Sometimes, the truth has got to be watered down a little bit, or nobody would ever believe it. One of my favorite tales about Christmas is one of those times, and it deals with a story about a Christmas Eve that started out in a mostly innocent fashion and turned into an honest misunderstanding which was bedeviled at every turn.
It’s no surprise to anyone that part of the folklore of this country has always been the interest in as well as the tradition of brewing certain libation from natural ingredients whether they be fermented grapes or distilled grains, fruits or vegetables. Historically, of course, this was a source of great pride to folks who created their own unique concoctions throughout the different regions of the country. Uncle Sam, however, did not approve of home distilleries and had a running battle for decades with those independent thinkers and drinkers who didn’t much care what Uncle Sam did or did not approve of. Finally, after the Whisky Rebellion, the Temperance Movement, Prohibition, and a whole lot of busted up stills, the government finally won, and since the 1930s or there about, all alcohol sold in the United States of America had to have a tax paid stamp. Well, actually, not all alcohol had that stamp. That leads us to the rest of the story.
In 1968, I met a fellow from upper Tennessee who was possibly one of the smartest people on the face of the planet. He had just finished law school, he could rebuild a Chevrolet 396 engine blindfolded, and he made better moonshine than the Japanese. He continued all three of those pursuits for many years, but he confined his moonshine production to a very select list of his legal clients of which I was not one. I stayed in touch with him, however, and a few years ago he told me this story. For many years, part of his Christmas tradition included carrying five plastic milk jugs full of his special recipe to Nashville to a group of his extra special friends. That particular Christmas, he had loaded up the Christmas cheer in the trunk of an Oldsmobile 442 he had recently bought. He parked it outside and then answered a phone call from his office. Then, off he goes to check on a legal problem, forgetting that his mother was waiting on him to return her car. Ten minutes later, his mother arrives to get her car. She is a very independent 80-year-old lady and highly perturbed that the keys are not in her car. That didn’t slow her down a bit. She hops in the 442, fires it up, and heads for Wednesday night church services in a cloud of December dust. On the way, she stops to pick up the 77-year-old choir director whom she is giving a ride to the bus station. He hops in the 442 with his suitcase, and off they go spraying gravel everywhere. Two miles down the road, a blue light comes on behind them, and a Tennessee State Trooper pulls them over for having no tag. Now this is the part where you have to start believing in miracles at Christmas. Not only did the trooper not give them a citation for illegal registration, but he also apparently believed that this unlikely couple in a speeding Olds 442 with no registration and a suitcase in the back was headed for church. The second miracle was that he didn’t ask them to open the trunk. I think somehow something told him not to ask any more questions.
Christmas is a time when miracles abound, and if you listen, you will likely hear many more stories of grace, redemption, and hope. On this Christmas Eve, 2025 I hope you and those close to you experience the promise and the power of that very first Christmas and the greatest miracle of all.
