Summary: Thrice upon a time there was a father with a young son in want of a mother at Christmas. Written for the 2025 Advent Calendar.
Rated:  K+     (1,500 words)

BONANZA
~*~*~ Advent Calendar ~*~*~
Day 12

The Cradle

Christmas Eve, 1830 — Abel Stoddard’s House, Boston Massachusetts

Adam, my first-born son, lies sleeping in his mahogany cradle beside the fireplace. He is dressed in a flannel nappy and a long linen gown over multiple petticoats and covered with a red and white Burgoyne Surrounded quilt made by his mother in anticipation of his birth. I purse my lips together to keep my chin from quivering as an image of Liz knitting a matching red wool cap, mittens, and long booties the previous Christmas fills my head.

Thanks to neighbors, the trestle table in the dining room is laden with Christmas ham, mincemeat pies, cherry tarts and sugar cookies but neither of us are hungry. This is the first Christmas since Elizabeth’s death and neither Abel nor I are in a festive mood. Instead, we speak of holidays past and hear a familiar voice echo in every snap and crackle of the logs.

This is likely our last Christmas together as a family. Come spring my son and I will head west in search of the dream Liz and I shared, leaving Abel free to return to his first love—the sea.

The room is bitter cold despite the heavy drapes at the windows and a roaring fire in the hearth. I envy my baby son snug as a bug in a rug and I shiver.

“A tankard of rum will remedy that, Mr. Cartwright,” Abel says.

“I thank you for the offer, Captain, but I never did care for the taste of rum.”

“Ye drank enough of it aboard the Wanderer, I recall.

“Aye, but there wasn’t much of a choice, was there?” I fill my pipe and light it, drawing deeply until the tobacco glows red. A warm toddy would be nice. “Is there any mulled wine?”

“That was Elizabeth’s specialty. I’m sorry I didn’t think to arrange for someone to make it this year.”

“The household was always shipshape when Liz was alive, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, Mr. Cartwright, in proper Bristol fashion, it was,” Abel sighs, staring into the fire. After a time, he clears his throat. “There is a keg of whiskey in the shanty, however.”

Christmas Eve, 1836 — A Connestoga Wagon, Ash Hollow, Nebraska

My second son Eric, not yet two weeks old, nearly fills his older brother’s hand me down cradle. That this motherless boy thrives without Inger is a Christmas miracle in my eyes. Adam, now age 6, rocks his baby brother gently, humming Silent Night.

“He’s a big one, Pa.”

“That he is, son.”

“Look, he’s smiling.”

“He’s too young to do that, Adam,” but I look all the same. Maybe it’s the lit lantern hanging in the wagon casting a shadow on his chubby cheeks or an unexpelled burp or the power of suggestion, but I swear I also see a toothless grin.

“I think we should call him Hoss like Uncle Gunnar said.”

“Why”

“’Cause he’s going to be a big and friendly man, don’t you think so, Pa?”

“I do indeed, Adam.”

“Will we have a real home next Christmas?”

“I hope so.”

“What will it look like?”

“Well, I imagine it will be a cabin like the ones we’ve seen on our journey.”

“But not a soddy.”

“No. Not a soddy,” I smile. “A log cabin with a wooden floor, shingled roof, and real windows.”

“And a great big fireplace, right?”

“Big enough for you to stand in, son.”

And maybe I will build a lean-to shanty in which to keep a keg of whiskey.

Christmas Eve, 1847 — Ponderosa Ranch, Alta California

Joseph, my third son, turned five years of age less than two months ago and this is his first Christmas since Marie died. I am in a piss poor mood, angry the fates have decreed that yet another son must endure a motherless Christmas.

Adam does his best to keep his brothers entertained and occupied while I wallow in misery. They are playing hide and seek upstairs while I drown my sorrows in the last of Hop Sing’s cooking sherry which is too sweet for my taste. I grimace as I swallow.

Suddenly there is a loud thud, and a squeal that sounds more like scream. What in tarnation!

I shout, “Adam! What is going on up there?”

“Nothing, Pa.”

“It certainly sounds like something.”

“Little Joe, let go, you’ll break it,” Hoss yells.

“Will not! I found it, I get to carry it!”

“It’s too heavy for you, kid, let me have it!”

“No! It was my idea!”

“You boys come down here. NOW!”

Sullenly, my two youngest sons march down the stairs, chins tucked to their chests. Adam brings up the rear carrying a bulky item wrapped in a sack.

“Just what have you got there?” I ask.

“I found it, Pa,” Little Joe boasts. “Can we put it in the barn?”

“Put what in the barn, boy?”

“We were in the attic, Pa,” Hoss says, “and Little Joe fell over it. We want to use it for baby Jesus.”

Little Joe thumped his chest. “It was MY idea, not yours!”

“Enough yelling!” I sit down in my red chair and gather my two youngest sons near. “Let’s remove the bag and take a look at what you have here.”

I untie the twine holding the burlap shut and pull out the old mahogany cradle wrapped in wool and rub my hand over the polished wood.

“Grandfather Stoddard made this for Adam when he was born and each of you boys slept in it in turn.”

“I remember, Pa,” Adam says, smiling.

Hoss elbows his older brother. “How could you remember? You was just a baby.”

“I remember YOU barely fit in it even when you were only a week old!” Adam says.

Hoss scrunches up his face and then brightens. “And I remember Little Joe was so tiny, even bundled up he barely filled half the cradle.”

“That’s right,” Adam says. “We had to line it with a folded quilt so he could be rocked without rolling around.”

Little Joe exclaims, “I would have liked to rock and roll!”

I can’t help but laugh. “I’m certain you would have but I doubt your Mama would agree. Now why would you want to put the cradle in the barn?”

“Wasn’t baby Jesus born in a barn?”

Hoss laughs, “Silly, he was born in a manger!”

Frowning, Little Joe asks, “What’s the difference?”

“A manger,” Adam says, “is a feeding trough like the ones we have in the barn for the horses. After Mary gave birth, she placed Jesus in a trough filled with hay.”

Little Joe eyes widen in horror. “So the horses could eat him?!”

“Of course not, son. Mary used the trough because she had no cradle. So you see, you are both right as the manger was in the barn.”

“Told ya!” Hoss and Little Joe say simultaneously.

“I tell you what… instead of putting the cradle out in the barn where it is cold, why don’t we set it under the tree so we can enjoy looking at it by the warmth of the fire.”

“That’s a great idea, Pa,” says Hoss. “And then all our Mamas will be with us this Christmas after all.”

I bend over to pick up up the bag from the floor so my sons won’t see my tears. ‘Why don’t you boys get cleaned up for dinner while I go out to the barn and get some hay for the manger.”

As Hoss and Little Joe scramble up the stairs, Adam turns to me and says, “Pa, I think you’ll find something else you’re looking for in the last stall on the right.”

Puzzled, I put on my hat, coat, and muffler and trudge through the newly fallen snow to the barn. Nested in the hay of the trough, is a purple velvet bag with a tag that reads “To Ben. Merry Christmas, Abel.”

Hop Sing has set a magnificent table and at each place setting is a glass of eggnog, Adam’s and mine laced liberally with whiskey from Abel’s keg.

“Wait, Pa!” cries Little Joe as he jumps from his chair, nearly knocking it over and rushes to my study, returning with the hinged silver frames holding pictures of Elizabeth, Inger, and Marie. With Adam’s help he places it in the middle of the table.

We raise our cups and drink a toast to all our mothers…everywhere.

–The End–

______

Author’s Note:   In 1847, the Ponderosa was located in Alta California. It wasn’t until 1848 that the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo ceded the land to the United States and the area on which the ranch existed became a part of Utah Territory.

As Joe was actually born in Mexico, in addition to wishing you all Merry Christmas, I say Feliz Navidad and add Fröhliche Weinachten to Faust!

Prompt:   There is a keg of whiskey in the shanty.

Link to the Bonanza Brand Advent Calendar – Day 13 – Merry Christmas, Clementine! – DJK