Christmas Eve in Curtis Wells
It's Christmas Eve in Curtis Wells
The streets are cold and bare
There are no decorations
But no one seems to care
Over there's a bounty hunter
He's sitting all alone
He has a room in the hotel
But nowhere to call home
Observe the lady gunsmith
She sheds a silent tear
She finds it hard to celebrate
Alone again this year
The mayor reads the Bible
But he's no longer sane
A few years back he lost a child
And there's no greater pain
We watch the southern gambler
Top off his empty glass
He wonders if his hopes and dreams
Will ever come to pass
And there's the former sheriff
Drinking and lost in thought
Remembering a choice he made
And the changes that it brought
It makes us sad to see them
Each one in so much pain
We wonder just what it would take
To make them whole again
But somewhere in the heavens
An angel's looking down
And he sends a silent snowfall
To the small Montana town
And a simple man named Unbob
Smiles his simple smile
For he believes that Santa
Will be there in a while
He hopes that all the others
Will make peace with their past
Then this Montana Christmas
Will bring them joy at last
12/2003
The Gift
Unbob grunted as he hoisted the heavy ball of snow and plopped it into place. He
scrutinized the figure in front of him. Why, the snowman was taller than he was! He
picked up some loose snow and packed it around the head to secure it. Then he reached
into his pocket, bringing out a handful of coal. Carefully, he placed two lumps for eyes,
one for a nose, and a half circle of lumps to make a mouth drawn up in a grin. Then he
stepped back to survey his handiwork.
Something was missing, and Unbob knew just what it was. A snowman ought to have
arms. Spying a low-growing bush, he went to it and broke off a couple of bare branches.
He stuck one in each side of the snowman.
There. Now it looked just right. “Merry Christmas, snowman,” he said. Then, stuffing
his cold hands into the pockets of his threadbare coat, he shuffled off towards home,
whistling a slightly off-key version of Silent Night.
From his balcony, Clay Mosby had been watching Unbob as he labored to finish his
masterpiece. Now as the town handyman headed off to his lonely cabin in the woods,
Clay snuffed out his cigar butt and went inside. He had accounts to go over.
The snowman stood proudly by the pond in the gathering darkness.
Later that evening, Clay picked up his hat and topcoat and headed downstairs. Once at
the bottom, he took a perfunctory glance around the bar. Carson seemed to have
everything well in hand. The Ambrosia was far from crowded, he noted with a frown.
Oh well, the evening was young. Business would undoubtedly pick up.
Clay put on his coat and hat and stepped out into the night. He took a deep breath and
coughed as the frigid air filled his lungs. He shivered and pulled his scarf tighter about
his throat. Would he never get used to these bitter northern winters? Normally, he would
stay in on a night like this, but tonight was Christmas Eve, and he had a date to keep. He
checked his pockets and set off down the street.
Blackjack was waiting in his stall, and he nickered and tossed his head at Clay’s
approach.
“Easy, boy,” Clay soothed, patting the chestnut rump. “You didn’t think I’d forget your
Christmas treat, did you?” Pulling some carrots from his pocket, he fed them to the big
gelding, one by one, enjoying the peace and quiet of the stable, broken only by the
contented munching of his companion.
Clay stroked the broad neck. “Merry Christmas, old boy,” he said. Then he gave
Blackjack a scoop of grain and headed back out into the night.
Clay sighed as he pulled on his leather gloves. Christmas was not his favorite holiday.
Too many memories. Too much he’d like to forget. He would spend it the way he
always did. Alone with a bottle.
As he walked, Clay looked up at the stars that were just beginning to peek out above the
surprisingly peaceful town. He glanced towards the church and stopped dead in his
tracks. Why, when had that happened? He headed over for a closer look.
Unbob’s snowman. The head was lying on the ground. The branches had been torn out
and flung aside. Why would someone do this? Clay kicked tentatively at the head with
the toe of his boot. It appeared intact. He gave a quick look around. It was early. Most
of Curtis Wells’ residents were at dinner, and Christmas Eve church services wouldn’t
begin for a couple of hours yet.
Clay knelt down and picked up the snow head. He placed it back on the snowman’s
shoulders and reshaped it a bit. Fortunately, the face was largely intact. Only a couple
pieces of the coal mouth had fallen out, giving it a lopsided, toothless grin. Clay spied
the pieces on the ground and replaced them, pushing them in firmly. There, that was
better. But wait. The nose was missing as well. He couldn’t see any more coal lying
about, but suddenly he had an idea. He reached into his pocket. Yes, there was one
carrot left. He pulled it out and stuck it in the snow face.
Next he tackled the branches. The vandal had broken them, but they were salvageable, if
shorter than before. He stuck them back in the original holes.
Clay looked the figure over and smiled as he turned to go. Then he hesitated and turned
back. He took another careful look around, then reached inside his coat and pulled out
his velvet scarf. He took it off and wrapped it around the snowman’s neck, leaving the
ends trailing down the front. There, now that was a snowman!
Clay smiled. “Merry Christmas, Unbob.”
And with that, Curtis Wells’ most prominent citizen headed for home.
THE END
12/2003
