Starlight: A Christmas Story

Clifton Ellis didn’t have anything in particular in mind the day he built it. Down time doesn’t exist on a family farm and yet Clifton found himself with a warmer than average November afternoon and a pile of half inch rod that frankly, he didn’t feel like hauling to the recycling center. Realizing that the haul would cost more time than he had daylight, Clifton set to work. On a farm, tools exist out of necessity. If one goes missing or God forbid, breaks, an entire day can be lost. A day can’t be lost. Clifton’s wife Elyse had taken the girls, their daughter Megan and twin granddaughters, shopping, and since it was Saturday, the farmhands had been gone since noon. So Clifton and Loretta Lynn his Australian Shepard were alone with the animals.

With Loretta looking on, Clifton neatly arranged the rods in front of the garage. “What do you think girl?” She didn’t answer, of course, but the answer occurred to him immediately. Scott Ellis, Clifton and Elyse’s son had been deployed for 11 months last week, and while they hoped, and prayed, he would come home for Christmas, no one spoke this wish aloud. As the hope streaked through Clifton’s mind, and his heart caught with that too familiar pinch, the Blue Star Flag Elyse hung inside the front porch window flashed inside his mind. “A star it is.”

Just as they never spoke their desires that Scott would join them for Christmas this year, Clifton and Elyse had never spoken of the flag in the window. The day Scott left, it appeared. Clifton had turned from the bootscrape to climb the porch steps and there it was.  A fixture, like the steers, the silos, the barn and Loretta Lynn.

The welding was simple, and when it was complete, Loretta sat spot in the middle of the 5 and a half foot star thumping her tail wildly. Her nose lifted and whether it was coincidental that she faced the old concrete stave silo or not, Clifton took it as a sign. “Lights then.” He nodded to her and clicked his tongue. Off they went.

Inside the tractor shed looked as much like a storage unit as a farm building. Their two children moved out years ago, and yet their bicycles, a plastic swimming pool no one would ever use again, roller skates, ball bats and various other artifacts of childhood remained, congregated in Clifton’s shed along with the General Electric refrigerator half filled with cheap beer and coca colas, both in bottles. Tripping over Megan’s hula hoop, he backtracked and flipped the light switch. Raw bulbs suspended by rope cord glowed overhead. Shifting several plastic totes of Godknowswhat, one labeled “Christmas lights” teetered, sending a string snaking out onto the dusty floor. Never one to waste a trip, Clifton slid the strand back into the tote, restored the lid, and grabbed a Coke from the fridge, popping the cap with the bottle opener nailed to the jamb on his way out the door.

Careful to neatly wind the lights in January meant no frustration the following year, so unwinding and affixing these to the frame was as easy as the welding. Of course, practical as ever, Clifton had lighted each strand first, thankful that he’d also replaced any burned out bulbs after last Christmas. Just as he set to hoisting the star, a familiar sound accompanied by billowing dust made its way toward him along the gravel lane. The truck bounced slowly in the tractor tracks. Clifton’s father, now retired, made his rounds each day around 4:00. Clifton didn’t need to check his watch. An hour and a half, give or take, until dark then. Clayton Ellis leaned against his pickup, finely covered in dust, arms folded, legs crossed. When the star reached the highest point, he slid silently into his son’s position, keeping the rope taught as Clifton began to climb.  After carefully knotting and hooking up the electrical, Clifton descended, rubbing his hands down the fronts of his jeans and nodding in acknowledgement to his dad. “Looks good, Son.” And that was that. No wasted effort, no wasted words.

At six o’clock sharp, Elyse returned with a bucket of fried chicken and evidence of a successful day Christmas shopping. Clifton entered the kitchen with Loretta Lynn, department store bags in tow. Elyse beamed, nearly knocking her husband over with the suddenness of it all. “…Never cease to surprise me…early Christmas gift…simply love it…thank you, thank you, thank you!”

But that was eight years ago. The twins now in high school, Loretta Lynn’s muzzle as white as the tip of her tail, and Scott returned, buried in the family cemetery just over the hill behind the silos. The only change, besides the addition of the soldier’s headstone, was to Elyse’s flag. The blue star, now gold. That first year, the star remained lit day and night. The star lost its meaning when the Ellis’ lost their son, a thing not so much overlooked or forgotten, but inconsequential by comparison. No one made the effort to flip the switch.

When the bulbs began to burn out, leaving an abstract constellation against the dark sky, Clifton lowered the star and replaced each one. The star leaned against the silo, unlit, while Clifton and Loretta set off across the meadow. A short while later, they returned, Clifton hoisted the star, tied it off but did not restore the power. An understanding between father, son, and their dog. No wasted words. From that day, the star lit the first day of December and remained so until the morning of the 26^th. Year after year.

When Clifton added the big blue Harvestore five years ago, he moved the star, affixing it permanently to the safety rails 90 feet up, making the star visible for miles. It became a fixture, photographed by locals and visitors with its own hashtag, according to the twins. Javi drove his grandmother by one evening after work so that she could see the Hermosa Estrella more closely. She thanked Clifton for continuing the tradicion, never thinking of it as such until she mentioned it. Each year a letter to the editor appeared in the local paper, sometimes from a lifelong resident, thankful for the addition to the landscape, sometimes from a wayward traveler, thankful for a guiding light. Church groups made hayride pilgrimages to the farm, stood singing carols hand in hand encircling the silo, Loretta Lynn sniffing ankles. Megan and Elyse simmered vats of hot chocolate to distribute in Styrofoam cups.

When the little girl bounced off the wagon, breaking her arm, no one felt worse than Clifton, except for maybe Loretta Lynn who insisted on riding in the back of the ambulance. The EMT’s broke protocol this once agreeing that while not technically a service dog, the comfort Loretta provided the fiveyearold was indeed a service in itself. That was the last hayride. Clifton didn’t figure he was being unreasonable when he told the deacon board that, no, he couldn’t just pave the driveway. The tractor ruts in the gravel lane, blamed for the accident, could be smoothed away, they proposed. Regretfully, no more hay wagons would make the pilgrimage unless Clifton would find the heart to blacktop the lane, never mind the cost. Later that evening as Clifton was feeding a strange car came up the lane. When Clifton entered the kitchen after shedding his boots as always beside the front door, there sat Loretta Lynn contentedly having her ears scratched by the fiveyearold in a bright pink cast. “Katie wanted to thank Loretta for taking such good care of Chelsea the other night,” Elyse said. Loretta smiled, her long pink tongue hanging pitifully from her drooling jowls.

 “Hi Katie, how’s your Daddy?” Clifton asked.

 “Good, good, Mr. Ellis. Chelsea and I just wanted to thank ya’ll for your help the other night. We brought some treats for Miss Loretta here.” Clifton nodded, smiling down at the scene. His dog’s shameless infidelity.

“Miss Chelsea, how’s that arm feeling?” He asked, but she sheepishly hid behind fur, leaving her mother to answer.

“Oh she’s fine.  A few Tylenol, and now she’s back to her old self. Pink’s her favorite color,” she said, stroking her daughter’s hair absentmindedly. “Every Kindergartener in town has signed it.” They laughed. “Just a hairline fracture. She’ll be good as new. Don’t think another minute about it.” But of course he would, even in he’d never mention it again.

Life on a farm never slows, and Clifton and Elyse didn’t give any more thought to the star than they did to any other decoration stored in the shed. The only difference was that the star remained a permanent fixture even when unlit. The Christmas trees were dismantled and stored, including the one the twins gave Elyse in memory of their Uncle Scott. She cried every year as she carefully tucked each ornament, photo, and memento into tissue paper. The process was part of the healing, she thought. If she left it up year round, mighten it lose its meaning too, like the star? She never spoke the question aloud.

Although Elyse vaguely remembered the sirens, Clifton and his wife didn’t hear word until the farmhands arrived for work Monday morning. Wesley Moss from across the river, ran off the road around two a.m. and hit a telephone pole. He was wearing a seatbelt but was flown to the University hospital with multiple broken bones. Might never walk again. Tragic. Prayers. Vigils. Elyse and the women in her church circle commenced to preparing meals for the family.

As the week wore on, word came that Wesley would survive and would even likely walk again. Surgeries, therapy, but the nineteenyearold would survive. The ladies planned a series of bake sales to assist with the medical bills.

While Elsye was out for more supplies, a Sheriff’s car approached slowly from the lane. Knowing his wife was out, Clifton made his way out from behind the Farmall H toward the driveway, wiping grease onto a rag from his back pocket. He offered his hand to the deputy, Mike Johnson.

“How’s it going, Mr. Ellis?” Mike had graduated with Scott. Enlisted at the same time too, Marines though.

“Can’t complain. How can I help you, Mike?”

“Well, here’s the thing, Mr. Ellis, I’m here more as a courtesy than anything. It’s just…” His eyes cut away and up, up to the top of the Harvestore, “The star, Mr. Ellis.”

After choking thorough his explanation, Mike Johnson explained his purpose. Wesley Moss was now speaking about the accident. Remembering, in pieces…and one big piece in his story: the star.

“Mr. Ellis, I think the world of you and Mrs. Ellis. I loved Scott like a brother, I hope you know that. And, I’m not here to tell you what to do….”

Clifton interrupted before Mike could finish. “No son, don’t waste words. I appreciate you.” With that, he patted the deputy’s back and watched as he backed around and pulled out the lane.

When Elyse returned home, he sat on the front porch steps with Loretta Lynn. He met his wife at the trunk of her car and she threw her arms around him. She already knew…and more. Word at the grocery store, a hearing was in the works. A hearing to determine the fate of their star. “What do we do, Cliff? I just don’t know how to feel about all this.” Her husband, a man of few words anyway smoothed her hair and kissed the top of her head. “We get these groceries in before the eggs get broken.” And that was that.

That week, the paper ran a supplemental section to make room for all of the letters to the editor—letters for and against Clifton Ellis’ star. Katie and Chelsea Lee wrote about how kind the Ellis’ and Loretta had been when Chelsea broke her arm, kindly leaving out the controversy surrounding her accident. A man from a nearby town wrote that he brought his ninety year old mother who’d survived the Holocaust to see the star and how she’d cried tears of joy at the beauty of it all. But some weren’t so kind. Useless. Pointless. Wasteful. One letter even suggested that the star created light pollution a disgrace in itself. Another asked who’d authorize it in the first place.

And so, it was with no enthusiasm whatsoever, not even to defend the star if need be, that Clifton quit work early that Thursday to shower and shave in time for the hearing. A few of the men, including Javi, stayed behind to feed, throwing their hands up in a wave of solidarity as Clifton and Elyse set off down the lane. The star remained lit, and just as the hearing was called to order, the sun slid behind the horizon. Javi climbed into his truck and glanced upward before he too departed for the evening.

The hearing came to order shortly after six. The room looked more like a wedding party than a formal meeting. If Clifton’s star was the groom, the room slightly tilted toward the bride…those who believed that Wesley Moss’ accident was caused by that star. The man who claimed light pollution spoke, although few seemed interested in his facts and figures. Many who spoke against the star avoided eye contact with the Ellises. Some prefaced their statements with, “No offense,” or “No disrespect.” One man explained, “My son was a soldier too.” As if somehow that explained anything at all. Clifton and Elyse never planned to speak themselves, so when the opportunity was offered, they both murmured a, “No thank you.” Clifton ran his fingers across thecallouses on his opposite hand, unsure how to think, what to do, or why they even sat there. In his peripheral vision, he saw a small white head bob toward the microphone. 

Javi’s grandmother. She wasn’t old, maybe 70, but she moved like someone much younger, gracefully. She turned the microphone so that rather than facing the council, it faced the audience. She clasped her hands at her waist, and breathed deeply. What followed was beyond the literal comprehension of most in the crowd. Several young children who’d been dragged along by parents snapped to attention. Her wrinkled hands wove through the air, nails in sharp points always directed upward, her movements fluid, open, encompassing. Her dark eyes like jewels glistened and emoted what language could not convey across the barrier. She smiled as her words flowed, heavily accented like song leaving the room entranced, so much so, that when she finished, she was nearly to her seat before anyone reacted.

“Nino de Cristo.” Christ child. The only words Clifton knew he’d understood for sure. When the assembly was thanked for their time and assured that a decision was forthcoming, Clifton and Elyse stayed seated. The receiving line as they left was short but hugs and well wishes were sincere.

The next morning, Friday the last day of work before the Christmas holiday, the men assembled just outside the barn, breaths visible. Clifton emerged carrying an empty feed sack, approaching Javi with a quizzical look. Javi smiled, “Good morning, Mr. Ellis.”

“Mornin’ Javi.” Breaking his usual tendency, he turned and spoke again. “Javi, your grandmother. Please thank her for me.”

“I will Sir. Think nothing of it.”

“But Javi…”

“Sir?”

“What was that…what was she saying?”

Javi smiled, his eyes wide and dark like his grandmothers. “She was telling a story.”

“Nino de Cristo?”

“Yes, the Christmas story. She teaches the story of the three wise men—Tres Reyes Magos—to the little ones each year. She said she just wanted to remind the people of the importance of the star.”

Maybe the tradicion wasn’t so much the one Clifton had started with some steel bars and Christmas lights. Maybe the tradicion Mrs. Reyes was referring to the day she visited was the same one she recalled last night… “God bless her.”

“Yes Sir,” Javi replied.

A few hours later as the men gathered for the lunch hour, steam and dust became visible from the lane, announcing yet another visitor to the farm. Slowly the deputy’s car came into view and each man’s eyes turned upward to the star that, despite the bright whiteness of the winter sky remained lit. They mulled as Clifton pulled off his gloves as approached the car.

“Mike.”

“Afternoon, Mr. Ellis.”

“The boys were just heading out for lunch. Can we help you?”

“I don’t want to hold anyone up, Sir. No, I just came by as a courtesy.”

“I see,” Clifton muttered, remembering their last meeting like this.

“I don’t mind sharing, Sir, that we recovered Wesley Moss’ cell phone.”

“I didn’t realize it was missing.”

“Well sir, funny thing is, no one really had until Wesley began insisting he needed a new one. No one could understand where it was.”

“Lost in the crash, I suspect.”

“No, that’s just it, sir, it wasn’t. Nothing was ejected from the car, sir. The windshield shattered, but it never broke completely. The phone was tossed from the scene.” Unsure of what exactly this had to do with him, Clifton’s gaze shifted from Mike to his own steel toed boots. “Sir, Wesley threw his phone out before the paramedics arrived.”

Still unsure, Clifton asked the only question that occurred to him. “Well, why on earth would he do that, Mike?”

“Because, Sir, when he said that the star caused the crash, what he really meant was this.” He unfolded a manila envelope he’d been holding, and held out a photo. A perfect star hovering in the sky, brilliantly illuminated. “Your star didn’t cause the accident, Mr. Ellis; Wesley Moss’ carelessness did. He took this photo with his cell phone seconds before hitting that pole. He’d also been texting minutes before.”

Clifton Ellis sank to his knees. Loretta instantly falling against him, sharing her warmth. He hadn’t realized how much he needed this news. He thought of a day like this, the bright, the cold, years ago when Scott was just a boy. He’d returned from the stock sale to find Scott pulling proudly along beside him, on his bicycle. The bicycle he struggled to ride a few hours earlier when Clifton had left. He got out of the truck and turned to watch his son pedal the last few yards when he hit deep gravel and spun out, sprawling wildly, the tires still spinning. Not wanting to alarm the boy, he spoke one word, “Son?”

“Merry Christmas!” Scott replied, throwing his hands up in a TA-DA fashion.

The memory passed, warming Clifton through. He stood.

“Thank you, Mike.”

“I was afraid you’d take the star down. I wanted to tell you before you did.”

“Merry Christmas,” Clifton said, patting Mike’s shoulder. And that, was that.

Copyright © 2016. Carrie Ellen Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com. Please respect Carrie's intellectual property. Sharing blog posts is permitted, but no part of this material may be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Contact Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@icloud.com.