We huddled around the little wood stove; so close that you could smell our trousers beginning to burn. We wore triple layers of clothes and two jackets to protect us from the 17 degree weather. Outside, the wolves were howling and it was deathly still as all of nature waited for the snowfall to begin. It had been a slow year financially and we had barely been able to put another coat of tar on the roof. Now, it was Christmas Eve and under the little "tree" we had made out of two branches from the bottom of a pine tree and a single string of lights, were the two little presents we had managed to get for Jared and Brucie. I felt like I had failed as a parent because I could not provide more for the boys. The boys worked so hard every day, before and after school. It was hard work digging in the tunnel and taking wheelbarrows full of rocks out to the dump. Then there was always the struggle to bring water home and fill the barrels on the roof so that we could have "running" water in the kitchen sink. The boys had to use an outhouse which was located about 200 feet away from the house and up a dark hill which was always slippery with ice at this time of year. While they were gone, I got the blues and wondered why I had ever thought it would be good for us to move to the gold mine and scrabble out a living from the rugged mountains. We lived on the Chariot Canyon Truck Trail (part of the Pacific Crest Trail) in Julian, California. Our nearest neighbor, and phone, was four miles away. The road was not kept up and so it had deep ruts and was not navigable without four wheel drive. It took 45 minutes to go those four miles and if it started to snow you could not leave the house because vehicles tended to slide off the road and into the deep canyons next to them.
The boys came back from the outhouse and we decided that it was time to turn off the generator. It was after midnight and the rocks had been in the stove getting hot, ready to stick in the foot of our beds to keep us warm at night. We sat in the semi-dark and were loath to leave our little patch of warmth and go into the ice cold bedrooms.
"Hola! Hola!"
We all tensed up. Who, or what, was outside of our home? Bruce Sr. was still wearing his enormous 6-shooter on his hip, as he always did except when in bed, but who could be out in this freezing night, on Christmas Eve, and what could he (they) want? Bruce got up and, telling us to remain in our seats, he went outside to see who was here and what they needed. Bruce could speak quite a bit of Spanish because we lived so close to the border with Mexico and he had deep feelings for the poor souls who walked all the way from the border, through the desert and the steep mountains in order to hope for more opportunity for their families. Living on the Pacific Crest Trail we had many (5 or 6) visitors a year who were heading for Canada. We also saw small groups of Mexicans as they made their tortured path to freedom and a new lease on life. We, as did many who lived out here in the wilderness, put out gallons of water and packets of canned foods with a can opener and marked the spot with a monument so that it could be found by anyone needing the basics for survival.
"Hola!" shouted Bruce as he held up a rifle pointed at the road.
"Hola, senior!" a voice answered from the darkness.
Then there was a short exchange of words that I did not understand, but I heard the tone of Bruce's voice, and I could tell that whoever it was, they were in trouble.
Bruce came back inside and began to give instructions. There was a very large family group outside who had walked for days and were exhausted and ill. There were two pregnant women, mothers with small children, and three elderly family members. There were also eight men who were the fathers and husbands and sons of this little group. Bruce had invited all of the family to come inside and get something to eat and drink and take a rest before continuing back down the trail to the Banner Grade and cars that would take them into Los Angeles. If, indeed, the cars ever came, and if they did not meet up with the Border Patrol who watched the Truck Trail knowing that it was an artery for the immigrants to enter the U.S. The Border Patrol was hated and feared because they knew no compassion and would shoot to kill if anyone tried to run away from them or resist.
Bruce put the generator back on and the little family straggled up the hill to our home and the women and children came inside. Except for checking out the interior first, the men stayed outside throughout the long visit and Bruce stayed with them and reassured them that we would not tell the authorities of their visit. The boys and I found chairs for everyone to sit on and began to serve them water, milk, beans and tortillas, and fruit. The women were silent except to say "Gracias" for everything we brought to them. When they were served, I sat and observed these incredibly strong women and their children. Some of them did not have adequate jackets and most of their shoes were in tatters. The elderly visitors were in pain from walking all of those miles over rough ground and without food or water. The poor pregnant women were totally exhausted and desperation was etched in their faces. The little ones stared at the little Christmas tree in awe and the boys decided that they should have one of their gifts apiece. We had a few stocking stuffers for Santa to leave the boys and we just gave something to every child instead. We had extra coats and jackets and we gave one to each of those without jackets. Then we filled a pillowcase with canned food, water, bread, tortillas, and a can opener.
As suddenly as they had come, the men called for the women to come out and resume their trek. I could hear the creaking of joints as the women and the elderly slowly stood up and walked outside. But I also saw faces full of love and joy and thanksgiving that could not have been expressed in words anyway, but spoke clearly to the human heart.
We never learned whether they reached safety and Los Angeles, but they have never left our hearts and memories. We never went to bed that night but spent the rest of the night talking about our new friends and realizing how blessed we were to live in the country and have our warm little home and plenty to eat and drink. The boys were happy without presents and were so glad that they had had something to share with the little children. I do believe that it was the finest Christmas that we ever experienced. We knew that we had witnessed the strength and determination of a fine people who were willing to give up life itself in order for their family to have a small chance of making it into American society and all of the opportunities that we so take for granted. It was a holy and blessed Christmas and we had witnessed a Christmas miracle.
God bless each and every one of you on this most blessed day of the year. May you have a Christmas miracle in your own lives and may we all thank the Holy One for all of the blessings that He has given to us throughout this past year and on this day.
P.S. I love you forever.
