A Rocky Mountain Christmas

by Ann Carol Ulrich

Nearby two student workers decorated a large evergreen tree. They had already strung lights on the long-needled pine, and a girl stood on a stool while her helper handed her ornaments. It was then that Owen noticed that "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" was playing in the background.

Another Christmas season, he realized, was upon them. How he hated this time of year, all the damn fuss, all the stupid excitement, all of the phony sparkle and glitter of garlands, of annoying jingle bells, of ridiculous snowmen, bug-eyed reindeer and silly Santa Clauses.

It seemed everywhere you looked there were Christmas decorations, on campus or downtown. The stores had transformed into overpopulated mazes where people bumped into each other and long lines were the rule. Clerks, looking drained and overworked, couldn't help being rude, and little kids bawled because their parents wouldn't buy some silly trinket.

Owen looked at the tree and thought it a shame so many fine trees had to be murdered each year -- just so families could erect them in their houses for a week or two, only to discard them on New Year's Day as if they were rubbish.

He had been 3 or 4 when he had waded through snow up to his tiny waist. Bundled in a red snowsuit, boots and mittens too big for his hands, he followed his mom and dad up a tree-covered slope off the road. Dad carried the ax and Mom laughed as Owen flailed about in the ocean of whiteness, purposely falling because it was soft and he liked the crisp wetness. His memory of Dad cutting that first Christmas tree was as if it had happened last week.

And each year after that, the family made a tradition out of getting the tree and taking it home for Christmas. He recalled the presents stacked high around it on Christmas morning and the colored, blinking lights each night as he'd lie on the carpet next to the fire, studying the shiny wrapped gifts. Then Mom taking him to his bed and reading delightful stories about reindeer and elves and shoemakers and sugarplum fairies. The coziness of it all warmed him for a second or two.

Then, suddenly, he caught himself. With a slight jerk, Owen returned to his book. Now "We Three Kings" was playing. He wished they'd put on some Amorphis or Deceased. He was starting to get depressed. Christmas treason. What a joke it was. Each year it seemed to get a little worse.

There had been a time in his life when Christmas had been the highlight of his year. The magic of it had captivated him like nothing before. He remembered the year they had gotten him the Nintendo, back when Nintendos were still a novelty. He remembered how he'd spent hours playing the games in his room until his eyes were red, his wrist sore from pushing buttons, and the repetitive music possessing his brain. He couldn't rest until he'd passed each game, every level.

Christmas Eve Mom always made the family go to church. He'd be almost sick with anxiety, could hardly wait to get home and open the traditional one Christmas Eve gift. Then, getting to sleep so that Santa would come was a task that seemed nearly impossible. He'd awaken when it was still dark, tiptoe to his brother's room and lean over his bed. "Hey, Jimmy... Jimmy, wake up. I think Santa Claus has been here!" Of course, they had to be quiet because Mom and Dad were still in bed and would yell at them if they didn't sleep until daylight.

Mom was one of those people who loved to torture little boys by prolonging Christmas. She had said that when she was growing up, they all waited until after breakfast to open the gifts. And sometimes not till 10 or 11! Owen recalled that Mom didn't allow anyone to open gifts until she had dressed and brushed her teeth. And the goodies -- Mom made such a production out of baking Christmas cookies, fudge and toffee. Owen, when he was small, had been her right-hand assistant, and his natural-born artistic ability had kicked in when she had him decorate the cookies with colored frosting and sugars. He remembered how his tummy would ache after licking two many spoonfuls of frosting and sampling a dozen cookies when Mom's back was turned. He and Jimmy once went wild and mixed the colored frostings together to produce hideous, unappetizing concoctions of gray that they were very proud of.

"What are you smiling about, dude?"

Owen glanced up and saw Tory's smile and sparkling blue eyes. "Oh, hi."

She sat down beside him, clutching her books to her chest. "Where were you just off to -- La-La Land?"

Owen shook his head as if to dispel the colorful memories from his mind. "Nowhere." He stood and she did the same. "Let's go get something to eat." They started to leave.

Tory stopped in front of the Christmas tree. "What a gorgeous tree! I just love Christmas," she said as they went out the door. "I'm getting into the spirit."

Owen grumbled.

"What's the matter? Don't you like Christmas? Tory asked him.

There was no sense lying about it. "Not really."

Tory stared at him as they walked. "Owen, she finally said, "what's bothering you?"

"Nothing." He shrugged.

But she was too perceptive. "Owen, I know better. Come on." She led him off campus to a little pub. She ordered two beers and they sat in a quiet corner where the smoke and noise were not so intrusive. Somebody put money in the jukebox and Wayne Newton sang "Jingle Bell Rock."

"Wayne Newton sucks," said Owen.

Tory drank from her glass. "I always kinda liked that song," she confessed. "Why are you such a wet towel during the holidays?"

Owen hung his head, watching the bubbles begin to disintegrate in his beer. "I can't help it, Tory. Christmas depresses me."

"I suppose it's depressing to a lot of people, Owen. I'm sure you're not alone."

He sighed. "It was just never the same."

"What do you mean?" she prompted.

"It all started when I was 13. Christmas was coming and that's when..." He hesitated a moment and swallowed. "That's when my parents split up."

"Oh." Tory waited patiently for him to continue.

"It was such a shock. No one believed it could happen. And it ruined Christmas. My dad took us kids to my grandparents' and my mom stayed at home... alone. Dad said she needed time by herself... you know, to think things over." He sipped his beer. "But I couldn't enjoy Christmas at my grandparents'. All they did was talk about how crazy my mom was -- you know, not in her right mind. It really disturbed me."

"Was she..." Tory hesitated to ask.

"Of course not! She is not crazy!" Anger erupted and Owen immediately smothered it.

"I'm sorry."

"And so ever since then, I haven't been too happy about Christmas," said Owen. "It will never be like it was... how I remember it... all of us together... as a family..." He felt hot tears blur his eyes.

Two weeks later, finals were over and Owen arrived at his mother's place. She lived in a small cabin on a wooded, snowy lot in the mountains of western Colorado. It was his home now, too, and he could see the joy in his mother's eyes when he drove up and she stood at the door grinning. In a couple more days his brothers, Jimmy and Kyle, would arrive to spend the holidays. They came at Christmas and during the summer.

"Owen, you made it." She wrapped him in her arms. "I knew you would. Come in by the fire and get warm. I've made some of your favorite cookies."

Twenty minutes later, he was sitting in front of the wood fire as it blazed, with hot chocolate in his hands, watching the orange flames leap from the burning aspen and spruce. The cabin was small with just a loft above for a bedroom. When all three boys were visiting, it made tight quarters. There was no room for a Christmas tree in Mom's cabin.

"Don't you miss having a tree?" Owen asked, staring into the flickering flames.

Mom sat in her little rocker, stitching something by hand. He didn't know what. "A little maybe. But I have all my trees outside. They're all special this time of year."

"But... don't you miss..." He broke off, unable to finish.

She rocked in silence for a few moments, then said, "I have many wonderful memories of Christmas, Owen... just as you do." Then she said, "I know you're feeling a little blue. It can be a nostalgic time as well as a joyous time."

He felt something uncomfortable start to well up from within. He wanted to ask why she had caused the family to break up, anyway. He knew deep inside it was not all her fault. Despite what he had heard from his father's side of the family, he knew the blame did not lie with just one or the other of his parents. And in the bitter struggle that had followed that fateful Christmas past, he watched how one parent, out of revenge, gained wealth and control while the other fell into submission and poverty.

Strangely enough, it was his mother who seemed content, living a peaceful life in a remote area, while his father had remarried and succumbed to an upwardly mobile lifestyle where the most expensive house and car became his priorities.

The flakes were fluttering down, growing heavier, as Owen swung the splitting maul with full force. The chunk of aspen on the block smashed in half and the wood fell away at his feet. He reached for another round stacked neatly beside him.

Fifty feet away the log cabin was warm and cozy, a stream of smoke escaping from the chimney on the side. He positioned the round on the block and raised the maul once more. His toes were starting to get cold. Maybe after this one he'd go inside to check on the fire. Mom had left an hour ago to get his two younger brothers at the airport. It would be three hours, at least, till they returned.

He swung the maul and planted another perfect impact. The wood groaned and cracked apart. He loved splitting wood. Yeah, maybe it was work and hard work at that -- and Owen had never wanted to work very hard -- but he liked the feeling it gave his biceps. He liked to feel his developing manly strength in his upper torso. And he liked the satisfaction of causing a heavy chunk of wood to shatter into pieces. Somehow it relieved some hidden aggression he clung to, and after a good hour or two at the wood pile, he liked the euphoric reward of having done something worthwhile.

He had split two more and was setting up the next round when suddenly Owen noticed a flicker of movement out the corner of his eye. He looked around. All he saw were the snowflakes drifting to the ground. Perhaps a bird had lit nearby. Anyway, it was time for a well-deserved break. He set the maul next to the stump used for a chopping block and went to the cabin.

Inside he removed his gloves, his boots and his jacket and went to the refrigerator for something cold and refreshing. No beer, but there was a jar of cranberry juice. He poured himself a cup and sat at the small wooden table to rest. The fire was burning fine, but he'd throw in another log before going out again.

A scratch at the door startled him. Owen got up and went to see what it was. Opening the door just a crack, he saw a mule-eared doe and her half-grown fawn standing four feet away, both staring at him with alert, brown eyes and ears wide.

"Moocher," he crooned, "I should have known it was you. And Little One... you hungry?" He didn't open the door too wide because the deer, although quite tame, were still skittish and might dart away in fear. "Let me see if we have any apples," he said.

Owen found half a dozen red apples by the sink, ones his mother kept just for the deer. The mother doe had been coming to Mom's cabin for at least two winters. Each year she brought a new fawn. They had an affinity for apples and Mom had kept the fruit on hand, particularly in cold weather.

He cut up the apples and stood at the door, slowly tossing them the pieces. Moocher and her baby munched them, bit by bit, each time looking up at him and chewing. When they swallowed he could see the apple slide down their long necks. When he told his friends at college about Mom feeding the deer, they were incredulous. Although there were other deer around, only Moocher and her young ever stopped for handouts. The other deer were too timid to come close. They were munching the last bits of the fourth apple when suddenly the fawn's ears perked up. Moocher's ears also went up and after a glance toward the direction of the wood pile, the mother and her fawn turned and pranced toward the deep woods.

Owen wondered what had frightened them. He pulled on his boots and jacket and stepped outside. At first he didn't see anything. He was just about to go back in when he caught a glimpse of yellow behind the wood pile. He quickly made his way over for a closer look. Before he reached the wood pile, a young boy in a yellow coat sprang out from his hiding place and ran off into the woods.

"Run, Peter!" a child's voice shrieked in the distance. "Hurry, man!"

Owen didn't waste a second. "Hey!" he yelled. "Wait! Come back!" In a flash he was after the boy, who must have been about 8 or 9 years old with a mess of black hair.

As he caught up to the lad, he became aware of another boy, slightly older, pulling a load on a large board over the snow with a rope.

"Jonathan!" yelled the younger one.

Owen caught him by the hood of his yellow coat and the force of his grip caused the boy to slip to the ground.

Intense fear was on the boy's face, which showed deep brown eyes and a dark complexion. At first Owen thought he was Hispanic. "Let me go, mister! Please!" cried the boy.

The older boy, Jonathan, abandoned his makeshift sled, which Owen noticed now was full of some of the wood he had split. Jonathan also had dark features and looked to be about 12.

"Come over here!" Owen commanded. To his amazement, Jonathan obeyed. He, too, looked fearful. "What are you two doing? Where were you going with that wood?"

The two boys looked at each other but refused to answer him. It was then that Owen noticed the two of them were shivering, their lips trembling. Neither of them had on any hats or gloves. Peter's jeans had a big hole in the knee and his shoes were soaked.

Finally the older boy spoke. "We only meant to borrow some wood."

"What for?"

"Grandfather told us to get some," Peter said in a trembling voice. "It's cold and he needed a fire."

Owen was baffled. He didn't know of any neighbors within miles of his mother's place. "Where is your grandfather?" he asked.

Jonathan pointed toward the woods.

"How far?" asked Owen.

"Not far," Jonathan replied.

"Take me there," Owen commanded. Jonathan looked at the loaded sled. "Leave it." He then followed the two boys through the woods.

They trudged through the accumulating snow until ahead of them appeared a small shack, dilapidated and probably once used as a cow camp shelter. The structure wasn't much bigger than his mother's shed and there were loose boards and cracked windows.

Owen was appalled to think the two boys had meant this was their home. "This can't be where you live," he said.

Peter led him through the doorway, which consisted of a heavy canvas flap over the entryway. Owen found a door underneath, but the window in it was missing.

Inside it was dark and cold. Owen's eyes slowly grew accustomed as he made out a small room with a rickety table, two chairs, one of which was broken, and bunk beds in the corner. A barrel stove was in the middle of the room. Wadded up pages from old newspapers and magazines were on the floor beside it. There was a thin, worn cotton sleeping bag on one of the bunk beds, and a door that led into another smaller room.

"Grandfather!" Peter called out.

A moment later an elderly man with long gray hair emerged from the inner room. He was hunched over and limping. Owen noticed a wrinkled Native American face as the old man's piercing dark eyes squinted at him. His clothes were old and he was bundled in a torn parka.

"What do you want of us?" demanded the children's grandfather. His voice was raspy and his breathing labored.

"My name is Owen. My mother lives in the cabin in the woods." He wanted to ask the old man why he had sent his grandsons out to steal firewood. He wanted to say that he didn't appreciate it when his mother depended on that wood to make it through the winter. But he swallowed instead.

"He caught us taking his wood," Jonathan confessed.

"Grandfather, I'm hungry." Peter was still shivering and hugged himself.

The old Indian fell into a coughing spell and had to sit down. Jonathan helped his grandfather into a chair.

"I'll be right back," said Owen and bolted from the shack. The snow was coming down harder as he ran back the way they had come and found the makeshift sled loaded with split wood. He grabbed hold of the rope and began dragging the contraption to the shack.

No one questioned him when he carried in some wood and knelt beside the barrel stove to get a fire started. He used the crumpled papers that were there, and with his pocketknife he shaved some tinder off one of the chunks of wood. Using his pocket lighter he soon had a small blaze going.

While he nursed the fire, he told Jonathan and Peter to bring in the rest of the wood and stack it near the doorway. The old man sat in the corner, covered by a blanket, trying to control his cough. "We just found this place," the old man explained when he could talk again. "We had nowhere else to go. Last night our truck broke down not far from here."

"Grandfather is sick," said Peter. He and Jonathan sat cross-legged around the stove as Owen continued to feed sticks from the chunk of wood he had splintered.

"Do you have any food?" Owen asked.

"Yes, we have food." Jonathan pointed to the table where a paper sack had been laid.

"I'm hungry," whined Peter.

"I'll fix some supper." Jonathan stood up and went to the table. He pulled out a box of Rice Krispies cereal and a package of powdered-sugar doughnuts.

Owen could see that it was getting dark outside. He found an old Coleman lamp stashed near the beds and brought it over to see if it contained any fuel. They were in luck, so he lit it and the room was filled with light as the lamp sizzled and glowed.

Jonathan and Peter sat on the floor with the box of cereal between them, reaching their hands in and eating it dry.

"Where were you headed?" Owen asked. "Where is your home? Maybe we should call a tow truck to come get your truck and fix it."

The old man tried to talk and fell into another coughing spell. Jonathan looked up at Owen with a look of despair. "We've been traveling around for the last month, mister. But now... Grandfather's sick."

Owen didn't like the sound of that cough. "Where are your parents?"

"Our mother's on the rez," Jonathan replied. "We were going to see her for Christmas." He hung his head. "I guess we're not gonna make it." He sniffed. "Our pa died."

"Why don't you live with your mother on the reservation?" asked Owen. "Why are you traveling around with your grandfather?"

Peter tore open the doughnuts and shoved one in his mouth. Powdered sugar got all over his nose and chin. "Our mother is in jail," he said with his mouth full.

Owen saw by the look in Jonathan's eyes that he was embarrassed at this disclosure. Fortunately, it was starting to warm up in the little shack by now. He went over to the old man and asked what he could do for him.

"You've already been of help to us." The old man put his hand on Owen's shoulder and smiled. "You must go now. The night is here."

Reluctantly, Owen left the shack and made his way through the woods, following their tracks made earlier. Without them he wasn't sure he would have known the way to Mom's cabin.

It was dark when he got home and there were no lights on in the cabin. When he got inside, the fire had died down and the house was cold. Owen spent the next half hour building up the wood stove while thoughts ran through his mind about the situation he had just discovered. It was disturbing to think of the two small boys and their ill grandfather spending the night in that tumble-down shack with so little to eat. What would become of them and what about their truck?

Headlights came into view through the front window. Owen went to the door to welcome his brothers. Jimmy and Kyle came bouncing in, loaded down with their duffel bags and boomboxes. Mom followed with a sack of groceries and an armload of mail from town.

"Hey, Owen!" Jimmy brushed past him to start unloading his CDs. Jimmy was 15, with long dishwater-blond hair, glasses and a voice that cracked between a child and manhood.

Kyle looked around. "What, no tree?" At 11, Kyle retained some of his baby features, with bright brown eyes and dark hair like Owen's. His happy-go-lucky nature was rarely challenged.

Mom set her burdens down on the table and shook off her coat. "Whew! What a nightmare that airport."

"How were the roads?" asked Owen.

"Slick," she said, untying her scarf. "I'll warm up some stew. I'll bet you're starved." She hugged herself. "It's kind of chilly in here, isn't it?"

"Mom," said Owen, "did you see an abandoned truck on the road?"

Loud heavy metal crashed from Jimmy's player and Mom told him to turn the music down. "No, why do you ask?"

Owen told his mother about the two boys stealing wood and about the shack and their sick grandfather. Mom listened carefully as she put groceries away.

"Tomorrow we'll take a drive up the road and see if their truck is there," she said. "Being Christmas Eve, I doubt any tow truck is going to come all the way up here, especially after this storm."

"I let them have the wood," said Owen. "I'll fell another tree for you after Christmas."

"You did the right thing, Owen." She smiled and got bowls down out of the cupboard. "After all... it's Christmas."

Owen sat down by the fire and listened to his brothers argue about where they were going to hang their stockings tomorrow night. Kyle insisted they be hung over the fire and Jimmy called Kyle stupid because surely their stockings would burn up that close to the fire.

Owen wasn't thinking about stockings or Santa Claus or little boys' quarrels. He kept thinking of Jonathan and Peter, worrying about their grandfather and wondering how they were making it through the night in that old shack. The Coleman lamp would surely run out of fuel and go out, leaving them in darkness. He certainly hoped Jonathan could keep the little barrel stove burning so they'd stay warm.

As he ate his stew at the table with Mom and his brothers, he thought of the boys having only cereal and powdered doughnuts to eat. At one time Owen would have thought that was a good meal, but now he was concerned for their welfare. They hadn't been wearing adequate clothing and he knew they were poor. His mother had little, it was true, but these Native people, on their way to the reservation in a broken-down pickup truck, were destitute.

"You're not eating, Owen. Aren't you feeling well?"

Owen looked up at his mother. "I can't help thinking about them... in that shack..."

Jimmy and Kyle looked puzzled, but Mom reached over and patted Owen's hand. "Tomorrow we'll pay them a visit," she assured him.

Tory telephoned the next morning. "How's it going?" she asked.

Owen was happy to hear her voice. "As well as to be expected," he said. It was reasonably quiet in the cabin with both his brothers out playing in the snow. From the window he could see Jimmy helping Kyle roll a boulder of snow as big as they were. His mother was up in the loft and he assumed, by the sound of rustling paper, that she was wrapping Christmas presents.

"Well, I thought I'd call to see how you were," Tory continued. "You were so down before you left campus." When he didn't comment, she said, "Don't be sad. It's Christmas Eve."

"Maybe in Colorado Springs it is," Owen replied.

"Hey, did your brothers get there?" she asked.

"Yup. They had their big Christmas already."

"Oh?"

"You know... the big show with my dad and stepmom. To them Christmas is over. They got everything they wanted."

Tory was silent, then asked, "And what about you? Did your dad send you anything?"

Owen recalled the large package that had arrived for him on campus last week. They had sent him a bunch of new clothes, which he badly needed but wasn't too pleased with. They had different ideas about fashion. But he had been grateful for the new boots, which actually fit. "They didn't forget me," he said. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat. He knew he should be grateful, but somehow a big box of clothes the week before was not the same as waking up on Christmas morning with magic in the air.

They talked a little longer. Tory was going to her sister's house that night and wished more than anything that Owen could be there, too. "We'll probably stand around drinking tom and jerries and singing Christmas carols." She laughed.

After he hung up, Owen called up to his mother that he was walking up the road, then grabbed his coat and went outside. He hoped she hadn't gone and spent a lot of money on them. He knew she barely got by and he knew it was foolish of her to try and compete with the kind of Christmas his dad and Sharon put on.

Jimmy wanted to follow along, so Owen let him. Then Kyle came running after them as they reached the icy country road and headed uphill.

"Where are you going?" called Kyle.

"Just for a walk," said Owen.

Jimmy kicked at snowbanks with his boots along the way. "The snow sucks. Now we probably can't go to town today."

"So? Who wants to go to town?" asked Kyle. "We just got here."

They had gone about a quarter mile when Owen spotted the old white pickup off the road. It was covered with snow from yesterday's storm. When they reached it, he began pushing away the snow to see what was inside.

"Who's truck?" asked Jimmy.

"And what's it doing here?" asked Kyle.

"Who cares?" Jimmy peered inside at the empty seats with torn upholstery.

"Let's go back," said Kyle.

Owen grabbed his two brothers by their sleeves. "Do you know what day it is?" he asked them.

"Sure, it's Christmas Eve," said Kyle with a big grin.

"What about it?" Jimmy's voice cracked.

"Think a moment. Someone was going somewhere in this truck."

"So?" Jimmy made a face.

"So..." Kyle's eyes brightened. "Where are they?"

Owen looked off into the woods. "Yesterday, when Mom was getting you at the airport, I paid a visit to some people staying in the woods. This was their truck and it broke down, so they went to this shack not far from here."

Kyle's brown eyes were wide. "Are they mean?"

Jimmy sighed impatiently. "I'm getting cold. Let's go back now."

Owen made him stay. "There are two boys about both your ages and their grandfather, who's sick. They were going to the Ute Reservation to see their mother on Christmas."

"And now they can't go anywhere," said Kyle.

"Huh... that's tough," said Jimmy.

"C'mon." Owen turned toward the woods. "They aren't far from here." "Where are you going?" called Jimmy.

"I've got to see if they're all right." Owen plunged into foot-deep snow, headed in the direction of the shack, but not exactly sure where it was. Fresh snow had covered any tracks the three people had made the day before. He really hadn't expected them to follow, so was surprised to glance back and see both boys trying to keep up by staying in his tracks through the deep snow.

Several minutes later they arrived at the ramshackle cow camp, where a thin stream of smoke escaped the chimney. At least they had managed to keep the fire going, Owen thought with some relief.

Before they reached the shack, the older boy, Jonathan, came out from under the canvas at the door and grinned when he saw Owen. Then Peter's head popped through the side of the canvas and he stared at Kyle.

"How's your grandfather?" Owen asked.

"See for yourself." Jonathan motioned them in.

The shack seemed even smaller with six people inside. Owen saw the old man sitting up in the lower bunk bed, covered with his coat and the old sleeping bag. He appeared weak. All Jimmy and Kyle could do was stare.

"Grandfather can't drive," said Jonathan. "He needs to rest another day."

"Tomorrow is Christmas," said Peter. "We won't be at the reservation. Mama is going to be very disappointed."

Owen saw that they were out of firewood and the last log was smoldering in the barrel stove. He didn't see how they could go anywhere, even if the old man could drive.

"I'm taking the sled home to get another load of wood for you," said Owen.

"I'll help," Jonathan offered.

Peter went over to Kyle and smiled at him. "Wanna help me look for berries?"

"Peter, there aren't no berries in winter," Jonathan scolded his brother.

"Then... we'll look for roots."

"There's too much snow to dig roots."

"But... Jonathan... I'm hungry." Peter's dark eyes began to well up.

"I'll check the rabbit snares on my way back," Jonathan promised.

The grandfather fell into another coughing spell. Owen could tell the old man was not any better and, in fact, sounded worse.

"We'll be back," he said and left the shack with Jonathan, Jimmy and Kyle. Peter remained, at the command of his brother, with the old man.

They took the empty makeshift sled and headed through the snow-filled woods to Mom's cabin. The sun had come out and a chilly wind was sweeping through, making the air colder than ever.

Jimmy and Kyle hadn't said a word the whole time. As soon as they reached the cabin, the two of them ran into the house while Owen and the Indian boy piled split wood on the sled. Jonathan explained that his grandfather's coughing had kept them awake much of the night. None of them had had enough to eat.

"Owen!" From the cabin Mom ran toward them with the two younger boys behind her. There was a frantic look on her face. "Owen, what's going on? Stop loading that wood!"

Owen couldn't believe her reaction. "But, Mom..."

Mom pointed to the sled. "Young man," she told Jonathan, "Start unloading that sled!"

Christmas Eve came to Mom's little cabin that night following a glorious red sunset through the bare aspen treetops. The smoke curled out of her chimney on the side of the log house.

Moocher and her fawn were making their way toward the door to beg for apples. But suddenly they were startled as a car pulled off the road and the headlights shut off. The deer trotted safely back into the woods.

Owen got out of the car and then helped the younger boys as they gathered around to assist the old Indian man out of the backseat.

The door to the cabin opened as Mom ran out to welcome her arriving guests. "Be careful," she said as they eased the old man out of the car. "Don't let him fall."

Owen, with Jonathan and Peter's aid, managed to walk the old man toward the cabin. When they got him inside, Mom helped him into the rollaway bed near the fire and covered him with a quilt.

"You are too kind," the old man muttered in gratitude. "May the Great Spirit shine His Light upon you."

Mom had hot chili and cornbread waiting for everyone. She brought a cup of hot tea to the old man and sat at his side as he drank it. Meanwhile Owen directed the four younger ones to the table, where they sat down to eat. Jonathan and Peter were ravenous, and it was apparent from the beginning that Kyle and Peter were already fast friends, and Jimmy was warming to Jonathan slowly but surely.

After they ate, Mom conversed with the old man while she worked on her knitting. Owen listened in as the Indian told about his home in the southern Colorado mountains and the sad injustice surrounding his daughter, who was awaiting trial for protesting against the U.S. government. Owen determined that it was true the boys' mother was in jail, but he didn't think that it was fair.

Owen fed the fire and everyone sat around the stove while the grandfather, whose name was Guiding Hawk, told them many stories about his younger years and the stories passed on to him by his grandfathers. He seemed to be improving from the warmth of the fire and the hot food and drink. And even Jimmy and Kyle were captivated by the old man's stories.

Owen felt a surge of well-being as he looked over the scene in Mom's cabin that night. It was Christmas Eve, and he felt a glow inside his heart that hadn't been there for years. He was content. Both Jonathan and Peter were sleepy, he could tell. Their eyelids were drooping and Mom brought sleeping bags and quilts and made them little beds in a corner of the room. They were both asleep as soon as Mom covered them.

Jimmy caught Owen's attention while Mom was making Guiding Hawk comfortable for the night. He beckoned Owen into the kitchen, where Kyle was standing near the refrigerator.

"What is it?" asked Owen.

Jimmy kept his voice low. "We've decided. Kyle and I -- We know that Mom bought us presents."

"And we want Jonathan and Peter to have them instead," added Kyle, his eyes shining.

"I don't know what Mom will say," said Jimmy. "Can you talk to her?"

Owen smiled and wanted to hug the both of them, but that wasn't too cool. "I'll talk to her," he promised. "Now you'd better get up to bed."

"Goodnight, Mom," called Jimmy and headed for the loft.

"Goodnight," said Mom softly. "Kyle, did you brush your teeth?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Then I'll be right up to tuck you in."

As soon as Kyle disappeared up the steps, Owen told his mother what the boys wanted to do. Mom sat down at the table and tears trickled down her face.

"Mom... I'm sorry... I know you spent money you probably didn't have..."

She placed her hand upon his. "Owen, you don't understand." Smiling, she gazed into his eyes and said, "I never believed I'd see the day... but you and your brothers have restored my faith in miracles. And I think this is the happiest Christmas ever."

Owen looked at the glowing fire across the room, at the three sleeping guests, and upstairs he heard Jimmy and Kyle arguing about the molecular structure of a snowflake. He turned to his mother and he said, "Merry Christmas, Mom."

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