There appeared out of the blowing snow a team of four horses harnessed to a strange wagon. Each horse was dressed in a chestnut coat, white socks, and a white striped face…all with dark brown manes cascading across a powerful neck. Plumes of steam shot rapidly from their nostrils as they came to a sharp stop at our mailbox. They were large draft horses, whose harness was adorned with brass fittings and clean leather straps all crafted perfectly to the contour of each horse. Behind, the wagon was constructed much like a stagecoach, but not nearly as large and bulky. Above the main cabin and behind the driver was a polished brass rail that arose from the roof. It was stacked with bags and boxes tightly bundled for winter travel. The driver was bound in thick black leather from head to foot. A wooly gray scarf wrapped around his neck and face. Thick beard and bushy eyebrows framed a large bulbous nose… his lips were full, but cracked and tight. Goggles to protect his eyes from the blowing snow were strapped close to his head. Aside from his station on the left, was mounted a boxed lantern, hanging and swaying from a bent rod iron that cast the light forward. The snow and ice had caked up on all of the spindled wheels and left deep ruts in the blanketed snow that started filling the lane the day before. Gusts of wind took to erasing these ruts in short order.
Without warning, the side door of the odd carriage swung wide and some hint of movement from within gave warning that someone or something was about to step from the opening. I watched this from a window at the front of the stone house where I lived with my father and grandmother. Winter frost had taken to the windows blocking any clear view there may have been. Presently, our dog Scatter ran wildly from the side of the house and made it clear that any threats to home or property would be met with swift punishment. Barking and growling he made his stand directly in front of the open door. A booming voice from the dark interior shouted his name, and Scatter immediately moved closer and propped his front paws on the step… wagging his tail with enthusiasm. His switch to happiness was rewarded by a large gloved hand that reached down and ruffled his ears.
“Scatter you worthless hound, where is your master?” Then a large man filled the door leaning through sideways and taking one bold step and landing square on the even snow. Scatter shot away and circled the yard and returned to the big figure that appeared at our house. The large man turned and said something to the driver and with a quick flip of the reins, the team of horses began to pull away. Suddenly, the big man shouted to “Wait”, then walked to a rear compartment on the wagon and lifted a heavy lid. Reaching in and with a heave, he pulled up and away. From the box came a brown strapped piece of luggage about the size of a bale of hay. Then again, he signaled the driver, and the team moved out of sight toward the bunk and stables.
Now the man stood at our door and rapped mightily on the frame. I froze at the window uncertain whether to answer or not. Grandma was busy cooking in the kitchen, and father had been out with the cows for the evening milking. We had two that he milked morning and night, but he should have returned by now. I was shy to open the door, but Scatter seemed to know this giant of a man, so I slowly opened the door to him. He completely filled the doorframe and looked down at me with his red ruddy face.
“You must be Thomas.” His voice bellowed his words and seemed to engulf the entire house. I was shocked that he knew my name. “Am I invited in!!… or will I be required to wait here at the door?”
I widened the door and without asking he walked in and stomped his boots. Scatter shot in right behind him and went immediately to his bedding next to the fire. He curled up there, but kept his eyes on the stranger now in the front room… the tip of his tail continued to twitter. From the rear of the house, I could hear Grandma’s voice getting louder as she was making her way to the front room in our home..
“Thomas what is it? Who are you talking to?” She stopped solid as she entered the living room and saw the big gentlemen who I had allowed to enter. Her hands, that she’d been drying on her apron, went instantly to her cheeks and tears filled her eyes.
“Benjamin” She said the name in a voice mixed with all the spices and love you’ll find in any kitchen.
“Mom you look as amazing as a snowflake standing there.” She went to him, and thrust her arms around his waist. He towered over her. Placing her cheek on his massive chest, Grandma closed her eyes and squeezed tightly the man she once held as a child. Both stood in silence and the moment was allowed to last. I was confused, yet something inside told me that this man was more than welcome at our table. Once her eyes opened, Grandma picked up on the confusion in my face and gestured me over.
“Thomas, this is your Uncle Benjamin. He’s been away for many years.” I stepped to him and held out my hand. Benjamin removed his glove and my hand completely disappeared in his grip. He held my hand, shook it firmly and said, “Thomas I am quite pleased to make your acquaintance, I am sorry I didn’t introduce myself outright.” All I could manage to say was “It’s very nice to meet you.”
Grandma then took over, “Let’s get you out of these frozen clothes and dry you out.” He removed his outer coat lined in fleece and made of a very heavy dark green denim. Grandma could barely reach high enough to help him slip it from his shoulders. She hung it by the door to dry. Uncle Benjamin must have been traveling with the cold weather in mind, because there was another jacket of waist length underneath, and a vest and woolen sweater to follow. His trousers were also of thick dark brown denim and tucked in his boots. Each had a white strip of animal fur of some kind around the top… perhaps a fox. A wide black belt buckled below his coat. Uncle Benjamin was the biggest man I’d ever seen; not one bit soft or shabby. He removed his wool cap and a shag of thick black hair sprang forth. Smoothing it down, he placed the cap over the hall tree.
“Come sit by the fire Benjamin. Can I get you something warm to drink? I can make a pot of coffee.” Her voice crackled like the fire… bright and full of spark. I’d never seen her so much in delight. “
“Gregor should be back from the barn by now, I can’t imagine what’s keeping him,” she apologized unnecessarily.
“Might be that he is helping Cleveland with the team… I sent them to the barn. Don’t fret with the coffee Mother, I am fine.” He seemed to relax in the big chair and let out with a resounding sigh. “It has been far too long since I sat in this chair and breathed in the many incredible smells of this place.” The house was full of wonderful winter aromas; wood smoke, baking bread, scented candles, and a wild game bird roasting in the oven. It was built when my grandfather was a young man many years ago. Stone walls and wood beams gave the appearance of permanence and warmth. My Grandma had lived there over forty years. I sat down on the couch in awe of my Uncle who all the sudden seemed to be falling asleep. Grandma laid a folded blanket across his lap and returned to her kitchen. She was dabbing her eyes. His head laid back, and without moving a muscle, my Uncle said to me.
“So Thomas, tell me of your father. How is his hammer?” My father, in addition to tending to our small farm, was a very skilled blacksmith…as was my grandfather, both men had powerful arms, wrists, and hands. Father was a big man too, but nothing as imposing as my uncle; nor was he as loud and boisterous.
“He is good Uncle. I think his ironwork is the best in the county.” My voice seemed to squeak at his questions. I fidgeted.
“Does he still sing? He has perhaps the finest baritone voice in this hemisphere, but he only shared it with the animals. Oh how they loved to hear him sing,” he smiled. I had on many occasions heard my father signing in the barn or while in the field plowing. He never sang at church or in the house, but I knew what my uncle was talking about.
“He does sing Uncle, but only when he’s alone.”
“He could sing a raccoon out of a tree!” he shouted. “I once heard him singing on that rock outcrop over on the southern ridge. I swear an eagle dropped in and perched on the closest branch just to get a better audience. And nephew… you are right about his hammer work.” He drew his head from the back of the chair and looked right into my eyes, “your father can bend and flatten metal like no one I’ve ever seen. He is a true master craftsman. He is the ONLY master craftsman.”
This was nothing I hadn’t known, but hearing it from this man who I had barely met was somehow causing pride to well in my chest, and curiosity. I loved and revered my father, but this stranger, my uncle, made me realize that he was admired by more than just me and Grandma. It occurred to me that Uncle Benjamin knew things about my father that I could never ask about. What he was like when he was my age. I am twelve. How did he meet my mother? What was she like? When did Uncle leave, and why? All of a sudden all these questions began to race through my mind. I wanted to know, but it was at that moment that I heard my father’s voice enter the room.
The opposite of my uncle, Father was quiet and less direct. He arrived from the kitchen and stood in the doorway and looked across to my uncle seated in his chair.
“Making yourself at home I see,” his voice was clear and soft. Uncle Benjamin sprang to his feet.
“Why Greg… it’s been far too long.” My father’s name was Gregor and I’d not ever heard him referred to as Greg. It sounded odd to my ears. The two men walked to meet each other’s hand in a vigorous shake that became a long overdue hug. My father’s face was shining and fully covered by a smile I’d never seen him wear. “Don’t ask me how long,” he shook his finger at me, “far too long. I am here now, but only for the night I am afraid.”
My father started to protest the notion, but seemed to stop himself. “Still making your rounds I suppose.” I noticed a hint of a smile on my father’s normally serious mouth.
“Greg, my work is growing leaps and bounds,” he stated with pride. “I’ve added six countries this year alone.” There was a strong commitment in the way he said it. Accomplishment. “My only regret is not being here to see you and Mom,” and he gestured to me, “and young Thomas here. Who will teach him to laugh? Certainly, not you.” He was smiling at my father as he said that. It was clear he was teasing.
“Yes Ben, you are missed here, but your purpose is not to be ignored.” Father pulled a pipe from his breast pocket and filled the bowl. He lit the tobacco and slowly drew a few puffs to get it started. Another of my favorite smells soon filled the room. I wondered what it was that my uncle did that was more important than being here with family. I kept quiet and let the two brothers talk. A subtle change came over my father. He laughed openly at the stories my uncle told. Stories of the two of them as boys. It was apparent that my father was more like my grandfather, stern, quiet, and reflective; and Uncle Benjamin was not like anyone in the family. He told me he was a tinkerer by trade. He liked to take things apart and see what made them work. Many of his early discoveries were made using items from around the house. Grandma had rejoined us by then, and told of the time he fixed her wall clock… imported from Switzerland. That clock was still mounted above the fireplace and remained in good working order. If a contraption had a broken part, it seemed that Uncle Ben could fashion a replacement piece and put it back together.. He used cogs and springs, pins and dowels… any little thing that would get the item back in working order. His favorite thing was to fix a broken toy. Jack-in-the-Box, toy guns, miniature train sets; whatever a young child’s mind could imagine. He once replaced the disk in a music box with a different song. This for the banker’s wife down in the valley, and his reputation spread. From that moment on, it was clear that Uncle Ben would have a future apart from the blacksmith shop and farm. He moved away early in his adult life. His reputation grew quickly starting out with a small shop in the village, and soon he was contacted by vendors and toy manufacturer’s across the land. His stature grew and he’d become quite wealthy. His shop was no longer nearby, but had been moved to a location far from our home. His visits were rare, the last being when my mother had passed shortly after my birth. He arrived this day unannounced and said he could only stay the night. Still I wondered what could be more important than being here with us. It was clear he had no other family… no wife ,or children. I kept my thoughts to myself as I was taught to be a good listener and not talk when adults were having a conversation.
Shortly, Grandma declared that our supper was ready. We moved to the kitchen where a place had been made for my Uncle. It was a place of honor at the head of the table where grandfather used to sit. I’d never seen even my father sit at the head of the table. We were all gathered around as Grandmother placed the bird at the center and asked father to say a prayer before he started carving. Father looked to Uncle Ben and said.
“Perhaps you would like to say grace over this meal?” With a squint of his eyes Uncle considered his words and took my father’s hand. We all held hands as he prayed.
“Lord Almighty. On this night we beseech thee thy glorious blessings. Look to us Father to reward your attention with care and giving for those hereabout and those far away… for it is your greatest gift that marks this season and adds meaning to our daily efforts. We say to you Lord, thank-you, for what has been provided and ask only that we be humble in your presence and generous in our giving. Let the Light of All shine within our every deed. In His name Jesus we give thanks and pray.” “Amen,” was shared by the four of us.
Now Uncle held tight my father’s hand and said. “Greg, I’ve a simple request. Would you sing? Any song would be nice, but please sing for us as a gift to me.” It was apparent that my father was struck and deeply moved. He held fast my uncle’s hand and shook it gently.
“OK Ben. As you wish,” he whispered his response and moved away slightly from the table and seemed to collect his thoughts. We all sat at our chairs and my Grandma folded her hands and softly placed her elbows on the table cloth. A deep smile spread across her face and somehow her wrinkles vanished ever so much. Her eyes twinkled in the light of the centerpiece candle. Father then began to sing in our small kitchen. His song was of Christmas and the joy it brought. He sang to the fairies and the midnight frost… he sang to the angels and stars. The pitch in every tone was centered and crisp. His song was of peace on Earth, and gave praise to the newborn Son… the real gift of Christmas.
It was the first time I’d ever heard my father sing in the same room. My Uncle bowed his head as the song lingered in our ears. Truth is hard to match when a song comes from the heart. The song ended and for a mere moment I found it impossible to move. Uncle Ben then slammed hard his fist on the table and declared that that singing could reshape the weather. Then my Dad patted him on the back and we began passing the meal around. Scatter sat watchfully at my Uncle’s chair, fully aware that there would be nothing offered from myself, Dad, or Grandma. Uncle Ben gave him several tidbits, and not just the gristle. At some point Grandma became horrified and said, “Where is your driver Ben? Shouldn’t he be here with us?”
“Not to worry Mother. Cleveland will be happier in the bunk. He will not allow himself to be far from the team when we’re traveling, and he enjoys his solitude like no man I’ve ever met. He is fine. I left him a fine bottle of port in his pack, I am certain he’s as happy as I am.” Grandma didn’t argue, but it was clear in her face that she was still unsure.
That evening, I learned more about my father than I’d ever thought possible. He and Uncle Ben were very close. Both as boys and now; even though their time together was short and long periods elapsed between each visit. He spoke to me as an adult, asking my opinion on many topics and testing my knowledge of the world. Clearly, he had been all over the world. From my love of reading I could share what I knew of foreign lands and he did not hesitate to correct many of the misconceptions that may have been related in my studies. It pleased him that I enjoyed reading.
“Good… it is good that you be curious and look outward,” he said. “Seek adventure. There is plenty to be had on this mountain, goodness knows that your father and I found our share. But look at the horizon and never stop wondering about what might be over the hill.” I thought about his advice and at the age of twelve, was unsure what my father would say if I gave too much interest in seeing for myself what lies out there for me. That night, listening to my uncle tell tales of faraway places and strange customs, my curiosity did begin to mount. He was a great storyteller, but even more impressive was his ability to listen. He seemed to know how to bring out even my deepest feelings. It seemed that as he listened, he was taking notes. Not writing things down, but the way he gestured with his head and eyes… it was as if he recorded each and every detail that I provided.
As the evening wore down, and it was time for all of us to go off to bed, there remained a question in my mind that went unanswered. What did Uncle Ben do? He traveled a lot, that was clear. His work gave him many opportunities to meet with and share the customs of people from every place I could imagine. He recognized the way people dressed and what they enjoyed eating. He must have known ten different languages. He even knew how to make the beaded breastplates in the correct tradition of each of several North American native nations. This question remained unanswered for many years.
I went to bed that night filled with thoughts and wonder. For a long time I resisted sleep and was restless with so many things flashing in my head. I decided that in the morning, I would just ask him straight out and find out. Maybe someday I could go to work for him. That was not to be. Eventually, I did fall into a deep sleep. When morning came, I opened my eyes and remembered the night before… quickly dressed and went down to see my uncle off. My disappointment was learning that he’d already left. Grandmother was humming at the sink, and father had brought in a fresh bucket of water for her to use in her chores and doing the dishes. A kettle was on the stove warming water he’d already brought from the well house.
“Where did Uncle Ben go?” I said. “I wanted to find out more about his work.” My father placed a hand on my shoulder and had me sit at the table.
“Someday,” he said, “the work of your uncle will become known to you, but that day will come on it’s own. His work is very important and demanding, yet he probably receives more joy and satisfaction from it than any man on Earth.” My father had a quality that is rare in the people I’ve come to know. First, his honesty. When he tells me something, I know that he is telling me the truth… without exception. Secondly, I know that when I hear an explanation from him once, then there is no need to ask for further details. He told me that one day I would learn more about my uncle, but made it clear that the day would come when I was ready to find out. He did tell me one more thing. Before he left that morning it seems, Uncle Ben gave my father a package that was marked “For Thomas.”
“Your uncle gave me this just before he got back into his carriage.” My father seemed as puzzled as I was about the contents of the package. A small note was attached with the following message in what was apparently my uncle’s handwriting. It was bound in a single sheet of oiled parchment and tied with twine.
Dear Young Thomas,
Please accept the gifts that accompany this note. Giving, I have found, is the most promising path to adventure that I can imagine. My experience has taught me that giving is always best from the heart, and not always does it have to be wrapped. My favorite gift this year was hearing your father sing at the dinner table last evening. Perhaps from these items, your spirit will be lifted, and the inspiration for your own giving… will be discovered.
I am, your ever loving Uncle…
Benjamin
I then removed the twine and unwrapped the parchment. Two small packages had been placed together and were individually wrapped inside. The first was a small flat wooden box. I lifted the top and found a ream of blank letter sized paper, a fountain pen, and reservoir for ink. There was no explanation other than subtle insinuation that my uncle thought that I needed to write. He gave me no restrictions on what I might want to write about, but that somehow, writing is a gift he wanted me to have… and share. The other gift was also rectangular and flat, but held some weight of its own. I opened it and found a book bound in leather and emboldened with gold lettering. “David Copperfield”, by Charles Dickens was the title and author. Inside the front cover was another short note from Uncle.
“I hear he’s a very fine author.“
Indeed over the years, I read this story and eventually every book that I could find by Mr. Dickens. I read other stories by other authors, and my love of writing did come to pass. My uncle’s gift awakened in me something that I had no idea existed. He seemed to see in me a talent, but more importantly a way for me to contribute. HIs idea was that the best gifts lead to the best gift givers. I always tried to keep that message behind every story I ever wrote. From my pen, I discovered my way of giving to others. I felt it completed me in some fashion, and gave me the identity that is never certain until our own gift is uncovered. As for my question about what it was that my uncle did away from our small home in the mountains?… I have learned only this for certain. Two clues. One is that he said he was a tinkerer by trade. I’ve come to realize that he was a tinkerer for sure, but his real talent… his real gift was simply the art of giving. He used his skill as a tinkerer, or fixer of things, to accomplish his real skill… being a gift giver. My second clue came to me on my first trip out of the valley. I was riding on a train destined for a city where a publisher was interested in a collection of my poems. Sitting on the train as I traveled, I was reading a short story and using my imagination to pass the time as the train rumbled down the tracks. My eyes became tired, so I closed the book with my finger to mark my place and laid my head back. I let my eyes stay closed and the rhythm of the train relaxed my neck and head. Presently, I fell fast asleep. I dreamed of adventure and the many places I might travel as a result of my poems. Without warning, the train braked and my car jolted me awake. I cleared my head as we were nearing the station. My finger was still marking my place in the book. Outside the landscape moved past my window, and it was clear that we had arrived in the city. Then I noticed a large sign mounted on the top of a building perhaps a block from the railroad. On it were the words. Merry Christmas and the image of a man laughing and winking at those who passed on the train each day. The image was unmistakable… Uncle Ben.