Lloyd E. Meyer, 32°
4716 E 45th Street, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55406–3614

Antics and accidents cannot mar the beauty of an old-time Christmas in Iowa.

I never can forget the Sunday School Christmas programs of my childhood in Stoney Point, Warren County, Iowa. They always occurred the weekend nearest Christmas. Church members were largely farmers living in the area. The wooden church, white with bell and steeple, was not much larger than the average school room. The wooden pews were perhaps secondhand when installed years ago. Heat was provided by a coal-burning stove in the corner of the room. The altar was more like a stage with a single stained-glass window in back, a pulpit, and a few chairs for the small choir. But it was God's house.

The program was in late afternoon as farmers had to be home for chores. They came mostly in bobsleds, the families, huddling on straw in the bottom of the sled, were covered with horse blankets for protection from the cold. As the sleds were unloaded, the blankets were placed on the horses for warmth. The parents and children entered the church through a single door. Inside, it was standing room only.

The Christmas tree could be almost any variety—hickory, oak, whatever—as fir trees were rare on the Great Plains states. It was decorated with strings of popcorn, colored ribbon and trinkets, plus little bags of homemade candy.

Each child in Sunday School participated in the program, mostly to "speak a piece" or recite a few lines of Christmas poetry. Custer's last stand would have been a picnic compared to a mother's wrath if her child were cut out of the program. Most boys, however, would have been delighted to be left out. The little ones, in particular, were simply terrified going to the stage alone and facing a multitude of people, some of them strangers. Many forgot their lines completely. As he left the platform, one little boy looked back and saw a puddle. I will not mention his name.

The teachers and older children did their best to present a Christmas play. A wire was stretched from one side of the stage to the other. On it hung two bed sheets pinned together for a curtain. At the same time, the stage was being prepared, the organist would be arranging the music at the old foot-pump organ. By this time, babies started to cry, bottles came out of bags, and in the dark corner behind the stove, a small one had his uniform changed.

The room would be packed with parents. Grandpa Ritchie always came early so he could sit by the aisle. Once in a poorly lit room, his cane protruded a little too far in the aisle, and Mrs. Barker went flat on her face.

The creche consisted of an orange crate partially filled with straw on which was placed the largest doll that could be found. The lambs were white pillows with attached white balloons and painted sheep faces. There was only one camel whereon sat a six-year-old king, the other two kings walking behind. The camel was a large crate on rollers covered with a blanket, a short piece of rope for a tail, neck and head improvised by a board, a short piece at right angle with a painted face, nailed to the crate. The idea was to attach a rope to the neck, and two strong boys would pull the camel across the stage. There were little angels with sagging wings and halos made of coat-hangers covered with crepe paper. Two four-year-olds were to sing "Jesus Loves Me." One never opened his mouth, just looked and looked some more, but it did not matter. The other shouted loud enough to make up for the loss.

When all was ready, the organist started to play "Joy to the World," and Rev. Snagle pulled the curtain cord which, unfortunately, separated the sheets where they were pinned together. Repairs were made, Mrs. Smith started pumping the organ, and "Joy to the World" got under way again.

As the song was finished, Gabriel was to blow his horn, which turned out to be a trombone, and it was evident he had not practiced much. Now the overweight choir members, the shortest one in the middle, sang "Come All Ye Faithful." It would have been good, except on the third stanza Mrs. Shultz, with her bad cold, had to blow her nose. This was the time for the three kings bearing frankincense and myrrh to cross the desert on their way to Bethlehem. Either the road was rough or the camel stubborn, but as the two boys pulled with all their might on the rope, the head and neck left the body. Of course, this was a shock to the camel, but the parents thought it hilarious. In those days, you did not see a headless camel very often. The horse king dismounted, and the three kings from the Orient pushed the luckless camel on to Bethlehem.

Mrs. Welldo, who somehow was always elected Sunday School Superintendent, insisted she solo "O Holy Night." Fortunately, it was a solo, so no one else had to share the blame. One year she planned to do Handel's Messiah, but at the last moment, she came down with laryngitis. Handel, looking down, came to our rescue.

It was time for Santa to arrive—no red suit, but the largest volunteer who owned a fur coat. With a red handkerchief as a mask, he slipped out the door taking a string of sleigh bells, circled the church ringing the bells, and came in again with a "ho, ho, ho." He hastened to the tree and passed out candy to the children. Then Mrs. Smith started pumping the organ again, and we all sang "Silent Night."

We put on our heavy coats and overshoes, piled into the sleds, and father took the blankets from the horses, using them to cover us. We went home to wait for Santa to visit our house. Maybe, at age 99, I am getting old, but I feel I enjoyed those plain old-fashioned Christmases of yesteryear more then the plastic toys and trees of today's holiday season. Just maybe.

Lloyd E. Meyer became a Master Mason in Minnehaha Lodge No. 165 in Minneapolis, Minnesota, in 1955 and a Master of the Royal Secret in the Valley of Minneapolis in 1959. Brother Lloyd E. Meyer is now 99 years old.