“A house is not a home when you climb the stairs and turn the key…and no one’s there…”

That verse fragment comes from a Luther Vandross song made popular by Burt Bachrach and Dionne Warwick. But it applies in a much different way all over Alleghany County.

The old, now empty farmhouses were once homes. Impracticality, time and neglect stole their beauty, leaving behind a weathered shell plain as a spinster’s housedress. Now they tilt, sag and slowly crumble. Before long those old homeplaces will be gone, their swept-dirt walkways and neat flowerbeds choked with weeds and briars. But sweet memories linger, especially this time of year:

Snapping string beans on the front porch, rocking chairs in the evening’s cool; front yard swings, roasting marshmallows, hearing old stories and carving jack-o-lanterns. Splitting firewood and skipping stones across a pond; Yo-Yo’s, marbles, chores, haylofts, a boy’s first pocketknife and responsibility; a girl’s first pre-teen crush; candy canes and oranges in “…stockings hung by the chimney with care…”

If those times bring a smile, you’ve been there, too.

Ours was a T-shaped, two-story farmhouse about a hundred years old, set in a copse of tall oaks surrounded by several plum and apple trees. The broad front porch was long gone, replaced by a rounded stoop of sorts. Camellia bushes on either side bloomed proudly when nothing else did. Scores of bright dogwoods speckled the farm every spring. Scuppernong vines tangled the side yard’s neglected arbor beyond a tall magnolia.

An inviting swing swayed gently in the breeze beneath a stout branch several steps from the mini-stoop.

There were no more chickens in the long, squatty barn, their rusted wire pens replaced by two horse stalls and the feedlot for a steer. A jury-rigged rifle range was backstopped by a heavy steel plate eight feet square. Cranking a boat winch hoisted one edge of the monster to an angle that deflected bullets into a dirt and sawdust pit dug for that purpose. It worked well enough for .22 rifles fired from thirty feet away. Hay bales stacked near our firing line muffled the roar of a short-barreled .357 magnum revolver until its huge muzzle flash set one on fire. A nearby garden hose quenched the problem, but not the kids’ laughter.

Our youngsters were in elementary school then. Living on a small farm gave them plenty of space and places to explore, especially an old two-story log cabin with inside walls covered by years-old newspapers. An hour’s walk in any direction crossed neighboring farms, but the great herds of stationary housing developments were ten years distant in what Charlotte’s city kids called “Red Necklenburg.”

Christmas cash was really tight one year, and the whole family knew it. A late November Saturday found me waiting in line at a really big toy store with a buggy filled with simple gifts that would be charged to our only credit card that wasn’t maxed out. In a semi-daydream, I watched fellow shoppers, many of whom were probably in the same fix. There wasn’t a single smile, not even on kids’ faces. The checkout line was an endurance event, stripped bare of seasonal cheer.

Christmas shouldn’t be like this, I thought. Then a wild idea blossomed. We’d have an old-fashioned Christmas, and make something for each other!

Surprisingly, the family got excited at the prospects. Sure, the kids were uncertain at first, but they soon hatched gift ideas of their own.

From that moment until Christmas Eve, we busied ourselves behind closed doors. Without “want” lists, every present was a surprise. But the delight didn’t stop there. After more than 20 Christmas mornings, that tough year’s homemade gifts are the only ones we still remember.

It was well past nine o’clock, one freezing January night several weeks later. A flashlight’s yellowish beam moved slowly back and forth near the pasture, so I grabbed a coat and went to investigate.

Our younger son, Brian, was searching desperately for something while choking back tears. His new belt knife had fallen out of its sheath and disappeared in the stubble. Joann, Ben and Elizabeth quickly joined the search, each with a flashlight. Brian’s knife was soon found and returned to its newly modified sheath.

That Christmas morning had been extra special, but my most memorable gift was a little boy’s tearful nighttime search for a certain present — one I’d made just for him.

Many of you folks give me similar presents nearly every day. Y’all are the ones who enjoy reading “Here and There.” The column’s my gift to you!

This year, remember that Christmas gifts never stand alone. Precious memories are its holiday delights, gift-wrapping bright yesterdays for countless tomorrows.

May God pour out His greatest blessings on you and your family in the coming year!