THE CHRISTMO NARRATIVE

The earliest mention of any Christmo on the tree is found in A HISTORY OF THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. This book traces grandpa Jeisbert Christmo during the French and Indian War and through the Revolutionary War. JC was what today would be called a civilian contractor. He worked as a horse wrangler, boat builder and Indian killer. By all accounts he was a colorful character. "He was a large man, with a powerful frame, and resolute and determined in all his actions. The negroes and domestic Indians recieved no mercy at his hands when they had given him provocation." I assume not much provocation was needed for JC to kick some negroe or Indian ass.
History is written by the victors. The "American Hero" mantle laid on old JC is well deserved only if you figure the extermination of indiginous people and the enslavement of Africans is a small price to pay for eventuual manifest destiny. Here's another account of JC's grandmother in a little tiff. " There was a clasp knife in her pocket, hanging on the chair. Just as she laid hold of it the negro sprang upon and seized her. When she screamed a large dog she had rushed in, seizing the negro by the throat. At last he got loose and rushed down a ravine, followed by the dog, urged by the voice of his mistress. She then climbed the ladder to the second floor and sat there with a child in her lap and a cutlass in her hand." Seems like like those quarrelsome negroes and indians were causing trouble everywhere.
More than 200 years later I live in the same neck of the woods as JC and his grandma. The only Indians left are moving back from Oaky exile and trying to put a casino at the racetrack. And the negroes? Fucked as always. Grammy Christmo's crys of encouragement as Fido goes for Black throat still echo off these ridges. Some things never change.
But these are the infamous Christmos of literature. The earliest family members I can report on were born at the beginning of the 20th century. They would be my grandfather Wray and grandmother Maude. Regarding this branch of the tree i have I have nothing bad to say. True, they both died when i was still young, but the time I spent with them is filled with fond memories; espec. regarding Wray. My grandfather and I bonded on a deep and profound level. It probably had something to do with my father going to Korea two days after my birth and not showing up again for 14 months. Far as I knew that skinny, bald old man (of 52 years) was my daddy.