This is a Christmas memory I wanted to share. Now, before I begin… there’s two types of “hollers.” There’s the kind that involves yelling: Hey buddy! Have you caught any fish yet on that side of the lake? And then there’s the kind that most of us born and raised in rural Appalachia refer to when we tell people where we’re from: I live in a holler up in Wolf Creek, just below Coon Creek.“Holler” is the same thing as “Hollow” – we just don’t want to waste the extra energy it takes to add the “ow.” The “er” is quicker and easier. And yes, Wolf Creek and Coon Creek are real. That’s where I was raised, up in them there hollers.
So… I was about seven or eight, which is the precise age when you are old enough to remember things clearly, but young enough to remember them inaccurately. My brother was three years younger, which meant two things: (1) he was required by law to annoy me, and (2) I was required by law to be responsible for him, whether I wanted to be or not.
We lived in the mountains of southeastern Kentucky; a place that outsiders politely called “rural” but that we referred to as “way out yonder.” Our address might as well have been: Third Holler Past the Last Paved Road And Just Before the Big Red Barn. The roads weren’t paved. They were dirt. In the summer, that meant dust clouds so thick you could taste them for three days. In the winter, it meant ice. No salt. No plows. Just traction, momentum, and committed prayer.
About a mile from our house was a quarter-mile stretch of road that was basically an igloo hotel laid on its side. We’re talking a very steep hill. Tall trees blocked the sun, and once snow landed there, it settled in like it had signed a 6-month lease. Folks in ‘the holler’ spoke of that hill in hushed tones. It had a reputation in the winter months. Some of us called it Taylor Baker Hill (old man Taylor Baker lived just at the bottom of that hill in an old shack of a house). Others of us called it The WidowMaker. If your car stalled there, you didn’t “slide” – you went back down the hill the same way a scared mule rethinks crossing a bridge.
My dad worked hard in the coal mines. My mom worked hard everywhere else. She cooked, cleaned, raised boys, and somehow made Christmas happen every year. That particular Christmas, she had the turkey ready for the oven and was about to start making the stuffing.
And then – click.
The power went out.
Not a flicker. Not a tease. It went out with authority. Somewhere up on that icy hill, a tree branch – heavy with wet snow – decided it had met its work quota for the season and clocked out early… taking the power line with it.
No generator. No backup plan. Just candles and the sudden realization that Christmas dinner wasn’t happening. And mother was livid. To make matters worse – she tried to call the power company but guess what – the telephone line had apparently met its work quota for the season and clocked out early, too. No phone service.
Now, parents experience this as a major disappointment. Children, however… Christmas just got a whole bunch more exciting!
Dinner that night was bologna sandwiches.
And let me be clear – these were not fancy bologna sandwiches. No artisanal bread, no aioli. No four different kinds of cheese, or fixings. Just bologna, white bread, and mayonnaise. Or at least we hoped it was mayonnaise. It was dark and we couldn’t see.
But my brother and I didn’t care one bit.
The living room glowed with candlelight, which instantly made everything feel important. Shadows danced on the walls. The house felt smaller, warmer, and quieter. A battery-operated AM/FM transistor radio sat on the table, crackling out Christmas tunes from the local radio station. Every few minutes someone would bump it and the music would briefly turn into alien chatter before dad would readjust the dial and return to “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.”
We sat on the floor, surrounded by toys. Big yellow Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars that always seemed to find their way under the living room sofa. My brother and I didn’t care – we were having a blast. It was all good.
Outside, the world was dark and cold. Inside, the kerosene heater kept us plenty warm as we drove thousands of miles on hardwood roads with our toy dump trucks and cars.
The power would end up staying out for several days. That was one of the drawbacks of ‘Holler’ living. People up our way weren’t important like the city folk. The turkey never did make an appearance. Civilization seemed like lightyears away. And somehow – miraculously – that was the most enjoyable Christmas I ever had.
No cell phones. No internet. No cable TV. No twelve-course meal. Just me, my brother, and mom and dad… candlelights, toy cars, a crackling radio, and the blessed gift of being together.
Turns out, Christmas doesn’t need turkey or electricity. Just some bread, sandwich meat, mayonnaise, and family huddled around each other.
My dad passed back in 2018, my sister in 2020, and my mom in 2021. My brother and I are the only ones remaining. I know they’re with Jesus in heaven, but oh how I miss them dearly.
Those were some fun times. Good times. I didn’t realize how good they truly were. Christmas in the Holler was a special thing.
Former Blackout Artist 