One hundred and fifty years ago, the D.J. Carringer (1828-1902) family resided in Boulder, Colorado. The ABC Biography for D.J. is in ABC Biography of #24 David Jackson "D.J." Carringer (1828-1902) of Pennsylvania, Iowa, Colorado and California and for his wife Rebecca is in ABC Biography of #25 Rebecca (Spangler) Carringer (1832-1901) of Pennsylvania, Iowa, Colorado and California. They had three children, Harvey Edgar (1852-1946), Henry Austin (1853-1946), and Effie Eva (1859-1874), but Effie died in 1874. Life was sad. D.J. and Rebecca (Spangler) Carringer are my 2nd great-grandparents, through their son Henry Austin Carringer.
I wondered what Christmas 1875 might have been like for this family. I asked Anthropic Claude to tell me, based on information in the Biographies and additional information about the family members. Here is the story:
Christmas Day 1875: The Carringer Family
Boulder, Colorado Territory
The first pale light of Christmas morning crept through the frost-etched windows of the Carringer home, revealing the modest pine tree that David Jackson (known as “D.J.”) had hauled down from the foothills three days earlier. Rebecca had decorated it with strings of popcorn and cranberries, along with a few precious ornaments they'd managed to salvage through all their moves—tin stars that caught the lamplight and simple paper angels that Effie had made years ago in Iowa. D.J. stood in the doorway of the small parlor, watching those paper angels turn slowly in the warm air rising from the stove, and felt the familiar tightness in his chest. Eighteen months. Eighteen months since they'd laid their sweet girl to rest in Columbia Cemetery, and still every holiday, every celebration, felt incomplete.
"Papa?" Edgar's voice, deeper now at twenty-three, came from behind him. "You're up early."
D.J. turned to see both his sons standing in the hallway—Edgar with his dark hair tousled from sleep, and Austin, twenty-two, already dressed in his work clothes despite the holiday. Good boys, both of them. They'd grown into men here in Colorado, strong and capable, but the loss of their sister had changed them too. Edgar had become more serious, taking on extra work to help the family. Austin threw himself into his carpentry and millwright work with an intensity that sometimes worried D.J.
"Couldn't sleep," D.J. admitted. "Thought I'd get the fire going proper before your mother wakes."
But Rebecca was already awake. She emerged from their bedroom wearing the blue dress she reserved for Sundays and holidays, her graying hair neatly pinned, though D.J. could see the weariness in her eyes that never quite left anymore. She smiled at her men—her remaining family—and D.J. watched something shift in her expression, a determination he recognized. She would make this day good. She would make it matter.
"Well," Rebecca said, her voice carrying that forced brightness that broke D.J.'s heart a little, "are we going to stand here all morning, or are we going to see what treasures might be waiting under that tree?"
The gifts were modest, as befitted their circumstances. D.J.'s carpentry business had done well enough, and the fruit trees he'd planted over the past year showed promise, but they were still rebuilding from the Iowa farm failure. Still, they'd managed. For Edgar, Rebecca had knitted a thick wool scarf in deep blue—his favorite color. For Austin, D.J. had crafted a beautiful set of woodworking chisels, the handles made from cherry wood he'd been saving for something special. The boy's eyes lit up when he unwrapped them, running his fingers over the smooth wood with the appreciation only another craftsman could have.
"Papa, these are... these are too fine," Austin said softly.
"A man needs proper tools," D.J. replied, his throat tight. "You're doing good work, son. You deserve good tools."
For Rebecca, the boys had pooled their money and bought a length of beautiful calico fabric from the mercantile—enough for a new dress, something she'd been doing without for far too long. She held it up to the light streaming through the window, and for a moment, she looked young again.
"Oh, boys," she whispered. "It's lovely. Truly lovely."
D.J.'s gift for Rebecca was smaller, wrapped in brown paper—a new leather-bound journal and a bottle of ink. "For your recipes," he said, "and your thoughts. I know you've been wanting to write things down proper. For... for the future."
What he didn't say, what they both understood, was that it was also for remembering. For keeping Effie's favorite dishes recorded, her sayings preserved, her short life of 15 years documented so it wouldn't fade like morning frost.
Rebecca's gift to D.J. was practical—a new pair of leather work gloves lined with wool, hand-stitched with her careful, even stitches. "Your old ones are worn through," she said. "And with the fruit trees to tend come spring, you'll need your hands protected."
There was one more package under the tree, small and wrapped in fabric. Nobody reached for it at first. It was Edgar who finally spoke.
"Mama made it. For Effie's place." His voice cracked slightly on his sister's name.
Rebecca nodded, tears already streaming down her face, and unwrapped it herself. Inside was a small crocheted angel, white as snow, with golden thread for a halo. She hung it on the tree, in the center, where they could all see it.
"She's with us," Rebecca said firmly. "She's always with us."
They sat together in silence for a moment, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the mantle clock. Then D.J. cleared his throat and stood, clapping his hands together.
"Well, the Lord gave us this day, and Effie wouldn't want us spending it in sorrow. Austin, help me with the firewood. Edgar, your mother will need water brought in for cooking. We've got a feast to prepare."
The morning passed in purposeful activity. Rebecca worked in the kitchen, her domain, preparing the Christmas dinner with the focused attention she brought to everything she did. She'd been saving for this meal—a good-sized hen that D.J. had traded carpentry work for, potatoes from their root cellar, carrots and onions they'd put up in the fall, dried apples from the previous owner's old trees. She made her special stuffing with herbs she'd dried herself, and a dried apple pie sweetened with the precious sugar they'd splurged on at the mercantile.
D.J. worked alongside her when he could, peeling potatoes at the kitchen table while she seasoned the hen. These quiet domestic moments had become more precious to him over the years. Edgar read aloud from the family Bible in the parlor, the Christmas story from Luke, his voice carrying through the small house. Austin sat nearby, already testing his new chisels on a scrap of pine, shaving off thin curls that fell like snow around his boots.
By midmorning, the snow began to fall.
"Look," Rebecca said, pausing in her work to gaze out the kitchen window. "A white Christmas after all."
D.J. came to stand beside her, watching the large, soft flakes drift down from the gray sky. The mountains to the west were disappearing behind the curtain of snow, and the world was taking on that peculiar muffled quality that only a heavy snowfall could bring. His young fruit orchard—forty saplings he'd planted last spring—was becoming a landscape of white humps and delicate bare branches already accumulating their burden of snow.
"They'll be all right," Rebecca said, reading his thoughts as she so often did. "The snow will protect them from the worst of the cold."
"I know," D.J. said. "But I can't help watching over them. Those trees are our future, Becca. Three, four years from now, they'll be producing. We'll have apples, pears, maybe cherries if those trees take. A man can make a good living from fruit at this altitude, the land agent said."
"A man can make a good living doing honest work with his two hands, which you've always done," Rebecca corrected gently. "The trees are a hope, not a guarantee. We've learned that, haven't we?"
He squeezed her hand. They had indeed learned that—in Iowa, when their farm had failed despite their best efforts. But here in Colorado, despite the tragedy of Effie's death, despite starting over yet again in this rough mining territory, D.J. felt something taking root in him along with those fruit trees. Not just hope—he'd had hope before—but a kind of seasoned determination. They had survived their worst loss. They could survive anything now.
The snow continued throughout the day, heavy and steady, piling up on the window sills and transforming Boulder into something from a picture book. The boys took turns going out to tend to the horses in the small stable D.J. had built, coming back in with red cheeks and snow in their hair, stamping their boots and bringing the cold in with them in great clouds of frosty air.
By early afternoon, the house was filled with the rich aroma of roasting chicken, baking bread, and apple pie. Rebecca had set their small table with her good dishes—the few pieces that had survived all their moves—and the blue tablecloth she'd embroidered back in Pennsylvania when she was a new bride. D.J. had never seen anything more beautiful than his wife smoothing that cloth over the table, arranging everything just so, determined to make this Christmas special despite their grief.
They gathered around the table at two o'clock, as was their custom. D.J. sat at the head, Rebecca to his right, the boys across from each other. There was an empty chair beside Rebecca—there would always be an empty chair now—but Rebecca had placed a small vase with holly berries on that side of the table, a remembrance.
D.J. bowed his head, and the others followed suit.
"Heavenly Father," he began, his voice rough with emotion, "we thank You for this day, for this food, for the roof over our heads and the love that binds us together. We thank You for the gift of Your son, born this day so many years ago, and for the promise of eternal life that gives us comfort in our sorrow. We ask You to watch over us, to guide us, and to keep our Effie safe in Your loving arms until we're all reunited in Your kingdom. Bless this food to our use and us to Your service. Amen."
"Amen," the others echoed.
Rebecca served the meal, and for a while they ate in companionable silence, the only sounds the clink of silverware and the moan of the wind outside as the storm intensified. But gradually, conversation began to flow. Edgar talked about a job opportunity at the mercantile—they needed a clerk who could keep accounts, and he'd always been good with figures. Austin described a complicated millwork project he'd been asked to consult on at one of the mines. D.J. shared his plans for the orchard, how he'd been talking to other fruit growers in the area, learning about the best varieties for the altitude.
Rebecca listened to her men, contributing her own observations, asking questions, and D.J. watched her face soften as the meal progressed. This was what they needed—normalcy, routine, the simple pleasure of family gathered around a table. The grief would always be there, a shadow at the edge of every celebration, but life continued. It had to continue.
After dinner, while Rebecca and Edgar cleaned up, D.J. and Austin ventured out into the storm. The snow was already knee-deep in places, and still falling steadily. They made their way to the orchard, D.J. carrying a lantern even though it was still afternoon—the heavy clouds and snow made it dark as twilight.
The young trees stood in their rows, transformed by the snow into ghostly sentinels. D.J. moved among them, brushing snow off the lower branches, checking for damage, Austin following behind doing the same.
"You really think these will make it?" Austin asked, his breath fogging in the cold air.
"I do," D.J. said firmly. "These trees are hardy—they're bred for mountain growing. In a few years, son, you'll be helping me harvest more apples than we can eat. We'll sell them in Boulder, maybe even in Denver. Your mother will make her preserves and pies. It's good land, good soil, and we've learned from our mistakes."
"Iowa wasn't your fault," Austin said quietly.
"No, but I learned from it anyway. Learned that grain farming wasn't my calling, learned that sometimes you have to fail at one thing to find what you're meant to do. These trees—" he patted the snow-covered trunk of a young apple tree, "—these feel right to me. Patient. Steady. You plant them, you tend them, and they give back year after year. That's the kind of work I want for my old age."
They worked in silence for a while longer, father and son, tending the young orchard in the Christmas snow. When they finally trudged back to the house, stamping snow off their boots on the porch, they found Rebecca and Edgar in the parlor. Rebecca had lit the lamps against the early darkness, and the room glowed with warm light. She was sitting in her chair with her new journal open on her lap, already beginning to write, and Edgar was reading again, this time from a volume of poetry.
D.J. hung up his coat and hat, warmed his hands at the stove, and settled into his own chair with a satisfied sigh. Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, in this small house in this rough territory, there was warmth and light and love.
"Read us something cheerful, Edgar," Rebecca said, looking up from her writing. "Something about hope."
Edgar flipped through the pages and began to read, his clear voice filling the room. D.J. closed his eyes and listened, feeling Rebecca's presence beside him, hearing Austin's quiet breathing, Edgar's steady voice. They were diminished, yes—forever diminished by Effie's loss—but they were still a family. They were still whole in the ways that mattered most.
When Edgar finished reading, the snow had finally stopped, and the clouds were breaking up to reveal patches of brilliant blue sky. The late afternoon sun broke through, setting the snow-covered world ablaze with diamonds of light. They all went to the windows to look, drawn by the sudden brilliance.
"Beautiful," Rebecca whispered.
"A sign," D.J. said, putting his arm around her shoulders. "We've weathered the storm, and the sun is shining again."
That night, after the boys had gone to bed, D.J. and Rebecca sat together in the darkened parlor, lit only by the dying fire and the starlight reflecting off the snow outside. They held hands, saying nothing, because nothing needed to be said. They had survived another Christmas without their daughter. They had created moments of joy despite their grief. They had continued.
"Next year will be easier," Rebecca said finally.
"Will it?" D.J. asked honestly.
"No," she admitted. "But we'll be stronger. We'll know better how to carry it."
D.J. pulled her close, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Outside, the world was silent and white and clean, covered in fresh snow. In the orchard, his young trees stood strong under their burden of white, their roots deep in the frozen earth, waiting patiently for spring.
Tomorrow they would face another day. They would work and plan and continue building their life in this challenging place. But tonight, Christmas night, they simply sat together in the peace that comes after the storm, grateful for the love that remained, holding tight to each other and to hope—that patient, persistent hope that keeps people going even in the darkest times, the hope that springs eternal, like fruit trees waiting for the sun.
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