12/11/2025
Gary Carden will present an "old Christmas" program at City Lights Bookstore at 6 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 13.
He will discuss many of the old superstitions and beliefs about Christmas and cover traditional celebrations such as serenading, dumb suppers and the "lost" 12 days of Christmas.
Below is a story Gary wrote about a Christmas long ago.
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A Christmas Eve to remember
By Gary Carden
My Christmas Eve experience in 1952 begins in Dillsboro when my grandfather stopped to get gas from Cap Weaver, who ran a little Esso station directly across the street from the Jarrett House.
Cap stayed open early and late; and since he had a Bermuda Bell, it got him in trouble.
It rang each time a customer stopped at Cap’s. The Bermuda Bells give a loud DING-DANG, that can be heard a mile away, so when Cap’s bell sounded around midnight, lights came on all over Dillsboro and angry phone calls were made.
Cap was an old bachelor who slept on a cot in the station with a couple of hounds. I liked him since he always came to the car with a “Guess what?” which was a kind of candy that no longer exists. It was a kind of early Cracker Jack.
Cap warned my grandfather that there was snow in Cowee and we might find ourselves stuck on Cowee mountain. This was the old road, and it was a looping, crooked trip that went along the river and then up the mountain to Clark’s place where there was a big water wheel. Before we got to the top of the mountain, the snow was heavy and it was a slow snow that fell with deceptive gentleness.
Before long, grandpa had to stop occasionally and get out and prod the snow to be sure we were still on the concrete. After we passed Rickman’s store, we were down to a crawl, but my grandfather was stubborn; he intended to spend Christmas with his mother.
When we took the little cutoff going to Aunt Nancy’s (that is what everyone called my great-grandmother), we managed to cross the little bridge over the creek that ran by Aunt Nancy’s house. He stopped and said we could walk from there.
We got out and found the snow to be over knee-high and still falling. We walked slowly and I followed grandpa, who knew where he was. Before we had gone a hundred yards, we saw the house and the porch was crowded with relatives. I recognized the barn and the spring house that was fed by a spring that ran through hollow pine logs to the trough. The out-house was memorable since it was over the creek which was what was called a “bold” stream.
When we finally climbed the steps, we found ourselves surrounded by Daltons, Gibsons and Hursts. We were ushered into the house where we were greeted by “Aunt Nancy.”
My grandmother, Aunt Nancy Hurst Carden, was in a bed that had a straight-backed chair with a pillow placed against the chair’s back, propping her up. There she sat, in her 90s, erect and facing her visitors.
Over the years, I discovered that this was not an uncommon scene. Poor folks in Appalachia often created this throne where treasured grandmothers would greet company.
Aunt Nancy had cataracts and was partially deaf, but she ruled her household and made most of the domestic decisions.
We were ushered to the fireplace which was huge and contained two and three-foot firelogs. As we stood in a puddle of melting snow, I noticed the writing on the wall above the fireplace. “God Bless this School.”
This was the room where children were taught, and Cardens were the teachers. Along one wall was an impressive shelf for books which the local bookmobile kept stocked. I read my first Jesse Stewart novel here.
The meal that night was awesome, and most of it was brought by the relatives. We ate leather britches, creamed corn, tenderloin and gritted cornbread. After supper, we all sat around Aunt Nancy’s bed and she told stories ... wonderful stories that featured bears, flash floods and forest fires. Eventually, people began to take their leave. All of them lived nearby, but regardless, I didn’t envy them that trip home.
Grandpa and I slept in the attic, so we climbed the rickety steps that were stacked with tintypes, all photographs that had been developed in the sun. Aunt Nancy’s husband had been a photographer.
She told me, “Jest about ever-body that lives in Cowee has their picture here.”
We slept in a feather bed and I had no trouble going to sleep; woke in the morning to find little rows of snow on my quilt .... it had drifted in through the shingles during the night.
We came down to a big breakfast: ham and eggs and cat-head biscuits, red-eye gravy and sourwood honey. I was told to wash my hands before I ate and I found the water frozen in the wash pan.
It had finally stopped snowing and grandpa was determined to go to the cove which was a piece of land that he owned and I think it was 30 or 40 acres. My grandfather talked about it often, and said that he planned to move into that remote cove someday, and he hoped to never hear another car horn for the rest of his life. There were quail and partridge everywhere, and he would have chickens that “roosted in the trees.” The cove had several springs so he would have plenty of water.
Back at Aunt Nancy’s, the neighbors were gathered around her bed as she told about the night of a winter storm, perhaps 10 years ago, when someone knocked at the door near to midnight. Aunt Elsie opened the door to find three convicts who said, “We are freezin’, ma’am.”
Great granny invited them in ... gave them a place in front of the fire and cousin Irene took them to the barn and gave them blankets and quilts. They ate their breakfast the following morning and washed the plates in the snow ... and then they were gone.
One of them returned several years later with his wife and infant son. “You saved us,” he said. She still got Christmas cards from him.
That is all buried in the past now. After Aunt Nancy died, the house burned and all of those Hursts and Daltons scattered to the four winds, my grandfather found himself paying medical bills for ailing relatives, and so he sold the cove. It is full of condominiums now and the quail and partridge vanished.
My grandfather is buried in Love Field near the highway.
I hope he does not hear the traffic.
Storyteller, writer and playwright Gary Carden lives in Sylva. Learn more about him at www.blueridgeheritage.com/artist/gary-carden/.
