By Charles Conway Crenshaw
When I think of Christmas past, 1943 is the one that comes to mind. It was a memorable Christmas.
World War II had started. My dad was driving the city bus in Charlottesville. At that time the only bus route was from Belmont, up Main Street and Jefferson Park Avenue to Fry’s Spring and return. Most families had only one automobile and some depended on the city bus totally to get around. Life in Charlottesville was quite simple. We were living on Avon Street in the Belmont section of Charlottesville. Belmont was known as the working peoples’ community. One morning, Mom and Dad called me in their bedroom, where they informed me that Dad had received orders to report to the United States Army. I was three years old and did not truly understand the consequences of that news. I understood that Dad would have to leave, and Mom and I would move to the Crenshaw Farm in Earlysville. This being war time, no date of Dad’s return was known. I do not remember the actual goodbye and maybe I really didn’t want to. The Army sent Dad to Camp Walters, Texas for basic training.
Christmas was approaching, and Dad had completed his training. We received word that Dad would be at Fort Meade, Maryland, and could come home for Christmas before being shipped out. We went to Fort Meade and picked him up. I can remember the soldiers shouting back and forth on the street. When we arrived back at the farm it was dark, and the road was muddy. Dad was in his uniform and combat boots. He carried me on his shoulders the mile in to the farm house. It was a great Christmas having Dad home, I did not want to let go of him. I did not understand the combat and tough times he would endure in the years ahead in Europe and the Philippines, but this was Christmas and the three of us were together again.
After Christmas, Dad returned to Fort Meade for transport to New York City to board a troop ship to Europe. Again, I do not remember the actual goodbye. Three Christmases would pass before I would see my Dad again. Grandmother would read her Bible every day. One day I spotted a small statue of a lamb where Grandmother kept her Bible. I asked her about the lamb.
“That lamb is my sign from God that he will protect my two sons and bring them back home safely,” she said.
By now, I was becoming a young farm boy and a soldier. Mom bought me a wooden rifle with silver wood bullets. I fought many battles on the hillsides of the farm. I never lost a battle. To my knowledge, they never made the news in The Daily Progress, but to me, it was the best way I knew to help my Dad.
The Christmas of 1943 holds a special place in my memories. I did not know the difference between poor and rich. We were rich with family and love. The next time I saw my Dad, he was opening the gate across the creek from the house. I was now seven years old. I was so excited, I fell off the front porch.
I know that Grandmother was thankful, too. The little lamb had cared for her sons.