to search the leaves, husks and canes he had left on the floor.

"It isn't as raw as yesterdays but it is cold. Some of those stalks may be a bit wet. There was some snow on the pile where it had drifted next to the barn ." When his scarf and hat had been placed over the collar of his coat on the nail, he turned to see her already engrossed in the project and beyond any interest in answer to her own question. He knew he would not reach her now until her annual work was done.

The opening of the door had put a chill in the house and he stepped to the fireplace and moved a log about a bit to encourage more heat. Then with a second thought, placed another large piece of wood in among them. Assured the warmth would last, he crossed back over the oval braid rug, sat down into his chair and relaxed in the comfort of the sturdy oak frame.

His eyes studied the intensity of the woman in the chair on the opposite side of the rug. A slight smile was on the corners of her mouth and her face was bright with possibilities of what she could fashion with the dried stems.

Her searching had found the material she needed to begin and she started immediately. Strong, slim fingers held the cane tightly as she twisted, tied, turned and knotted the leaves and husks. Some pieces were streched flat, others curled up or under, but all were given a precise place to be. It was a craft she had practiced for years and no movements were wasted, no mistakes were made. As a form became more apparent to the object in her hand, so did a small tear in the corner of her eye. Practice kept another hidden with Robert's lids, but he knew it was there. He also knew what her next request would be.

"Robert, dear, would you bring me the sharp paring knife please; "I believe I'm ready to trim," she asked, as he knew she would.

He lifted himself from his chair and obligingly sought the instructions as she wanted. The small cutting board was brought also and without speaking he placed both on her lap.

As he did, she looked up and smiling said, "Almost done, now. Just a bit of trimming and we can take them to the children."

He nodded, afraid to speak, and sat again in the oak chair. This time he placed himself on the front edge of the seat, leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees and his chin into his hands. He saw her hands move deftly as the knife shaped the leaves into a jacket on one and a dress on the other. In a few moments she brushed the excess aside and picked up two perfectly formed corn dolls, a boy and a girl, and displayed them to an audience of one. "We can go now," she said, "I'm sure they will like them, aren't you?"

He could only smile and nod. He couldn't make words, not to that question.

They both stood, took their coats from the hooks, bundled themselves against the cold and left the house. Their steps and direction was deiberate. Slightly more than a three quarter mile walk brought them to a small knoll of ground, neatly fenced and protected. They entered through the gate. Robert walked no farther but Ernestine proceeded along the path to the fourth stone. There she knelt down, took the two corn dollies from inside her coat and leaned them against the marker. She moved a stubborn remnant of a weed away to give them better place, and when all was to her satisfaction said, "Merry Christmas my darlings. Momma misses you very much."

Several moments passed and the resolve returned to Robert to do what he must, and he said, in a gentle voice, "Come Ernestine, it is done, lets go home."

They retraced their steps in silence, entered the house, removed their wraps and moved to the fireplace to gain some warmth. Robert knelt to the spot where the remaining corn stalks were and began putting them, piece by piece into the fire. Ernestine came to stand beside him, placed her hand on his shouder and she said, "Thank you for staying with me another Christmas, Robert, I don't know what I'd do if you ever went with the children."

For some reason, he kissed the husk he held in his hand and after a moment, placed it into the fire.

Illinois Ancestors