Doug Daugherty
Years ago, when I was a boy, the Daugherty family attended Christmas Eve services at Thankful Memorial Episcopal Church on Alabama Avenue in St. Elmo.
St. Elmo held a certain wonder for me. My mother’s family hailed from St. Elmo. My great, great grandfather was Colonel Abraham Malone Johnson who had developed St. Elmo starting in 1886. Johnson had built a large, mansion-like home on the northern hill at the corner of Alabama and Thankful Place (43rd Street).
My older siblings have striking memories of visiting Great Grandmother Everett at the house on the hill. It burned down when I was just a toddler in about 1954. One of my earliest memories is of my father, Harry Daugherty, and Uncle Buddy (Malone Everett) returning from the fire smelling of smoke.
Thankful Church had been built by A.M Johnson. It was named after his wife Thankful Whiteside Johnson. It is a lovely old stone church, not large, with wooden floors, stained glass windows, and a pipe organ. My great aunt Thankful Everett played that organ for the church. My mother. Oma Thankful Everett Daugherty, and her brother, Malone Everett, and her sister, Margaret Everett Tucker, had gone there as children.
It was a special occasion when we attended the old church. One Christmas Eve, we spent the closing hours of Dec. 24, at the midnight hymn service. It was a cold night, full of cousins, aunts, and uncles. It was not unusual for us younger boys to play and explore the ruins of the old mansion across the street. Somehow, sort of like Jesus when he was separated from his parents when he was 12, I became separated from mine.
I had walked up the steep steps to the ruins of the old mansion that held so many memories for my family. The old hand-cut, foundational stones lay like soldiers in their graves whispering songs of bravery and loss. As I picked through the rubble, staring from time to time at the huge magnolia tree waving in the moonlight, feeling the cold breeze on my cheeks, I turned to tell my cousin what a strange, quiet place it was. Cousin David was gone. I was alone.
Suddenly the reality of the dark, cold night hit me. There was no one around. The cars were gone from the church. I was young and had heard too many ghost stories. And, if I didn’t get home, I would miss eggnog, sweet cakes, and gifting hopefulness.
Boys aren’t supposed to cry, but the aloneness gripped me on that night long ago and I did. Afraid, alone, missing extra special intrusions into the winter humdrum, I sat on an old stone and tears ran down my cheeks.
I knew that eventually I would be missed, but there was this waiting. The nightbirds called as it began to snow. Shivering, I pulled my coat around me and curled up, my knees in my chest. I prayed. Perhaps the first time that I prayed from my own volition. “Jesus,” I whispered, “Help me.”
Strange as it may seem, an old woman, carrying a basket on her arm, came out of the dark. “Little boy,” she asked, “Are you lost?” Her voice was so soft and her build so slight that I was not afraid. “No ma'am. I know where I am, but my family has gone away. I am waiting for them.”
She wore an old gray wool shawl, and her head and neck were wrapped with a purple velvet scarf. She sat down on the stone next to me.
“When I was a girl, I came to Christmas in this place. Then it was full of candlelight, welcoming smells, and laughter.” From there she described a Christmas long ago. She remembered the Raggedy Ann doll from her mother, the warm mittens from her grandfather, and a paper cornucopia filled with nuts and candy. She seemed to glow as she told of her father’s gift one year, a pony with a red cart. I was drawn into the rhythm of her speech, the kindness of her voice and the winsome, cherished memories. I think this was the first time I ever appreciated an older person.
Soon, I heard my father’s voice, “Douglas, you there?” He came up the hill carrying a flashlight. I was never so glad to be rescued. “Dad. Dad. Here I am.” I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck. He pulled me to his height, and I never received a more loving hug. “Dad,” I said, “You must meet this person. She has been talking to me. She is,” and I pointed, “over there.” But she was gone.
As we drove home, I excitedly told him of the old woman and her nostalgia and warm ways. He looked perplexed. But I never heard a doubtful word.
Once home in Brainerd, my mother welcomed me with a bit of a scolding mixed with love and relief. As I looked into my mother’s face, I saw something of the old woman. “Merry Christmas, Douglas. We are so glad you are home.” A families’ memories have a strange and wonderful strength.
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Doug Daugherty can be reached at dedsr1952@gmail.com