December 19, 1999

How Judge Harley got Christmas Spirit in Cross Road

Judge Harley has lived vividly in my memory because of the way he solved the Firewood Caper -- and discovered the spirit of Christmas in the aftermath.

When I was a lad in Athens, Texas, the two most important household appliances were cast-iron stoves.

One stove known as a “pot belly” was located in the front room to warm the principal living space. A grate in the ceiling allowed some heat to flow into the upstairs bedroom where Mother and Dad slept. My room had no grate, but a hot-water bottle and a feather comforter kept me snug on cold, winter nights.

The most important stove was a great, black “range” in the kitchen where Epicurean miracles were wrought. Ours was a deluxe “four holer” with nickel plate trim. A fire was built on one side of the fire box and embers raked hither and yon in accordance with requirements of favorite recipes.

Pork chops were fried directly over the stove’s “hot spot.” Bean soup, collard greens and turnips were simmered on the opposite side where dying coals gave a low, even heat. Cornbread and biscuits went into an oven alongside the firebox, and then were kept until needed in a “warmer” above the range top.

Both iron monsters gulped “stove wood” laboriously sawed and split by hand.

Judge Harley, despite his exalted position in the community, had to swing an ax along with his neighbors if he expected to eat and keep warm. He didn’t like the work, but he was partial to southern cooking. Therefore, he performed his wood chore faithfully – even if grumpily.

Being allergic to manual labor, His Honor seldom cut more wood than necessary for the next day’s supply. Consequently he noticed immediately when the split wood started to disappear from the pile near his back door.

“Dad-blamed kids have got to stop playing with the stove wood,” complained the judge to Mrs. Harley.

I became aware of the vanishing wood problem from Dick Harley, my bosom buddy. We were somewhat tolerated by the older kids who hung out in the Harley’s back lot.

We had a swing there slung over the branch of a mulberry tree. The swing was an old auto tire tied up with a ragged piece of rope that God, in His grace, kept strong year after year.

In late summer we ate mulberries or gathered them for mulberry fights. A ripe mulberry was delicious. As missiles, they left purple stains on the clothes of adversaries and resulted in scolding, or worse, from exasperated mothers – which was the object of the game. Death was preferred.

When life under, in and around the mulberry tree paled, we would adjourn to the woodpile. Usually the boys built “forts” from the pungent wood. Girls outlined “houses” which required “papas” recruited from the ranks of bored soldiers no longer needed to guard the ramparts.

Occasionally we carried the sticks down to a locust grove to make villages of “log cabins.” It was this activity that Judge Harley suspected depleted his woodpile.

In this instance, however, we were not guilty. We swore it truthfully by crossing our hearts, hoping to die and spitting between the first and second fingers of our right hand. That was powerful medicine in my childhood and convinced the judge we were not wood thieves.

* * *

As the weather grew colder, the wood vanished with increasing frequency. The judge cussed but kept splitting wood.

A crisis came the day before Christmas. Judge Harley had split a larger than usual supply of stove wood in anticipation of some serious cooking for the holiday. To his consternation, a goodly amount of fuel had disappeared.

The judge was grouchy to begin with. His recent caseload had been heavy as lawyers hurried to free their clients before the holidays. He vowed a police investigation and broadcast creative penalties he would inflict on any stove-wood criminals brought before his court.

* * *

On Christmas morning, after the excitement of gifts had abated somewhat, we were startled by a loud explosion. The Williams and Harleys rushed to their front yards.

“Something has happened at Cross Roads,” Dad declared. “I see a lot of people milling around there.”

“Dam!” exclaimed Judge Harley. “We better get right down there.”

Dad cranked up the model-T Ford, and we careened off to see what had happened.

We lived at the edge of town. About a mile down the road was a settlement called, simply, Cross Roads. It consisted of a general store, cotton gin, a few sharecroppers’ cabins and a rough-frame church.

A sizable explosion had blown out the church windows. Inside, a pot-belly stove lay on its side. Sections of stove pipes were scattered about. Soot coated walls and pews. Men with gunny sacks were beating out scattered embers.

The deacon was sitting up and taking nourishment from a jug. He seemed to be all right – although his hair and eyebrows were black cinders.

The church, like the rest of the buildings thereabouts, was heated by a potbelly stove. It was the deacon’s custom to build a fire in the stove a half-hour or so before service so the congregation would be comfortable for the next two or three hours. Poor folks wanted a lot of spiritual reinforcement to carry them through the vicissitudes of a hard life.

For some strange reason the stove exploded – fortunately before the main body of worshipers had arrived.

Church was late that day in Cross Roads, but Dad and Judge Harley pitched in and helped clean up the damage.

* * *

That afternoon, Dick and I were sitting under our front porch breaking in Christmas-gift jack knives with a game of mumblety-peg. Judge Harley came across the road and knocked on our door. Unnoticed, Dick and I became privy to a stupendous secret.

“Bill,” said the judge, “I’ve got a barrel of food, clothing and toys for the folks down at the Cross Roads church, and I’d be obliged if you would help me deliver it.”

“Sure thing, judge,” said my Dad. “You finally got the Christmas spirit?”

“Look, Bill,” the judge replied. “I’ll tell you something if you promise not to tell a living soul. I’m responsible for that explosion at Cross Roads this morning.”

“You see,” he continued, “when I determined that the young-uns weren’t taking my stove wood, I figured it was some no-account trash that needed a lesson in property rights. So I bored a hole in one of the sticks, put in a four-ten shotgun shell and plugged it up nice and neat.

“Never thought I’d get me a church deacon. The Lord provides in mysterious ways. I guess He’s trying to tell me something – maybe that we should share, Christmas- like, all year long.”

“Nolo contendere,” said Dad softly.

Author: Lindsey Williams