A Christmas Message from the Bon Homme Heritage Association

(Historical Note: Alfred J Abbott, father of Emma Jane Abbott, a carpenter by trade, arrived in Bon Homme by stage from Council Bluffs on September 23, 1867. He settled on property just north of Bon Homme Village along Telegraph Road, now Apple Tree Road near the 310th St intersection. He married Susanna Bussey on March 22, 1876. They had six children; two boys, Harlow and Johnnie who both died of diphtheria, a son Benny who died in 1885, a son William and two daughters Emma Jane and Hazel Belle. A J Abbott, donated land for construction of the Memorial Church in 1885. That church now sits in Tyndall as the Memorial Church Museum.

Emma Jane Abbott, born in 1887, attended Yankton College and later married Hugh Madole. They farmed on family land at Bon Homme. She recalls events at the Memorial Church in her essay ‘Unto Us a Child Is Born’ written about a Christmas back in 1898 when she was an 11-year-old girl.)

Unto Us a Child Is Born by Emma Abbott Madole

“...we have seen His star in the East and are come to worship Him.” (Matthew 2:2) Of all the Christmases I ever experienced; I think the ones out on the plains of South Dakota are the most real. Somehow the universe seemed to bend low on those starlight nights to a waiting earth sparkling with frosty snow.

We lived in the country near a little white Community church. It was here that the whole neighborhood gathered on Christmas Eve. There were songs and recitations and lively cantatas, and always a great Christmas tree glowing with tiny candles and tinsel and popcorn strings and cranberry ropes. It was a huge tree garnered from the bottom lands along the Missouri River. It took two or three men to squeeze it through the double doors and set it in place. It was wonderful when it was complete with all its Christmas packages and colored sacks of peanuts and candy.

THERE WAS ALWAYS an air of excitement on Christmas Eve. Weeks had gone into the preparation of this great event. Everything on the program from the play or cantata put on by the older group to the almost inaudible recitation of the youngest child has been carefully rehearsed. Proud parents filled the room to hear their children and to greet old Santa who came at last jingling his sleigh bells and shouting his Merry Christmas to everyone. Uncle Fred made the best Santa Clause. You didn’t have to make him up. He was just it – whiskers and all. And he loved little children.

There were many memorable Christmases: the one with the beautiful doll near the top of the tree, which I hoped would come to me, but didn’t; the one where Santa came pulling Mrs. Santa, all giggles and smiles, in a little red wagon; that one where we out the Christmas tree in the center of the church and the children danced about while singing, “O Tanenbaum.”

AND THEN CAME that special one which I want to tell you about. Young and old had worked hard for this particular celebration, which was sort of an all-nations affair, involving a lot of costuming, with Santa and Father Time as the principal characters. The stage had to be enlarged to hold the cotton snow house for Santa; so, the tree was smaller than usual, but nonetheless resplendent with its beautiful trimmings.

The play was going well when I noticed from my position on the stage that Mother was not in her accustomed place beside Father. What was wrong! Time dragged on until the culminating moment when Santa bobbed out of that little snow house with a pack on his back, jolly and cheerful in the red outfit that looked strangely like something Mother had been sewing on. Mother, where was she? As soon as we could break away, we flew down to Father to inquire. He tried to quiet us by saying: “Aunt Ellen wasn’t feeling very well, so she went down there.” There was an air of mystery about it and we were not fully satisfied. “Get your things on,” he urged, “she might be home when we get there.”

WE TRUDGED along behind Father’s long legs, stumbling as we went over our heavy overshoes. At length he turned around a wait and said, “Look yonder at that beautiful star!” We turned and were awed by its very brilliance. “Is it the Star of Bethlehem?” my sister inquired. “Must be,” he said takin in the radiance of the world about us. We turned back and walked silently home, each busy with his own thoughts. Mine were on that star and I knew in my childish way that somewhere in those hills beyond the river where the star seemed to glow with unusual brightness, a little child was born.

Mother was not home. Father put us to bed in his clumsy fashion and kissed us good night. I could not sleep. Millions of stars peeped in through the window and the moon filled the room with eerie light. I tried to go over the events of the program, but my mind would fly back to that brilliant star in the east. Did it too have a meaning? Did every baby have a star? In the midst of my musing the kitchen door creaked softly. I listened and sat bolt upright in bed. Mother came in and calmed me with her cool hands.

“No lie down,” she said. “Be quiet and I’ll tell you something.” She whispered in my ear, “A baby down at Aunt Ellen’s.”

I screamed, “What’s he like?”

“Soft brown hair and little fat hands and feet. Not a word now until morning.”

MOTHER LEFT BUT the happy thoughts stayed with me. The baby would be ours too, just as well as Rolly’s and Ethel’s. We cousins always shared. Next to our own home I had rather have a baby come to their house that any other in the world. At last, a comfortable drowsiness crept over me. I was only vaguely conscious of shadows flitting back and forth across the kitchen light.

Morning came with “Merry Christmas” echoing back and forth through the big house. There was a rush for the stockings hung on the big chair and we three settled down to devour the contents. Tiny dolls to dress and hair ribbons for the girls and a top and pocketknife for Will. Such happiness! When we finally calmed down enough for breakfast, the Christmas pudding was already bouncing about in the iron kettle and the hired men were coming in rubbing their cold hands, after doing the morning chores. We all sat down to a hearty breakfast of oatmeal, toast, bacon and eggs. There was a pause for the blessing and then everyone enjoyed the meal. At the close, Mother read from the Bible and we were about to kneel in prayer when one of the men called out: “The church is on fire!” They grabbed their coats and buckets of water, and before we knew what was happening were racing down the road. Hazel and I watched from the window and Will rushed outside and looked on from the woodpile, because he was not allowed to follow the men.

GREAT CLOUDS of smoke billowed up on the far side of the church. Soon the bell rang our clear on the still air, calling the whole neighborhood to help. We reported at intervals to Mother, who kept right on working, for there were to be a number of guests at the noon meal and the men would be hungry. After a time, the smoke began to die down and finally disappeared behind the church.

Down at Aunt Ellen’s a little ten-year-old boy, all blackened and dirty crept into his mother’s room. He put his arms around her neck and sobbed: “I didn’t mean to...I just wanted to see, so I lit a candle and started to go into the snow house.”

Evidently the candle had ignited the cotton and like an explosion, the fire had spread over the whole in seconds of time. Rolly ran to the parsonage for help and carried bucket after bucket of water for the man who lived there. The two were powerless against the fire until other arrived. An older man grabbed the bucket from the exhausted boy and sent him home.

AT HOME, HIS mother listened to his story and then put her warm hand on the quivering body. Gradually the sobs subsided, and he reached over and touched the silken hair of the little new baby. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep just standing there and remained until his father carrier him away.

It was a wonderful Christmas dinner at our house: roast goose and all the fixings, potatoes, squash, creamed dried corn, carrots and great dished of steaming plum pudding, heaped over with burnt sugar sauce. Everybody talked at once, uncles and aunts and cousins. All were grateful that the little church had been saved even though there were broken windowpanes, charred frames, a blackened floor and the scattered ashes and boards of a little snow house. I too was grateful, but happy for the promise that in the evening we could see the little new baby. Did that Star in the East have a meaning? Was it the same star that shone at Bethlehem? There were so many questions a ten-year-old could not answer. I only knew it was the most wonderful Christmas I have ever known.