HOW OLD WASH PLAYED SANTA CLAUS
By Old Wash
“No, no, Marse John,” said the old man, as he staggered in the other night, “don’t git excited, it ain’t de kuklux done it. I ain’t seed eny o’ dem sense I tried ter be smart an’ own a few po’ white fo’ks arter de war. No, sah, it ain’t kuklux,” and he tried to sit down, but gave it up and held on to the arm of a chair.
I was horrified, for I had never seen the old man look like that. His head was bandaged in cotton batting and the eye he had left was trying to look at me through a slit in an arnica poultice.
“Sit down,” I cried, reaching for a bottle of horse-medicine I kept for him in the sideboard.
“I can’t, Marse John, I ain’t got a spot lef’ to res’ on. I’m branded on bofe hips wid de bar o’ de cannon cracker. If I tries to recumber longerturdernal I lays on de bran’ o’ de sky-rocket, an’ if I goes in fur horizontal recumbrance I gits on de spot lef’ by torpedoes. Dar ain’t but one spot lef’ for me to res’ on. If dars a iron hook in de wall jes’ hang me up on it by de coat collar. I’ve be’n playin’ Sandy Claws,” he groaned—“tryin’ to do lak white fo’ks an’ lak de mos’ of dem kerried my religgun too fur.”
I did what I could to help him.
“Ah, boss, didn’t you put a leetle too much turbentine in dat whiskey? Lord, but I’m a wrick o’ myself.
“If I had it my way,” he went on, as he adjusted himself to a soft spot on the sofa, “dar jes’ nurver would be ernuther Kris’mus. We niggers copies ev’y thing frum de white fo’ks, even borrowin’ dey religgun. But I’m blest ef it fits us eny mor’n it fits some o’ dem, an’ dis Kris’mus is jes’ a nuessence an’ a nonsense. Why, boss, de gloomes’ time o’ dey year is jes’ arter Kris’mus. When de foolishness and de fiahwucks is all over dar ain’t nuffin lef’ but tucky feathers, taxes and a tired stumic! You owe ev’ybody from de grocer’s lergitermates to de ole-skin nabur dat saunt you a cyard headed, “De Foot-paths ob Peace,” an’ spen’s de res’ ob de year scrappin’ wid you, kase you furgot to sen’ him a fat pullit in return. Yo’ taxes is due, yo’ wood is out, yo’ stumic is de only thing you knows you own, kase you kin feel dat’s in revolt, an’ you spen’s de res’ ob de year takin’ to cal’mel an’ tall timber.
“When you look ’roun’, sah, it’s jes’ awful—twixt dried holly hung around, orange peelin’, dirt, chicken feathers an’ fish bone, de home looks like a wolf-den at weanin’ time, de chillun ruint fur wuck an’ school, an’ dey cough and cut up like distempered colts. Yo’ wife’s made pincushens an’ Kris’mus gif’s till she broke you, and her constertushun an’ gone to bed, dey cows got garget when dey oughter hab milk, an’ de cat you be’n tryin’ to git rid of all de year bobs up wid a basketful o’ kittins.
“Ain’t it strange, sah, dat we celerbrates de buff-day of sech a man in sech a way? He cum to tell us to be meek, an’ we starts in fur mischief; he tells us to git religgun, an’ we all git drunk; he tells us to gib, an’ we do it wid de hope o’ gittin’ mo’ in return; he say be temprit, an’ we start in to stuff. His whole life wuz to entice us to heaven, an’ we gits so happy at de very thought dat we ’megiately starts off to hell wid a pocket full o’ fiahwucks fur fear de Debil didn’t hab enuff of his own down dar!
“Hold on, old man,” I cried, “you have expressed just what I have been wanting to say all my life, but didn’t have your flow of language! Excuse me while I go to my iron safe and get a bottle of Frank Chaffin’s twenty-year-old—that horse medicine is not good enough for such sentiments. I’ve got the other in my safe and I am the only man who knows the combination.”
“Ah, dat’s better, Marse John,” he said a moment afterwards—“I’ve jes’ be’n scorin’ now—jes’ watch me pace.
“An’ swappin’ dese Kris’mus gif’s, Lord, it do make me tired! It’s like de time ole Marster tole ole Miss he sold his fine hound fur a thousand dollars, an’ ole Miss wuz so glad, kase she hated dat hound, he sucked her eggs. But she wuz hot when she found out ole Marster had jes swapped him fur two five hundred dollar pups.
“Dat’s Kris’mus givin’ all over.
“Kris’mus gif’s now is jes’ Kris’mus gittin’, an’ ev’y man is jes tryin’ to git his piece on earth an’ de good will o’ de other man long enuff to skin him endurin’ de year.
“Now, dar’s Dinah. She starts in right after Jinuary an’ spen’s de res’ o’ de year gittin ready fur Kris’mus, an’ no heathen in Aferca spen’s a year of harder wuck, whittlin’ his god out o’ a gum-stump wid a clam shell, den my ’liggus ole ’oman does fixin’ fur Kris’mus. ‘Save it fur Kris’mus, Wash,’ is whut she chirps on frum Jinuary to Jinuary. She’s tuck down de good ole sign I useter hab up in de house, ‘Save a nickel and own a dime,’ an’ now all she’s got up is, ‘Save it all fur Kris’mus!’ She drilled dis so in our chillun dat it liketer led to a ’vorcement wid our oldes’ gal, Sally. Sally she married a nice nigger, but I soon seed sumpin’ wuz wrong. De nigger got mad an’ started for a ’vorcement, an’ when I gits to de bottom of it, he said Sally nurver had kissed him yit. I gin dat gal a strappin’ an’ she ’fessed up and sed she lubbed de nigger, but she lubbed ’im so hard she wuz savin’ de fust kiss fur Kris’mus!
“I tell you, sah, it’s jes got redikerlus de way we go on. Now heah’s de way it wucks wid me:
“We spen’s de summer an’ fall raisin’ a flock o’ tuckies es Kris’mus gif’s fur our frien’s. Fur dese we gits back a armful ob ‘Foot-paths ob Peace’ cyards, a few po’ pullits an’ a lot o’ candy made in Black Bottom an’ painted by dat Irish Dago you calls Mike Angelo. Fur de fall lambs er two we sen’s out mos’ly to de preachers, we gits back sumpin’ dat looks like wool, but it ain’t, on de painted toys de chillun can’t eat; an’ fur de good garments Dinah makes an’ distrubutes ’mong her frien’s, she gits back cobweb collars dat you can’t wear an’ hankerchefs dat you wouldn’t no mo’ think o’ blowin’ your nose in den you would in a sifter.
“An’ some fool ’oman had spent a half a year a-makin’ ’em.
“O, we gits cyards a plenty. But I’ve noticed dat de ones dat sen’s me de ‘Foot-paths ob Peace’ is allers in a scrap er fuss wid us, an’ de very nigger dat led de prayer-meetin’ an’ sent us dat framed card, ‘Our Faith is Our Fishiency,’ ’loped wid our darter an’ tuck all de blooded chickens wid him dat night. Eny way, he didn’t leab us a fishiency—no, not eben a minnery.
“But I got enuff now sense I played Sandy Claws last week.”
“You played Santa Claus after all you have said?” I asked.
“Yes, boss, I played Sandy Claws, an’ God knows I find his claws an’ his paws, an’ heah I pause,” he winked, looking toward the sideboard.
“Now, boss,” he said, after he tapped the bottle, “I didn’t wanter play dat Sandy Claws, but de church saunt a committee of one—a mighty hansum an’ hefty ’oman to see me—Sis Tilly—an’ she begged me to do it jes’ fur her sake. Now, es I sed she wuz hansum an’ Dinah wuz bizy makin’ Kris’mus gif’s outen cotton battin,’ dog hair an’ exselsor, dat I knowed she wouldn’t kno’ a side-steppin’ waltz from a breakdown, so I ’cided to he’p Sis Tilly out. Dis led to a lot o’ practicin’ twixt me an’ Sis Tilly at de church, an’ by de time dat Kris’mus night cum I wuz fitten an’ good. All de sisterin he’p fix me up wid whiskers an’ a pillar stumic an’ a big pack o’ fiah-wucks an’ things on my back, an’ when I wuz finished dey said I wuz hansumer den dey eber seed me befo’, an’ I had ’em, boss, whar I could er started a church o’ my own wid all dem sisterin es charter members. Two o’ de bes’ lookers kissed me kase dey said dey nurver had kissed Sandy Claws in dey life. When it comes to inventin’ a reason fur eatin’ furbiddin’ fruit don’t ole Eve’s gals all over de wourl’ sho’ dey pedigree? But Sis Tilly wuz de one I wuz arter, an’ she sed she wuz gwine ter kiss me arter de ball ef I acted ole Sandy well.
“De sisterin’ had spent a week on de tree an’ it looked mighty putty all lit up, new candles all ober it an’ in de house. De leetle niggers sot in de front pew waitin’ fur ole Sandy lack dey knowed him all dey life an’ de church wuz full an’ all o’ dem happy an’ me de biggest man in de bunch, prancin’ behind de stage wid Kris’mus in my bones an’ feelin’ like ole Tom Hal at de fust signs of blue grass in de spring. Brer Jones, de preacher, wuz makin’ a leetle talk an’ tellin’ de chillun de usual lies about ole Sandy, an’ what a mighty man he wuz, an’ heah I cum prancin’ out, like a blin’ horse over potato rows. I wuz so dazed when I cum out I couldn’t see nuffin but holly an’ wool all ober de house. But I seed Sis Tilly on de fus’ bench wid a big smile on reddy to vote in de affermative.
“‘Dar’s old Sandy! Dar’s ole Sandy!’ dey all shouted, an’ sech a hurow!
“It wuz up ter me to act, boss, an’ I done my bes’, but I’ve reached dat stage, like all ole men, when I thinks I wants a whole lot mo’ than I do, an’ I out-acted myself. I ripped an’ I r’ared, I pranced an’ I prared an’ shuck my head at de chillun like a billy goat, whilst ev’ybody howled an’ de organ struck up.
“I’ve heerd, boss, dat Marse Horris Greely sed dat ef our foresight wuz es good es our hin’sight we’d be better off by a dam sight, but dat is whar Marse Horris wuz wrong—it wuz my hin’sight dat went back on me, fur in prancin’ an’ backin’ aroun’ I backed dat pack o’ fiahwucks into a lighted candle an’ jes es de congregashun struck up dat good ole hymn, ‘Shell I be kerried to de skies on flowery beds o’ ease,’ I heerd sumpin’ goin’ off in my rear like de parked guns at Shiloh an’ I started to de skies sho’ nuff, an’ nuffin but de cealin’ kept me frum gwine on! It looked like ter me fur ten minets I rid de air on fiahwucks. Two cannon crackers tuck off my boots, my pants went out de winder actin’ as de tail ob a skyrocket, a torpedo scattered my stumic till de feathers looked like sno’ fallin’, I wuz sot afiah from my shurt to my whiskers, an’ ef I hadn’t lit in de baptismal pool when I fell, God knows I wouldn’t a bin heah to-night.
“I’d bin baptized twice befo, but I nurver seed any candidate go into de water so willing agin. I’ve allers sed emershun wuz de only way o’ salvashun’, an’ now, thank God, I kno’s it!
“But so he’p me, boss, dem fiahwucks wuz so spiteful dey eben kep’ a poppin’ under de watah. Dey sed it wuz a sight ter see dey blue balls an’ yaller balls an’ high balls cum bilin’ outen dat baptismal pool an’ sprinklin’ Baptis’ niggers wid Presbeterian dictrine.
“When I got up near ’nuff to peep ober de brim, de mos’ o’ de congregashun wuz under de benches, but Br’er Jones had be’n blowed up a-straddle de stove pipe an’ de benzine and bar’s oil dat he’d greesed his hair wid wuz a-fiah. One o’ my boots, wid a skyrocket in it, had caught Sis Tilly in de mouf jes es she opened it to lead in de singin’. She couldn’t talk, but she wuz gwine ’round makin’ signs fur sumbody to git a boot jack an’ pull it out. Nearly eber nigger dar had caught a red ball or a yaller ball an’ wuz bilin’ out o’ doors an’ winders cussin’ Sandy Claws an’ all his kin.
“By dis time I wan’t lookin’ fur yellow balls nor black balls, but I sot up to my neck in de watah beggin’ fur a high ball. Some still had sense enuff lef’ to put out de fiah wid watah frum de pool, an’ when dey pulled me out I didn’t hab on nuffin but a dough face, some burnt whiskers an’ patches o’ chicken feathers an’ a leetle skin in spots.
“No, boss, nobody b’leeves in Sandy Claws dar now, nor in de preacher dat lied to ’em, nor in me, dat tried to find Sandy an’ found his claws. De fac’ is, de plan ob salvashun is mighty nigh blowed up in dat chu’ch.”