A Christmas Miracle on the Underground Railroad

Yes, I was there.

At least, at one stop…many years after the emancipation of slaves.

I wasn’t the only one. Hawthorne and Longfellow were there too, but that was back when they were college boys.

We were at the home of Harriet Beecher Stowe in Brunswick, Maine, which is widely believed to be a stop on the Underground Railroad. It is also the place where Stowe wrote “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” As important as those things may be, nothing compares to the miracle that took place there one Christmas day.

It drew no attention from the press.

It didn’t change the world, but it did change one small piece of it, one person, forever.

I know because I am that person.

Like many young men from the rural South, I joined the service to see the world, and like many families from the South, this was an option chosen by generation after generation of young men. My grandfather and three uncles enlisted in either the Navy or the Coast Guard, and although my uncle Sonny had been lost when his cutter sank after being rammed in a fog, I made this my choice too and joined the Navy.

After losing a brother, my mother was more than concerned, but as I graduated from boot camp and was issued my first set of orders, she tucked away her worry in that way that mothers do.

When I found out that I couldn't come home for Christmas, however, she was inconsolable.

I had been ordered to Maine. A brand new ship was being built at the venerable Bath Iron Works, a shipyard where tall-masted whaling ships were built while Hawthorne and Longfellow studied at Bowdoin College, and we would commission the ship as soon as it was finished.

The ship was not yet in the water. It sat in dry-dock, which meant that neither the engines nor the heat could run. As a result, the steel and aluminum structure was simply too cold to be inhabitable. The Navy decided to move the crew into local hotels for a month or so until the repairs were done, but kept a security watch onboard the empty ship at all times.

The random watch schedule determined who could go home for the holidays.

If you were scheduled for a holiday, you had to stay, and I was scheduled to stand an overnight watch on Christmas Eve.

To make up for this, my chief let me choose which hotel I wanted to inhabit for the month of December. Amazingly, the Stowe House, a bed-and-breakfast by then, was on the list and I made my choice.

The old house was beautiful. It smelled of dark wood and slow years. The innkeepers had decorated for the holidays with miles fresh garland, and evergreen spilled from the sides of the fireplace mantle.

I thought of my family back home.

I knew my mother was sad, having her first Christmas without one of her children, but I knew she would have felt better if she could see that the Christmas spirit was alive and well at the Stowe House.

I was surprised to find that several of my shipmates were staying over the holidays, but soon found the reason was that most of them had no where to go. I had been feeling a little homesick up to then, but I realized that I had a family who missed me and wanted me to be there with them, and I think that was the first time I truly appreciated it.

My mother grew up during the depression, with little money for gifts, but she claims that they always had an amazing Christmas because my Grandfather, that beautiful optimist, made their toys by hand. They always had a big celebration, she'd say, enjoying each other and loving each other, and never mind the number or value of the gifts under the tree.

She learned that lesson and passed it down to her own children.

Despite the distance that separated me from my family, I found myself in the holiday spirit. I was scheduled to be on the ship from dawn on Christmas Eve to dawn on Christmas morning, so I wanted to have a celebration on Christmas day for the guys left behind.

After I sent my gifts back home for the family, I spent the rest of my funds on a healthy stock of holiday spirits -- we were sailors after all -- which I hid beneath the bed. Do not open until December 25th.

As the holidays approached, I was in my room one day and heard a commotion outside. I looked out and saw the handyman trimming the top off a huge pine tree, and then dragging it into the house. A moment later he came back out, picked up the tree-top, stepped high through the deep snow and tossed it in the dumpster.

I blinked, and then glanced over at the table in the corner.

It held nothing but my pocket change and the room key. The tree looked like it would fit there perfectly. I didn’t know what I would do with it exactly, but I put on my coat and stepped out high through the snow following the handyman’s boot-prints until I found a scrawny tree-top peeking out from the garbage.

The only problem was that I didn’t have a single nickel left to spend on decorations for my tree, but I thought of my Granddad and decided to make due with what I had. That night, when I left the make-shift mess-hall they’d set up for us in an empty church in town, my pockets held the makings of my ornaments.

I propped up the tree in an empty soft drink can, and using my handy Navy-issued sewing kit, I sewed loops of thread through packets of sugar and artificial sweetener, and managed to get the needle through at least a few sugar cookies without breaking them. I made stars out of aluminum foil, and sewed those up as well. When I was done, I decorated my tree.

Afterwards, I stepped back to admire my handy-work. It looked awful, and I felt a huge smile spread across my face. If the tree dripped with gold, I couldn’t have loved it more.

I called my mom to let her know that I had a Christmas tree, not to worry.

I could hear it in her voice that she felt better. It made me feel better too.

I was going to celebrate Christmas the same way I would if I were home with my family, and I was going to do it to prove that miles meant nothing.

But first, I’d have to strap on a holster and spend 24 hours patrolling an empty ship.

Christmas Eve arrived, and I reported for duty just as a helpless sun was trying to roust the morning. The day passed slowly. We had one small compartment with heat, but plenty of arctic gear to keep us warm while on patrol. Food was delivered to the ship, and I ate well, but it was strange being the only living soul onboard. Normally there would be ship-builders everywhere, but not on Christmas Eve.

From the bridge of the ship, the snow seemed to swell up out of the ground in great flows and drifts as I looked down at the shipyard below and the small town surrounding it. I climbed into the elevated Captain’s-chair and watched the last of the thin daylight slip away.

As it did, colored lights began to blink on below me in the town.

I could see Christmas trees light up in some of the nearer houses, and I smiled to myself because I also had one of those.

It occurred to me that my family back home was probably just about to arrive for their Christmas Eve gathering. I wished that I could call them, just to let them know that I was ok and having a good Christmas. The families in the houses below had invited me, unknowingly, to share this special night with them.

Sitting alone in the dark on my first Christmas Eve away from home, I recognized all the wonderful gifts I'd been given.

I watched the snow fall all night, and celebrated.

The next thing I knew it was Christmas morning, and my duty was done.

I had planned on going back to the Stowe House and starting the celebration early by waking up all my remaining shipmates, but I had been awake all night and was too tired. I decided that no one would mind if I caught a few hours of shut-eye before starting the festivities.

In fact, I was fairly certain that they would prefer a few extra hours of sleep before I started banging on their doors.

I arrived back at the Stowe House and went to my room.

Now, this is where it gets difficult.

Sometimes it’s hard to describe an emotion or reaction, especially when a person is unsure of exactly what’s happening at the time. I can only say that it was a mixture of confusion, amazement and disbelief that rose up and flushed my face.

I stood in the doorway for a long time before I entered the room, too stunned to move, too confused to understand what was there in front of me.

It was the tree.

All of my home-made ornaments were gone.

The sugar packets, the aluminum foil, the cookies...all gone...and in their places sparkled real ornaments instead.

Not only were there real ornaments, but a white skirt was wrapped around the base, hiding the soda can underneath. A silver garland spiraled around the tree, and balanced delicately on the thin top branch, barely hanging on, was a small glass star.

This wasn’t this tree I’d left the day before; this tree shined.

I wondered at it for a long time. There was no explanation. It was a Christmas miracle; there was no doubt in my mind. To be on the safe side, however, I went down the hall to interogate my shipmates, but it was obvious by the way they looked at me as if I had lost my mind that none of them knew anything about the tree. I went back to my room even more amazed.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the tree. Jolly old Saint Nick himself could have stolen the bath towels and I wouldn’t have been more shocked than I was by that tree.

It was mystifying and I glady surrendered to the enchantment.

I had to call home.

My mother was beside herself.

She made only the feeblest attempt to hide her emotions, although I was certain it would simply be too astounding to believe unless you could see it with your own eyes.

I eventually fell asleep gazing at the tree.

Later that day, I woke up and started the festivities as planned. We all had a grand time, cracking-wise at Baryshnikov in tights among other things, but the Christmas Miracle that happened right down the hall was on my mind all day.

I basked in the wonderment of it and had a wonderful Christmas.

The next day, there was a knock at my door.

I opened it to find three women standing there, all dressed in white.

In the center of the trio stood a maid’s cart.

Nobody said a word. I think they were enjoying the expression on my face as the pieces began to fall into place.

“Merry Christmas,” one of them finally said, "did you like your tree?"

Here they were…

...three angels in white, Magi in the form of working-class women.

They’d seen my tree and my home-made decorations, one of them explained, and they wanted to do something for a kid who was away from his family at Christmas. They’d pitched in some money and bought the decorations after work one day, then snuck in and decorated my tree while I was gone.

All three of them had to work on Christmas Eve, away from their own families, but they still took the time to do something completely selfless for a total stranger.

I couldn’t stop thanking them.

I told them that they made my Christmas, but now, after all these years; I can truthfully say that they made every Christmas, and every day that I live in between.

Those three women gave a gift of love to a stranger, and that simple gesture of kindness taught me a very important lesson in my life. No matter how dark the world might seem, there is always a light shining somewhere. It might not shine for us every single day, but it is there, shining on someone every day.

If we are lucky, like I was that Christmas, we might find ourselves engulfed by it, washed clean, changed. After being touched by those three women, I realize how one simple act, one gesture of selflessness, can enrich a person’s life forever.

I wasn't the first person to be touched by this kind of love at the home of Harriet Beecher Stowe, and surely not the last, but I was there to witness three angels perform a miracle on the Underground Railroad, and I still thank them.

Visions of Cody: A Soldier Remembered

I know Jack Kerouac wouldn't mind that I've borrowed his title. His "Visions of Cody" is an homage to Neil Cassidy, who inspired Kerouac and so many of the other writers of the day. Kerouac would no doubt be proud to lend his title to a rememberence of an exceptional young man like Cody Prosser.

Shortly after the invasion of Afghanistan, I read on a news ticker scrolling across the bottom of the television screen the names of the war's first casualties. Brian Cody Prosser, a Green Beret stationed at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky, was killed, along with two of his commrades, by a misguided U.S. bomb that landed about 100 yards away from them.

All of the standard accolades applied: He "died for our freedom," he "gave all," he was an "American Hero," but those tributes, while true, are as generic as the flags they use to drape soldier's coffins. They say nothing about the person.

Even the posthumous tributes to Cody fell short, in my opinion. He had indeed been an All-American boy: strong, handsome, a high-school football star known for his tenacity and good nature. The son of a welder, he wanted to be an Army ranger, and he became one. He'd married a beautiful young woman after joining the Army and his future looked bright, dazzling.

These things are all true, but my own vision of Cody Prosser is the result of unique circumstances and offers a perspective that was missing from the posthumous tributes. Most people remember him on the football field, or the field of battle, capable and comfortable in the arena of young warriors, but I remember Cody in a very different setting -- as a student of literature and writing.

He had been a student in one of the freshman English courses that I taught on the base at Ft. Campbell in the evenings. Many soldiers take advantage of the educational opportunities while they are enlisted. A college degree helps them advance in rank.

The course is an introduction to literature, and part of the freshman composition requirements for a bachelor's degree, so every student is required to take it. As you might imagine, many students don't look forward to the literature courses, especially military students who tend toward engineering, criminal justice or medical degrees rather than the liberal arts.

I've been teaching military students for about a dozen years now, and it's always fascinating to observe how soldiers deal with something so removed from the strict military structure of their everyday lives, where independent analysis and effective expression are not part of military training.

The interpersonal dynamics in the classroom change with each new class roll. My students come from all over the country, and each new group of 25 creates its own unique arc as the course progresses. Sometimes there is an Alpha personality, either female or male, who sets the tone as the class begins to develop its group dynamic. Sometimes the effect is good, sometimes not.

It was in this context that I had discussed Cody Prosser many times before he lost his life nearly three years ago.

Cody was different. Yes, he was the All-American boy, a handsome young football star who had become a perfect squared-away Army Green Beret, but, in reality, there are many young men, home-town heroes, who follow this same path. Like many of them, Cody was a leader, but it was the way he led that distinguishes him from all the rest. I don't know how Cody would have led soldiers in the theater of war, but I do know how he led a group of young men and women soldiers who found themselves in the unfamiliar territory of a college English class.

He was not a self-proclaimed leader, but a natural one. He led by example. You might expect him to be a serious young man focusing on serious work, but he had a fantastic sense of humor and he used it masterfully. He would strike the perfect balance, keeping us all entertained with his generous good humor and a moment later making a thoughtful and insightful comment on the literary text.

It was obvious that his classmates admired him. Not in the way that a Big Man on Campus might be admired, but the way that a soldier is admired and respected by his commrades. He was determined to excel at the work, so they also wanted to excel. He was able to gauge the boundaries and set a tone that allowed for some fun while still getting the job done, and they also wanted to keep their attitudes positive and their senses of humor at the ready as they worked toward their objectives.

It was really quite remarkable. That class stands out in my memory as one of the best, which, ironically, had little to do with my own contributions. It was one of those rare occassions in a teacher's life, when we stand at the front of a classroom and watch in amazement as a roomfull of minds open simultaneously, ideas flow, lightbulbs illuminate, and the class seems to teach itself.

It's an amazing experience, and I have to thank Cody Prosser for making it happen in that particular class. As I said, I've often told people how this young soldier led his classmates to one of the highest set of grades I've ever given. I remember thinking at the time that this young man would end up with lots of stars on his shoulders. Instead, he has a Bronze Star that he never saw.

I imagine that Cody, or his family, might not agree with many of the views I've expressed here, but I was compelled to share my vision of Cody after watching messages televised from soldiers in Iraq to their families back home, and from injured soldiers in the hospital to their units back on the battle fields.

From a hospital bed, a wounded soldier remembered a fallen commrade, and called him by name, "Cody." I don't know if he was talking about Cody Prosser, but from knowing Cody, even three years after his death, I would say that it probably was.

So, on Thanksgiving, I find myself adding a few items to my list of things for which I'm grateful. I'm thankful, of course, for the sacrifices made by our soldiers, but I'm also thankful for parents who raise their children to live with honor and integrity. I'm especially grateful to Cody's parents for instilling in him a deep sense of humility, a stoic grace and a generosity of spirit that will continue to inspire many people. Most of all, I'm thankful that, in my heart, I believe Cody would have been proud to sacrifice his long, promising future to the country that he loved so much, and that makes this one -- one of over a thousand -- a little easier to bear.