Words and Pictures

 

by Paula Gail Benson

            Sara Gibbons felt as if she had been sleeping on a cumulus cloud forever. Perhaps she had. That’s how time seemed in Heaven—without boundaries or limitations; restful, peaceful, and floating leisurely through eternity while angst and conflict circulated among the residents of Earth below.

            Rolling from her side onto her back, she stretched, trying to gauge the quality of light around her from behind closed eyes. She had no true sense until she opened her eyelids, just the briefest crack, and blinked at the dazzling celestial sky shining around her. Like the sparkles from the silver and white sheath gown she wore when Chad Howard took her to the University’s spring formal in 2011.

Until then, they had been classmates and self-acknowledged journalism geeks. But when he asked her out in advance for that event, it became their first date.

            Remembering how that night ended, she sat up straight, crossed-legged beneath the pale dress she wore. Chad drove her back to her sorority house, lingering on the outside steps as she climbed to the top (only three, not a significant task at all). She looked back at him. He made no effort to follow. She never told him how many drunken frat boys had trailed her to within inches of that door. After all, she needed no rescuing and had no difficulty letting them know what they could do with their over-active libidos.

            Unfortunately, she wished Chad had shown some kind of passion toward her. Instead, he stood contemplating his shoes, one on the ground and the other on the first step.

            She took the initiative to end the evening with dignity. “I had a lovely time. Thanks for taking me.”

            He looked up, his eyes sparkling from the streetlamp’s light. “You deserve better.”

            “Better than what?”

            “Than I’ve been able to give. I’ve been so caught up in my own imagined misery that I didn’t appreciate I was out with the most beautiful girl in the room.”

            Sara stepped back toward him. “Well, all is not lost since you recognize it now.”

            “Will you forgive me?”

            She reached the second step. “That depends.”

            “On what?”

            She gave him her most sultry smile. “On how you intend to think of me going forward.”

            He bowed his head, remaining still for a moment. Then, he nodded. “Can you give me a week to sort out my stupidity?”

            Not what she had hoped to hear, but it did keep the option open. She shrugged. “Take the time you need.”

            “Great.” He whipped out his camera. “Meanwhile, let me get your photo to commemorate the evening.”

            She posed, and he kept giving her directions. Turn toward the streetlight. Put your hand on your hip. With each command, he moved closer until unexpectedly he was no more than an inch away and quickly bent toward her to plant a lingering kiss on her mouth. She drew back in complete and happy surprise. That’s when he snapped the shot.

            “Perfect!” He stepped back. “See you soon.”

            When had that been? A lifetime ago? The year before they graduated college and got married. They both had dream jobs in the city where they attended the university. She wrote words for a local magazine, and he supplied pictures from a photography and graphics business.

            They were happy. But . . .

            Sara wrapped her arms around her legs and gathered them toward her chest, resting her chin on her knees. She felt the cool fabric of her pale dress against her cheek.

            “I know you loved me, Chad,” she whispered. “Even though I wasn’t your first love.”

            “Does it really matter so very much?”

            Sara looked up, in the direction of the voice. She wasn’t sure if it was male or female or how old. Heaven had a way of obscuring personalities so you couldn’t tell gender or ethnicity or historical background. It was meant to have an equalizing effect, but sometimes it caused confusion. How could you talk reasonably with someone who had no comparable experience with your generation, with the items you used daily, or the devices upon which you depended?

            Of course, she supposed love was universal.

            “Perhaps it shouldn’t matter,” she said, looking up at the hazy figure that stood before her. “But, when you know the person you love had another love first, you always wonder how you measure up.”

            A small fuzzy shape, perhaps a hand, reached to touch what might have been a chin. “I see what you mean.”

            “It’s not like Chad and I weren’t always very honest with each other. He told me about his crush on Franny Morgan. So did his schoolteacher, Miss Runyon, who taught them both. Franny’s mother admitted it, too, although she was more reticent about most things, particularly after Franny disappeared.”

            The hidden voice seemed sharper. “Franny disappeared?”

            “Yes. It was after Chad’s and my first date. Franny made an appointment with him a week later to take her photo in a Colonial American costume. After that, no one knew what happened to her.”

            Chad kept the photo of Franny hidden away in the back of a drawer where he thought Sara would never look. But Sara found it. Chad’s photo seemed to take hold of Sara the same way a miniature portrait had once consumed Franny’s focus.

            The shrouded figure laughed. “You say ‘Colonial America.’ Do you mean the colonies that broke away when Great Britain was governed by George III?”

            “Yes.” Sara almost laughed herself at the ability to make a connection with an unknown person. “Are you familiar with that time?”

            “I lived and died in it.”

            “Oh.” The words sobered her immediately. “I’m sorry.”

            “Please don’t be.” The voice was kind, comforting. “In many respects, I lived a charmed life. I fought in a war for a cause I truly believed in, and I married a beautiful, accomplished woman who traveled a long distance to meet me after only seeing my miniature portrait.”

            Sara’s brow crinkled. “How odd. Chad told me that Franny spent years researching the subject of a miniature by the famed colonial artist Charles Fraser. Of course, she lived about two hundred and fifty years after the American Revolution.”

            “It would seem very unlikely that we could have met on Earth, but I will tell you the woman I married was named Franny Morgan.”

            Sara squinted at the cloudy figure. “Was her father a doctor?”

            “Yes. A very gifted one named Amos.”

            “And, was her mother a librarian?”

            The figure was briefly quiet. “I never knew her mother. Franny was quite ill as a baby. Amos had Dorothy take her away so Franny could receive treatment. Later Franny returned. Dorothy never did.”

            Sara held her hand to her heart.

            “I can see I have upset you,” the voice said.

            “No.” Sara shook her head, then took a breath. “Well, yes. It’s just that the Franny Morgan from my time—her mother’s name was Dorothy.”

            Again, the figure was silent for a short time. “Would it be so terrible if the Franny Morgan I married was the one that Chad loved?”

            Sara pushed away from the figure. She stumbled to the edge of the cloud floor, knelt, and looked down toward the Earth. She hadn’t seen Chad in Heaven. Could he still be on Earth with their son, Gibb? How old might they be now?

            Beneath her the cloud cover cleared, letting her focus on the town where she had lived, married, and had her son. For a few hours, she and Chad had been so happy to welcome their child and plan for their family. Then, in her sleep, a pulmonary embolism traveled to her heart. She died the day after becoming a mother.

            She never wanted Chad and Gibb to have to be alone, but it was difficult to think of them being with someone else. Her gaze narrowed, concentrating on Payne Liu’s restaurant where she and Chad had spent so many happy evenings. Now, in their traditional booth, she saw Chad, not much older, but with a slight graying at his temples. With him, an eight-year-old boy sat and beside the boy was a vivacious young woman Sara recognized as Franny Morgan. Sara wanted to turn away, but she couldn’t. She needed to be happy that Chad had been reunited with his first love. She needed to be grateful Gibb had a mother.

            Franny told Gibb about her family. “My father was a time traveler. He was born in the twentieth century but found a way to journey back to the 1700s. He became a doctor and married my mother. When I was a baby, he realized I had diphtheria. No cure existed at that time, but it did in the future, so he sent my mother and me forward in time. My mother always wanted to return to him. Eventually, she did, but you already know about that.”

            Sara watched Gibb smile. “I was there,” he said, “because I got lost.”

            Franny nodded. “We were so glad to find you again. And, I was happy to see your father. I realized my future was with you both.”

            “In the twenty-first century!” Gibb said, clapping his hands.

Franny held out a small object for him to see. “This portrait was handed down in my family. I had to follow it, to understand who was in the picture. It took me back through time. This man was Edmund Fraser, my first husband, and he died in the American Revolution.”

            “Then, Chad wasn’t your first love,” Sara whispered, even though she knew the people on Earth could not hear her.

            “No, but they have found love together now.”

            Turning, Sara looked back toward the blurred figure, whose features had cleared and revealed a man with dark hair wearing colonial clothing. Looking up at his face, Sara saw the countenance from Franny’s miniature portrait.

Gently, Edmund Fraser took Sara’s hand and kissed it. “At times, our lives must be lived in different places. By searching for me, Franny gave me a family life I would not have had. By returning to your time, she can bring family to Chad and your son. Perhaps Franny and Chad’s connection leads to the one that we can share now. I’m willing to try if you are.”

            He held an outstretched hand toward her. Sara took it. Together, they walked toward the celestial sky, leaving behind the words and pictures from Earth.

THE END

Another Christmas Visitor by KM Rockwood

Some people claim that Christmas is for children, but Miss Spires had to disagree.

Christmas is a time to honor traditions and celebrate family, especially one’s progenitors.

Miss Spires, still residing in the tidy little house just outside town in which she had been born over eighty years ago and where she had lived her entire life, worked hard at respecting those traditions.

Not that children should be forgotten, especially if they were part of the household. But they should be folded into traditions, rather than the entire holiday redesigned for their benefit.

She remembered the last time children had been in this house for the holiday. Those children had been her two young nephews, briefly ensconced in the attic bedrooms while their father, Miss Spires’ brother Robert, had been deployed overseas with his miliary unit.

Miss Spires never quite approved of their mother, but she was careful not to express that opinion. The woman had deposited her sons, for a “brief visit” which extended for months, and gone about her mysterious business, which seemed to involve many mysterious acquaintances and an exorbitant amount of travelling.

Soon after that Christmas, word had reached the family of Robert’s tragic death while serving overseas. The mother, apparently upon being informed of the financial benefits accruing to a deceased serviceperson’s minor children, had swooped in, reclaimed the boys, married one of the mysterious acquaintances, and left the state.

Miss Spires dutifully sent a birthday card and a Christmas card every year to each of

the boys, who were now of course grown men, and in return received a holiday card from each. But she never saw them again.

She had a vivid memory of the struggle to get her father and the young boys dressed appropriately for midnight services that Christmas Eve, then the difficulty of hiring a taxi to convey them to the church. She’d had to agree to pay the driver to wait for them during the service and drive them home. But she’d managed. Traditions needed to be upheld.

After the service, the boys had been too tired to partake of the waffle breakfast which was to follow the services, so she had taken them upstairs to put them to bed.

By the time she’d returned downstairs, her father was asleep in his easy chair. So she’d helped him to his room, too, and eased him into his bed.

Then, a bit forlornly, she’d had her late night breakfast of orange juice, waffles, sausages, and coffee. It was the first of many solitary meals.

Her father had arranged for someone from the toy store to deliver a dazzling array of sturdy yellow toy construction vehicles to line up under the tree. The boys were delighted, and she remembered how devastated they had been to leave them behind.

On that long-ago Christmas morning, Miss Spires had not been successful in getting the boys to abandon their gifts for a dignified brunch of breakfast strata with homemade raisin cinnamon bread, and her father wanted to sit in the living room and watch them play.

She refused to provide food away from the dining table, but it seemed no one cared.

Once again, she ate alone.

By dinnertime they were hungry, and she did manage to corral everyone to the table for the big ham and mashed potato feast she’d prepared. They ate quickly and returned to the trucks in the living room as soon as they could. Her father had asked to take his coffee into the living room, and despite feeling it was not appropriate, she had carried it to his easy chair and helped him settle in.

No one else wanted a piece of pie she’d made, not even if she offered to top it with a scoop of ice cream.

It was then she realized that, if the family traditions were to be kept up, she would have to take charge of them herself.

The shock of Robert’s death had been too much for her father, and he had passed a few weeks after that Christmas.

Leaving Miss Spires to carry on everything alone. Including Christmas traditions.

Sometimes things happened that disrupted them. Then, she had to accept the changes or drop that particular tradition completely.

Since that distressing fire in the church a few years ago, most of the people at the midnight candlelight service carried some type of flickering electronic candles instead of wax ones. She had to admit that was much easier on her nerves than young children and careless adults waving real flames around.

And instead of pulling a sled down to the Christmas tree sales lot downtown and returning to her home, pulling the tree, she had to pay a small fortune to purchase a

tall pine tree from the hardware store delivered and set up in the living room. That was the only place that sold live trees these days.

She did decorate it herself. And she placed the nativity figures on a table in the front hallway.

Her father had given her the basic set of figures, imported from Italy, one year. Each year thereafter, he added one more carefully chosen figure.

After he passed away, Miss Spires had continued adding a figure a year for a while. But somehow choosing and buying it herself was not the same. So the collection had not grown beyond that point.

This year, like every other year, she spent much of December preparing for the holiday. On Christmas Eve, all was ready.

Light snow fell most of the afternoon, giving the surroundings a picturesque and appropriate blanket of glistening white. Miss Spires hoped it would not be so terribly cold and windy that she would be reluctant to walk to the church in town for the midnight service.

Before that, however, the carolers would come. They started in town and wound through the streets on their way to her house. Knowing it was a bit of a hike for tired carolers to reach her hilltop, she had decided years ago to make the trek worth their while. She prepared a light supper with sandwiches, cookies, and hot mulled cider. That seemed to work to keep up the tradition of the carolers. At their last stop, they

knew they could come in to rest a bit and have a bite to eat before they set out back into town.

As the early winter evening fell, however, the wind picked up and the snow came down more heavily in blinding swirls.

If it were too bad, Miss Spires could skip midnight services and go straight to her late-night waffle breakfast. That would be only a minor deviation from her traditions—a deviation supported by something more important. Her health and safety.

Several times she pulled on her boots and warm jacket to go out and sweep the snow from the walk so the carolers could come in. If she let it get too deep, she might not be able to clear it. She had no desire to be snowed in.

After she went out about nine o’clock to sweep, however, she realized that the road was drifting over. If the carolers had not made it by now, they were unlikely to come.

Discouraged, she went back inside and looked at the buffet she’d set out. Then she turned off the gas keeping the cider warm and sadly thought about disassembling the refreshments. She would miss the carolers.

It was a lot of food. One must never waste food. And here she still had the ham dinner to fix for tomorrow. She could freeze most of it, she supposed. She’d be eating this food until sometime in February. Perhaps beyond.

First, however, Miss Spires ladled herself a mug of cider, turned out most of the lights, except for those sparkling on the Christmas tree, and sat in the living room, trying to feel festive despite the weather.

Just in case, she left the light on the front porch on.

After all, she told herself, this was a true white Christmas. Quite traditional. She could remember Christmases like this from her childhood, when they were snowed in for several days. If anything, it had made the holiday jollier in the little house.

Somehow, she didn’t feel jolly.

She’d barely finished the cider and was deciding it was time to turn out the porch light

and put the food away when she was startled by a knock on the door.

The carolers! They had come. Thank goodness she’d not cleared the food away. By now, they must be very cold and hungry.

But when she opened the door wide, ready to greet them, she was not met by the carolers from town.

A bedraggled woman in a short coat and a headscarf stood there. A small child stood on either side, clasping her legs. The children at least looked as if they were dressed for the weather. The woman most definitely was not.

“Please,” the woman said in a trembling voice, her eyes bleary. “My car slipped off into the ditch. I can’t get it back on the road. And I saw your lights…”

Miss Spires stiffened. What was wrong with people these days? To be out driving in this weather with two small children in the car. On Christmas Eve yet.

But there was no way she could leave them outside in such a storm.

She moved out of the doorway and invited the trio in.

They stood awkwardly in the entry, melting snow dripping from their clothes and forming little puddles on the tile floor.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, glad that she had not yet cleared the offerings for the carolers away.

The woman nodded. “I packed some sandwiches to give the kids for the trip, and they ate them at a rest stop at lunchtime. But I expected to have arrived by supper time. Then we hit this weather…”

Miss Spires was tempted to tell her to speak up. She apparently had a habit of letting her sentences peter out rather than finishing them. Miss Spires found that quite annoying.

But she decided against saying anything. She helped the woman strip the damp outerwear from the children and hang it on the hall tree. The woman’s meager coat joined them.

As Miss Spires escorted them into the dining room, the children caught a view of the lit Christmas tree in the living room. Their eyes opened wide.

Miss Spires pulled chairs up to the table and placed a plate in front of each of them.

The children climbed up into the chairs and their eyes grew even wider when they saw all the food, but they didn’t reach for any.

“It looks like you’re expecting guests,” the woman said.

“Yes,” Miss Spires answered, for the carolers would be guests of a sort. Not family or friends perhaps, but guests nonetheless. “But given the weather, I doubt anyone will be coming. Please help yourselves.” The woman placed sandwiches on the children’s plates.

Miss Spires filled mugs with the cider and put them on the table. “I’m afraid I don’t have milk for the children.”

“Quite all right,” the woman said. “I appreciate your generosity. As do the children.” She devoured a sandwich ravenously herself and drank her cider. “Thank you. This is ever so kind of you.”

Miss Spires smiled grimly. Generosity and kindness had little to do with it. She recognized her Christian duty when she saw it. And she knew what she must do.

She comforted herself thinking about the story of The Christmas Visitor, which her father had told her every Christmas Eve in her childhood. The old folk tale of the man

who has been promised a visit from Jesus on Christmas Eve. He cleans his humble house, sets out bread and soup, and waits patiently for the Lord to arrive.

But instead of the Lord, a ragged beggar shows up. The man lets him warm himself by the fire, gives him some of the food, and sends him out to complete his journey with the man’s own warm coat. Then a woman with an infant arrives, needing a place to rest and feed her hungry child. Finally a small boy who has been out searching for his lost dog stops by to ask for directions, and reluctantly the man takes him home.

By that time, it is Christmas Day, and the Lord has not come. Despairing that he may have missed the visit, he asks in prayer why the Lord has not shown up.

“But I have visited you three times tonight,” the Lord tells him. “I was the beggar who had no coat, and you gave me one. I was the woman with an infant who needed a place to rest, and you opened your door to me. I was the lost boy with his dog, and you guided me home. You are three times blessed.”

Miss Spires had no illusions that the Lord was going to speak to her, or indeed that he had promised to visit her this Christmas Eve, and she didn’t intend to hand her warm coat over to this woman. But she took the story to heart.

The woman brushed a few crumbs from one of the children’s faces. “My goodness. Here I was so hungry I didn’t think to introduce myself. I’m Judy.” She gestured at the children. “The little girl is Ava, and the boy is Troy.”

Miss Spires drew herself upright. She did not approve of this modern taking liberties with how one addressed others. But she recognized it was each person’s prerogative to be addressed as he or she saw fit. “I am Miss Spires,” she said. “The road will be completely blocked by now. You must stay here tonight.”

The woman nodded. “Thank you, Miss Spires. You may have saved our lives! You’ve at least saved us from a cold, hungry night in the car.”

“How did you come to be out in this weather?” Miss Spires couldn’t help but ask.

Judy sighed. “I wanted us to join my husband for Christmas. Surprise him. He sounded so lonesome when I last talked to him on the phone. We had to be out of our apartment by the end of the month anyhow, and I was worried that I wouldn’t have enough money for gas to get here if I spent too much more on food. So I set out. I guess I should have listened more carefully to the weather report.”

“I don’t know that the storm was predicted to be this severe,” Miss Spires assured her grudgingly. “But it was supposed to snow most of the day.”

“Well, the trip was a mistake.” Judy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I never should have taken such a risk, what with the kids…”

“And your husband?” Miss Spires asked.

“He just started a new job,” Judy said. “In town here. The beginning of the month. And got a place for us to stay.”

“You’re not from around here?”

“No. We never expected to move to a small town like this. But he found the job…”

There she was, with that annoying trailing off sentences instead of saying what she meant. Perhaps it was because she was as poor at planning what she wanted to say as she obviously was at planning her life. “Had he been out of work?” Mis Spires asked.

“Yeah. Things didn’t work out for us. Stewart was in the Navy, but as the kids got older, he wasn’t happy with his long deployments at sea. So when his hitch was up, he got a position with the Department of Defense. I quit my job and we moved so he could take that job. Then…”

Miss Spires saw that she was blinking back tears so didn’t try to hurry her along.

“Then,” Judy continued. “They fired the people who were on probationary status. Like Stewart. He hadn’t worked there anywhere near a full year yet. We hadn’t even caught up with all the moving expenses, and we had a lease we couldn’t afford. He started looking for job anywhere that would take his application, and I picked up as many hours at a fast-food place as I could.”

At least, Miss Spires thought, they had tried to meet their challenges rather than sitting back and despairing.

Despairing never did anyone any good anyhow.

“So he didn’t know you were coming?” Miss Spires asked.

Judy gave a wan smile. “No. At least he shouldn’t be worried about us being on the road in this storm. But I guess I should call and tell him what’s happened.”

She pulled out one of those cell phones that didn’t need to be wired into anything. Miss Spires had seen them, and had no idea how such a thing could work. But work it did.

“Stewart…” Judy said into the phone.

Apparently the trailing-off sentences were a habit.

Miss Spires got up and carried some of the leftover food into the kitchen to give her some privacy.

When she returned, Judy was wiping her eyes again. “Stewart said he didn’t think he could get out here to pick us up tonight.”

“He’s right,” Miss Spires said. “My father’s old room has a large bed. Do you think you can manage with that?”

“Oh, yes.” Judy looked at the children. Troy was sitting still, staring through the doorway at the lit Christmas tree, and Ava was practically falling asleep in the chair.

“Just let me help clean up.” Judy stood and picked up a platter.

“No. I’ll take care of that,” Miss Spires said. But she was pleased that Judy had offered.

As the women herded the children toward the bedroom, Troy asked, “Is Santa coming tonight?”

Judy flinched. “No. Remember, we talked about that? We decided that Santa Claus is a nice story that we like to pretend about? But it’s not real. And this year, we won’t have many Christmas presents. Daddy said he will take you to pick out a present when he gets his next paycheck. That will be our Christmas presents this year.”

Miss Spires showed them where the bathroom was, got them towels, and left them to their own devices.

Judy did not reappear. She must have gone to bed at the same time as the children. Not surprising. She must have been exhausted if she had been driving for hours in such a storm.

Miss Spires cleaned up. Then she considered. Certainly she was not about to attempt to walk to church. Was there any point in having the post-midnight services breakfast? Besides, the breakfast strata for tomorrow was not large enough for four people, even if two of them were children. She would save the waffles and sausages for everyone’s breakfast tomorrow morning.

After a few minutes’ thought, she went upstairs to the attic bedrooms and looked at the yellow construction fleet. No one had touched them for years. While they did bring

bittersweet memories, what good were they doing? Why shouldn’t Troy and Ava have them to play with in the morning?

Miss Spires brought them downstairs. They were a bit dusty, but otherwise in fine shape. She set them under the Christmas tree, turned out the lights, and went to bed herself.

The next morning, she was no sooner up and dressed than Judy appeared with the children. Hopefully, she peered out the front window toward the road.

The snow had stopped falling, but it covered everything. It was impossible to tell where the front yard ended and the road began. The ditches were filled with drifted snow. It would be treacherous travelling.

And the family’s car was in a ditch.

The children gravitated toward the Christmas tree.

Miss Spires turned on the lights.

They looked from the brilliant tree to the toy trucks but didn’t move.

“You may play with them if you would like,” Miss Spires said.

Ava sank down on her knees and pushed a front-end loader forward.

Troy sat down next to a dump truck and figured out how to raise its bed.

Miss Spires turned to Judy. “I’m afraid I don’t have any dolls or other things suitable for a girl to play with.”

That wasn’t strictly true. She did have a miniature porcelain tea set she’d been given as a child, but it was delicate, and she was reluctant to trust it to a small child’s hands.

Judy smiled. “That’s okay. Ava loves trucks with the best of them. She’d probably rather play with them anyhow.”

Miss Spires started to say something disparaging about turning little girls into tomboys, but she stopped. Why shouldn’t a little girl play with trucks? Why shouldn’t she even grow up to be a truck driver if that’s what she wanted to do? Or even a heavy equipment operator? Times were different.

What would Miss Spires have done with her life if she had an opportunity to do something besides being so focused on being a proper lady?

The children came politely when summoned to breakfast and sat nicely at the table. But as soon as they were done eating, they headed back toward the living room.

Troy stopped at the hall table

and looked at the nativity set. Gingerly, he reached out a finger and touched a camel.

Miss Spires was about to admonish him not to touch but then thought “Why?” The figures were made of a sturdy resin. Hadn’t St. Francis of Assisi used the first nativity scene to instruct children about the birth of Christ?

Surely if St. Francis had thought that it was a good idea to let children learn from such an activity, she should do the same.

“You may take them and play with them,” she told Troy.

Judy looked alarmed “Be careful!” she instructed. Then she cleared the table and started washing dishes.

Miss Spires turned to dinner preparation. The ham was quite large. Each year she got an entire half. And each year, about two weeks into January and still eating ham, she promised herself that next year, she would get a much smaller piece.

But this wasn’t the year. There would be plenty of ham. She had lots of potatoes. The servings of vegetables might be a bit skimpy. She didn’t think the children would mind that too much. Judy’s phone suddenly played a tune. Apparently that was how these devices “rang.” She took the phone into the bedroom to answer.

When she returned, she said to Miss Spires, “Steward is helping on a snowplow. He said they have to do in town first and won’t be out this way until later. Then they’ll see if they can pull the car out of the ditch, and we can leave you in peace.” She looked thoughtful. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

Miss Spires wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so she nodded and returned to peeling potatoes.

When dinner was cooking, Miss Spires looked in on the children.

They had set up a nativity scene, with the baby Jesus and his mother in a cardboard box laying on its side. The donkey and the ox looked on. The other figures were gathering to admire the infant, but not in conventional ways.

The angels, some with their trumpets, were perched above the box in the raised bucket of a backhoe.

The wise men, camels and all, were arriving in the bed of a dump truck.

And the shepherds had herded their sheep onto a stake truck, which carried them from behind the rocking chair toward the box.

Joseph was directing traffic, showing the imaginary drivers where to park their trucks so that their passengers could visit the infant and his mother.

Miss Spires smiled. St. Francis would be pleased.

She set the table, not with the special delicate Christmas china she would have used if she had been alone, but with the sturdy everyday plates and dishes that were more suitable for a family. She took some pinecones and ribbons from a seasonal decoration on a windowsill and arranged them in the center of the table.

Just as the ham came out of the oven, they heard the snowplow rumble by. Judy rushed to the window to look out.

“They’ve stopped by my car in the ditch,” she reported. “Now they’re hooking up a chain to pull it out.”

A few minutes later, she said, “Stewart has gotten the car right in front of the house. Now he’s shoveling from the road to the house.”

Quite a relief, thought Miss Spires. Had he not done so, given the depth of the snow, it might have been days before she was able to navigate her front walk.

A knock came on the door.

Judy pulled it open and threw herself into the arms of a tall, bearded man who was covered with clumps of snow and melting ice.

“You’ll get yourself all wet,” he scolded laughingly. “And all your clothes are packed away in the car. You’ll freeze on the way to our apartment.”

“Come in,” Miss Spires said. “We were about to sit down to dinner. You must join us.”

“Oh, we couldn’t,” Stewart said. “You’ve done enough already.”

Miss Spires drew herself upright. “You can, and you will. It’s all prepared.”

Judy blinked anxiously. “You’ve been so kind…”

“Those children deserve a decent Christmas dinner,” Miss Spires said. “And since your husband didn’t know you were coming, I don’t imagine he has much to feed them.”

Stewart hung his head. “That’s true. I was waiting until I got my paycheck to go grocery shopping.”

“It’s all settled.” Miss Spires glanced at the dining table. Although she had used her everyday tableware, it had not looked so festive in many a year. “Go fetch the children.”

When they saw their father, the children abandoned the poor wisemen and shepherds and ran to him. “Daddy! You came!”

The meal was delightful. The children, well-behaved as usual, ate an astonishing amount of ham and canned pineapple slices and mashed potatoes.

As she had suspected, they were not the least upset that each one got only a few green beans and a small spoonful of creamed spinach.

When they were done except for the pie, Judy pushed back her chair. “Go sit in the living room, Miss Spires. Stewart and I will clean up.”

Miss Spires did. She sat in her father’s chair and watched the children play. She felt relaxed and content. More content than she had for as long as she could remember. Was this what her father had felt watching his grandsons, her nephews, play with the trucks on that Christmas long ago?

While she had instead been fussing over every deviation from the family traditions as she interpreted them.

The children’s nativity story evolved into a missing lamb, hidden behind the rocking chair, and all the shepherds fanned out to look for it. Meanwhile, the wise men discussed how the three of them would manage the return trip with only two camels. Perhaps the donkey could be pressed into service for the remaining one? Or, if Joseph needed the donkey to flee to Egypt, perhaps they could use the ox?

Yes, St. Francis would indeed be pleased.

Judy and Stewart, holding hands, came into the living room. “All cleaned up, Miss Spires,” Judy said. “I have no idea how to thank you properly for all you have done for us.”

Miss Spires felt an unfamiliar lump in her throat. “You are most welcome, my dears.”

“As soon as we get settled,” Stewart said, “we’ll have you over for dinner at our place.”

The lump grew bigger. Miss Spires started to say that of course she couldn’t do that—except for church and the grocery store, she seldom went out. And certainly not to dinner at other people’s houses. But why not?

She heard herself saying, “That would be lovely. And perhaps you can come to Sunday dinner after church.”

Stewart grinned. “I’m sure the kids would love that. They’ve really taken to those trucks. It might give them a chance to play with them again.”

Miss Spires cleared her throat. “Why, I believe that Santa has left those trucks as Christmas gifts. You should take them with you.”

A tear appeared in Judy’s eye. “That’s really too much, after everything that’s happened…”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Spires. “At Christmas time, anything can happen.”

Operation Rudolph By E. B. Davis

I sat on my dock overlooking Pamlico Sound and contemplated the upcoming holidays. Why was the season always fraught with conflict?  My job as a Dare County Deputy Sheriff on Hatteras Island was always stressful but more so during the holidays. Was there a sign somewhere saying “Season’s Greetings—time to get your stupid on?”

 

Focus on your blessings, Sue. With a sigh, I counted my blessings. Our move to a larger house at the end of last year had helped ease the tension in our home. More bathrooms meant less conflict, especially between my new husband, Woody, also a Dare County Deputy, and his daughter, Cindy, who was thirteen going on nineteen. My son, Jared, had entered the “embarrassed by parents” stage. I missed those days when we were close, but I knew the separation was a natural and necessary development. He’d appreciate me when he turned thirty-five, maybe.

 

In the meantime, he wanted to go to Sea Turtle Camp this summer. It was on his Christmas list, and it only cost about three thousand dollars for a week. I wished we could afford to send him, but three thousand dollars! So, I applied for financial aid. When I called to confirm they had received the application, they said that over eight hundred financial aid applications were submitted, among mine. Too many to judge on merit. They decided to have a lottery. Each application was assigned a number, and the winner would be announced on Christmas Eve. I crossed my fingers and said a prayer.  

 

My supply miniature candy canes I munched on during the holidays was running low but getting up for a refill didn’t seem worth the effort to break my watch of the night’s stars twinkling above Pamlico Sound. Then, I saw a zip of light. It intensified and headed straight for me. “No, I made not a single wish!” But the stream of a lightning bolt pouring down from the sky told me Pam, the Sprite of Pamlico Sound, would visit shortly. “No, no, no!”

 

Her banana vehicle landed beside me on the dock. It unpeeled zipper by zipper from the top stem to the bottom in quarters. Out popped Pam. Dressed in a midnight blue velvet gown adorned with silver stars. She stepped onto the deck, looking every bit like a haggard Tinker Bell. I couldn’t help but notice her boots. Navy platform stiletto boots with matching silver stars.

 

I must have been staring at them because Pam said, “Nice, aren’t they? I won them fair and square in a
banana wrangling competition.

 

“Uh.”

 

“Are you losing your hearing already? You’re only thirty-four, Sue.”

 

“Sorry, I was trying to envision banana wrangling.”

 

“Not as easy as it sounds.” Pam pointed to her ride. “Them things are slippery. But if you get a hold of them at the stem before they can unpeel, it’s not hard.”

 

I looked away. Pam had a way of making me feel crazier than I must be to have conjured her in the first place. I faced her. “I made no wishes. Why have you come?”

 

“Isn’t that fine and dandy. Denial and lies!” She put her hands on her considerable hips. “So much for Southern hospitality. So much for needing the help of a friend.” She tapped her platform sole against the dock, crossed her arms, and looked away.

 

Contritely, I stood. There was only one thing that would pacify her. “I’ll get us some refreshments.” As I walked to the house, I wondered about “denial and lies.” Had I made a wish? I couldn’t remember. I knew I’d said a prayer. Whatever.

 

The house was quiet as I entered the back door. Woody was on duty and the kids were sleeping over at friends’ houses. I retrieved the Evan Williams bourbon from above the refrigerator. Grabbing a tray, I centered a shot glass for Pam and an old fashioned glass for me. Then, I cracked ice into both glasses and cut an inch off a straw for Pam’s glass. We had a pot of mint growing on the windowsill. Perhaps Pam would enjoy a mint julep? Stuffing a leaf into each glass, I found a box of crackers, a bag of grated cheddar, and refreshed my bag of mini candy canes. Balancing the filled tray, I tight-roped back to the dock. Pam still looked aggrieved. I poured bourbon into each glass and sat down.

 

She grasped the straw and took a long sip, smacking her lips. “Mint. How refreshing! Reminds me of a day long ago in Kentucky.” A little smile crossed her face and an eyebrow wiggled.

 

Nope, not going there! Although I didn’t mind indulging her, I was concerned about her needing my help. At least, that’s what I thought she’d said. “Pam, what’s the problem requiring my help?”

 

“Rudolph took off! Of all the times of the year…it was the reindeer games. I know he never liked those games. But it is that time of year, after all.” She looked at me as if I should know.

 

“Christmas?”

 

“Yes, Christmas.” She mimicked me and huffed. “But more like rutting season, of course. Late autumn, early winter every year. You should know that, Sue. Hatteras is full of deer.”     

 

We had lots of deer on Hatteras Island, but I wasn’t familiar with their mating habits. Although now that I thought about a randy buck named Buck from years past, perhaps the information explained his obvious attraction to me. But I wasn’t a deer! I suppressed the very idea and turned to question Pam. “What does that have to do with reindeer games?”

 

“They aren’t really games. Their rutting rituals among the males. Contest winners get to…well, they get to rut!”

 

“But why are you here? Rudoph could be anywhere in the world.”

 

“Nope, his GPS collar signaled from here.”

 

“Okay, then Santa or the head elf or whoever, can come and get him.” I reasoned aloud.

 

“What season is it, Sue?”

 

“Christmas.”

 

“And what time is the busiest of the year for the entire North Pole? Of course, at any other time, Santa would come, but he can’t, which is why he asked me. It is my territory, you know.”

 

“Okay, so what do you need to do? Lasso him or something?”

 

“Of course, not. It has to be his choice.”

 

I was stumped, flailing my arms through the air in front of her. “And how do we get him to change his mind and go home?”

 

“I have an idea. Let me miniaturize you, and we’ll fly to him.”

 

“No way.” I looked at the banana. “We’d never fit. Can you ride it with the peel down?”

 

“Too slippery.”

 

“Tell me where he is. I’ll take the Jeep and meet you.”

 

She smiled, which made my stomach hurt. Instant regret for agreeing to help engulfed me. She finished her snacks and chugged her drink. “Sounds like a plan. Here are the coordinates. Just off Ridge Road in the woods. Meet you there.” And then she zipped back up in the banana and disappeared into the night sky, leaving me to wonder what I had agreed to do.

 

***

 

Once on Ridge Road, the Jeep’s headlights picked up the trees edging the tarmac. The woods continued east until the beach started. Many a time, I saw deer leap out of the woods and romp up dunes while I was on the beach. The opposite side of this area was residential. No one planted ornamentals in their gardens because the deer would eat them before they had a chance to bloom. I hoped Rudolph stayed on the beach side away from the residents’ prying eyes. Stepping out of the Jeep, I saw a red glow through the trees.  

 

With a zip and a bounce off the Jeep’s soft-top, Pam emerged from her banana. “Great landing pad, Sue. I’ll have to remember it for next time.”

 

I winced knowing there’d be a next time. “I think Rudolph is back there. See the red light?”

 

“Yep, that’s him.” Pam jumped on my shoulder. “Walk toward the red light,” Pam directed, “Now, stop behind this tree.”

 

Peeking around the tree, I saw Rudolph grazing on the outskirts of the herd. Pam turned to me, looked me over, and whispered, “Now let me summon Buck.”

 

“Whoa, there—why call Buck?”

 

“Would you keep your voice down? Don’t startle the deer or we’ll be hiking all over. Here’s my plan. Rudolph hates reindeer games. If he realized that he couldn’t get away from them, then maybe he’d give up his runaway act and head home.”

 

“What does that have to do with Buck?”

 

“Buck loved you! He’ll fight other bucks for your honor, so to speak.”

 

My hands went to my hips without any thought. I almost yelled but managed a whispered shout, “Do you mean that you want to use me as deer bait?”

 

“I guess if you look at it like that. You’re helping Santa and me solve a problem. He may need Rudolph this Christmas. We’ve had more fog and rain this year than snow.”

 

“I will not be used as buck bait! Don’t you have any other ideas?”

 

“No!”

 

“You know him from the North Pole, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can you talk to him? Ask him about his home, his family…maybe get him homesick?”

 

I shifted my gaze from Rudolph to Pam. Both of her arms were raised above her head. In one hand, she held her wand. “Eenie, meenie, minney, moe, change Sue into a doe!”

 

Shocked, I started to wobble on my feet, then sank onto the forest floor. Pam stood above me on a low branch of a tree. “What are you waiting for? Stand up and start bleating.”

 

When I tried to rise, I found two more legs than I was used to, and although limber, their support was like trying to balance on stilts. I propped the front two legs upright in front of me, then shifted my back legs, which conveniently were bent in the oppose direction I was used to, making getting on my own four hooves easier. Tottering back and forth, I stood. I meant to chew out Pam with vitriol, but instead I merely grunted. What mortification!

 

“Now Sue, walk over and mingle in the herd. Then, start bleating. It’s the way does attract bucks. I’m sure Buck will find you.”

 

I felt my long ears turn inward, and I tried to muster an indignant facial expression, but failed miserably. Stomping my hooves, I walked toward the herd. There was nothing I could do but go along with Pam’s plan. But once she had changed me back, she was going to get a piece or two of my mind!   

 

The does sniffed me as I neared them. They knew I wasn’t a member of their herd, and yet, they seemed to
accept my presence on the very outside of their group. As much as it pained me, I started to bleat in a call of nature. Two mature bucks started toward me. Involuntarily, I again bleated. One of the bucks I recognized as Buck, my old undercover boyfriend Pam had utilized for a drug bust.

 

Buck bellowed and charged the other male. I hoped the contender gave Buck a good fight, giving me time to get Pam to change me back. They went back and forth charging each other and bellowing. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Rudolph getting agitated. It was clear these jousts were the deer games he was avoiding. Walking toward him was a smaller deer, but distinctly a reindeer, not a regular doe. She nuzzled Rudolph.

 

Pam flew over and sat on my mane. “Dancer must fancy Rudolph. How fortuitous!” Rudolph and Dancer separated from the herd and strode toward the beach, just as Buck ran off the contender. I spotted his glowing eyes pinned on me.

 

I grunted and popped my eyes at Pam, trying to communicate. Now was the time to change me back—before Buck “claimed” me.

 

She looked over her shoulder at Buck. “Yes, yes, this would be the time. Alla, cado, alla, caboo, it’s time to change back to human form for Sue.”

 

I saw Buck’s eyes grow big as I changed back into myself. He snorted, stomped, and backed away…thankfully. “Not a moment too soon, Pam.” I started to formulate how I was going to chew out Pam, when she patted my arm.

 

“Let’s see what Rudolph and Dancer are up to.”

 

We walked toward the dunes. At the top, we looked down on the beach just as Rudolph and Dancer arose in the sky. In the moonlight, their silhouettes were backlit. I said to Pam, “Are they on the way back to the North Pole.”

 

She broke into a smile. “Yes, they’re on their way. Glad we could help Santa. You should feel really good about that, Sue.”

 

I glared and then said as sarcastically as I could, “Glad to be of service.”

 

“Mark my words, by Christmas day, you’ll be glad you did.” And then she mounted her banana and flew off.

 

***

 

Shopping, decorating, and baking filled my free hours off work. On Christmas Eve, I was parked by the side of the road waiting for speeders when my personal cell phone rang. The person on the other end informed me that Jared had been one of five children chosen to receive scholarships to Sea Turtle Camp. After the call, I wondered if Pam or Pam and Santa were responsible for the gift. Then I thought about being changed into a doe and figured maybe I’d earned the gift. Of all the things we do as mothers to try to fulfill our kids’ wants and desires, I never would have guessed being buck bait to be on that list.

 

 

That night, Woody and I sat on the dock. The stockings had been hung. The kids nestled in their beds. The stockings had been filled. And there were presents surrounding the tree. Instead of staring at the stars, we looked at our Christmas-lit house. I loved Christmas lights. Woody and Jared had done a great job. “Thanks so much for taking that chore on. I love them.”

 

“It was a male bonding experience.”

 

Thinking of male fights, like Buck and the contender, I said, “There will probably be a few fights in the future, too.”

 

“Without a doubt. My dad and I could mix it up when I was in high school.” He got a nostalgic look on his face and laughed. “I’d do anything I could to help him now, of course. Different ages and different stages.” He cocked his head. “Did you hear something?”

 

I listened for a moment and heard a snort and pounding hoof. “I’m getting cold, dear. Perhaps we should head inside.” After the door closed, I looked out the window. In the colorful glare of our Christmas lights, I saw Buck staring back at me. It isn’t true love, Buck—go find yourself a doe mate!

 

Although I was grateful for Jared’s gift, I also wondered if I’d ever best Pam. Maybe next year.

 

The End

 

Here is the Hatteras version of “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” by Pam Dawson, reproduced with her permission.

 

“‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” Hatteras-style *

With a nod to Major Henry Livingston, Jr. who wrote the Original Version

 

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all over the isle,

Not a creature was stirring, mile after mile.

The ghost crabs were snug in their holes on the beach,

Hoping that the high tides would stay out of reach.

 

The surfers were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of gnarly swells danced in their heads.

The crab-pots were hung by the buoys with care,

In hopes that some blue claws soon would be there.

 

When out on the Point there arose such a clatter,

The Park Service sprang up to see what was the matter.

Away to their vehicles they ran with their lamps,

And began an ascent on all open ramps.

 

The moon on the sand made quite a reflection,

While waves were crashing in every direction.

When what to their wondering eyes should appear,

But a tricked out 4 by 4 and eight island deer.

 

With a little old driver hunkered down in the truck,

They knew in a moment it must be Old Buck!

More rapid than kite boarders the deer hurried along,

And he whistled and shouted and sang them a song.

 

“Now Buxton, now Kinnakeet, now Salvo and Frisco –

On Rodanthe, on Waves, on Hatteras – let’s disco!

To the edge of the Point, to the top of the Light,

Let’s have a great time and party all night!

 

And like dry leaves before a nor’easter did fly,

They hit Highway 12 and continued on by.

He was dressed in a wetsuit from his head to his feet,

And he smelled like Skeeter Beater with a hint of DEET.

 

A bundle of seashells he had in his pack,

And a bottle of Kill Devil Rum in a sack.

He spoke not a word but took special care,

To bring a gift to the island and all who live there.

 

It had been a tough year, this the old man did know,

So, his gift was one that didn’t require a bow.

He sprang to his truck and laid on the horn,

To make sure everyone knew it would soon be Christmas morn.

 

And we heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,

NO MORE STORMS, NO MORE OVERWASH, LOTS OF FISH,

And to all, a good night!

 

*Old Buck mentioned in this poem is a fixture of the “Old Christmas” celebrations still held in Rodanthe. Old Buck is a part of the fabric of the island.

 

Written by Janet Morrow Dawson, Buxton NC, 2016 and revised as needed each year!

 

 

Surprising New World-Building Tools by Martha Reed

The kids are returning home to Pittsburgh for the holiday season, and one of my younger cousins very kindly invited Aunt Martha out to lunch.

She had an ulterior motive: she’s thinking about becoming a writer like me. After sputtering and outlining the multitudinous reasons why I thought that was a terrible idea and why I should never be used as any type of lifestyle example, she broke it down further and simply asked me: how do I write a book? She wasn’t looking for the ‘put your butt in the chair for four hours a day, everyday’ kind of advice. She wanted special and secret hints on how I construct my stories.

Coming fresh from the fray – I’ve just released and self-published THE SEVEN GATES OF GUINEE, my third Crescent City New Orleans Mystery, I was quick off the mark to say that I’m a pantser (meaning that I write by the seat of my pants), and that my stories spontaneously generate from the great universal consciousness. But even as I said it, I knew that’s not entirely true. While I can’t offer a magic writing pill, I have developed some unusual story structuring tools, and I’m willing to share the method to my madness.

1.      Catch the ideas that interest you. I keep a stack of lined index cards and a gallon sized baggie on the bookshelf next to my desk. When I hear or read of an interesting idea, event, or suggestion, I write it on a card and toss it into the baggie. That’s literally as much thought as I give it at the time, but I’m quite sure my active subconscious is quietly ruminating on it while I go about my day-to-day busy-ness. Then, when I’m ready to start a new project, I riffle through the cards to see what catches my eye. Is it something I can use in my new story? If the idea still interests me, it might also interest Dearest Reader.

For instance: Years ago a human anatomy exhibit rolled through our local Carnegie Museum. It caused controversy when it was revealed that the genuine human bodies that were being used in the exhibit had come from a supplier in China and that they may have been harvested from political prisoners like Christians and Uyghurs. That immediate horror initiated an index card. Further research indicated that 10% of U.S. donor organs come from unregulated sources outside the United States. When I noted these details I had no idea they would eventually develop into the criminal medical supply chain network outlined in UP JUMPED THE DEVIL, my NOLA Mystery #2.

2.      Although I’m retired now, I’m an unrepentant project manager and I will go to my grave using a calendar and dates to build an outline and develop my story structure. For instance, for THE SEVEN GATES OF GUINEE, I knew that I needed to fit the new story between two different New Orleans Mardi Gras seasons. Since New Orleans Mardi Gras (AKA Carnival) season starts about two weeks before Lent each year, that gave me my date bookends to create a general timeline. Then, during my draft research, I google to find out if major events like a hurricane or a tropical storm happened during that timeframe that would need to be included in the story to add a real-time element.

This critical timing can also impact the individual character level – for instance, if I’m drafting a scene on a Wednesday or a Sunday afternoon, I know that Aunt Babette Broussard can’t be included because that’s when she attends Noon Mass at St. Louis Cathedral.

3. Hand a secondary character the mic and offer them the stage. The first time I used this trick I didn’t know how powerful it would turn out to be as a developmental drafting strategy. In one of my early Nantucket Mysteries I was stuck in a room full of characters and yet my protagonist John Jarad had nothing to say. Desperately casting about for some forward momentum, I asked his sister Mary Rose – who up to that point had been a cardboard cutout on the edge of the cocktail party crowd what she thought. Mary Rose disgorged so much information that I had a hard time typing fast enough to keep up with her.

Now of course my characters have me so well trained that as the writer I’m being told before I even start a new book which character will be taking center stage. For THE SEVEN GATES OF GUINEE I knew that Aunt Babette Broussard and Cleo Duchamp would be giving me main character energy and boy, did they ever. Gigi Pascoe has been very patiently waiting in the wings for her turn in the next (and as yet unwritten) NOLA Mystery Book 4. Sigh. I'm being managed by imaginary people. It’s a writer’s life, and a good problem to have.

How about you? Are there any special tricks in your magical writing bag that you’d like to share?