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We are very pleased and proud to share the entries of the 2002 essay contest.  We feel each of the essays are winners.  They are listed in order of receipt as they are generically labeled.  No editing has been done to the entries...spacing adjustments have been done to satisfy graphic design of page.

 

On behalf of the judges, we thank each participant for this special gift to all of us.

 

To read entries, simply click on Entry # or scroll down page.

 

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Entry #1

The Christmas I Learned True Meaning 12-07-02
by Jimmie "Toad" Turner

 

In order for you understand the significance of my most memorable Christmas, & how I learned it’s true meaning, I must start on Thursday, July 3rd, 1980.

 

We were moving back to Arkansas from So. California. I had built a 4X8 box on the top of my ‘72 Ford 3/4 ton pick up truck bed, & it was full to level with our every possession. My wife & four children, ages 5-8, were in the front of the truck with me & it was stifling hot. In fact, one of the worst heat waves in history, & we had no air conditioning.

 

All of a sudden my truck started smoking & making a rattling noise. I was near an exit to Elk City, Oklahoma, so I pull off of the highway. Thankfully there was a gas station open there. The mechanic said my thermostat had stuck & my warning dash light was out. I had driven too far with a very hot motor & there was oil in the water. The only thing I understood was that the motor was shot, & no help was to be had till Monday, & this was Thursday afternoon. It was literally 106 degrees in the shade & there was no shade.

 

After many calls, I reached a brother that would come rescue us, if we could pay for his gas. I was broke, so I sold my truck for $200 to the gas station mechanic. We unloaded the truck & waited 8hrs for my brother. Since we weren’t paying customers we had to wait outside in the heat.

 

We had rented, in advance, a small 2 bedroom house, that was 24mi, one way, from town. My brother had us there by the night of July 4th. No electric till Monday, but we had shelter. So there we were, 24mi out in the sticks, no car, no fans, no appliances, & just enough money for the electric to be turned on. At least we had well water.

 

We were on 105 acres that was largely wooded, so I took the .22 & hunted. The timber had been selective cut, so there were a lot of “tops” there. My landlord, Ron, furnished a chain saw & gas, & paid me $10 a rick for firewood, to be resold at a later date. Cutting & stacking firewood in 105+ heat was no fun. I’d work awhile, be sick, rest awhile, & start over. The next week, Ron picked me up & he bought a used refrigerator. I thought I was just there to help load it, but tears flooded me when he said, “This is yours. You’ll pay it off by working my farm, part time.” Shoveling liquid chicken litter on a commercial poultry farm for $3 an hour’s no fun either.

 

Days turned to weeks & we existed by the grace of God, though I can’t really say how. I thought we were in hard times but little did I know they were just starting. The heat wave was over & it was mid October. & I was “disking” a field for Ron. First you break fallow ground with a disk. Then you go back & pick up large roots & rocks & haul them away. I was in a very low gear & hopped off the moving tractor, tossed a big root on the disk & was climbing up on the tractor when my muddy boot slipped on the belly pan into the moving tire. The tire grabbed my over-alls & pulled my right foot & leg through a 4” space, between the tire & belly pan. This resulted in my ankle breaking on both sides, & would take a year to heal.

 

In November we run out of propane & stayed out for six months. We heated & Patsy cooked with a woodstove. I had stockpiled plenty of wood, but had not split it. I would get on my knees & split the wood because I was in a cast. My 6yr old twin boys would carry & stack it. We took ice cold showers with unheated well water.

 

During this time people I never saw, before or since, dropped of groceries or a few dollars. Hunger & strife will put pride in its place. I learned the meaning of “praying in supper.” Water gravy & beans with no grease or salt, was normal table fare. Groundhogs, raccoons, squirrels, robins, woodpeckers & such were “chicken” to the kids. And then it was Christmas time & there was NO money.

 

 Christmas 1980 looked worse than bleak, until Christmas Eve. Don McGee, a newly acquired friend & some of his friends had bought out a whole garage sale of toys. They repaired the broke ones, refurbished the used ones, & added some brand new ones. They also added a food basket with fixings for a grand Christmas dinner. The night before Christmas I learned what Christmas truly meant. It was/is the best Christmas of my life.

Actually, I had been receiving the Christmas spirit for months, without realizing it. Strangers willing to answer the call of God, thereby meeting my urgent need. They gave freely, willingly, & respectfully. I learned the true meaning of Christmas is living it all year long even though it’s formally celebrated just once a year.

 

I learned that time can be a greater gift than money. I experienced manna from Heaven in ways not understandable or believable to man. In many ways, the year after July 3rd, 1980, was the best of my life. I learned to trust in God & He never failed me. I realized I had a partner in Patsy that never complained, nor could be run off. I experienced true friendship. Now I know why the hardest lessons are those remembered best.

 

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Entry #2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Twas the Night Before Christmas (my version)

by Shari Lynn Weaver

 

 Twas the night before Christmass and all through the house

All the creatures were sleeping - all but Parky the mouse.

 

The stockings were hung up on the stairway rail

With the wish that Santa would fill them up well

 

The little ones were all tucked in nice and warm

While Parky the mouse creeped up and down his home

 

Come back to bed now Parky - Momma mouse said to him

Oh I'd love to sweetie, but i can't sleep in bed

 

My hands are all shaky and my legs just as bad

And I really don't think sleep for me will be had

 

Parky jumped with a start as he heard such a clatter

And Momma mouse got up too - to see what was the matter

 

As they looked out their window at the fresh blanket of snow

They understood the noise came from above - not below

 

Santa was there with his twinkle in his eye

And Parky chuckled when seeing his belly so wide

 

Hey Momma - look at that - when Santa starts laughing

It looks just like me when pd starts me shaking

 

Now Parky you are funny - you are making me smile

Let's go back to bed and rest for a while

 

So Santa can get right back to the task

Of filling our stockings with things we would ask

 

So Parky and Momma toddled back to their bed

And dreamt of a Merry Merry Mouse Christmas

And that is enough said..

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Entry #3

A RAIN FOREST CHRISTMAS

by Pauline Neck

 

My home town is a beautiful place,

but all this rain is a real disgrace.

 

Santa and elves must learn how to swim,

the worry is making them terribly thin.

 

The sleigh must be fitted with mast and a rudder,

to sail through the puddles with hardly a

shudder.

 

Their snorkles a-flapping and 'wet gear' on

tight,

the reindeer are looking a terrible sight.

 

While you are still sleeping, all cosy and hot,

Santa and reindeer are sneezing a lot.

 

So don't worry my friend on Christmas Eve night,

the sound that you hear before morning's light--

 

It isn't the patter of hooves in the snow,

it's the squelch of reindeer galoshes - ho ho ho!

 

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Entry #13

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Littlest Gift

by Beth Bennett

 

Francine grumbled as she tried to make her way past the old woman standing cheerfully next to the bright red kettle.  Giving the golden bell in her hand a gentle ring as Francine approached, the old woman sang out “Merry Christmas!”  Francine quickly averted her eyes as she pushed through the crowded doors of the grocery store, trying hard to shrug off the anger that those ‘bell-ringers’ always seemed to evoke.  “What fools!”, she thought to herself” Merry Christmas indeed!  As if anyone even cared about the TRUE meaning of Christmas anymore!”.  Francine continued to rant as she slowly meandered through the aisles.  She sighed as she placed a few more frozen dinners into her shopping basket and then made her way toward the pet food aisle.  As she rounded the corner, she saw the store manager, busy stacking 20lb. bags of dog food.  He swiftly turned his head and smiled at Francine.  “Merry Christmas Mrs. Green!” he boomed, “Picking up some treats for the kitties?” he inquired with a giggle.  “No” Francine spouted, “Just another day to me Sam.” She replied, trying to keep her tone light.  As she gazed over the selection of cat food, “Besides, I don’t think my cats know what tomorrow is.  Do you Sam?”  The store manager somewhat surprised by Francine’s reply, lowered his head a bit as the smile slowly slipped from his face.  He stood silent for a moment as if he were searching for just the right words to say, blinked a few times, then walked over to the pet stocking display and removed a plastic stocking of cat toys and treats and walked back to where Francine stood.  Stretching his arm out with stocking in hand, “What about one of these Mrs. Green?  Surely, they must need some new toys to play with!” the manager pressed on.  Francine turned her head slowly and peered down over her glasses to better inspect the package now mere inches from her nose.  “See?” the manager quickly pointed out before Francine could reply, “this one has those fury little mice in it!  My cat goes nuts over these!  What do you think?” his voice now sounding about an octave higher, his eyes shinning bright and looking hopeful once again.  “Hmmmm, No, I don’t think so Sam.  Not today anyway, maybe after the first of the month”, Francine sighed as she re-directed her attention to the endless rows of tiny cans.  Again, the smile on the store manager’s face sunk as he lowered his outstretched hand and drew the plastic stocking in towards his chest and then reached into his shirt pocket for the bright red marker safely tucked inside.  Francine continued to scan the rows of cans and began carefully selecting her cats’ favorite flavors and placed them into her shopping basket, oblivious to the store manager still standing just behind her.  As she placed the last can of cat food into her basket and began to turn towards the store mamger to bid him farewell, again, she was met by his outstretched hand still holding the plastic stocking.  Francine peered even harder at the package and squinted her eyes to read the red scribbled message that the manager had scrawled.  Slowly, she deciphered the words “Free of Charge. Today Only!” followed by the initials S.C.  She gazed deep into the store manager’s eyes, somewhat surprised that she had never notice their brilliant blue color; she nearly forgot what she was about to say.  “Oh No, I just couldn’t she stated as her lips grew into a tiny smile.  “Besides Sam, like I said they don’t know what tomorrow is, they’re just cats!” she continued to explain as she gently pushed the plastic stocking back towards the manager.  “Well,” the store manager slowly replied, again searching for just the right words, “that may be true Mrs. Green but they’ll know what to do with these mice for sure!”  Francine smiled as she nodded her head in agreement and lifted her hand slowly to accept the plastic stocking.  “I guess you’re right there” Francine replied, her smile disappeared as she gazed at the package in her hand.  Francine looked up at the manager and gazed deep into his eyes, “Thank you Sam!” she began.  Before she could say another word the store manager broke in “No problem Mrs. Green!” his smile now stretching wide across his face, “I hope you all have fun tomorrow, you have a happy holiday now okay?” he called as Francine made her way to the end of the aisle and disappeared around the next corner.  “We’ll do our best!” Francine replied softly, knowing only she could hear her words.  Francine added the last item, a small loaf of bread, to her now half full basket and proceeded to the check out line.

 

The store was bustling this snowy Christmas Eve and as Francine stood in line her mind drifted back to the time when she too worked in a grocery market across town, now used as a Salvation Army store. She recalled how full her life was then, struggling to raise her children alone, working long hours at the store all day only to come home at night to a stack of unpaid bills.  She remembered the nights she would sit silently at the kitchen table, her head resting in her folded arms, she would gently sob knowing she could barely make ends meet and all the while wishing she could do so much more for her children.  “How odd”, she thought to herself as the line slowly moved along, “I was so much happier then in spite of all our troubles.”  The line inched forward and Francine carefully began removing each item from her basket and placed it on the counter, still lost in her memories of the life she once knew.  As she reached to pull the plastic stocking from her basket, Francine’s thoughts were suddenly pierced by the intermittent ‘plunk…plunk….plunk’ of coins being dropped into the kettle where the old woman still stood gently ringing the bell.  ‘PLUNK…PLUNK….PLUNK’ the muffled sound continued and reminded Francine how irritated she was as she entered the store.  With an angry scowl, Francine glared through the crowd trying to see the source of the now nearly grating clammer. ‘PLUNK….PLUNK……PLUNK’.  Francine still could not see who was dropping the coins ever so slowly into the old woman’s collection kettle.  ‘PLUNK…..PLUNK……..PLUNK’, with each drop of a coin Francine grew more annoyed until finally, now first in the check out line, she caught a glimpse of the little girl standing at the kettle.  As the cashier slid each item over the scanner she spoke to Francine who was by now studying the little girl with some concern.  “Oh! I see you found one of our Manager’s Specials?” the cashier rang out, again, halting the thoughts now racing through Francine’s mind.  “How awful to leave such a young child unattended in this day in age!” Francine thought as she quickly muttered back to the cashier.  “Yes, wasn’t that nice?” Francine replied, “I almost never….” She tried to continue.  “Oh, don’t give it a second thought” the young and somewhat overly giddy cashier interrupted as if knowing what France’s next words were.  “Mr. Clark does this every Christmas Eve….” the cashier continued to explain.  But, Francine was now totally absorbed in watching the small girl still standing at the kettle, ‘PLUNK…. PLUNK….. PLUNK’.  Francine watched as the child struggled with mittened hands to carefully ensure that each coin reached its destination safely without falling to the floor.  Francine fumbled briefly through her change purse for some loose coins as she waited for her change from the cashier, still intently watching the little girl drop yet another coin into the kettle.  The cashier cheerfully tittered, “Now, not too many of those eggnogs tonight Mrs. Green!” as she handed Francine her change with a smile and a wink.  “Oh, okay…I’ll do that!” Francine replied, only half-hearing what the cashier had said.  Her thoughts now intensely focused on the little girl, Francine gathered up her grocery bag and headed towards the collection kettle, determined to help the child mends her ways and silence the now nearly deafening ‘PLUNK…..PLUNK…….PLUNK’ of the coins being slowly dropped into the collection kettle.

 

As Francine knelt down to speak to the little girl she could see that her blonde hair was tangled and messy where it poked from beneath her hat.  “Where are your Mommy and Daddy?” Francine demanded.  The old woman’s bell silenced, “Oh, it’s okay…..this is my little friend Katie” the old woman explained.  “She keeps me company while her Daddy gets some groceries, don’t you Katie?” the old woman smiled down at the little girl.  She smiled proudly and nodded her head.  Francine set her bag of groceries next to her feet and still kneeling, began to reach for the little girl’s mittened hands.  “You know, if you take off your mittens, you can put your pennies in the kettle much faster and easier!” Francine instructed as she gently pulled a mitten from one of her hands.  Francine took hold of the little girl’s hand and felt that it was freezing cold.  “Oh my goodness! That’s a mighty cold little hand you have there Katie!”, Francine said now looking directly into the little girl’s eyes.  “We walked!” Katie proudly replied.  “You did?” Francine retorted as she looked up at the old woman.  The smile now gone from her face, the old woman nodded her head in agreement as Francine slipped the slightly damp mitten back over the little girl’s hand.  “So, where did you get all of those pennies Katie?” Francine began to inquire, half-expecting to hear the words ‘piggy bank’ in return.  “These are my pennies from heaven, my Mommy sends them to me!” the little girl said softly with a sparkle in her eyes that took Francine quite by surprise.  “They are?”  Francine said with a tone of wonderment in her voice but a bit of sadness now in her eyes.  The blonde haired little girl nodded as her smile too ran away from her cherub-like face.  “Mommy went to live in heaven but she sends me three pennies every day! See?”  PLUNK….”I”….PLUNK……”Love”…….PLUNK…”You!”  “Daddy saves them for me every day and when we go shopping I send them back to Mommy!  See?” ….PLUNK  …..”I”……PLUNK…..”Love”…….PLUNK….”You!”.  The little girl beamed as she turned back towards Francine her face all aglow with delight.  Francine was so awe-struck by the little girl’s reply she could hardly think what to say next. “Ohhh” was all she could muster.  Francine scrambled for words to close the seemingly long pause “You know,” she said softly to the little girl, “that’s a very good idea Katie!” she encouraged.  “You see, I had a little girl that went to live in Heaven too, a long, long, time ago.” Francine explained as she fished some pennies from her purse and placed them one at a time into the kettle.  PLUNK…. I” ….PLUNK…..”Love” …..PLUNK….”You” Francine repeated as the little girl watched her every move with excitement in her eyes.  “See?  How was that?  Francine whispered to the little girl, now standing right next to her knee.  The little girl turned to face Francine and smiling slowly nodded her head.  “Was she your baby?” Katie innocently inquired.  “Yes, she was.” Francine said softly.  The little girl slowly wrapped her arms around Francine and gave her a gentle hug.  Francine now nearly in tears, hugged the little girl in return and then scooped up her bag of groceries.  “Well Katie, it was very nice to meet you!” Francine said as she slowly stood up. “Now you be sure to give your Daddy one of those nice big hugs too, okay?” she concluded with a smile.  The little girl smiled up at Francine and gave her a nod, “I will.” the little girl replied softly as her gaze returned to the pennies still clenched in her mitten.  She then turned to resume her task.  Francine looked into the eyes of the old woman as if say she were sorry but the old woman just smiled warmly, her eyes now welling with tears and said “Merry Christmas” softly as she made her way back through the crowded exit.  As the automatic doors swung open the cold air stung Francine’s face with an icy blast but she smiled when she heard the resounding PLUNK…. PLUNK…. PLUNK of little Katie’s coins being dropped into the kettle again.  Francine made her way slowly to her car where she sat for what seemed liked minutes, still somewhat shocked by the exchange that had just taken place.  As she swung the bag of groceries over her lap to the passenger seat the plastic stocking toppled out onto the floor, reminding Francine of the kind store manager.  She quickly snapped it up from the floor and tucked it back into the shopping bag and began the drive home, now looking forward to a relaxing evening watching her cats play with their new toys.

 

When Francine opened her door, both cats were sitting right there in front of the door, not a usual habit for them she thought to herself.  “What?” Francine scolded, “what makes you think I have something in here for you?” she asked looking down at them with a coy smile.  The cats looked up at Francine and Mr. Wiskers responded with a long ‘meeeeeooow’ while Mrs. Paws began to wind herself between Francine’s feet, nearly tripping her as she turned to set the shopping bag on the sofa.  “Okay, okay you two, just be patient while I get these things put away!” Francine lectured, “THEN we’ll see if we have anything for you!” she continued with a giggle.  Once Francine had the groceries stored away and her frozen dinner in the oven, she grabbed the scissors and the plastic stocking and settled down in her comfortable chair.  She tossed the first fury mouse out to the cats.  As Francine watched the cats play with their newfound toy, her mind couldn’t help but drift back to the little girl.  She still couldn’t understand how a child so young could still be so happy after suffering such a tragedy so young in life.  “Ah,” she thought to herself, “it’s because she IS so young!”  “The years of longing will surely strip all of that away in time”, she reasoned.  Francine knew all too well what a lifetime of grieving could do.  “She used to happy be too, didn’t she?” she silently wondered.  “Surely she must have enjoyed Christmas time at some point in her life?  As a child perhaps?” she asked herself.  It had been so long since she had felt that kind of joy it was hard for her to remember being happy.  “Where did the magic of the season go?” said lamented, not quite sure if she actually said it aloud.  “Was it the years of struggle to put a few gifts under the tree for the kids that made the season loose it’s sparkle?”  “Or was the death of her own daughter that robbed her of the joy?”  Just when Francine could barely contain the emotions she felt as the result of her encounter with the little girl earlier that evening, her thoughts were once again halted by the wailing of the oven timer telling her that her dinner was ready.

 

Francine settled down with her dinner, back in the comfort of her favorite chair and switched the television to the nightly news.  The cats were now growing tired of their first fury mouse so Francine tossed out another and then a third.  She giggled as they scurried to catch their new prey.  “And we have yet another house fire to report.” the news announcer cuts in, “early this morning a local family was left homeless when a fire ripped through their two-story home…” he continued to report.  Francine thought to herself, “See? That’s what I mean!  So little to be happy about these days for so many people, bad news around every corner!” she ranted on “Who wouldn’t be depressed?”.  Francine’s attention swept back to the news as they showed the homeowner.  “Hey, we’re all safe, that’s all that matters!” the man continues with a small smile, “We didn’t loose anything that can’t be replaced!”  Then they cut back to the announcer and he concludes the story by saying that the dwelling was not insured.  Francine, now incensed by the last tidbit of information, began to shout aloud “Yeah, right buddy!  You must still be in shock! NO INSURANCE!?!” she wrangled on.  “We’re all safe, that’s all that matters” Francine repeated, “What is he? DRUNK?” still shouting at the television.  The monolog now getting louder, Mrs. Paws stopped playing and scampered over to Francine and gave her leg another rub.  Francine reached down and gave Mrs. Paws a scratch on the ear, “What’s the matter with these people Pawsy?  Don’t they see all the suffering out there?” she pleaded, knowing no answer would be forthcoming.  Francine pushed the TV. tray away from her chair and put her tired feet up on the foot stool, rested her head back and closed her eyes.  “Funny” she thought, “all the faces you see day after day, yet you can’t see their pain or their joy….and they can not see yours.” Francine sighed as she pulled an afghan blanket around her shoulders and continued to mull over the days events.  Then, clearly she saw them. The store manager, the little girl and the old woman at the collection kettle. She could see all of their eyes and faces even clearer now in her own mind. “The cashier?” she thought “Gee whiz, did I even look at her at all?” Francine wondered and began to feel a bit guilty for not remembering to look at her too and for the foul mood she was in when she first arrived at the grocery market.  She still felt confused, something about that little girl, little Katie, that left her feeling unsettled and sad.  “Even dropping the three pennies in the collection kettle and saying “I”…”Love”…”You” couldn’t begin to wash away the years of sorrow!” Francine silently resolved as she pulled the afghan even more snugly around her shoulders and closed her eyes even tighter, trying harder than ever now not to burst into tears.  “All those eyes” Francine whispered “and the only ones I wished I could see…”and with those thoughts, Francine drifted off into a deep sleep.

 

As Francine slept in her big comfy chair all snuggled and warm she had a most unusual dream.  In her dream, Francine thought she saw the little girl from the store standing all alone with her back facing Francine.  She called out to the little girl again and again, “Katie? Katie is that you?” but the little girl just stood there as if she had not heard Francine’s calls to her.  Francine dreamed that she then walked to where the little girl stood, knelt down just has she had earlier in the store that day, but still the little girl did not turn around to greet her.  Francine gently placed her hand on the little girl’s shoulder and again she softly asked, “Katie? What are you doing here all alone?”  Just then the little girl turned to face her and Francine’s heart nearly stopped beating when she realized that she was looking at the face of the daughter she had lost so many years ago.  Francine gasped for air and then silently gazed into her daughter’s eyes, as deep blue as she remembered, her skin still like that of a porcelain doll.  “Marie” Francine softly whispered her name as she thought her heart would burst with joy any second!  Then the little girl gently took Francine’s hand.  She could barely stand to look away from the eyes she had missed for so long, but slowly Francine looked down to where she could now feel the little girls’ hand upon her own.  The little girl gently turned Francine’s hand over and tugged on her fingers to free them from the tight fist they had formed.  PLINK…. PLINK….. PLINK chimed the coins.  One by one the little girl dropped three shiny, new pennies into Francine’s open hand.  Before she could look up into her daughter’s eyes again the little girl threw her arms around Francine’s neck and squeezed her tight.  “I miss you too Mommy” the little girl whispered into Francine’s ear.  The very next thing that Francine heard was the low melody of Mr. Wiskers purr as he slept warmly in her lap.  Francine sighed squeezed her eyes tighter, now realizing that it all had been just a dream.  “Oh why did that one have to end?” Francine moaned to herself, “such a wonderful dream!” she thought.  Francine wished she could fall quickly back into slumber, back to her wonderful dream.  She began to pull her clenched fist from beneath the warm afghan in order to pet Mr. Wiskers velvety soft fur.  “Surely that’ll put me back to sleep,” she thought.  Francine’s eyes opened wide as she suddenly realized that she was holding something in her hand!  Tears began to stream down her cheeks and one by one, plink, plink, plink they sounded as they hit the three shiny new pennies in Francine Green’s hand.

 

The End

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Entry #14 

 

 

 

 

 

The Christmas Gift

by Lynda McKenzie

 

Sally and Will loved Christmas.  It was probably their most favourite time of the year.  They knew that Christmas was the birthday of a very special baby and they enjoyed celebrating that birthday. 

 

Every year they played a part in the pageant at church and  helped collect food for the food bank in their neighbourhood. They liked to go with their dad to cut down a Christmas tree and watch their mom's face as dad tried to get it into the house without leaving a trail of snow and pine needles.   They liked to make paper chains and drape them on everything that didn't move. They really liked baking cookies and helping decorate them with chewy gumdrops and tiny sparkles.

 

But probably their most favourite part was going with their dad on Christmas Eve day, to deliver presents to everyone they wouldn't be seeing the next day.  They couldn't understand why their mom never went with them.  For some strange reason, she said she preferred to stay home!  She said she had things to do.  As far as Sally and Will were concerned, things looked pretty much done to them!

 

Off they'd go, presents piled around them, to the first names on the list.  There they would take the presents in and be greeted by relatives and friends who always commented on how much they had grown and on how quickly the year had passed since last Christmas. 

 

Sally and Will would smile and agree as they thought to themselves…….……'of course we've grown since last time, and its really been far too long since last Christmas!"  But that was just to themselves.

 

Usually the last house on their list was the home of their very special aunt.  She was one of those people who had the knack of always knowing exactly what to get for someone.  Gifts from her always smelled wonderful, or rattled mysteriously or were shaped in the oddest ways.  The contents were always just right – a coonskin cap for a budding Daniel Boone, a diary with a gold lock for a shy preteen, a toy for a child who got knit shirts and socks from everyone else . 

 

And the wrappings!  Shiny foil papers, big loopy bows and coordinating tags made it seem almost a shame to open them……almost, that is. Sally and Will made sure these gifts had a place of honour under their tree.  Every so often they would give them a little shake or squeeze or sniff. 

 

Then, when it was nearly time for bed, they were allowed to open one gift.

 

"Just one mind you"   their mom would say and they would answer, "Awww mom. . .". Then their mom would smile and say, "I mean it  you two… just one!"  Sally and Will would laugh as they pretended to try to decide which one it would be.  They nearly always picked the gift from their special aunt, and the year they didn't they wished they had. 

 

One Christmas Eve gift Sally opened  a box wrapped in silver paper tied  with a white velvet ribbon.  Nestled in crisp white tissue was a white fur hat and muff.  She carefully put the white on, adjusted its angle and then slid her hands into the cosy depths of the muff.  Sally somehow knew that this white hat with the matching muff was magical .

 

She could be. . . .  Heidi, tragically waiting for her grandfather to find her…she could be. . . . a famous actress regally acknowledging her adoring fans . . . she could be. . .  a talented ballerina preparing for her first staring role on stage. . . .. . . . . . .. she could be whoever she wanted to be!!!!

 

The years passed and Sally and Will grew up as  children do. They grew too old for Christmas Eve drives with their dad.  They had families of their own and became busy with their own family traditions.  The lovely lady who gave them such wonderful memories became childlike herself.  Her days were spent in a world where it was always Christmas, or maybe never Christmas.  For her, all Christmases have faded into the heavy mist where forgotten memories go and Christmas next year may never come.

 

But Sally wanted this Christmas to be special for her aunt.  Sally knew just what to do.  She looked and looked.. She looked everywhere until she found the perfect gift. When she finally found it she looked for the most perfect wrappings.  And then she nestled  the white fur hat and muff in crisp white tissue, put them in a box, wrapped the box in shiny silver paper, and tied a white velvet ribbon around the box.  Then she wrote on the matching tag,

  

To Auntie Doreen,

With love from Sally

Now you can be whoever you want to be too.

 

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Entry #15

 

 

The Christmas Bazaar
by Lynda McKenzie

 

People on their way in, their arms empty,  pushing past people on their way out, their arms full of wonderfully shaped bags and boxes. A sweet whiff of candy apples, fudge and hot cider every time the doors to the school  opened. Hand painted signs on the brick wall outside and more inside giving directions to the tea room, the white elephant table, the bake table, the nursery. 

It is time once again for the Christmas bazaar.  On this particular Saturday, the gym seemed more crowded  than  usual so it wasn’t until the  afternoon that I noticed their plain, unadorned booth over by the girls’ change room door.. No draped velvets or professional backdrops, just an old wooden Sunday school stacking table in the corner.

On one end was a colourful mound of knitted goods; small and large children's sweaters, mittens, and cosy hats complete with under-the-chin ties and ear flaps. Obviously knit with more attention to practicality than style they were more sturdy and functional than colour coordinated. Several miniature wooden stage coaches, a small bright red hay wagon, and two wooden train engines with assorted cars completed the display.

A white haired couple sat behind the table. She looked up occasionally at prospective customers but kept her attention on the clicking needles in her hands.. The faded blue cornflowers on her apron reflected softly in her eyes, and she always smiled as her handiwork was examined and discussed. The tall thin man gently opened and closed the tiny leather latched doors on the hay wagon and proudly stroked the smooth varnished tops of the coaches. He had the largest hands I have ever seen, his fingers were blunt and deep lines crisscrossed his skin like the cracked dirt floor of a remote desert.

I don't know whether it was the type of day, or whether people just weren’t thinking of practicality or dependability, but the smiles on the couple's faces grew wearier as the afternoon progressed and most of their handiwork remained on the table. A mother, pushing a stroller and balancing a baby on her back bought the hay wagon, a impeccably dressed grandma, after much humming and hahing finally purchased one of the sweaters, and an excited little boy emptied his pockets for one of the train engines. I wondered how many sweaters and stage coaches they had hoped to sell that afternoon. Looking past their brave smiles, their sagging shoulders suggested they hadn't reached their goal. Still, they sat close together on their two straight backed stacking chairs, his dry, rough hand gently cradling her small blue veined hand as if it were a fragile antique figurine.

People had come from great distances that day to see this craft show and there were a lot of beautifully made items in the room but I kept returning to the corner where the knitting and wooden toys shared a table.

Later that evening my family laughed as I showed as I unpacked my Christmas bazaar treasures. They know the closest I've ever been to the wild west is watching Daniel Boone on television.  They also know no one in this house wears a hat that ties under the chin anymore. Maybe one day I'll tell them the story behind the wooden stage coach that sits on my bookcase all year ‘round and the knitted cap tucked in my treasure drawer. And then again, maybe I won't.

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Entry #16

 

 

Cookies

by Kathy Maggio

 

Warm, fragrant cookies, fresh from the oven bring each of us home every year at Christmastime. You can’t think of them without thinking of something else, memories. It is these warm memories that these delightful morsels give us, that call us home, and nothing is better than being home for Christmas.

 

Some of my first cookie memories are of Mom, my great grandmother. Mom was a round woman, not fat, just rounded in the right places, so that giving her a hug was a pleasure. She and Dadda, my great-grandfather, lived upstairs from my grandparents, Nonny and Boppy. When Nonny told Mom that I was coming, she would disappear into her upstairs kitchen, not emerging until a huge batch of sugar cookies were cooling on clean white dishtowels laid out on her green formica kitchen table. Mom never paid much attention to recipes, and often wondered why things didn’t turn out like they should, but her sugar cookies were an exception. They were always thick, powdery, and smelling of vanilla and nutmeg. Always perfect. Sometimes she would dust them with colored sugars to surprise me. Every Christmas, and whenever I want to feel her love, I still roll out a few dozen of her prized cookies on the same old green table that was handed down to me by Nonny.

 

My grandmother, Nonny, is still alive, and even though she is nearing her ninety-first birthday, she still occasionally bakes cookies. Christmas is one of those times. My box came just the other day, and even though my aunt does most of the baking now, Nonny’s love is still in the box. So are the memories. Nonny was the only person who let me sit on the cupboard and “help” with the baking, and even sample the dough. However else were you to know if the cookies were going to taste good? Nonny also kept more exotic ingredients on hand than we had at home. She thought that it was perfectly fine to be extravagant with small things, like adding fancy toppings, or chopped dates. Most importantly, she always praised me for doing a wonderful job, whether it was sifting, mixing, or decorating the cookies. In her eyes I could do no wrong, so whenever I have baked with my children, I have tried, but not always succeeded, to be less critical, more like Nonny was to me.

 

My mother also was sparing with the criticism when it came to baking. At Christmastime, my mother used to bake dozens of different kinds of cookies. She would make up the many kinds of dough, and then let my three brothers and myself decorate them. It was quite an accomplishment to be able to bring out several dozen cookies of amazing variety whenever a visitor called, or whenever we felt the need (which was all the time during the holidays). Mom taught me the how-to’s, how to measure correctly, how to transpose measurements, and any other math or how-to for life lessons that she could slip in. Soon, I was the designated cookie baker in the family, but at Christmas, mom was still queen of the kitchen.

 

Now, after raising six children of my own, I’ve noticed that the traditions of the holidays especially bond us together. The children are coming home for Christmas this week, and am all set. The cookie cutters are out and the pantry is stocked. All is ready for the upcoming cookie baking marathon.

 

As soon as the cinnamon, nutmeg, molasses, and clove scents waft through the kitchen, I will be home…sitting up to the big green table with my great grandmother; sitting on the cupboard, stirring up the dough with Nonny; and carefully measuring everything perfectly with my mother. They will all be here. It will be Christmas.

 

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Entry #17

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First Snow

by W. T. Smail

 

 

 

First Snow is an acrylic on canvas painting by Charles W. Gibbons.  First Snow is also a poem written by me after my two best friends, Mechele and Rick, purchased the painting from Mr.Gibbons and gave it to me, the only Parkisonian in the group as a Christmas present.  First Snow is a relatively small painting (16''X20") but its effect on me was large and helped me deal with my plight. First Snow is a forest scene, but through the trees and snow there's some light.  I'm always looking and hoping for the cure of Parkinsons and relate the cure to the light.  First Snow has become a treasured Christmas gift.

First Snow becomes a wall of my bedroom cave
warming the beat of my heart
conjuring all that i crave

First Snow and this man becomes boy
walking through a white winter wonderland
nineteen sixties joy

a loving house of learning stands on the wood’s other side
lessons for life waiting there
closer with each powdered stride

lessons that some day will be put to the test
not till the last page is turned
do i want judged with the rest

thirty years later in a white sterile tower the bad news is
told
your smile will fade
and your face grow cold

what then .....three more walls, three more seasons
darkness meant for Job comes out of the blue
no rhyme, or reason

is this special room to become my prison cell
surrounded by beauty
living in hell

it’s not what i had in mind for my bedroom cave
not here in the land of the free
between the houses of the brave

prisons of the brain can play mean tricks
posing an impenetrable
imaginary mortar, envisioned brick

but this wintered wall i could easily scale
better to fly through First Snow
than slowly die in jail

i jump from the wall into the white eternity
grasping my fate, my faith
reckoning with certain uncertainty

First Snow is covering the anger of spring
now my anger too
over what the coming years may bring

my flight is broken when a sleeping bulb punctures my heart
“snap out of it boy
it’s not yet your time to depart”

i lie in First Snow as it melts helped by a tear
from deep inside i hear Joan
“smile with your heart,
give them the best of life’s souvenirs

slowly i stand and gaze back into my cave room
cleansed by First Snow
there’s no sense of doom, no gloom

i enter the room on a wing and a prayer
i turn and face First Snow
and stare, and stare

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: I'm 52 years old and live with my partner, Rick and our three cats.  We live in a beautiful small town in the Pennsylvania mountains near Pittsburgh. I was diagnosed in 1994 and  have done fairly well for the past eight years (with some up and downs).  When people ask me why I think I've done so well I tell them: the excellent medical care I have received at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center and the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida (Dr. Bohnen and Dr.  Eidelman respectively), exercise, massage, acupuncture, yoga, my chiropractor and my incredible friends and family who give me so many reasons to be well and engaged in their lives.....I am truly blessed. I continue to work in  my family's automotive business (we represent 10 franchises outside of Pittsburgh).  We employ apx. 300 people and most are aware of my Parkinsons.  I have unyielding hope that I will be one of the first people cured in the near future and focus on today till then.

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Entry #18

THE DAY I RUINED CHRISTMAS

by Ann T

 

In the early fifties when tinsel, Toni-dolls, and Lionel trains ruled, Christmas represented a one-shot chance for my five siblings and me to fulfill our wishes. In those days, we never received toys at any other time - not even on our birthdays - so Christmas was pretty much it. The days leading up to Christmas passed agonizingly slowly as we wondered what we would get. By first grade, I had pretty much dismissed the idea of Santa Claus, so I knew my mother did the shopping, and I knew where she hid the goodies - the front bedroom closet. 

 

When I was growing up in West Philadelphia, my parents' front bedroom was pretty much off limits to the children unless you were the baby and your crib shared their room. However, there were certain times when we kids managed to make surreptitious forays into their inner sanctum. During these invasions, I had many tempting options. A solitary little girl, I would stroke my mother's stole unfazed that the pelted victim's own head and visage stared back at me with reproach. I would check out my father's only suit, entranced by the fabric which reminded me of shad roe, a treat my father often brought home to my ailing, pregnant mother and which she had shared her with me. I loved it, and thereafter, felt a craving whenever I saw that suit. Best of all were the nights my parents were out, and I was allowed to lie in their bed and watch the moving shadows on the ceiling caused by passing cars' headlights as they drove down Cedar Avenue. 

 

That bedroom and its treasures always tempted me, but the Christmas season made it irresistible. You see, as my mother shopped, Christmas presents were stored in her closet, a fact that we weren't supposed to know. My brother, who was a year older than me, took on a Hardy boy brother to my Nancy Drew self and and inspected the closet whenever circumstances allowed. Jimmy would check out the goods and report back to me as the gifts piled up. Through the 24 days of Advent, we searched and ferreted, discovered and rejoiced, and anticipated and anguished for the day the presents would be ours.

 

One Christmas promised to be a very rewarding one. Among other things, Jimmy and I found a cardboard desk and a typewriter. The desk, I assumed, was for him, and the typewriter was for me. However, the gift stuffed in the closet which enthralled and obsessed me was a metal dollhouse. I had coveted just such a dollhouse in the department store while shopping with my mother. It was held together by bendable tabs and sported real artwork on the metal wall over the painted fireplace. I was beside myself and could hardly sleep waiting for the big day when I and my tiny plastic doll family could move in.

 

Christmas Day finally arrived, but first I had to endure what I considered the down side of the holiday. My mother awoke me at 4:00 A.M., and I dressed in an angel's gown my mother fashioned for me from a white sheet, tinsel encircling my waist and serving as a halo on my head. As a member of the school choir, I had to sing at the 5:00 A.M. mass. I was an unwilling member of the Transfiguration Choir, a position I hated and a real challenge for both me and the nun who led the choir since I insisted on singing alto in the midst of sopranos. "Who IS that?" she would repeatedly demand as my discordant voice filtered through, but I persisted undiscovered. Choir on Christmas had a dampening effect on me. The hour was so early, and the previous night's sleep so scant, that I pretty much greeted every Christmas pre-dawn morning ready to lose the contents of my stomach. When the last Adeste Fidelis and the like were sung, my weary parents and I arrived home. By now my siblings were awake, and together we dove into the presents while the smell of bacon and eggs cooking wafted in from the kitchen. 

 

At first all seemed fine. An old doll sat atop my pile, dressed in a newly sewn red print outfit made by Mom. I gave it a hurried examination, but my thoughts were on bigger game. The desk and typewriter boldly beckoned and my brother and I headed for them. But what is this? We both grabbed for the typewriter! Old allegiances evaporated as we got in a tug of war, then an argument. Each of us was adamant about whom the typewriter was for, and our bickering became louder. Finally my parents emerged from the kitchen. My father's sternly declared that neither of us would get either gift, and my mother's fatigue caused her voice to quaver as she pointed out our selfishness on a day when we were receiving so much. I was stung by her reprimand and still remember the pall our fight had thrown over the festivities. "You've ruined Christmas!" she pronounced and returned to the kitchen. We all continued opening presents, but the aura of peace and joy was punctured and deflated, and while the others eventually recovered somewhat, I felt miserable. To make matters worse, there was no dollhouse. Whispering, I told Jimmy, and we both looked carefully and repeatedly through the piles of wrapping paper, but no dollhouse appeared. My father turned on the train set, and the locomotive puffed its pill-induced smoke, traveling its endless route. Breakfast was devoured, the other kids went off to Mass, and I neatly arranged everyone's pile (a self-appointed task I pursued religiously throughout Christmas week), but no dollhouse. We knew it sat forgotten in the front bedroom closet. Ruination of Christmas coupled with pre-dawn choir singing and no dollhouse were too much to bear. I took my newly dressed doll to my room and crying, fell asleep.

 

Eventually, of course, my mother remembered the stashed away dollhouse and put it under the tree to greet me after my nap. My happiness was anti-climatic by then, but - probably for the first time in my young life - I felt gratitude. My brother's and my outburst, my mother's disappointment in us, and the deflation of exhilaration our squabble caused made me think for the first time about the giver. I knew I had been greedy and thankless, and I held myself accountable.

 

Many Christmases have passed since that day, but the day I ruined Christmas made me realize that Christmas's true meaning is entwined in family and compassion and sharing, not in the gifts. However, the knowledge I gained on that dismal Christmas is perhaps the best present after all.