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    Christmas Classics Refreshed
    Christmas Classics Refreshed
    Christmas Classics Refreshed
    Ebook232 pages2 hours

    Christmas Classics Refreshed

    By Bill Russo

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    About this ebook

    Fifteen obscure heartwarming Christmas tales, most of them more than a century old, are brought to life in this delightful, family friendly collection. Unearthed from ancient magazines, books, and newspapers the stories have been updated and annotated for today’s readers by Bill Russo. From the "Bizarro Scrooge", to the "Rodney Dangerfield Christmas Tree", and on to “Twas the Night After Christmas” you’ll find humor and joy in these relatively unknown gems. The tales, first presented in 2016 as entries in the blog “Adventures in Type and Space” reached many thousands. Comments and suggestions prompted the creation of this anthology..

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBill Russo
    Release dateJun 20, 2017
    ISBN9781370448708
    Christmas Classics Refreshed
    Author

    Bill Russo

    Bill Russo had lived in an area of Massachusetts called the Bridgewater Triangle for many years and never knew that it was said to be inhabited by scary swamp creatures until he met one. It happened on a midnight walk. Years later, two film producers read his blog about it and featured him and his story in their documentary, The Bridgewater Triangle. He also was approached by Discovery channel producers and was featured in the opening segment of Monsters and Mysteries in America - Season two, Episode two. Among his work, are two anthologies featuring the Bridgewater Triangle Universe. One is strictly fiction and the other contains his account of meeting the swamp creature - plus other stories from New England. As a disc jockey, he was the first person to play and promote the trucking classic "Tombstone Every Mile". He counted as a friend, the first man to cross the musical color line, in a 1940s Jazz Band. The "Human Jukebox", who opened for both Elvis and Roy Orbison, was a neighbor of his. Stories of these and other artists are included in "Crossing the Musical Color Line". Bill's background for writing comes from a Boston education at the venerable white shirt & tie, Huntington School for Boys. He followed that up with a study of journalism, music, and broadcasting at the famed Kenmore Square institution, Grahm Jr. College, where he said he learned more about music from an African American gentleman who was the school's janitor, than he ever could in a classroom. He introduced me to Gloria Lynne, Bill said. Years after he learned of her, she had a mega hit with I Wish You Love. One of Grahm's well known graduates was performance artist Andy Kaufman who created his Taxi TV character Latka while at Grahm. Andy also claimed he learned Transcendental Meditation at Grahm, although it was not taught there. But who knows? It could be true. Bill Russo learned music from the Janitor. Maybe someone in bookkeeping was a guru and gave Andy the secrets of TM. At various times during his career, Russo was a New England Newspaper Editor, a Disc Jockey, and a Radio newswriter and newscaster for a number of stations. He also has had stints as an iron worker, and a low level manager for a major mail order clothing retailer. One of his favorite jobs was partnering with Bill Barry, the inventor of a jewelry polish called Clear Bright n Shiny. The 'Bills' as they called themselves toured New England selling...

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      Book preview

      Christmas Classics Refreshed - Bill Russo

      Christmas Classics Refreshed

      By

      Bill Russo

      Copyright 2017

      Published by CCA Media, Cape Cod

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

      Table of Contents:

      Chapter One: Christmas On Big Rattle

      Chapter Two: Dancing Dan’s Christmas

      Chapter Three: Scarecrow, Your Name should be Rodney Dangerfield

      Chapter Four: The Beggar at the Window

      Chapter Five: Christmas at the Boston Music Hall

      Chapter Six: Bizarro Scrooge

      Chapter Seven: Christmas and the Birth of a Nation

      Chapter Eight: It Doesn’t Always Take Three Ghosts

      Chapter Nine: The Christmas Tree

      Chapter Ten: The Night Before and the Night After Christmas

      Chapter Eleven: Karma and the Little Girl From Provincetown

      Chapter Twelve: The Young and the Old

      Chapter Thirteen: Who Will Help Somebody?

      Chapter Fourteen: I Hate Holidays

      Chapter Fifteen: Christmas Under the Snow

      After discovering and enjoying a few long forgotten holiday classics from publications about a hundred years old, I thought it might be fun to dust them off, take out some of the outdated words, do a bit of research about the writers, and republish them on my blog, Adventures in Type and Space: Billrrrrr.blogspot.com/

      Once I began I couldn’t stop. I enjoyed the classic tales and was eager to learn a bit about the authors. I published one a day for two weeks beginning in early December, 2016. I was delighted to find that the stories were read many thousands of times.

      A few readers commented that they got a good deal of pleasure and holiday cheer from the tales and also from my annotations. They suggested that I gather the items that were scattered across Type and Space into a single, low price volume. I’m more than happy to comply.

      Here then, are the old yarns that I discovered from old books and magazines of long ago – Christmas Classics Refreshed.

      Chapter One

      Christmas On Big Rattle

      John Archer's shack on the side of ‘Big Rattle’ in Northern Maine

      This Christmas tale comes from the northern-most part of the 48 ‘united states’ – though there were only 46 United States back in 1905 when the good hearted trapper, John Archer and his sometimes friend, Sacobie (a Micmac Indian); observed the holiday in a very unconventional fashion.

      Archer was a ‘County Boy’ – the name given to the men of the hearty band of settlers who dared live in untamed Aroostook County where winter temperatures of 20 below are as common as the fir trees beside snow covered roads.

      Even as I’m annotating this story near Christmas 2017, the topmost part of Maine is still much like it was 300 years ago.  Vast tracts of it remain ‘unincorporated’. Pristine forests that rarely see two legged creatures still exist in ‘The County’ – which is larger than Connecticut and Rhode Island combined. 

      As big as Archer’s territory was, the range of Sacobie’s people was far greater.  The ‘Micmac’ nation, some 40,000 strong, was spread across Maine and on north and west into Canada - throughout the Maritimes, and even into Nova Scotia. 

      Settle back now and share a sparse Christmas in a threadbare shack on the side of Big Rattle, somewhere in the rugged area of Maine known to its residents as The County.

      Christmas On Big Rattle

      By Theodore Goodridge Roberts

      Archer sat by the rude hearth of his cabin on Big Rattle Mountain, about 250 miles north of the nearest city, Bangor Maine. He was brooding in a sort of tired contentment over the crackling logs and glowing coals of his fire.

      It was Christmas Eve. He had been out on his snowshoes all that day, and all the day before, setting his traps along the streams and resetting the ones that had sprung without collecting a body.

       Archer, despite his gloomy manner, was really a sentimentalist, who practiced what he felt.

      Christmas is a season of peace on earth, he had told himself, while demolishing the logs of a fallen tree with his axe; and now the remembrance of his idealistic deed added a brightness to the fire and to the rough, undecorated walls of the cabin.

      Outside, the wind ran high in the forest, breaking and sweeping tide-like over the reefs of treetops. The air was bitterly cold. Another voice, almost as fitful as the rustling of the wind, sounded across the night. It was the waters of Stone Arrow Falls, higher up, on Big Rattle.

      The frosts had drawn their bonds of ice and blankets of silencing snow over all the rest of the stream, but the white and black face of the falls still flashed from a window in the great house of crystal, and threw out a voice of desolation.

      Sacobie Bear, a full-blooded Micmac ‘Indian’, uttered a grunt of relief when his ears caught the bellow of Stone Arrow Falls. He stood still, and turned his head from side to side, questioningly.

      Good! he said. Big Rattle over there, Archer’s camp over there. I go there. Good ‘nough!

      He hitched his old smooth-bore rifle higher under his arm and continued his journey. Sacobie had tramped many miles—all the way from ice-imprisoned Fox Harbor. His papoose was sick. His squaw was hungry.  Sacobie’s belt was drawn tight.

      During that weary journey his old rifle had not banged once, although few eyes save those of timberwolf and lynx were sharper in the hunt than Sacobie’s. The Indian was reeling with hunger and weakness, but he held bravely on.

       Sacobie, with his head down and his round snowshoes padding!  padding! like the feet of a frightened duck, raced with death toward the haven of Archer’s cabin.

      Archer was dreaming of a Christmas-time in a great faraway city, when he was startled by a rattle of snowshoes at his threshold and a soft beating on his door, like weak blows from mittened hands. He sprang across the cabin and pulled open the door.

      A short, stooping figure shuffled in and reeled against him. A rifle in a case made of wool clattered at his feet.

      Mer’ Christmas! How-do? said a weary voice.

      Merry Christmas, brother! replied Archer. Then, Bless me, but it’s Sacobie Bear! Why, what’s the matter, Sacobie?

      Heap tired! Heap hungry! replied the Micmac, sinking to the floor.

      Archer lifted the Indian and carried him over to the bunk at the farther end of the room. He filled his iron-pot spoon with brandy, and inserted the point of it between Sacobie’s unresisting jaws. Then he loosened the Micmac’s coat and shirt and belt.

      He removed his moccasins and stockings and rubbed the straight thin feet with brandy.

      Autumn trapping on Big Rattle, where a moose can grow almost as large as a trailside cabin

      After a while Sacobie Bear opened his eyes and gazed up at Archer.

      Good! he said. John Archer, he heap fine man, anyhow. Mighty good to Sacobie, too. Plenty tobacco, I s’pose. Plenty rum, too.

      No more rum, my son, replied Archer, tossing what was left in the mug against the log wall, and corking the bottle. and no smoke until you have had a feed. What do you say to bacon and tea! Or would tinned beef suit you better?

      Bacon, replied Sacobie.

      He hoisted himself to his elbow, and wistfully sniffed the fumes of brandy that came from the direction of his bare feet. Heap waste of good rum, me think, he said.

      By the time the bacon was fried and the tea brewed, Sacobie was sufficiently revived to leave the bunk and take a seat by the fire.

      He ate as all hungry people do; and Archer looked on in wonder and whimsical regret, remembering the miles and miles he had tramped with that bacon on his back.

      Sacobie, you will kill yourself! he protested.

      Sacobie no kill himself now, replied the Micmac, as he bolted a brown slice and a mouthful of hard bread. Sacobie more like to kill himself when he empty. Want to live when he chock-full. Good fun. Thank you for more tea.

      Archer filled the extended mug and poured in the molasses—long sweet’nin’ they call it in that region.

      What brings you so far from Fox Harbor this time of year? inquired Archer.

      Squaw sick. Papoose sick. Bote empty. Wan’ good bacon to eat.

      Archer smiled at the fire. Any luck trapping? he asked.

      His guest shook his head and hid his face behind the upturned mug.

      Not much, he replied, presently.

      He drew his sleeve across his mouth, and then produced a clay pipe from a pocket in his shirt.

      Tobacco? he inquired.

      Archer passed him a dark and heavy plug of tobacco.

      Knife? queried Sacobie.

      Try your own knife on it, answered Archer, grinning.

      With a sigh Sacobie produced his sheath-knife.

      You think Sacobie heap big thief, he said, accusingly.

      Knives are easily lost—in people’s pockets! replied Archer.

      The two men talked for hours. Sacobie Bear was a great gossip for one of his race. In fact, he had a Micmac nickname which, translated, meant the man who deafens his friends with much talk. Archer, however, was pleased with his ready chatter and unforced humor.

      But at last they both began to nod. John Archer made up a bed on the floor for Sacobie with a couple of caribou skins and a heavy blanket.  Then he gathered together a few plugs of tobacco, some tea, flour, and dried fish.

      Sacobie watched him with freshly aroused interest.

      More tobacco, please, he said. Squaw, she smoke, too.

      Archer added a couple of sticks of the black leaf to the pile.

      Bacon, too, said the Micmac. Bacon better than fish, anyhow.

      Archer shook his head.

      You’ll have to do with the fish, he replied; but I’ll give you a can of condensed milk for the papoose.

      Ah, ah! Him good stuff! exclaimed Sacobie.

      Archer considered the provisions for a second or two. Then, going over to a large cloth bag near his bunk, he pulled its contents about until he found a bright red silk handkerchief and a red flannel shirt. Their color was too gaudy for his taste. These things are for your squaw, he said.

      Sacobie was delighted. Archer tied the articles into a neat pack and stood it in the corner, beside his guest’s rifle.

      Now you had better turn in, he said, and blew out the light.

      In ten minutes both men slept the sleep of the weary. The fire, a great mass of red coals, faded and flushed like some fabulous jewel. The wind washed over the cabin and fingered the eaves, and brushed furtive hands against the door.

      It was dawn when Archer awoke. He sat up in his bunk and looked about the quiet, gray-lighted room. Sacobie Bear was nowhere to be seen.

      He glanced at the corner by the door. Rifle and pack were both gone. He looked up at the rafter where his slab of bacon was always hung. It, too, was gone.

      He jumped out of his bunk and ran to the door. Opening it, he looked out. Not a breath of air stirred. In the east, saffron and scarlet, broke the Christmas morning, and blue on the white surface of the world lay the imprints of Sacobie’s round snowshoes.

      For a long time the trapper stood in the doorway in silence, looking out at the stillness and beauty.

      Poor Sacobie! he said, after a while. Well, he’s welcome to the bacon, even if it is all I had.

      He turned to light the fire and prepare breakfast. Something at the foot of his bunk caught his eye. He went over and took it up. It was a

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