A TRUE CHRISTMAS STORY

by Barb Brooks

Of all the Christmases that I recall, one stands out in my mind.  It really wasn’t so different from our other Christmases.  Early preparations began as they always did when the walnut and filbert trees in the yard shed their prized nuggets.  With baskets in hand, we would hustle to pick them from the ground before the squirrels hoarded them for the winter.  Mom would eventually chop and fold them into her delicious fruit cake and cookie batters.  We girls would take care of housecleaning chores while Dad worked and mom did the shopping. Something, however, seemed different on that Christmas.  I started hearing noises in the basement in the late night hours.  I don’t recall inquiring as to what or who it was, and despite my childish wonderment, an inner voice told me not to go down and investigate.  All I knew was that something was different.

Soon it was Christmas Eve and I lay snuggled in my bed, waiting for that special moment.  Suddenly I heard the faint jingle of bells in the stillness of the night and I knew Santa was very near.  Yes! The magic of Christmas was here just like it was every other year.  The following morning we children stood at the top of the stairway with great excitement, waiting impatiently for mom and dad to join us.  Finally we descended to the living room, plugged in the colored lights and squeaked with joy at the sight of bountiful presents under the tree.  One by one, we opened our gifts. It was a wonderful Christmas, just like every other Christmas.

It wasn’t until recently that I learned what made that Christmas so different. My older sister revealed that it was mom and dad in the basement during the late night hours.  Dad had been laid off from work that year and they were down there, refurbishing some used toys. Reflecting on that for a moment, I then realized what made that Christmas different and indeed, so special. They were working diligently into the night so their five children could experience the magic of Christmas once again. The child in me continues to hear the jingle of the bells and the voices in the night, if only to remind me of how blest we were having two fine parents who could share their love for us through the gift of giving with gifts re-touched by two angels.

Final Rest by Terry Le Feber

Final Rest

They assemble here

Each brought by bier

Forever true

Wrapped in red, white, and blue

Never alone

Soldiers sleep

In the field of stones

-Terry Le Feber

One Person's Treasure is Another Person's Trash by Eileen Wegman

One Person's Treasure is Another Person's Trash

At the end of a long winters stay in Charleston, South Carolina, a friend had purchased tickets for us to hear the symphony orchestra at the Sottile theater.  It made sense to leave my large SUV in the suburb of Mt Pleasant, so that we could park her much smaller vehicle close to the theater. Well, where could I leave it ? The Whole Foods Market seemed like a logical and safe place. After all, those who ate organic products in an effort to sustain themselves and the environment, must be trustworthy, right? Even so, I parked under a large floodlight, leaving the SUV with some trepidation.

What if someone broke into my car? Since I was nearly ready to start home, it was stuffed with all of the treasures I'd brought with me from the North, as well as the ones I had recently purchased. I began to inventory the items starting from back to front.

In the rear was the cat cage which although new, contained a layer of brown edged, somewhat foul smelling newspapers; surely no one would want that. But what about the cat food? There were six bags left out of the fourteen that I started out with. Some might think that bringing so much with me was foolish on my part, but it sure beat Mama kitty leaving a noxious film on our hosts' carpets due to travelers trots.

Moving up to the back seat, I remembered the Belk department store shopping bag containing my new china! Now, there was something valuable. If only I had hidden it in a brown bag! Of course, it wasn't really from Belk but from World Market, you know, the stuff they had at the front of the store because no one else would buy it. Why people wouldn't want to eat off plates with elephants and hyenas on them, I'll never know. Well, it might appeal to some bohemian from the sixties.

Oh, and next to that, cradled in a huge straw bag from the Bahamas, was my collection of shoes:  sandals, diamond pointed flats, an occasional comfy wedge, why a good twenty pairs to see me through three whole months of sightseeing. I suppose the thief could find someone who wears a size 9B but due to the fact that the heel of each left shoe was worn down (pronation they call it)  the wearer would be hobbling around and quite uncomfortable I'd think.

To the right of the shoes was a blue plastic tote filled to the top with sundresses, shorts and snorkeling equipment. The prime piece in there was a psychedelic shift from the 70's. Every time I put it on, the years just melted away. It was a riot of colors, perfect for the Key West jaunt. You can wear anything you want there, even nothing at all! After hoarding it all those years, how dare a thief take it from me? What if they threw it into a dumpster? Now, that would be the limit!

Tucked into every available space among these items were the bags of souvenirs: beach towels, plastic oranges filled with perfume, pot holders decorated with palm trees, a variety of mugs (all too nice to drink coffee from) and the inevitable shot glasses, one for every man I'd ever known or might want to in my entire life. Why the whole batch put me back eighty-two dollars and forty-six cents. And to think of the hours I had to spend,  standing on my feet, waiting for each precious item to be wrapped!

My thoughts turned to a large item on the front seat, placed there in a position of importance. It was a box of music - brought all the way down Route 95 to be shared with whoever was unfortunate enough to be standing near the piano at our little parties. This box represented the accomplishments of my avocation:  everything from John Thompson's Beginning Piano to songs from the great musicals; an operatic anthology falling apart at the binding and how about that copy of "En Verdure Clad" from the Creation? Now surely, here was something that any high brow crook would want. How  could they be so cruel as to take that from me?

Then, I got to thinking about the intentions of any self respecting, successful criminal. Wouldn't they be seeking something they could sell, I mean 'fence', or at least gloat over at the end of a long night's work?  Things like electronics, jewelry, and, basically, anything I didn't have. Can you imagine the thief returning home in the morning and instead of offering their partner a pearl bracelet with diamond clasp or a sterling silver belt buckle, they'd get handed a copy of Schirmer's "56 Songs You Like to Sing"?

With a renewed sense of security, I got out of the car and walked with my friend towards the theater. I hoped no one noticed the smug little grin on my face as I stepped into the lobby. Sometimes, there is justice , after all!

The Tree by Karen Sorce

The Tree—a simile by Karen Sorce

She was old and gnarled, rooted firmly to the earth for decade upon decade.  Seasons had changed, as had her shape.  Once a tender young sapling, bending supple in the wind, smooth- barked, with more leaves growing upon her limbs every spring.  Some storms were harsher than others, some winters gentler, but still she grew.

As time went on, the creatures found places to build their nests among her branches.  Some took care to build their nest quickly; some were more slow and careful.  All kinds of creatures landed there and made their homes, laid their eggs, watched over them, saw them hatch, grow, make fledgling flights.

Some nest eggs hatched ideas, some nests held memories.  One nest’s eggs hatched the desire to learn a new language.  One nest held thoughts of her mother’s life and death. Another nest held an infant child, who grew and left the nest one day to begin his own life as a man.  Some people built unwanted nests in her outstretched limbs, full of eggs that hatched pain and disappointments.   Some creatures laid their eggs in their nests, then abandoned them.  She had nests full of visions of places out in the big world, beyond her little place in the field.  

The more gnarled her bark became, the more nests her branches held.  Music sprang from a nest, and some eggs were painted in jeweled colors of nature.  Some people who passed nearby swore they heard the sound of the sea, or voices whispering poetry and wisdom.  The winds of sadness would shake her leaves so they fell like tears.  

She would stand there, full of her ever-growing collection of nests, until nature decided her life was done.  Perhaps she could send out a seed, carried on the wind twirling and dancing as she could no longer do, to begin again.  And there would be new birds, new nests, unknown beginnings.

EVAN’S LITTLE LEAGUE TEE BALL GAME by Carol Creswell, grandma

EVAN’S LITTLE LEAGUE TEE BALL GAME by Carol Creswell, grandma

NINE LITTLE  PIRATES, AND NINE LITTLE CARDINALS ARE  RARING TO GO.
IT IS TO BE A THREE INNING TEE BALL GAME ON A LOVELY SPRING EVENING.. .
THIS WOULD BE A ‘QUICKIE.’
NOT SO.
JIMMY, THE FIRST CARDINAL UP, GETS THREE STRIKES AS THE PITCHER LOBS THE BALL AND THE LITTLE TYKE TRIES TO HIT IT.
OK, WE CAN DEAL WITH THIS.
THE COACH  BRINGS OUT THE TEE-STAND AND PUTS THE BALL ON TOP.
WHOOSH, SWINGS JIMMY...
THE TEE-STAND TOPPLES OVER.  THE BALL FALLS INTO THE INFIELD.
“RUN RUN RUN’ SHOUT THE PLAYERS, THE COACHES, AND THE MAMAS AND THE PAPAS.
THE PITCHER RUSHES FORWARD TO RETRIEVE THE BALL.
 HE BOBBLES THE BALL.
“RUN RUN RUN’ SHOUT THE PLAYERS, THE COACHES, AND THE MAMAS AND THE PAPAS.
JIMMY IS ON SECOND BASE, EAGER TO RUN.
. UP TO BAT COMES  DESIREE, THE SECOND CARDINAL.  THERE IS A SWING AND A MISS, A SWING AND A MISS. .FINALLY, SHE HITS A GROUNDER TO FIRST BASE. THE FIRST BASEMAN RUNS FOR IT, THE RIGHT FIELDER RUNS FOR IT, THE PITCHER RUNS FOR IT, JIMMY ON SECOND BASE RUNS TO THIRD BASE.
DESIREE IS DANCING, ON FIRST BASE.
THE THIRD CARDINAL, CHRISTOPHER, COMES TO BAT. HE SWINGS DESPERATELY, TRYING FOR A HIT. ONE, TWO, THREE STRIKES.
OUT COMES THE TEE STAND WITH THE BALL ON TOP.
CHRISTOPHER HITS THE TEE STAND, SO FURIOUSLY, THAT IT IS BENT. IT LAYS, FALLEN, ON HOME PLATE.
OUT INTO THE INFIELD FLIES THE BALL. THE LEFT FIELDER , THE THIRD BASEMAN, AND THE SHORTSTOP LUNGE FOR THE BALL. CHRISTOPHER IS FLYING TOWARD SECOND BASE, DESIREE IS ROUNDING THIRD BASE, AND
JIMMY IS PUSHING THE THIRD BASEMAN OUT OF THE WAY AS HE SCRAMBLES FOR HOME. BUT WAIT! THE PIRATE CATCHER HAS THE BALL! HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?  WITH HIS FACE MASK ASKEW, THE TWO FOOT TALL PIRATE DARES JIMMY TO GET PAST HIM….JIMMY RUNS DOWN THE BASE PATH AND SEES THAT HE CANNOT POSSIBLY GET BY THE CATCHER, SO HE RUNS AROUND HIM, OUT TOWARD THE PITCHER’S MOUND. HE SPRINTS FOR HOME, WHICH IS OCCUPIED BY THE TEE STAND. HE COLLIDES WITH A COACH WHO IS TRYING TO PICK UP THE TEE STAND.
MEANWHILE, DESIREE AND CHRISTOPHER, WHO HAVE SUCCESSFULLY JUMPED OVER THIRD BASE WITHOUT TOUCHING IT, AND HAVE AVOIDED THE LEFT FIELDER AND THE SHORTSTOP AND THE THIRD BASEMAN, ARE
CONFRONTED BY THE DETERMINED LITTLE PIRATE CATCHER WHO IS STANDING IN THE BASE PATH ON THE WAY TO HOME PLATE.  BOTH RUNNERS ARE TAGGED OUT BY THE GLOVED HAND OF THE CATCHER…HE DOESN’T TOUCH THEM WITH THE BALL, HE TOUCHES THEM WITH THE GLOVE.
THE NEXT SIX BATTERS ALL SOMEHOW GET HITS OR GROUNDERS, NO PIRATE IS ABLE TO RETRIEVE THE BALL, AND THE SCORE IS NINE TO NOTHING. FINALLY, THE LAST CARDINAL ON BASE PICKS UP THE BALL BECAUSE THE THIRD BASEMAN IS TICKLING AND SHOVING THE SHORT STOP AND NO ONE IS PICKING UP THE BALL.
‘O NO NO DON’T TOUCH THE BALL’,SHOUTS
 HIS MOTHER FROM THE STANDS.
BUT HE DOES.
AND HE’S OUT.
SO ENDS THE FIRST HALF OF THE FIRST INNING.
IT ONLY TOOK 35 MINUTES.


The end.

Family Business by Terry Le Feber

Family Business by Terry Le Feber

The white Cadillac slid onto the crumbling brick driveway:  tires crushing the crabgrass that had grown through its seams.

Shutting the engine down, Karen slowly swung the door open and stepped into the crisp fall air.  Dry brown maple leaves crunched beneath her feet.

Trudging up the short walk she climbed the three wooden steps to the front door.

Taking a key from her pocket she inserted it into the slot of the old Yale lock.   With pounding heart and a sense of dread she turned the key and twisted the tarnished brass door knob, and shoved inward.

The door, swollen with moisture, resisted causing Karen to shoulder it open.  When it finally yielded, it did so with a loud groaning crack which sent a cold shudder through her body. Goose pimples formed on her arms.

My god, Karen thought. Why am I here? Why am I doing this?  

Of course, the answer was the same.  It was always the same.  Another relative had died.  Another estate to be settled. Another house to be sold. Contents disposed of. Another lawyer and realtor making money off of the deceased’s life work.  Another time of toil and trouble for her.  Is there no one else who could do this? My God! It’s the fifth time in three years.  This is getting to be a career, she thought.  

Stepping into the hallway with its formal staircase to the right, woodwork dulled with dust, the smell of death and mildew assailed her nostrils.  Not a nice place to be the afternoon of Halloween, but here I am, doing the work of others too lazy to help.  But, smart enough to con me into doing this again.  All those dumb lazy relatives! Not so dumb as I’m here and they’re not!  Bastards!  Smart Bastards! If only, she silently cursed while again being wracked with gnawing guilt.  She knew she shouldn’t be.  If anybody should feel guilty is was her damn relatives.

Reaching to her right, Karen flipped the hall’s light switch.  Nothing happened.  The only available light was what streaked through the dust laden air from the open door behind her or dimly from the parlor windows to her left. Most of the house’s windows had drawn shades, curtains, or shutters to keep prying eyes away.

“Damn it!” she uttered. “The power is supposed to on.  And, I don’t have a flashlight! Damn, Damn, Damn!

Her frustration had taken the chill off her body, at least, for a moment.

She never heard the door close behind her nor saw the brackish green vine slither across the floor.  She did feel it entwine around her ankles.  She did feel its tug as she pitched forward screaming as her face smashed into the oak floor.  Then nothing.

Karen’s muffled shriek woke Hal up with a start. He rolled over to face his trembling wife.  

“Another bad dream about your damn relatives?” he sleepily asked. “Maybe if they didn’t keep dying you wouldn’t have to go through all this?”

 “Yeah, I guess,” Karen replied. She was seated bolt upright in the bed, hugging her clammy cold arms, sweat covering her face. “And, maybe if they weren’t so annoying, I wouldn’t have to keep killing them.”

FLOAT by Sally Crosiar

FLOAT by Sally Crosiar

As skin begins to feel confined
And wants to breathe unshackled
By socks, pant-legs, and sleeves…

As sun and birdsong begin my days
And brown limbs turn to green…

As sun begins to warm
And breeze harbors a welcome
And not the threat of winter chill…

That’s when this young girl’s fancy
Begins to bubble up
To yearn for that one elusive extra thing
To make this sunny day complete,
A frothy, fizzy, exquisite taste of
My first root-beer float this spring!