Dixieland Freeze (A Christmas Story), Part Two

PART TWO: THE VISITORS

It had been snowing now for nine weeks without relief. Most of my time was spent keeping the fire going in the wood-burning stove. I had to maintain a clear path to the woodpile, find and dry a stock of kindling, select books to sacrifice page by page, keep the chute and chimney clear. It was a constant struggle but, without electricity, fire was critical for warmth, cooking and boiling water.

In my free time, I drew up contingency plans. What if the power never came back? What if the winter never broke? What if someone stole my food supply? What if the rescue teams never came?

I was a city boy most of my life. I was not well suited to survival in the wilderness. I could learn but the learning curve under these conditions was cruel. It always came back to escape. I figured my best shot was to find a sled, harness the dogs and head south. Even if we died trying, it would be better than not trying at all.

I could not believe that this frozen horror gripped all of the south. Somewhere the sun still shined, the snow melted, and life returned to something resembling normal.

I was taking my weekly bath, enjoying the liquid warmth while it lasted, when I heard the dogs bark. I knew the difference between barking at deer or other dogs and barking to announce the arrival of humans.

Something about the best-laid plans raced through my mind as I leapt from the tub, pulled on my jeans and raced for the gun, crouching below the window. There was not enough time to dry myself, dress and climb the hill out back.

The barking intensified and a series of images ran through my mind: the dogs circling, bearing their fangs, snapping, a man raising his gun, shooting, and pools of blood in the white snow. My dogs still panting, grasping for air, blood spilling on the snow, dying.

In one motion, I jumped up, flung the door open, knelt, cocked and fired. The dogs scattered and fled as a man threw up his hands and yelled, "Don’t shoot!"

He was an older man with a full, gray beard. Next to him, a woman huddled over two small children in a makeshift sled, their wide eyes peering out of layers of clothing. They were crying and the woman comforted them.

I stared at them in disbelief, lowering my rifle.

"What has gone wrong with my mind?" I thought. Had I come to this: Firing at unarmed people, at children, without even looking? This was supposed to be a time when people pulled together, when the stronger were supposed to protect the weaker, and when the able were supposed to help the needy.

Who was I? What had I become? An irrational and frightened man so bent on protecting his territory that he would fire on a defenseless family.

They stared back at me, puzzled or pleading or both, until the man finally waved and they started moving down the road. I could hear the children’s cries, muffled beneath their blankets, as the snow continued to fall.

"Wait!" I cried.

They stopped and turned toward me, still cautious and mystified, uncertain of the man who had fired at them only moments before.

"I’m sorry!" I yelled. "Please, come on in!"

The dogs came back yapping and I called them inside, putting them in the study until they calmed down. I welcomed the visitors and excused myself to get dried and dressed. When I emerged, they were huddled around the woodstove, warm and comfortable.

"You gave us quite a fright," said the man.

"I’m sorry," I repeated. "I don’t know what I was thinking."

"Well," said the woman, "I reckon we’ve all been out of sorts lately."

These were good country folk, strong, hard working and grim visaged, down to earth stock, unlikely to break even under the pressure of a Dixieland freeze.

They sat on the sofa of the living room of my little house, gathering the children in their arms. It was a space that was comfortable for a man and his dogs but was instantly cramped with the addition of visitors.

I felt the sting of second thoughts. This was my chance at salvation but I felt a knot in my gut. The sad truth was I couldn’t stand to be with these people for more than a short evening in the real world – or rather, the old world, the world before the storm.

I listened to their story and it broke my heart to think that it was the story of thousands just like them. They ran out of food. He ran out of bullets for his rifle and shot for his shotgun. They ran out of dry wood, candles and kerosene for their lantern. Then the chimney caught fire, burning furniture, and the roof caved in.

"One dern thing after another," he said, shaking his head in sorrow.

"The house next door is empty," I offered.

"Yes, sir," he replied. "It’s all cleaned out. Ransacked. Windows and furniture all broke and scattered. We was up there before we come here. Surprised you didn’t hear nothing."

Maybe I had. It was hard to tell. I heard a million sounds during the night, some real and some imagined.

"The children’s hungry, mister," said the woman. "They’s half froze."

She bowed her head, as if she asked too much, and reached for the hands of the children, a boy of five or six and his younger sister.

"They’s our grandchildren," said the man. "They was visitin’ when it all turned bad."

For the first time in so long I could hardly remember, I began to see things from the eyes of another and it sobered me. I wondered what I would do in this man’s position. I was worried about my dogs. He was responsible for his grandchildren.

It occurred to me that my rifle was in the far corner of the room. The man and his family were between the gun and me.

I asked them to wait while I went outside to get food, half expecting the rifle to be pointed at me when I returned. It was not. I handed over six cans of soup and vegetables and the woman went to work in the kitchen.

I explained that there was probably enough food to last a few weeks if we were careful. I told them I had a box of bullets for the rifle and enough wood to last out the winter. I let the dogs in and introduced them to the folks they had terrorized not a half hour before, explaining that they were in my care.

"I understand," said the man. "We had to let ours run," he said with genuine sorrow.

Just the same, I knew it would become an issue if it ever came down to the children or the dogs. It was a bridge we would cross when we came to it.

They introduced themselves as the Coopers. The man was Perry, his wife Lily and the children were Bobby and Tess. Lily emptied the cans into a large pot, which she placed on the woodstove to warm. Perry spoke of the latest news from the outside world. He had linked a shortwave radio to a car battery and tuned to an emergency broadcast out of Atlanta. The news was all bad.

"Remain calm," he related. "The storm will break. It’ll be over soon. But it ain’t over. Ain’t never going to be over. The Lord has come down upon the children of earth with a wrath of vengeance. Judgment day is upon us."

"Now, now, papa," said Lily, stirring the soup.

She passed out bowls and spoons and the Coopers ate in silence, except for the sound of smacking lips.

When they cleaned out their bowls, I asked how far south the storm went. Perry hung his head, took a deep breath, and left little room for hope.

"Snow in Macon, Birmingham, Montgomery. You got to get pert near the Gulf shore before it clears. But the roads blocked. They’s no way out, mister. No way, no how."

"Well, now, papa," Lily replied in a soothing voice that comforted the children, "thanks to this young man, we got us a roof over our heads and a belly full of warm food. Don’t sound like the wrath to me. Sounds like a blessing. Praise Jesus."

"Praise Jesus," the others echoed.

She smiled and the warmth of her smile was passed from person to person until it seemed even the dogs were smiling. I’m not much for the Jesus crowd but I decided then and there I would not mind spending my last days on earth, if it came to that, with these gentle, kind-hearted people.

When night descended, I insisted that Perry and Lily take the bed and they reluctantly agreed. I took the couch and the children laid out in sleeping bags on the floor with the dogs. It was cozy and we all slept soundly in the silent night. No dogs barking, no gunshots, no traffic, helicopters or airplanes, no electrical drone – only the soft, smoldering fire of the woodstove and dreams of faraway places where the sun still shined.

In the morning, I awakened to the sound of the children playing with the dogs. I sensed something was different – even beyond the presence of visitors. I opened my eyes and blinked instinctively to shield myself from the bright light of the sun streaking through the window.

Bright, unfiltered sunshine for the first time in all these many weeks of snow, ice and bitter cold. I looked outside and smiled from head to toe. It was not snowing. In fact, the snow was visibly melting.

I was about to wake the Coopers when the lights, the refrigerator, the television and radio, everything came on at once.

We gathered in the living room and watched cheerful news people announce in perpetual cycles that the worst was over. The storm had lifted. Power was being restored.

"God bless," said Lily.

"God bless," said the children.

The nightmare of endless winter, of relentless white skies and fluttering snowflakes, was finally losing its icy grip and we were among the fortunate, the chosen, the blessed.

We survived.

Jazz. 12.22.06.

JACK RANDOM IS THE AUTHOR OF GHOST DANCE INSURRECTION (DRY BONES PRESS) AND THE JAZZMAN CHRONICLES (CROW DOG PRESS). SEE WWW.JAZZMANCHRONICLES.BLOGSPOT.COM.