Coal for Christmas
An adaptation of Pearl S. Buck’s Christmas Day in the Morning
By Jason R. McConnell
Country music legend Loretta Lynn used to sing that she was “proud to be a coal miner’s daughter.” Even though I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, I have always been proud to be a coal miner’s grandson.
I. Coal Town
Where I come from in the rolling hills of Western Pennsylvania, coal isn’t just a commodity; it is a way of life. I grew up hearing the sounds of train whistles and locomotive engines pulling rail cars filled with coal. My nose was full of diesel fumes from the steady flow of Mack trucks hauling coal up and down the highways. And from my grandparent’s old farm house on top of the hill, I could gaze upon the breathtaking views of the…well, the tall grey smoke stacks from the power plant down in the valley. We seldom had sunny days; mostly because the steady stream of white steam rising from the stacks and drifting across the horizon.
Most of the men in my town worked in the coal mines. They wore coveralls, hardhats, and steel-toed boots. They carried metal lunch boxes, drove full-sized pickup trucks, and smoked unfiltered cigarettes—guys who smoked filters were considered sissies. On their lunch break, there were only two topics of conversation: union verses non-union employment and Pittsburgh Steelers football. They worked long hours, their skin was always dark (regardless of how many times they bathed, and they bore the stress from the constant fear of cave-ins, but they were passionate about their work and proud of their vocation.
I was born and raised in a coal town, so from the time I was a young boy, I received a first rate education on mining and power plant procedures. It was important for fathers and grandfathers to pass this knowledge on to the youngsters because, like farming, mining is a generational occupation. They bring you up to do like your daddy done, and to break away and do something else was almost the equivalent of committing suicide So, to make sure this would never happen, I was indoctrinated with the process of how coal was transformed into electricity. Like oxygen and water, we were taught that coal was essential for life.
At some point in your childhood, you probably heard your parents warn “Now you better be good or Santa won’t bring you any presents. All you’ll find on Christmas morning in your stocking is a big old lump of coal.” This is a classic parental intimidation tactic, but it is fairly effective at producing better behavior (at least during the month of December). I’m not sure where the idea for this threat came from, but I know that it was a credible warning where I came from; there was a lot of coal to go around!
II. My Grandfather
By the time that I had gone to live with my grandparents at the age of four, my grandfather had worked the graveyard shift at the Pittsburgh Coal Company for over 30 years. Like most of his friends, he started mining right out of high school and never looked back. Three decades of a dreary job forged some pretty monotonous habits in him. Every morning he got home from work at seven o’clock sharp, did his morning chores, and took a shower. Then he came into the kitchen, drank two cups of black coffee, and ate a bowl of Raisin Bran cereal. After breakfast, he put me and my sister on the school bus and went to bed. I can’t remember a single day that he ever deviated from this routine.
His morning chores consisted of the tedious custom of going into the cellar, fetching the coal buckets, and carrying them out to the big pile of coal we kept in our barn. Then he would take his square coal shovel, fill the pales, and carry them back inside two by two. Twelve buckets was enough to keep the fire burning in the old pot-bellied coal stove around the clock. He loaded four buckets into the stove in the morning when he came home from work, four in the afternoon when he woke up, and three at night before he left for work again. It was a dirty and laborious process but it saved our family a lot of money.
My grandfather was always tightfisted with money. His frugality didn’t leave much room for frivolity in our family. I remember the economics lecture he gave me at breakfast one morning when I asked him why we didn’t just get an oil furnace. He just looked at me like I was a complete idiot and said, “Boy, the mine gives its employees enough coal to heat our homes! Why in the world would I pay for oil when I can get coal for free?”
My grandfather was a man of few words and faint affections; his personality was as hard as the coal he dug underground every night. He rarely gave hugs or kisses, and I never heard him say the words, “I love you.” He believed in the concept of work before play, even when the other neighborhood kids were playing football in the backyard. And when I would ask him for things, he usually just said “No!”, and he didn’t explain why. Because of his demanding demeanor, I had always wondered if he really loved me. I honestly wasn’t sure.
III. Christmas
When I was seven year old, there was only one thing I coveted for Christmas: a bicycle. I had want wanted one for a long time and I was the only boy in my neighborhood that didn’t have one. I reminded my grandparents of these facts regularly. (Some friends at my school had already ruined a certain secret about the true origin of Christmas presents, so I decided to by-pass all of the ho-ho-ho hoopla and take my petition to the true source. But my grandfather always had the same response, “Bicycles are expensive.”
I knew that getting a bicycle was a long shot, but that did not curb my enthusiasm or deter my persistence. Even though I wasn’t much of a churchgoer as a kid, I figured that my best chance of getting a bicycle for Christmas was to beg my grandfather every day and to pray to God every night. So, that is exactly what I did.
On the last day of school before Christmas break that year, I reluctantly woke up, dressed, and headed downstairs, when I accidently overheard my grandparents whisper the word “bicycle” in the kitchen. That stopped me in my tracks and I became as quiet as a church mouse. I listened closely and heard my grandfather say, “Well Ruth, the foreman gave us our Christmas bonus checks last night and the amount is more than we expected. With this and what we have saved in our Christmas club at the bank, I think we can get him the bicycle. I love that boy so much!” My grandmother started to cry and said, “Oh, he is going to be so happy.”
She was right! I was already so excited that I wanted to do a cartwheel down the stairs, but I knew that I had to pretend that I didn’t overhear their conversation. So, I put my sleepy face back on, trudged into the kitchen, and tried to act normal.
Even though I was thrilled that I was getting a bicycle for Christmas, I found myself being even more excited about my grandfather’s words. I had never heard him say anything like that before. Now I knew for sure that he loved me. I heard it from his own lips! And when I realized how much he was sacrificing to get me a bicycle, I wanted to do something for him too.
We were fairly poor but my grandmother always scrounged enough money for me and my sister to by buy presents for the family at the Five and Dime store in town. I had already bought my grandfather a tie, even though I had never seen him wear a tie before.
But now I wanted to get him something great; something that would show him how much I loved him. It wasn’t until Christmas Eve, but I finally came up with an idea: what he would appreciate most was not a fancy gift, but a special deed—I would wake up early on Christmas morning, load all of the coal buckets, and bring them in the house so he could just come home from work and relax.
When I went to bed on Christmas Eve night, I wore my glow-in-the-dark Superman watch so I could check the time. I knew that I would have to wake up earlier than usual to get all of the buckets loaded and brought in before my grandfather got home from work.
IV. The Barn
With all of the excitement about Christmas and showing my grandfather how much I loved him, I barely slept a wink that night. I looked at my watch about every thirty minutes until it finally read 4:30am, which is the time I decided that I would get up and go to work. I don’t think I had ever gotten up that early before, not even on Christmas morning. When I looked out the window, I saw that it was still dark. The only light I could see was the bright moonbeams reflecting off the fresh fallen snow.
As I quietly tiptoed downstairs, I noticed that the lights on our Christmas tree were still glowing in the living room. And when I walked in, there is was! Among a host of wrapped presents under the tree stood a brand new Schwinn bicycle! My eyes glittered as I gazed at black and gold lettering and the big banana seat. I desperately wanted to take a spin around the living room right then, but I knew I had something more important to do.
After I put my winter coat and snow boots on over my pajamas and found a hat and mittens, I walked around to the other side of the house where the door was to go directly into the cellar. When I turned the light on, I saw twelve empty black coal buckets beside the furnace. Even without any coal in them, it took me a few trips to get all of the buckets to the barn. When I got them lined up in front of the coal pile, I grabbed my grandfather’s heavy shovel and began filling the pales. It took every ounce of my seven year old strength to lift each scoop into the bucket, but slowly and surely, I eventually filled all twelve buckets. It took a long time.
When I was done, I took a break to catch my breath before I began to carry them to the house. While I rested, I looked around the barn. I hadn’t really been in the barn at night before; it looked much different than in the day time. The one little light bulb glowed just enough for me to see the old wooden beams locked together above me. As far as I could remember, the barn had always been used as a garage, but my grandfather had told me that when he was a kid, it was a real barn that housed animals. As I imagined what the barn would have looked like with cows and chickens and hay, it dawned on me that Jesus was born in a barn just like this one. I wasn’t sure if Jesus’ barn had any coal in it or not, but for just a moment, I looked into the corner and envisioned the baby Jesus lying in a manger surrounded by Joseph, Mary, and the shepherds right there by the pile of coal in my barn. In the quiet solitude before dawn on Christmas morning, it seemed like they were all really there.
I pondered that first Christmas the whole time I carried the buckets in two at a time. (Well, to be totally honest, I drug them through the snow more than I carried them.) It took me six trips, but I finally accomplished my goal. I had a great sense of satisfaction when I stepped back and looked at all twelve of those coal buckets lined up by by the old pot-bellied stove. The dented buckets weren’t wrapped up in fancy ribbons or bound with beautiful bows, but I knew that my grandfather would love this Christmas present.
By the time I was finished, I was completely exhausted. I walked upstairs and collapsed on my bed. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell fast asleep.
V. Christmas Day in the Morning
When I woke up and rubbed my eyes, I saw my grandfather sitting on the end of my bed and twiddling a hunk of coal in his hands. I knew that he had just gotten home because he still had his work clothes on and there was a ring of coal dust around his eyes that made him look like a raccoon. The sun peaking through the window revealed a soft beam hiding under the dirt on his face. He just kept looking at me, but didn’t say anything.
I looked up at him and said, “Grandfather, thank you so much for the bicycle. It’s exactly what I wanted. I’m going to ride it every day and I promise that I will take good care of it.”
As soon as I spoke those words, I saw a few tears fall from his eyes and form black streams down his cheeks. It was the only time I ever saw my grandfather cry. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the eyes. He put his hand on my shoulder, smiled, and said, “How about that—coal for Christmas! It’s the best gift I’ve ever received!”
As I lay on my bed that Christmas morning, I thought about Jesus’ words, “It is more blessed to give than it is to receive.” He was right! Christmas is more about giving than it is about receiving. Christmas is about God giving his most precious treasure to the world, his one and only son.
I have experienced many Christmas mornings since then; most of them have faded from the annals of memory. But I will never forget that Christmas when I was seven years old!