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Once upon a time, many winters ago, it was Crossingmas Eve at the d’Hercule homestead. The snow was falling.
Papa had been up all day marinating the roast, Mama had built a great big fire in the hearth, and Little Rosie had watched them excitedly all the while. There was so much to see! Papa’s skilled hands working the carving knife, Mama’s strong arms chopping wood, and of course the lazy snowflakes that drifted endlessly outside the window.
After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, it was finally time to eat! Little Rosie helped set the table, laying out the plates and cups, while Mama and Papa served up the food: heaps of mashed potatoes, rivers of gravy, hearty servings of chili, and generous slices of roast beef.
But right after the table was set, and everyone had sat down to eat, a knock came at the door. Little Rosie was about to take a big bite of mashed potato, but Papa stopped her, and went to the door. As soon as he opened it, music filled the cabin! At the door were three strangers, dressed in warm coats and cloaks, all singing the most wondrous music…
“God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay! For Jesus Christ, our savior, was born on Christmas day…”
Papa leaned back against the doorframe, smiling, as he listened to the music. Once the song was finished, he welcomed the strangers in, and sat them down at the table! They looked fondly at Little Rosie, and she felt a wondrous and strange curiosity. Papa uttered his usual blessing, but she saw some confusion on the stranger’s faces. Hadn’t they ever heard a Crossingmas blessing before? But the food was filling, and the drink warm, and all dispute was forgotten by the end of the night. The strangers went on their way, and Papa told Little Rosie the story of Armstrong and how he walked on the Moon until she fell asleep.
The seasons came and went, and years later, it was Crossingmas Eve yet again at the d’Hercule homestead. The snow was falling.
Rosie found no comfort in the snow this year, though. There were no fat, lazily drifting flakes this year- sleet poured down, and the powder was flung up into the air by cold winds. Papa had called it a blizzard. When Rosie pressed her face up to the window like she used to, she would hear the howling wind, and feel the biting frost on her skin. But the cabin was cozy, and the sod walls kept in the heat of the hearth, and the smell of the food. And, for the first time, company! Rosie’s cousins, the Cezars, were visiting, and so the cabin was filled to bursting. Mama, Papa, Aunty Dorothy, Aunty Linda, Cousin Bill, Cousin Annie, Cousin Jerome, Cousin Clark… all were laughing, cooking, and playing together. It was a Crossingmas Eve like no other. Rosie especially like Aunty Dorothy- she always had sweets, and a dirty joke when Mama and Papa weren’t listening.
There was less food this year. Beef was too expensive, Papa said, and the harvest wasn’t like it once was. Besides, the Cezars had to eat too, and there was only so much to go around. Once the tiny table was set for the two families, and everybody had squeezed into their chairs, Papa began to say the traditional Crossingmas blessing. But just as he began to speak, a knock came at the door! Aunty Dorothy offered to see who it was, but Papa insisted that it was his duty.
When Papa opened the door, everyone gasped. Standing out in the sleet was a rich man, wearing a colorful and opulent coat, and a very tall, cylindrical hat that he clutched to his head to keep it from flying away in the wind. His jewelry was covered in frost, and his mustache had icicles dripping from the whiskers. He spoke in a thin, chattering voice.
“Good yeomen, my horse has gone lame, and my caravan has been lost in the snow. Could I trouble you to stay for the night? For I am cold, and hungry, and it is miles to the nearest settlement. In the name of the Free Market, I beg you to help me.”
Papa smiled warmly, and patted him on the shoulder, and ushered him in. But Aunty Linda scowled. “He’s a rich man, Solomon. He can afford to pay for an inn. His coat is warm enough. We don’t have room for you, stranger. We have barely enough food for all of us here as it is. Your Free Market will provide, won’t it?”
Rosie looked back and forth between Papa and Aunty. She had never seen them argue before. But Papa didn’t respond in anger. He simply smiled. “Linda, as the poor are cold, so are the rich. We should give what little we can, for anyone can be grateful for even the smallest gift.”
So the rich man sat down at the table, though there was so little room and so little food. Papa said his Crossingmas blessing, and they all ate together. Once the meal was finished, the rich man stood, and spoke.
“You have given me much tonight- your home, your food, and your company. In the spirit of Boxing Day, I feel I must repay you. Here, take these, and may the Invisible Hand guide you to prosperity.” The rich man took out a pouch, and out of it he gave each person there a large, shiny coin, embossed with a strange symbol that looked like an S . Suddenly, Aunty Linda was a lot more friendly, and the night passed in revelry. When the weather cleared, the rich man tipped his tall hat and left, and Papa whiled away the hours telling Rosie the story of Johnny Appleseed, and how he brought apples to America.
The years flew by, and once again it was Crossingmas Eve at the d’Hercule homestead. But there was no snow. There hadn’t been any all winter.
Perhaps it was for the best. Rose had gone with Pa to chop firewood, and though it was colder than a fascist’s heart outside, at least it was dry. Ma was at home, in the sickbed, along with Little Johnny. To think about it made Rose’s heart ache. So instead she focused on the heft of the hatchet in her hand, and the monotony of chopping. Every once in a while she would look over to her Pa, leaning against the chopping stump, out of breath. He used to seem so strong. After a few hours of work, Pa slumped onto the stump, and took out a heel of bread.
“Enough work. I’m too old to be doing this.” He offered her a piece of his bread. “Come, eat. You need your strength.” She wordlessly accepted. “You know, we have to know our limits. Did I ever tell you about John Henry?”
“He died.”
“There’s more to it than that, you know.”
“Does it really matter?”
“Of course it does. If I were to work myself to death, I’d rather be remembered for what I worked for, rather than what I died for.” Rose didn’t respond. She just sat there, chewing her crust. “Aw, hell, might as well tell it again. You see, a long time ago there was-”
“I’m not in the mood, Pa.”
Silence. It had been a long time since Rose had let Pa tell her a story. But, before Pa could speak again, there was a crash of snapping twigs, and a great, big man stumbled through the brush and into the clearing, collapsing onto the brown, sparse grass. Rose was stunned in shock, but Pa lept into motion, quickly kneeling to the man’s side. After a moment, Rose joined him.
The man was large, muscular, mostly obscured by his large, matted fur cloak. Pa gingerly lifted the corner, and removed it to get a better look at him. He was a young man, with a short braided beard and crooked face. A large wound was on his side, bleeding sluggishly- Pa quickly placed his hand on top of the opening, applying pressure as the blood spurted between his fingers. But Rose was more drawn to the large, horned helmet, and purple-and-yellow warpaint, that the dying man wore. She staggered back.
“He’s a Viking, Pa!”
“He’s dying, is what he is. Give me a hand and pass me the rags, will you?”
“He’s a Viking, Pa.” He turned to look at her. There was a severity in his eyes that Rose wasn’t used to seeing.
“I know you’re upset about Ma and Johnny.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s why we should.”
“I said, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Rosie-”
“My name’s not Rosie, Pa! It’s just Rose.”
“Why don’t you like Rosie?”
“It’s childish.”
“Well, it’s not childish to me.”
“Well, it’s not your name.”
“It’s not your name either. It belonged to a great woman a long time ago, who did great things. I named you in her honor.”
“You told me about her already. The Riveter.”
“That’s the one.”
“She made weapons. Weapons that slew the unjust.” Rose's grip on her hatchet tightened. Pa eyed her weapon carefully.
“She did. But that’s not what matters.”
“It is what matters, Pa. That man there is a Viking. You know what they did.”
“I don’t care that the men who attacked your Ma and baby brother were Vikings.”
“Well, I do care, Pa!”
“They were evil men. But we don’t know this man. We can’t judge him for his creed alone. That’s not the American way.”
“To hell with the American way!” Rose shouted. “I won’t help you save the life of a murderer. He wouldn’t do the same for either of us!”
“This reminds me of a story, Rose. Long ago, there was-”
“I don’t want to hear another story, Pa!” Rose was almost screaming now. “They’re childish nonsenses. I’m a grown woman, Pa! Walking on the moon? Planting all the apple-trees? Lassoing tornadoes? Riding a blue ox? They’re ridiculous! Tall tales schemed up to placate children at bedtime. I’m tired of living a life of stories. I want to actually live. And that starts with him paying the price for what his people have done to us.”
Now there was something new in Pa’s eyes. Not sadness, not solemnity. But anger. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Rosie.”
“I know damn well what I’m saying, Pa. I’m serious. And so should you be.”
“So you want serious then? Fine. I can be serious. No more walking on the moon, or blue oxes. I’ll tell you a story that my pa told me when I was young. An old story. A story about a man named Dantes. A man grievously wronged by three others, sworn to deadly revenge. But each man he killed, each man he destroyed, each man he humiliated, was not enough to fill his cold and empty heart. And in the end, when he reclaims the woman he thought he was fighting for, she was frightened at the monster he had become in his quest for vengeance. A man is dying, Rosie. You may have been named for one who made weapons, but I was named for a wise man. And I will not let a man die if I could save him. That is the American way.” And with that, Pa heaved the man onto his shoulder, almost doubling himself over with the weight and effort. Rose could only watch as he struggled down the road to the homestead. She did the only thing she felt she could.
She dropped her hatchet and ran away.
Somehow, it was Crossingmas Eve again. But it wasn’t the same anymore.
It had been years since Rosie had spent the holidays with her family. Since that day in the woods. She'd wandered awhile, picking up odd jobs around the countryside. Eventually, she found a steady job in Dubuque, working for an elderly merchant as a shopkeeper. She doubted he recognized her all these years later, but she would know that mustache and hat anywhere.
The rest of the world wasn't like the homestead. People were cruel, times were hard. There was always news of war to the north, always levies being drafted to fight the Viking menace. Eventually, enough was enough. She had to make her way home.
And so here she was.
Rosie silently placed the bouquet before the three graves.
Yvette d’Hercule. A loving mother and wife.
John d’Hercule. Gone too soon.
Solomon d’Hercule. An example to us all.
It had been a hard few years, the neighbors told her. Ma hadn’t made it to New Years after she left, and Johnny followed shortly after. Pa… well, Pa didn’t last much longer either. His last words had been something about John Henry.
As she stood before the silent graves, something stirred in her mind. The Crossingmas blessing that Pa had always said, back when food was plentiful, company was kind, and the snow always fell on Crossingmas. Her lips had started to move before she even meant to.
“Long ago, on this very night, many brave men died crossing the Delaware to fight Tyranny. It is they for whom Crossingmas is named. The Heroes, ordinary men and women, who felt their souls afire with the love of liberty and patriotic duty that they took up arms against their oppressors, and won us a country to call our own. But Crossingmas is not a night of death or bloodshed. Tonight, we remember all the Heroes- we remember the martyrs Honest Abe and Jack Kennedy, the creators Rosie and John Henry, the destroyers Oppenheimer and Old Scratch, and the countless others claimed by obscurity. Once, the Heroes walked tall like giants, and harnessed the winds and tamed the beasts of the earth, assured that as long as they followed the American way, they would be fueled by the Soul of America. But the age of good feelings ended, and the Golden Age with it. We are the inheritors of a broken and disheartened world. But this Crossingmas, we remember that ordinary men are the foundation of America. When America was but a whispered idea in the hearts of the first Patriots, did they despair? No! They took up arms and fought for the Soul of America. When the nation was shattered by hate and fear, did they despair? No! They healed their divisions and nurtured back to health the Soul of America. When the downtrodden around the world called out for aid, did they turn their backs? No! They strode out across the seas to extend a hand of brotherhood to all peoples of the earth. Truth, Justice, Love, Brotherhood, and a Better Tomorrow… these are the American way. So tonight, let us remember the Heroes, and remember that each and every one of us is a true Hero and American, so long as we let these ideals rule in our hearts.”
As she finished, Rosie felt the tears roll down her cheeks. But her skin was dampened by something else. She turned her face upwards, and smiled through her sadness.
The snow was falling.