The Christmas tree was a scrub cedar hacked from the edge of the woods that bordered the farm. Big-bulbed lights, strung in barber pole fashion, generated almost as much heat as the nearby wood stove. Yellowed Christmas cards, saved through the years and perched like doves in the untrimmed branches, served as ornaments.
ADVERTISEMENT “I believe this is the prettiest tree I've ever had,” Howard proclaimed as we stood in its glow. “And it smells good, too.” The only scent evident to me was a mixture of wood smoke and the remains of a fried pork supper, but I lied and said, “Sure does.
” Howard beckoned me to sit. We had shared Christmas Day in the dairy barn and it was his request that we share a bit of the night, also. He knew I was alone because my family, his employer, was visiting relatives.
I knew he was alone because he was always alone, a bachelor for nearly 40 years. “I'll get us some Christmas cheer,” he offered as I sank into the sofa. In untied work shoes he shuffled toward the kitchen.
A minute later, he returned with two water glasses half filled with rhubarb wine. “It's been a good Christmas, ain't it Allie-Boy?” he asked as he sat in a ladder back chair by the stove. He had called me Allie Boy for as long as I could remember.
I had taken to calling him Hoard the Dairyman after the title of a farm magazine my father subscribed to. ADVERTISEMENT I nodded. It had been a good day.
Two wobbly newborn calves greeted us when we arrived at the dairy ba.
