Remembering Al Rousso at Christmas (Redux)

This story was written a few years back but the "tradition" of shopping at the last minute continues.... 

My parents have been married now for more decades than I can count and every Christmas my father does “his” Christmas shopping at the last minute. 

Times may have changed; he has even embraced online shopping with packages arriving throughout the year via the Brown UPS Truck. 

But Christmas for Dad has always meant a last-minute dash to the jewelry store.

Several years have passed but for the longest time there was the annual Christmas Eve trip to Brownlee Jewelers in the Johnston Building on South Tryon Street in Uptown Charlotte. 

One year, I was privileged enough to witness an event that had been occurring every Christmas Eve since at least the early 70’s. 

The familiar jingle of a bell held over the door announced our entrance. Despite several customers crowded into the small store, the owner Al Rousso immediately spotted my father. 

Calling him by name: “Good to see you, I’ve been expecting you.” 

A warm smile sprang to his face. “Come on in I got something I want to show you.” Al offered, as he opened the small half swing door that separated the customers from the other side of the glass counters and the jewelry salesmen. As we were quickly swept into the back office, Al looked around, obviously checking for anyone within earshot. 

“I’ve been saving this just for you, something I know your wife (he knew her name as well) will really enjoy.” My mother would have been happy with red and white Christmas potholders, the one’s with a reindeer on one side and a sleigh on the other. 

But my father always gave her something that sparkled and came in a small box. Mr. Rousso reached down, opened a safe and withdrew a small six-inch-long box covered in navy blue velvet. He looked around again playing his role with exaggerated movements and came closer to my father and me. He opened the box just for the briefest of moments and immediately closed it. 

“Well, what do you think?” Al asked. “Wow! …. Oh My! …. honey you shouldn’t have?” he questions. 

My father nods in agreement. 

With a faux look of suspicion and glancing past us toward the other employees busy with customers, he tells my father: “I’ve been fighting them off for weeks but this I told them is for someone special.” 

Nervously he looks around and opens the box again. You would have thought we were about to buy a stolen gem the size of your fist. A back alley deal so good we should be arrested on the spot. 

“And the price?” My father asks. 

Al looks at the bottom of the box and hands it to my father, who shows it to me. Al interrupts by asking us to keep it out of sight for what he is about to do the other customers will most likely riot and all his employees might just quit without notice. 

“The price is blank but for you …. (a lingering pause) blank” My father looks like a deer in the headlights, no doubt the price is well beyond what he had in mind. After a long painful pause Al concedes “But since its Christmas blank less blank”… and adds “please I beg you don’t tell anyone what a good deal I’m giving you.” 

My father smiles and with a quick signature on a small 3-part carbon sales bill it is added to my father’s account. The yellow customer copy neatly folded and placed into his wallet and the gift slipped into his suit coat pocket. We all shake hands then the jingle above the door announces our departure, as Mr. Rousso and my father shout Merry Christmas to each other. 

Down the glimmering marble lobby and through the heavy brass doors we step back out onto the street, a brisk wind at our backs. 

And that was it, in less than ten minutes our Christmas Eve mission was accomplished. 

And so, I was left to assume that the interchange between the Jewish jewelry store owner and my father the Christian buying a gift for his wife on Christmas Eve had repeated itself many times before and perhaps years after that. A simplistic ritual, nearly as old as time itself, merchant, and client. 

Al Rousso passed away in 2001 at the age of 76, and the small store at 212 South Tryon Street relocated to the Overstreet Mall but closed in 2020 due to the George Floyd riots, COVID and Uptown crime.

But elsewhere around Charlotte the Rousso family continues the tradition of Brownlee Jewelers. Though I truly doubt it is with the level of theater and salesmanship I witnessed on Christmas Eve so long ago.

Merry Christmas, and thank you Al Rousso

Christmas Eve with Percy Craven (Redux)

 If your family is like mine, Christmas begins a week before Thanksgiving and runs well past New Year’s Day. 

The weeks roar by, in a calliope of sights and sounds. A never-ending visual delight of Christmas trees, holiday movies, parties and children rampaging through the house. 

It is truly a joyous time of year.

The far reaches of the North Carolina mountains, nearly to the Georgia state line in the most distant corner of our state, is Percy's Christmas.

The gravel road to Percy's cabin is covered with pine needles and a light dusting of freshly fallen snow.

The morning sun has already started to melt the new snow in patches along the south facing side of the valley, but in the shadows of the mountain along the north side, the accumulation of the recent snow events still stands.

Resilient Mountain Laurel leaves are drooping, a sign that the temperature outside the comfort of my SUV's heated leather seats is cold. In many spots the gravel road is iced over.

The look and feel of a winter camp is everywhere along the narrow road, for it is a place few have ventured since Thanksgiving. In the summer, Percy's lake is filled with the sounds of bass boats zipping past the point with their motors racing at full throttle and the shouts and screams of Boy Scouts at the nearby National Forest campground.

In winter the sound is pure silence, yet today the air is heavy with the smell of burning wood. A sign that someone is here.

Percy has a fine home in nearby Franklin, just off the main street the two story traditional has a generous porch, bright white columns and a well-kept lawn. But his small cabin is really where Percy lives, far from town, farther from people.

The lack of people at the lake in winter means it is a somber place, and void of youth. The endless quiet to me, and that silence is a deafening roar, and it is somewhat heartbreaking.

Now the only sounds are the gusts of wind that send the yellow pines swaying as they sing though the chill winter air, a chorus of cold and ice.

I drive over the crest of the hill and round the long sweeping turn that dips towards the lake. Percy is always up before dawn, so I'm not surprised that a raised hand greets me, as Percy's cabin comes into view. His dog, a brown Boykin Spaniel named Boone obediently stands by his side. Boone is bursting with excitement. He knows my SUV and that I'm always good for a handout.

I shut down the engine and open the driver’s door and on Percy's command the Boykin bounds off the porch and heads toward me, his short tail in full happy mode. The Chick Fil A bag is a giveaway that I brought food. The biscuits are cold after the forty-minute ride from Franklin. Boykins don't care if the food is cold and neither does Percy.

Percy Craven has made himself busy already, but his walk this morning is stiff, and he moves with trepidation and care. It takes a little prodding, but he confesses he took a tumble on the dock. "Of all the people, I slip on the frost down on the dock morning before last." Explains Percy, as he pours two cups of black coffee.

Percy speaks a different language than I do. Most everything is either down, over, yonder, up or a far piece. It also takes me a while to figure out that the "morning before last" was Saturday.

Percy continues; "I didn't break nothing, didn't get wet and nobody saw it happen but Boone there."  Boone looks away as if to say, "I see nothing, I hear nothing and I know nothing". 

Percy adds, "So I'll figure it was you who had a blabber mouth if anyone calls to ask if I'm OK."

Despite his stiffness he's pacing the porch as he wants to walk in the woods a "while" so he can check a couple of rabbit traps. My coffee has just gotten to the temperature where it’s drinkable. But I leave it on the table and we both head down the path around the lake.

Percy doesn't lock his doors and looks cross eyed at me when I hit the remote lock on my SUV. The "chirp chirp" sound echoes across the silent lake and Percy rolls his eyes. "Ain't no one out here to steal your car." Percy sounds off.

I explain that; "I ain't worried about no one, I'm worried about the bears." Percy laughs out loud, and tells me; "No matter, bear is gonna get in anyway."

Percy is right, as the half-eaten chicken biscuit I left in the car is just about all a bear needs as incentive to break into what the bear thinks is just a fancy steel food box.

"I thought bears hibernated?" I ask.

Percy pretends he doesn't hear me.

The air is brisk around 28 and the ground cold, doesn't matter Percy is talking a "blue streak" he has a lot on his mind. Normally when I walk with Percy we are hunting, and the talk is short and quiet. Today is different, his topics range from the President, to the NRA, about liberals and communists. Tall tales and small lies, his choice of topics is wide, deep and varied. 

Yet he never talks about his wife. Her photo on the nightstand is his comfort and I suspect he doesn't spend much time is town because the house is too big and too empty.

Six traps and nothing, each trap is carefully baited again, a mixture of peanut butter and cornmeal. Boone is kept away from the traps so that he doesn't "stink up" the rabbit runs.

An hour and 45 minutes later we're back and the sun is melting snow everywhere, the sound of water dripping off the trees in the bright sunlight makes the day seem like spring, yet winter has just begun.

I stop at my SUV and hit the remote again. Chirp, chirp and open the door, removing a small gift-wrapped box. Announcing to Percy; "I got you a Christmas present."

"What the hell!" says Percy, "It ain't right for a man to give another man a Christmas present. People will talk, even worst that you wrapped the damn thing."

I offer to unwrap the gift, but Percy will have nothing of it.

"Do I look like a cripple?" He jokes.

The beauty about eBay is finding something in the way of a Christmas gift that you can't get anywhere else. In this case a 1966 Shakespeare "Featherweight" Trout reel in a black nickel finish.

Percy rips into the box and I make another pot of coffee.

Over my shoulder I hear "Well I'll be damned" and I look to see the eyes of a 5-year-old on Christmas morning. Percy is enthralled.

He spins the reel, pushes over the take up button and spins it again. He smiles. You know they don't make them like this anymore? The ivory knob on the spool and leather case are signs of something made decades ago. Percy points to the engraved plate on the bottom.

Made in the U.S.A.

In the silence we both admire his gift, and my eBay find.

Suddenly Percy is talking a mile a minute again; "I didn't get you nothing... his voice trails off to an inaudible babble as he bolts up out of his chair and heads to a small room and into a closet. He's still talking but I can’t hear a word he is saying for the solid oak plank door he is trying to talk through.

After a minute or so he returns and presents me with a well-used white tobacco pipe.

"I'd been meaning to get rid of this for years. Now it’s yours." Percy states as he waves the pipe in the air. "It belonged to my father, it’s Meerschaum. I think it’s worth about a dollar."

He starts to hand it to me and then pulls it back.  "Hold on" barks Percy.

He carefully places the pipe on the Christmas paper that moments ago held a fly reel. Percy folds it neatly over the pipe and then rolls the whole thing into a wad of crumpled paper. Handing the mess to me he says: "There I wrapped it up for ya."

We both laugh, Percy spins the reel again and before long the sun begins to fall behind the mountain and the shadows grow long and reach nearly to the east side of the lake.

We talk another hour; he'll go to church then call it an early night. Some folks in town invited him for dinner Christmas Day; he says if he "wakes up", he expects he'll go as the Mrs. makes a good pecan pie. He needs to go to the post office on Thursday and the doctor on "Wednesday a week."

I've come to learn that older folks need order, and I have found that Percy looks forward to just about anything you can put on a calendar. It gives him something to look forward to even if it means a trip to the dentist.

The lighted Merry Christmas banner stretches over the street at the edge of town. Telephone poles have decorations that date to the 1970's as cars rush by and people come and go. This is small town North Carolina, untouched by time or progress. Flurries race across the road and slide up my windshield, on the other side of the mountain the snow fades and the sky clears, the three-quarter moon shines down on the glimmering lights of the Carolina countryside below where I-26 reaches into South Carolina.

It is Christmas Eve.

Hunting With Percy Craven

It is more than a mile off the blacktop and down a winding gravel road to Percy's cabin at the lake. The road is bumpy yet soft thanks to the Carolina Pines that litter their needles like rust colored carpet atop the stones. The frost has come early this year, it is not yet October and with the frost comes the smell of burning fires and fresh coffee on a wood stove.

Photo by Cedar Posts

Percy's cabin is more shack than home, the kind of place that Eric Rudolph the Olympic park bomber would have called home while on the run for five years in the North Carolina mountains. There is not even the slightest amount of insulation, in fact some of the cedar planks that cover the walls show daylight as the sun first beams across the lake in the early dawn.

The water comes from a spring up the side of the mountain that collects into a concrete tank barely visible half way up the hill and tucked into the woods. Water pressure is supplied by gravity and the 200 foot run down to the house.

The sound the gravel popping under the tires of my SUV quiets as I roll to a stop. The stillness of the lake is stunning in the early morning sun beams of gold as the fog gently lifts and then falls over the tree tops. There are no signs of life inside the cabin but the fire is burning and the front door's ajar.

Percy is old enough that I often fear I'll find him dead one morning and if that be the case today, I'll take great relief knowing that he passed in his sleep in the place his father built nearly 100 years ago.

A raspy familiar voice from around the back side of the shed leaves me startled and relived at the same time.

"Whatcha no good?" Percy calls out.

"Not much, just looking for the old coot, who owns this piece of shit house in the middle of God's majestic wilderness" I figure I'd get that jab in before he says something about my WalMart boots.

"I see's you wearing your fancy boots again" Percy doesn't miss a thing. "You ready to go hunting?"

"Yep", I reply as Percy shoves a Styrofoam cup of black coffee my way.

This is no big game hunt Mr. Carven has invited me on, while it is deer season bears can't be tracked until mid October. Nope, no wall trophies today because we are going to bag squirrels and/or chipmunks.

No doubt some people consider them, adorable little creatures. But before anyone gets all city slicker squeamish on me let me explain at even Percy Craven won't eat a squirrel. Only thing nastier tasting Percy can attest to this fact, is a opossum. I on the other hand have tasted neither and never intend to.

So, we won't be frying up Rocky the Squirrel today, rather those the little varmints will be "shot" for their tails. It just happens that squirrel and chipmunk tails make great flies for trout fishing.

What Percy doesn't keep to make his own trout flies he sells to a artificial lure company in Kingsport, Tennessee. He'll get a dollar a tail, plus his shipping costs.

The trick to shooting squirrels you have to use a 22 with a scope and a steady hand. Head shot and the scope makes it a rather personal interaction with the squirrel. Percy has a Boykin Spaniel named Boone who spent the night snoozing next to the wood stove. Boone's job is to run in circles until the squirrels start chattering. The squirrels sound off about the dog and Percy takes careful aim and drops the squirrel from 30 feet up. Boone then brings the now dead squirrel to Percy and the process is repeated over and over.

It takes about three hours to bring down around 100 squirrels. Percy killed 99 and myself 1. The chipmunks are spared, Boone is wore out, and the coffee inside me is now cold, so we start our walk back to the cabin a 1/2 a mile away.

I ask Percy if it bothers him killing so many animals at one time. His answer a simple "nope". Then he adds: "I guess if it bothered them they would move away, maybe over the ridge or up the road".

Back at the cabin Percy makes another pot of coffee, and begins sorting the tails, selecting the best for himself. The others are put in zip lock bags, boxed and labeled to an address in Kingsport and before I know it we are headed the the post office.

We drive along in silence until Percy speaks: "Whatcha thinking about".

"Dead squirrels" I answer.

"I see, well if you're worrying about a giant mother squirrel that is gonna come charging out of the woods after us, forget about it, I shot her last year right between the eyes. Dropped her dead in her tracks back there a spell."

I play along, "What if there's another one?"

Percy holds up a large hand gun: "That's why I brought this along, you never know."

We round the turn, crest a ridge and and the road swings down and to the right, and in the clearing ahead is a lone buck. The buck stands his ground no more than ten feet from the edge of the road.

I slow down to a crawl and the buck stays put. Ten-point bucks are rare this close to town and I look to Percy as I stop the truck. It is broad daylight at least a mile from anyone. It is deer season. Percy Craven could step out of the truck walk along the road 20 yards and with one shot have the biggest deer of his life.

The buck stands his ground, stomps his left hoof in protest to our stillness, he's looking right at us and the truck. I look at Percy and he looks at the buck. Then without warning Percy speaks up:

"Guess we better go",  and he reaches across the cab of the truck and taps the horn. The blaring sound sends the buck "tail high" and snorting into the woods.

I look at Percy like he's lost his mind, and he just shakes his head and says, "some other day".

We drive on to the Post Office in silence.