A Simple Christmas Tradition

When I was a kid, I’d often receive a “treat bag” at church around Christmastime. Occasionally, I’d get one somewhere else too—maybe while visiting another church to watch their Christmas play, or at the Masonic Lodge’s Christmas dinner, which I’d sometimes attend with my grandfather and his brother.

Inside the Bag

These treats wouldn’t be considered spectacular by today’s standards. The bag itself was simply a brown paper lunch sack. It would contain a couple of pieces of fruit, a candy cane, a pack of gum, and maybe a couple of walnuts. Sometimes there’d be a piece of chocolate too.

I enjoyed receiving these simple treats, but it was only recently that I learned they are deeply rooted in Appalachian tradition.

The “Christmas Poke”

The proper name for these “treat bags” is actually Christmas Poke. Don’t mistake the use of “poke” here as the verb that means to jab someone with your finger. In this case, it is a noun—a Scottish term for a paper bag.

Given the number of Scottish immigrants who settled in Appalachia in the 1700s, it makes sense that the term showed up in my neck of the woods.

A Gift That Once Meant Everything

Now, I grew up in a very middle-class household. So as much as I enjoyed the contents of my poke, I was blessed with a cache of nice gifts every Christmas. I didn’t realize that there was a time in Appalachia when a Christmas Poke was seen as a blessing to little children who wouldn’t receive nice gifts—or any other gifts at all.

Fruit as a Treasure

Fresh fruit was rare in Appalachia in the 18th and 19th centuries, and even into the Great Depression era. Getting an apple in your poke was a big deal, and getting an orange was an even bigger one because citrus fruits were very expensive.

Poor Appalachian children were thrilled to receive these treats.

A Final Thought

Man, we are spoiled today, aren’t we?

Give someone a Christmas Poke this year and explain what it means.

Merry Christmas everyone!

 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Image
  Growing up in Clintwood, Virginia during the seventies and eighties felt like living inside a postcard. Everyone knew everyone, the church bells marked the rhythm of the week, and high school sports were the town’s heartbeat. My childhood was full of hayfields that doubled as ballfields, porches crowded with family, and a community that never let a kid go hungry or feel alone. But behind that picture-perfect backdrop, my brother and I watched our father and uncle slowly decline from neurological disease. As Dad’s health worsened, Mom cared for him around the clock while managing her own mother’s needs—and still found a way to give us a normal life. Dad passed away the day before my twenty-first birthday. Five weeks later, Mom was diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer. She fought for a year before we lost her too. At twenty-two, I stepped into adulthood holding a college degree in one hand and the responsibility of settling my mother’s estate in the other. Grief, paperwork, an...
Read more
Image
  Little Eyes Are Watching By Stuart R. Mullins A Lesson That Lasted a Lifetime During the mid-1980s, I was blessed to play football for Coach Ralph Cummins at Clintwood High School . Coach Cummins was an outstanding organizer, motivator, leader, coach, and teacher. I could tell countless stories about things he said or did that pushed my classmates and teammates to perform at a higher level. However, as meaningful as those moments were, it’s his words and actions outside of competition that stand out in my mind today. Beyond the Scoreboard Coach Cummins cared deeply about producing not just athletes, but good citizens—young men who would carry themselves with integrity both on and off the field. He wanted his players to be aggressive, yet respectful of their opponents. His mantra was simple: “Knock your man down, pick him up, dust him off, and then get him again on the next play.” He wouldn’t tolerate disrespect toward opponents, officials, fans, or his coaching sta...
Read more
Image
🏀  When I was in fourth grade, my parents and I started attending Clintwood High School's boys’ basketball games. I had been a football and baseball fan almost since birth, but basketball was something new—and exciting. Clintwood Elementary School was only a year old at the time, and its shiny new gym felt like an arena. It didn’t hurt that the Greenwave had a pretty good team either. Many of the same boys I’d watched on the football field that fall were now sprinting up and down the hardwood—minus the pads and helmets. I was thrilled to finally see what they really looked like. Of course, there were some new names too, since not every basketball player suited up for football. I’ve been to countless basketball games since then, but that season remains one of my favorites. Childhood Heroes in Green and White I became such a fan of that team that I lost sight of the fact they were just local kids—from the same small coal-mining town where I lived. They sat in classrooms that ...
Read more