Seven

When the seven men left the house, they were well prepared for the activity ahead. Four of them carried double-headed axes, and one man pulled a sled with a two-man saw tied to it. Despite the lack of snow, the sled trailed rather easily over the carpet of leaves and pine needles. To T. J.’s surprise, Judge Ragsdale was carrying a rifle.

“Are we going hunting?” T. J. asked.

Ragsdale laughed. “Well, not for anything we can eat.”

The gray sky hung threateningly above. The change in the weather surprised T. J.; it had been a bright, sunny day when they arrived.

“Boys, I do believe the children are going to get their wish,” Ragsdale said. “It looks like it’s going to snow.”

“That’s funny,” T. J. said. “I checked the weather forecast before I left home. There was no snow predicted.”

“Well, I don’t know what prediction that was, but the Farmers’ Almanac foretold snow for December 24,” Angus MacLeod said.

“That’s a fact,” Anderson agreed. “I do everything by the Almanac.”

“A fella’s a fool that don’t,” Duncan added.

The men crossed an open field, then started up a path that led into the woods. Within a short distance, the path ascended steeply.

“You know, I’ve really only seen these woods from a distance,” T. J. said. “This is the first time I’ve ever been this close. With all the red maple trees, it must be beautiful in the fall.”

“Yes,” Judge Ragsdale replied “And the dogwood and sourwood are pretty in the spring as well. Have you ever tasted sourwood honey?”

“No, I can’t say that I have,” T. J. admitted.

“Well, we have some put up. When we get back I’ll have Sylvia serve us some hot biscuits with butter and sourwood honey. There’s nothing better.”

If anyone had asked, T. J. would have answered that he was in pretty good shape. He routinely worked out in the gym, but he found it difficult to keep up with the others, who seemed to climb effortlessly up the narrow mountain trail. He could see his breath forming vapor clouds in the frigid air.

“How much farther is it?” he finally asked.

“It’s just a bit,” Ragsdale said, reassuringly.

“Have pity on Mr. Carmichael, Judge. He’s a city fella,” Duncan said. “Maybe we should slow down a bit.”

“You want to slow down, Mr. Carmichael?” Judge Ragsdale asked.

“No, I’m fine,” T. J. said. “I was just curious.”

They walked on for another half hour, finally reaching an open area at the top of the mountain.

“There it is.” The judge pointed to a fallen tree. “I saw it here last summer and figured it would be cured just about right come Christmastime.”

“What part of it do you want to take out, John?” Duncan asked.

“I’ve already got it measured and marked to fit the fireplace,” Judge Ragsdale said. “From here to here will be just about right.” He showed them the blaze marks he had cut into the tree.

The younger men started working on the tree then, two at each end of the log. The four worked in near-perfect harmony, the powerful axe blows causing the woodchips to fly.

“What do you think of the log, Mr. Carmichael?” the judge asked.

“It seems awfully big,” T. J. said.

“Indeed it is big. I figure we’ll light it tonight, and it will still be burning tomorrow morning.”

“What are you going to do, use a power saw to cut it up more?” T. J. asked.

Judge Ragsdale laughed. “What? Take this to the mill and let them cut it up for us? No, there’s no need for their powerful blade. Besides, it’s a Yule log, not Yule kindling,” he teased. “We’ll burn it all in one piece.”

The others laughed at the judge’s joke.

As they continued to chop, T. J. walked over to the edge of the clearing and looked out over the range of mountains. The snow had begun falling steadily, and the tops of the trees glistened white. They were far from any interstate or other paved road, so far removed from “civilization” that it was almost as if they were on the backside of the moon.

He heard loud cheering behind him, and when he turned he saw that the cutters had done their job. The section of tree trunk Judge Ragsdale had pointed out now lay separated from the rest of the tree.

“Boys,” he said ceremoniously, “behold our Yule log! Let’s get it on the sled so we can take it home.”

A couple of men brought up the sled, then four of them loaded the very large log.

Judge Ragsdale pulled a cloth bag from inside his coat and held it out. “Angus, if you and Thomas would go over there toward that little hollow, I think you’ll find enough chestnuts to fill this bag. You other three start cutting greenery, pine boughs, and holly. Mr. Carmichael, you come with me.”

T. J. followed the judge a little farther up the path.

“All that’s left now is the mistletoe,” Judge Ragsdale said. “And I saw some up here just the other day.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen mistletoe in the wild. In fact, the only time I’ve ever seen it at all is at somebody’s Christmas party.”

“Where do you think they got it?” Ragsdale asked.

“Well, I’m sure they bought it. Around Christmastime you can get it just about anywhere.”

“They bought it? You mean people will pay good money for something they can just go out into the woods and harvest themselves?”

Now it was T. J.’s turn to laugh. “Judge, when you live in the middle of a city, you don’t always have the opportunity to gather it for yourself.”

“I suppose that’s right,” Ragsdale relented. “I don’t really know much about city living, though I once took a train from Chattanooga down to Mobile.”

“The Chattanooga Choo Choo,” T. J. said, smiling.

“Hmm. I never heard ’em call it that, but I reckon that’s what it was.” The judge held up his hand. “Hold on, here we are.” He looked up into the trees, then a big smile broke across his face. “Yes, sir, there it is.”

“Where?” T. J. looked around in confusion.

“Up there.” Judge Ragsdale pointed, his arm held at about a sixty-degree angle. “The thing about mistletoe is, it doesn’t ever seem to grow close to the ground. It’s about three-quarters of the way up that tree.”

“Oh, yeah, I see it. It is way up there, isn’t it? How are we going to get it down?”

“Why, we’re going to shoot it down, of course.” Ragsdale handed his rifle to T. J. “Here, you can have the first shot.”

T. J. looked at the weapon, holding it stiffly. “Uh, I don’t know about this. I’ll be honest with you, Judge. I’ve never even fired a gun.”

“You’ve never fired a gun in your entire life?” the judge asked, obviously astonished.

“I’ve just never been into guns.”

“Well, there’s nothing to it,” Judge Ragsdale explained. “All you have to do is jack a round into the chamber with this lever.” He pulled the lever down, then back up. “Now, see how this hammer is pulled back?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that means it’s ready to fire. So after you put a bullet in the chamber, you should let the hammer down real easy, like this.” The judge eased the hammer down, then handed the rifle to T. J.

The rifle felt awkward in T. J.’s hands. He wanted to hand it back but realized that at best it would be an admission of his inadequacy, and at worst an insult to the judge. He raised it to his shoulder.

“All right, now is the time to pull back on the hammer,” the judge instructed.

T. J. thumbed the hammer back. The little metallic click echoed loudly in the silence of the woods.

“Now, what you do is look up the barrel there and put the front site in the middle of the back site, and line it up with the mistletoe. When you’re ready, pull the trigger. But you want to squeeze it, not jerk on it.”

Following the judge’s instruction, T. J. aimed at the mistletoe, then carefully squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked back against his shoulder, and he saw pieces of the tree limb fly away from the impact of the bullet. The gunshot echoed back from the surrounding hills in repeated volleys. When all was said and done, though, the clump of mistletoe was still there. “You want a second shot at it?” Judge Ragsdale asked.

Sheepishly, T. J. shook his head and handed the rifle back to the judge. “No. I’d just be wasting bullets.”

“Well, I’ll probably miss it too,” the judge said. “It’s not that easy to bring down.” Cocking the rifle, he raised it to his shoulder, took aim, and fired. A large clump of mistletoe fell from the branch, and it was on the ground before the last echo died away.

“You got it,” T. J. said.

“Hmm. Lucky shot, I reckon.”

T. J. didn’t say anything, but he was pretty certain that wasn’t the case.

“Let’s get back and help the others gather the greenery,” Ragsdale suggested.

By the time the men returned to the house, the tree was decorated with ropes of green and red yarn and the garlands of popcorn and holly berries the children had put together. Whitewashed pinecones hung amid the cloth bows and other decorations.

“All right, children, now it’s time to spread the greenery around,” Sylvia said. With cheers the children ran outside to bring in the pine boughs, while the men carried in the log and put it in the fireplace. Within a short time the keeping room, as well as the foyer and staircase banister, were decorated in greenery, augmented with large, red, cloth bows.

“There, now,” Mrs. Ragsdale said when all was done. “Haven’t the children done a good job?”

“A good job? They’ve done a marvelous job,” Madison said. “I don’t think I have ever seen a house more beautifully decorated.”