The Eagle Outdoors

Christmas, circa 1976

So here we are; another Christmas. Pardon the cliché, but it only seems like yesterday we were looking forward to Washington's bottom fish opener. For those of you who might not know, that's the second Saturday in March. Now the year's about over. I reckon it's true; we can halt the progress of damn near everything, save time.

It's been an interesting December; aquatic armageddon, wind, more rain, and a toilet that, albeit briefly, said, 'No' when asked to flush. My December has been made even more interesting by events concerning my parents (ages 84 and 85) in Ohio. "You knew when you moved away that these days were going to come," my mother just told me. I did, as I've known since '93, when I left Ohio for southwest Washington the first time.

I do remember Christmas quite fondly in northeast Ohio in the 70s. Television antennas with octopus-esque cables running down into the house to an (even then) antiquated rotor atop the console. The screen was glowing with a grainy version of the '64 classic "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer." A $15 'You-Cut' tree festooned at the outside with those thin strips of silvery tinsel that, once used, remained scattered about the house until the end of time.

The folks, both high school teachers, didn't have much. Pop worked at U.S. Gypsum, a local steel mill, in the summer. We had a house and a '70 Ford F-100 with a three-speed on the column and a 300 straight six, which was more than some. Come bill paying time, I'd watch Mom try to get eight gallons from a five-gallon bucket, but it all worked somehow. Mom made sure I had hunting gloves and shotgun shells under the tree. My younger brother, a budding artist, got colored pencils. From my Slovak grandparents, Babi and Dzedo, I got $10, which, in '76, I immediately spent on my very own copy of Bruce McBroom's iconic poster of a red one-piece clad Farrah Fawcett.

Perhaps oddly enough, Christmas, in the 70s, was about the outdoors and family. Together, we went out to Lake Milton, past old Howard Klingeman's squirrel woods. Upon arrival at the farm, Mom would make the all-important executive decision, leaving the "old man" to fall the tree with his orange-handled bow saw. Maybe that year, it was a tree farm out past Fiest Hardwoods, Simmons' Swamp, and the slag piles. Regardless, it was a family thing; tradition, if you will. Oversized three-buckler boots with your feet swathed in Wonder Bread bags. If you're under 40, ask your Grandpa about those. At home, the Old Man would wrestle the tree into an old-school metal holder and prop it the northwest corner of the small living room; the process in its entirety blanketed with the maternal reminder to water. The 70s were Midnight (Catholic) Mass, actually held at midnight on Christmas Eve. There was, as this was prior to the climate change 'hoax,' snow on the ground. It was food, family, and a day-after rabbit hunt. After that, a trip down the Mahoning River in the Old Man's 12 foot Sears V-hull. The charcoal was burning in a #10 coffee can we used as a heater. We were in the hopes of finding a Christmas split mallard or black duck.

Christmas is different now. Mom and Pop are retired. A float down the west branch of the Mahoning might turn up a mallard or two, but the black ducks are gone. So, too, are the tree farms, the Farrah Fawcett poster, and the '70 F-100. It's all still good, though. It doesn't take much talking to get the grandkids (ages 12, 14, and 18) to join me on a holiday duck hunt, or a walk in the hills in search of last-minute chanterelle mushrooms. Maybe we'll go bowling, take our 12,639th visit to Marsh's Free Museum, or go clamming. With a nonchalant smile reminiscent of my old man, I'll wrap the long narrow boxes containing the shotguns and centerfire rifles I grew up with and pass them along, grinning inside like Alice's mysterious cat. Christmas today, for me, is more memory than anything else. They're awfully hard to wrap these memories, but they're awfully easy to hold.

From Julie and me, Abigail the black dog, mama kid'n, Mikey, Aero (Mama's son), Miss Kitty (the stray cat), and all 11 girl chickens, here's wishing you all a wonderful and wonderfully safe and enjoyable Christmas. Unless the white hats at The Eagle fire me, we'll plan on doing it again next year, eh?