While this story (below) would be better in one of the other RV.net Forums, but maybe it can stay here for a couple of days. Many of you know I write stories that appear in many other venues, but I thought this might be enjoyed here.
Maybe some of you have your own Christmas Stories to share, too.
Merry Christmas to all!
Over 25 years ago, I wrote a Christmas Story about a man, a dog and my visit on Christmas Eve. This is a true story and one of the ones I use to write every Christmas, beginning a long time ago, when I was eight years old. Of course the earlier stories were such that one would expect from a small little boy. With this one, I have been asked a number times what ever became of Mr. Sabol and Casper.
Well join me, again, as we begin this story about a man, his dog, on a cold and snowy Christmas Eve, in the mountains just west of a place called, Boulder, Colorado.
"Six Charlie 12, Denver."
"Six Charlie 12, Denver. Pending a 10-50"
The snow was caked on my back as I was trying to dig my way back up the mountainโs steep embankment. The Jeep Cherokee had tumbled down a few hours before and now rested on itโs right side. The trees had caught the Jeep before it could tumble any farther down the mountain. It's roof was resting against the Ponderosa Pine trees, lining the mountainside.
This accident had occurred earlier in the evening, as an elk was moving across the road, one of a small heard of elk. "Out of nowhere!" Said the uninjured driver and passenger. The now destroyed Jeep, was now behind me. This particular area had guardrails, as it was the notorious "shelf" area of Sunshine Canyon Road, where a plunge off the road would result in a tumble more than a thousand feet.
I had thrown out my climbing rope, after tying it to the massive bumper of the front of my GMC Jimmy Patrol vehicle. Checking on the Jeep, it would be towed up and out, the next day. My work was finished now.
""Six Charlie 12, Denver."
Grabbing the rope, a bit harder, as I pulled myself up to "Car 41"
I could hear the outside speaker even louder this time. We didn't carry pack sets, as well as no cell phones back then. This was the dark ages. My pace quickened up the mountainside. My snow gaiters were perfect for this night, as I pulled the rope and climbed up to โCar 41โ.
"Denver Six Charlie 12, go ahead."
After reaching the warmth of the patrol vehicle, snow melting almost instantly from my wool sweater. Coats were just something I didnโt wear.
"Charlie 12, report of a 10-50 on Poorman Road, reporting party and vehicle now at residence.โ
I quickly copied down the address and name; Peter Sabol.
โ10-4, Denver. In route, driving time from 2 miles east of Gold Hill.โ
Working the mountains were a dream come true, for me, and tonight was a perfect example of that, as I drove down Sunshine Canyon Road, skirting over to Poorman Road. Through the windshield the snowflakes were multiplying and growing in size. The amber glow of my dash lights was a comforting warmth to my eyes, as I scanned the sides of the road, searching for any new tracks that might alert me to a vehicle leaving the road, virtually invisible down the mountainside. Numerous times I had used this to search for missing vehicles and sometimes people on cold nights, much like this one.
Off to the sides of the road, homes appeared scattered about in the trees, Christmas Lighting glowing in the new fallen Christmas Eve snow. Each winter this was something I looked forward to seeing, as the hours would blend together during the long night patrols. The tires were now making a crunching sound as they traveled through the snow covered road. Many times I was the only tracks being left as the snow had covered any tracks that had been laid, before my passing. This sound just reinforced how cold it was now. Soon, the temperatures would stop the snowfall, as it would become too cold for even the snow to fall. This made me hurry a bit more.
I knew the location where I was going, as I had admired this cabin many times when I had passed. While it was a small one, it was something one would picture, in oneโs mind, of what a Mountain Cabin would be. The curves straightened and the turn off Poorman Road arrived. Traveling by the now darkened Fire House, passed on my left. A Christmas Tree decorated outside, by the volunteers and residents of this small town area, now dark and silent. Many days I had walked through these doors, always noticing the Brass Plaque embedded in the concrete wall proclaiming itโs construction in 1894.
โDenver, Six Charlie 12, 10-23โ
โSix Charlie 12, Denver, 10-23, 2235โ
The driveway appeared in the snow, as I turned up itโs short length. The 4X4 capabilities of my patrol car were paying off, as it climbed the slight grade. Pulling up next to the garage, I could see the 1973 Ford Bronco I had greatly admired, see it often while driving the roads of the mountains. The driver was always waving, as he passed.
As are many outbuildings in the mountains, this small barn was cladded in Corrugated Steel, roof and side walls. What made this different was almost every inch of the side walls were decorated with signs of a period long ago passed. There were Standard Oil, Skelly and Sinclair gas station signs. Some as big as 4 feet in diameter. There were Cafรฉ Signs, signs for Morton Salt and more. Walking past them, I tried to keep an eye out towards the door of the cabin, as I walked past the Bronco. I could see what looked like a small 1X4 sticking out from the steel bumper. It was still displaying the signs of its recent collision with a group of mailboxes.
The path up the stone steps had been shoveled, not long before my arrival. I followed this path, again the crunching of the snow was heard, but louder this time, echoing off the trees and buildings around me. In one moment this sound was oppressive and the next, melodic.
The two windows facing me on this side of the small wooden cabin, had light cascading out onto the snow outside. The glow of this light, golden. It was as if itโs brightness could melt the show that was now falling through the rays of light. Already I could see the interior of the cabin, small and organized. The roof held snow that appeared to be a wonderful frosting of white sugary topping, growing in depth only to be sloughed off with warming sun, of the coming day.
Reaching the cabinโs door, it opened before I could even knock. The warmth of the inside of this very tightly constructed cabin roared out the door. This warmth instantly warming me and clouding my glasses and melting the snow on my outstretched arm as my hand met the hand that was now being thrust towards me.
Mr. Sabol welcomed me into his cabin. Stepping in and stomping my boots, to clear the snow off of them. Mr. Sabol continued to share for me to keep them on but please take the seat near the large wood stove, set near the back wall. Off to the side was a Beagle dog, curled up and close to the warmth of the stove. This dog was laying on some plaid bedding. This beagle was obviously very old, as itโs once noble muzzle was pure white, mottled with some brown shadows beneath. Displaying what once was the dominant markings upon it.
โThat there is Casper. He has been my buddy for these last 15 years. Please, Trooper, sit over here.โ
Casper slowly raised his head, no doubt at the mention of his name. As I sat and then Mr. Sabol in turn settled into a well-worn and padded easy chair, across from me. I watched Casper slowly rise from his position next to the stove, padding silently across the distance to Mr. Sabol, where he stopped. Leaning his head against his leg. It was immediately met with a reassuring pat to his aged head.
Mr. Sabol was a small and delicate framed man. The hairs on his head thinning and white, but his blue eyes were as blue as the mountain sky, as well as dancing with the twinkle of a midnight star. What his aged and worn body foretold, his eyes framed the fact there was an energetic and happy man trapped inside. Too often our bodies slow but our minds do not, Mr. Sabol exemplified this.
My time here seemed to stand still. Casper walked across the short distance to where I was, as I was listening to Mr. Sabol as he shared what ultimately brought me to his warm and inviting cabin, this late night on Christmas Eve. Casper set himself in front of me, looking upon me with eyes eerily as happy and playful as Mr. Sabolโs eyes were, in turn. Soon Casper leaned into my leg, where my writing pad was resting, upon which words being written were then being told to me. Casper rested his head on my thickly padded knee, when I heard a sigh of what seemed contentment escaped from deep inside. Casper stayed in that pose, until a ringing phone interrupted our conversation and Mr. Sabol rose and padded over to where the phone hung on the wall. I noticed it was a rotary phone and he held it out towards me, after a brief conversation with the person on the other end of the line. A line that extended from the cabin and through the woods to whole outside world.
โIts for you. It is your dispatcher.โ Mr. Sabol shared.
When I stood, Casper moved for the first time, after many minutes resting his head on my knee. Mr. Sabol handed the phone off to me, as he returned to his chair, with Casper circling and then laying next his feet.
It was my dispatcher, one of my favorite dispatchers, Holly;
โJust checking in on you Bryan.โ
I assured her I was good and would be staying a bit longer.
Holly shared; โStay as long as you want. Nothing is going on and if I need you I will call you back here.โ
With that I returned to my own chair.
It wasnโt something I noticed right away, but soon the accident was shared of where Mr. Sabol had slid into the bank of mail boxes, knocking the whole group over, โTIMmmmmBER!โ Just as if his Bronco had felled a tree. What came was a promise to return in the morning and fix the damage he had done. As there was no hurry as the next day, Christmas, there would not be any mail delivery.
The time I sat there, settling in deeper into the comfortable chair, watching Mr. Sabol get up twice to stoke the stove with more wood. Each time the door opened small little pine sparks would take flight and float upward with the release of the gases from within it glowing firebox. I was mesmerized by Mr. Sabolโs story as it unfolded in front of me, this night.
I had often been caught by older people as it was easy to see that they just wanted someone to talk to, to share as you will, their day or maybe even their life. Tonight was this moment for Mr. Sabol and I was not going anywhere anytime soon. Each time Mr. Sabol rose, Casper remained curled up, never raising his head. At one point Mr. Sabol retrieved his paper work and presented his Driverโs License, to me. It was then that I froze in my seat. I knew he was an older man. His watered eyes and extra sag in the skin of his brown spotted hands, told that story earlier that night. But it was just one more thing, other than his age of 84 years, which caused me to stop, catch my breath and look upon Mr. Sabol with even a more comfortable feeling. It was then I knew what brought me to his home, his warm cabin, the kindness of his best friend, laying his head on my knee.
As the years went by, after this night, I would often see Mr. Sabol in his formidable Bronco, plying the roads of Boulder County, often stopping for me to pull over too. I would lean against my fender as he stood, spending a few minutes sharing, again. We never sat down again and talked, like we did that Christmas Eve, but there were many times I returned to his cabin to check on him and to check on Casper. Especially the day I learned that Casper had passed on, a 17 year old Beagle, loved for so many years. I would learn many years later, Mr. Sabol in turn followed his wife, his son and his beloved Casper after 97 years on this earth, the mountains of Boulder County.
But what shook me that night was the thoughts that ran through my head, as I rose and walked through his door to leave. For Mr. Sabol had shared his years in the Marines during World War II, fighting in the Pacific and the scenes he saw and could never describe the horror he felt. It was only equaled with the death of his son, the horror again returned, this too in a war and this war he named with a tightness of his lips as he stammered to say the word, Vietnam. He also shared the courtship of his beautiful wife and holding her as she passed in her sleep, nestled next to him in this very cabin.
For that night, as I turned and waved to Mr. Sabol I knew I had learned much that night, from a frail man, a friendly man and a dog who stood next to him in the doorway, framed with the glow of the golden light around them. They were waving too, Mr. Sabol with his hand stretched above his head and Casper with his tail, wagging.
Reaching my patrol car, I said; โMerry Christmas Mr. Sabol!!โ But continued; โAnd Happy Birthday Mr. Sabol!โ
For whatever brought us together that night, Christmas? The beauty of the mountains and the falling snow? No, I think it was fate and someone to wish Mr. Sabol a Happy Birthday, on Christmas Eve.
One more time I turned and looked and they were both still framed in the doorway; โMerry Christmas and Happy Birthday, Peter and Casper!โ
โMerry Christmas to you too, Bryan!โ With that they turned and returned into the cabin and I stood and watched, the door close behind them.
โDenver, Six Charlie 12, 10-24โ
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Edit: Updated Format to aid readability.
