Story Telling Time

By Kristi Buckham


Every year, just before Christmas, the third generation of our family gathers in festive spirit to decorate Christmas cookies. It has been a family tradition for at least twenty years. We’ve grown from a young group of rambunctious cousins to women with degrees and rings on our fingers. Somehow, we coordinate our corporate schedules each December to meet at grandma’s house—to revisit our youth and sing along to Andy Williams.

It has been three years since we lost our grandpa, George Kingsley Buckham. If his old farmhouse was his palace, then his rocking chair near the wood-burning stove was his throne. That is where he read the Kalamazoo Gazette cover to cover; his glasses low on his nose. Every time we came to visit he would toss his paper aside as he emerged from his chair. He expressed his love to us by placing his tough old hand on our cheeks and exclaiming, “you’re such a joy!”

Grandpa loved the holidays and enjoyed the laughter and commotion from the kitchen when we decorated Christmas cookies. One year he came into the kitchen to observe. Grandpa stuttered and was very careful with his words. His kind brown eyes were deep with pride and appreciation as he told us, “This is our culture.”

“This is our culture.” It’s a phrase that emerges in our family each holiday season. As we mix ingredients into a large bowl of sweet batter, I know we all see grandpa’s empty chair in the family room. And we keep baking. It is our culture to honor the love and togetherness that he fostered throughout his lifetime. It is our culture, and such a joy, to preserve the stories and traditions passed along through the generations.

My grandpa was an avid letter writer who called written correspondence a “dying art.” He wrote columns for several national livestock publications, and his Christmas Story was a favorite among his readers. It was also a favorite among his grandchildren.

I remember grandpa reclined in his chair next to the crackling stove; his large, calloused hands entwined in his lap. An old western was muted on the television as we gathered around him while another batch of Christmas cookies baked in the oven. It was Story Telling Time. The story began at the family farm on Kalamazoo’s West Side—it encompasses triumph in tough times and reflects a culture of love that never dies.

Please read and enjoy Story Telling Time, by George K. Buckham:

We’ll go back to 1938, when my twin brother and I were 10 years old. We were just coming out of the Great Depression of the early 1930s. Like everyone else, we were as poor as church mice, but things were finally looking up for us and the rest of the country.

At the time, we didn’t have a tractor. We had eight good workhorses, and we always raised two or three colts a year. My father took great pride in his horses, as he did all of his livestock. He gave them special care, and in return he expected them to always produce, work, and of course, help him make his living as a farmer.

It was about dark, a week before Christmas, when we heard a knock on our door. It was a fellow who owned a fuel truck. He had gotten his truck stuck delivering fuel to one of our neighbors and he wondered if we had a tractor that could pull him out of a very muddy driveway. My father told him that we had no tractor, but he did have a great team of horses that could pull better than most tractors of that time.

The fuel man of course thought that my father was crazy to think a team of horses could accomplish this tough feat. But my dad assured the man that he could pull him out. We quickly went to the barn to get the horses harnessed. Before we left, my dad made sure that the harness was clean and polished, and he brushed the team’s manes and tails. We hooked them onto a hay wagon and drove the mile to where the truck was stuck.

By the time we got there, probably 15 or 20 people were standing around waiting for the big show to start. Of course, not one of them thought that our great team could pull the truck out of the mud. We quickly hooked the team to the back of the truck as my father instructed the fuel man to start the truck and be ready to back up when he started to pull.

But things did not go as planned. The driver killed his truck, and Dad’s team failed to pull like they were supposed to. I could see by the look in my father’s eyes that he knew he was in trouble, and maybe he had bitten off more than he could handle.

My father quickly halted his team to a stop. He seized them by their bridles and just stared into their eyes. He then spoke to them in a very stern voice, as though they were human, and told them his very reputation as a horseman and livestock man was at stake. They could pull the load and were not to let him down. Then, he again shook their bridles and just glared at them.

At this time, I was relieved to see that my dad was in control, and his big team had understood the meaning of his stern words. But the suspense began as he told the driver to start the truck and that he better be able to keep it going. My father had changed his strategy this time. He backed up his big team and was going to give the truck a huge jerk to get it moving.

I can still see it and have thought about it a million times. My father had backed his team up. The reins looked like shoelaces intertwined with his huge hands. He held the lines so tightly; you could almost hear them crack under the pressure. He was calling out their names, very slowly at the start, his voice getting louder with each second. When he thought his team was together and ready to pull, he let out a war whoop to PULL! When the force of the pull hit the horses, it picked their front ends off the ground as though they were dangling in the air. They were breathing so hard it looked as though fire and smoke were streaming from their nostrils in the cold night.

When my father’s powerful team came down, they were together, pulling like the champions that they were. My father was calling out their names, commanding them to stop. He had let the lines almost drop and was towering over them as the horses were almost up to their knees in the soft, muddy ground. But every step got easier. When they reached the road, my dad even put a flare of showmanship into his great pull. He turned his horses sharply in the road to pull the truck around and straighten it out.

The look on his face was one my brother and I had seldom seen during the hard years of the 1930s. He was almost laughing, his eyes dancing like big brown diamonds. What he did next I will never forget. He took the horses by the bridles, looked them deep in the eyes, and thanked them for not letting him down. The horses, still breathing almost fire and smoke, with slobber all over their mouths, rubbed their damp heads all over his shoulders, knocking his hat off. It was like three kids bragging and laughing about a great victory, a truly joyous moment. Everybody was shaking hands with my dad, confirming what a great team of horses he had. You can be sure that he was enjoying that special moment as much as we were.

We quickly hooked the horses up to the wagon, and I got to drive them home. The Christmas trees were lit in the neighbor’s homes. The sounds of the horses’ hooves on the pavement were like a Christmas carol as I let them trot home.

Maybe you had to be there to appreciate this special event. Or maybe one had to live at that time to appreciate the special emotion that my brother, father and I had felt that cold night. To me, it will always be the greatest livestock event that I have ever seen. The ribbons and trophies weren’t there, but there was no doubt that my father was a master livestock man.

Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.