It was Christmas Eve. Pa arrived back at the cabin in the wagon. His buckboard was loaded with crates and supplies. It was snowing heavily in the Appalachians that night.
Ma and the four little girls rushed outside to help Pa unload, each child carrying heavy crates, trudging through the snow crust, fighting wind and frost.
When they finished unloading, the family was winded, huddled inside the one-room log shack, around the rock-and-mud fireplace, warming themselves.
The interior of the rough-hewn cabin was bitingly cold, and still smelled of pinesap. Their father had only finished building this cabin three days ago. It was small and crudely built. But it was theirs.
Pa collapsed in front of the hearth. His beard, painted with ice. His face, rosy from the cold, like a tomato.
“Himmel, ist das kalt!” said Pa, warming his hands.
“English, Papa,” said Ma, who forbade Deustch in her household. They were Americans now, and she insisted they speak as such.
“Sorry,” Pa said. “I
said, ‘Ist so colt outside, I cannot feel my Popo!’” Then he patted his rear for effect.
The children laughed.
“Papa?” said Saskia, the youngest, who was wearing all her winter clothes at once. The thick layers made her look like a giant stuffed animal. “Did you buy us Geschenke?”
“English, Saskia,” said Ma. “The English word is ‘gifts.’”
Pa’s face broke into a wide smile. “Gifts! Of course! I have one big, special Christmas gift for all my kleine Mädchen tonight!”
The children released peels of joy.
With that, Pa walked out to the wagon. The girls anxiously watched as Pa removed a wheel from the wagon using a mallet. He did this every night so nobody would steal their wagon.
This wagon was all they owned. Pa had spent their life savings…
