Back in the 1960s, Mom started a tradition in the family. It was during Advent, those long weeks of preparation for Christmas.

She set out the family creche as part of our Christmas decorations. The stable, the shepherds, the three wise men, Mary and Joseph. The tiny manger was there, too, but no Baby Jesus.

Baby Jesus was hidden away until Christmas morn.

Meanwhile, during those pre-holiday weeks when we children would get “itchy” (one of Mom’s great words describing misbehavior), out came the straw boxes.

My brothers and I were each told to think about kind things we could do during Advent, whether at home, school, or while out with friends. At the end of each day, we let Mom know about these acts; each kindness would earn us an inch-long bit of straw.

We’d collect these pieces of straw in tiny boxes throughout December. Right before going to bed on Christmas Eve, we’d gently place the straw in the manger. When the Christ Child was born, he’d have a soft, warm place to sleep.

When I told Farmer Gary about this tradition, he had some questions:

Gary: Straw? Why not hay?
Me: I don’t know.
Gary: A manger would normally have hay in it, to feed the animals.
Me: Maybe the straw is there to deter the nibbling of the Blessed Toes?
Gary: And hay is softer. More absorbent, too.
Me: I can’t bring myself to consider the containment quality of the Holy Diaper. That doesn’t seem right.

We moved on.

Gary then considered my recollection that our “straw” was actually pieces of the bristles from our kitchen broom. (Mom was always careful to snip off bits at the clean end – closest to the broom stick.)

Gary: That’s actually corn.
Me: What is?
Gary: The broom bristles.
Me: Corn?
Gary: Yes, broom corn.
Me: Yes, of course. Broom corn.
Gary: A couple of bachelor farmers used to grow it in Santa Claus, across from the old Methodist Church.

There is so much Gary has yet to teach me.

Mom continued to write poetry up until just before her passing last month. Here’s a poem she wrote a dozen years ago:

The Third Joseph

One Raised Him
one buried Him
but there was another Joseph

A still boy
a country cousin who was stirred
by that strange star
and the angels singing

He followed the shepherds

As soon as he saw the Infant in the stable
he knew he would never be the same
nor did he want to

~ Joan Vayo, 11 September 2007

A kind and blessed Christmas to all families, no matter what your beliefs.

“The Third Joseph” © 2007 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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