The Christmas Drifter

As towns go, it wasn't much. Founded by pioneers a hundred years ago on the strength of the large fir which proffered shade to weary travelers on hot summer days. Back then, a sizable stream flowed nearby. There was little else to commend it. These days, owing to the dam built fifty miles to the north, the stream was no more. There was hardly enough water in the summertime for people to drink. In the winter, it was hard to keep warm. Coal deliveries were infrequent and the quality poor. Thus this mournful place is appropriately named Sorrytown. A gas station, a cafe and a general store. A church. A few carts sit around the railroad platform, snow piled in little pyramids on wheels and traces. Surrounding these were scattered houses. Street-lights glowed dimly on the corners. In the center of the town stood an obelisk, a memorial to the men of the town who had fallen in battle. Next to it, the tall fir tree.

In most very small towns, a railroad might have guaranteed prosperity. Not here -- or for that matter, to the other small towns along the line. It was a single track. Every Thursday, at eventide, an empty, solitary freight ambles through on its way to destinations unknown. One empty freight which never returns with machinery, appliances, coal, corn or even livestock. It brought little comfort to Sorrytown.

The town did have one richly redeeming tradition. Each Christmas Eve, the folks who live here gather for the purpose of singing Christmas carols around the large fir and the manger scene with wooden figures. Robust singing of "Hark the Herald Angels," could be heard for half a mile. It continued until the voices welcomed Christmas at midnight. This year however, things were not the same.