A Merry Dairy Christmas

A

M E R R Y

D A I R Y

C H R I S T M A S

Sylvia Hornback

A Merry Dairy Christmas

by Sylvia Hornback

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a database or retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Sylvia Hornback.

Copyright © 2020 Sylvia Hornback

Website: https://SylviaHornback.com

LCCN: 2021946425

ISBN: 978-1-956567-00-7

Edited by: William Greenleaf

Cover design by: Douglas DoNascimento

Published by:

Briggs & Schuster

Coppell, TX

BSA.IM

Printed in the United States of America

To Dicky, Donny, and Ronny, dairy boys all.

C H A P T E R   1

One week before Thanksgiving, 1955, eighteen-year-old Tom Ballenger stood alone at the burn barrel behind his house in Waxahachie, Texas, stuffing trash into the fire and watching as bits of glowing ash floated upward and disappeared into the approaching night sky. It hadn’t been all that long ago, it seemed, he could barely see over the rim of the worn incinerator. Now he stood over six feet tall, and the incinerator came only to his waist.

His unruly hair flopped in his face as he bent to poke down the burning debris with a long stick, but his mind was elsewhere. Since overhearing his parents’ talking the night before, Tom had tried not to borrow trouble or jump to any conclusions. He had caught only the last few sentences of their discussion, after all. He didn’t know the whole story. All he knew was that they had been talking about a move to the dairy farm next to Grandpa and Grandma’s farm in Decatur, about eighty miles away.

Maybe they hadn’t made a final decision. But those few anxious words crowded his thoughts now, filling his imagination with all manner of heartbreaking scenarios and realizations, not the least of which was how much he had taken for granted—the familiar comforts of this house, the town, and his school.

His mom and dad often had quiet talks and lengthy conversations, but this one was different. It was the tension in their hushed voices that had drawn him into the hallway. As he lingered there, straining to hear, he learned only one thing for sure: it was about money.

Always money. The lack of it.

He was eager to learn more but reluctant to ask. As it was, there had been no opportunity to approach them. Family meals were chaotic on any night, but extra rowdy tonight for they had celebrated his birthday. Even little Rusty, who had been sick for weeks, had sat at the table, licking cake icing from his fingers. Dad led the singing with his booming voice, and each of his siblings had given Tom a homemade gift. He couldn’t bring himself to break the spell by bringing up something that might be bad news.

The right time would come, he knew. But it was hard to be patient.

Tom supposed he was a man now, and not just the eldest of the Ballenger five—four boys and a girl. As he devoured the generous slice of his favorite chocolate cake his mother had served him, he had mulled the serious decisions ahead. After graduation, would he go to college or to work? Either path meant he would leave home.

He hadn’t thought about this so much until the night before. Now it was all he could think about. Suddenly, everything in his world seemed more important—his friends, the basketball team, even schoolwork.

Tom caught movement behind a nearby lilac bush and shook his head. Jesse, you’d better get back in the house before Mom finds you missing.

At thirteen, Tom’s brother Jesse was his biggest aggravation. He wanted to do everything Tom did, but he wasn’t physically strong enough yet to keep up. It wouldn’t be long now, though. Jesse’s latest growth spurt had left a still-viable pair of jeans three inches too short and his current jacket, a hand-me-down from Tom, with sleeves reaching only to his elbows. Jesse’s favorite pastime now seemed to be playing pranks on his brother.

Tom stirred the embers while keeping a side-eye on Jesse, who was now belly down, creeping toward him, legs and arms clawing the ground beneath.

It’d serve the kid right if a big ol’ rattler shook its tail about now.

But it was too cold for snakes, and Jesse knew that.

Tom turned up his collar and fed more trash into the barrel.

You’re ruinin’ your clothes, he said as Jesse drew within inches.

Mom isn’t going to like it.

Jesse jumped up, fists balled at his sides, and glared at Tom.

You didn’t see me till I was almost here!

Sure, sure. What’s up, Jess?

Jesse brushed off his half-buttoned shirt and took a weak swipe at the grass stains on his jeans. Can I help with the trash?

He picked up a twig, then a smattering of leaves, and pitched them into the flames. I don’t want to go to bed yet.

I just put the last bit in the barrel, Tom said. Maybe you’d have gotten here in time to help if you hadn’t wasted all your time practicing your army routine.

Jesse’s black, curly hair was exactly like Tom’s, though Jesse’s was in constant need of a comb. Rusty was the only one that looked like Mom, with his sandy hair and blue eyes. The rest of them were copies of Dad. Tom, Nettie, Jesse, and Lane all had that blue-black hair and those pale gray eyes. Folks told Tom that he was the spitting image of his dad. He didn’t mind the comparison.

Everybody in town loved his dad. Even the kids at school thought Mr. Ballenger was the best teacher around. Tom and his sister, Nettie, a junior, rode to school with him every day. Jesse was still in junior high, and Lane was in fifth grade.

Don’t you have homework to do? Tom asked.

I’ll get it done in the morning. I have plenty of time after I get there.

Don’t you horse around with Butch and Pete in the mornings?

Nah, he said. Not always. The library’s quiet, so I go in there sometimes.

The back door opened, and a streak of yellow light shot out, lighting up Jesse’s face like a vanilla MoonPie. Mom stood on the threshold, hand on her hip, staring down at her escaped truant.

Jesse! she called. Time to come in and do homework.

Go on. Tom showed Jesse the empty can to prove there was no trash left. The burn barrel will be here another night.

Jesse trudged to the back porch and disappeared into the house.

When the door closed behind him, the streak of light vanished, as had the lingering twilight.

Tom stood alone in the dark, contemplating, as the fire waned.

It wouldn’t be the first time they had moved. He remembered two other times. But they had laid down meaningful roots in Waxahachie. They treasured their friends here. Tom wanted to stay and graduate with his friends and play his last season of high school basketball with the team. He dreamed of a chance at a college scholarship.

And what about Nettie? With only thirteen months between them, she and Tom shared almost everything. They had been close since the time they were young and their father had gone off to war.

Nettie would be seventeen next month. She had dozens of friends at school, and she was dating Lewis, Tom’s best friend. Neither had said anything, but Tom sensed they were getting serious. She would miss his senior prom and his graduation.

Surely they wouldn’t move before Christmas. Mom loved Christmas here. She was always on the steering committee, if not the president, of the Waxahachie Christmas Bazar. That had to mean something.

The dairy farm in Decatur, three years vacant now, used to be run by his dad’s brother. But Uncle Calvin, who had no family of his own, had died in 1952 while serving in the Korean conflict.

Also, Grandpa was getting older and needed help.

Tom tried to shake his feelings of apprehension and revel in the happy moments of his birthday dinner. No such luck. When the fire was down to a few burning embers, he covered the top of the barrel with the iron lid Dad had cut from the end of a larger barrel, then trotted back to the house through the chilly November night.

C H A P T E R   2

The fire is down to ashes, Mom, Tom said before she could ask. And yes, I put the lid on, just in case. He set the trash bin down near the end of the cabinet and washed his hands at the sink.

Happy birthday, son. I’m sorry it wasn’t more. She stopped drying the plate in her hand. Your eighteenth birthday should be special.

It was special, he said. I loved the cake and Grandpa Billy’s pocketknife. I’ll remember him by having it. Tom hesitated, then:

Mom?

Yes?

He realized he didn’t know what to say, much less how to say it.

Never mind. I’ll go see how Nettie is faring with the boys.

Her forehead creased, and she forced a weak smile, confirming to Tom that what he already feared was true.

The voice of a radio newscast drifted into the hallway as Tom passed the living room. He paused in the doorway to find his dad sitting in his brown leather chair, head leaned toward the speaker, elbows on his knees, massive hands clasped together under his chin. Fatty Cat, their black-and-white mouser stretched across the back of the sofa, opened her eyes and mewed a short comment in Tom’s direction.

Dad absently reached for his pipe and clamped it between his teeth, his mouth curving into a grimace. He hadn’t smoked since school had started earlier that fall, but still he played out the ritual night after night. Nettie thought he was trying to quit, but Tom didn’t believe it for a second. Dad was sacrificing tobacco because they needed the money. Every extra penny had gone for medicine for Rusty, who had contracted pneumonia twice in his four short years.Tom left Fatty Cat to watch over Dad and continued down the hall.In the room he shared with his brothers, Tom found Nettie sitting on the edge of his bed, reading Ginger Pye, a story of a lost dog, to Lane and Rusty. Two bunk beds crowded the space, leaving little room to maneuver. He saluted Jesse, who was staring at the ceiling from the top of their shared bunk, pretending he wasn’t listening to the story. Lane leaned over the side rail of the other, engrossed in the tale, while Rusty was tucked in down below with only his eyes peeking out from his quilt-covered head.

If I found a dog like Ginger Pye, Jesse said with unexpected passion, I would take care of him. I hope nothing happens in the story like what happened to Bernie.

Tom reached up and swatted Jesse’s leg, giving him a shut-up look. Jesse just shrugged in reply. Unbeknownst to the little ones, their cocker spaniel, Bernie, had been poisoned. Tom was certain he knew the neighbor who had done it, but he had no proof.

Tom felt a tap on his shoulder and turned.

Come to the living room, Mom said. And bring your sister.

His stomach did a flip. When he turned back, Nettie was closing the book. She looked up at Tom with a question on her face. He managed a smile and motioned for her to follow. She would hear the news soon enough.

Tom and Nettie slipped into the living room and sat on opposite ends of the sofa, facing their parents.