A Cozy Country Christmas Anthology

by Melange Books, LLC

  I held the box close, exchanging a loving look with our daughter. “They’re tears of joy,” I explained. "Kim gave me what I wanted more than anything in the whole world.”

  THE END

  Live as in Lively

  Jeff broke the news over supper, mumbling through his macaroni and cheese.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full, son,” I reminded, at the same time removing baby Amy’s hand from her applesauce. “What did you say?”

  Jeff rolled his eyes and took another mouthful. “I told Mrs. Sims I’d bring the sheep.”

  “Sheet?” I queried. “A sheet for a costume? Are you going to be an angel in the Christmas play?”

  My husband, Dave, harrumphed. Jeff’s older brother, Lance, laughed out loud.

  Jeff groaned. “Aw, Mom—we’re not doing a play. We’re gonna have a pajunk.”

  “A what?”

  “A pajunk. You know—we’re going to act out the manger scene. Mrs. Sims said we needed animals, and I said I’d bring the sheep.”

  Now I understood. “Oh, a pageant! That’s wonderful, dear. You said what?”

  Jeff sighed. “I said I...uh, we would bring the sheep.”

  Dave harrumphed again. And baby Amy knocked her dish of applesauce on the floor.

  Next morning, the local newspaper had an announcement about the Live Nativity. Jeff was listed as a shepherd and animal contributor. I bought an armload of that issue of the paper and mailed them to out-of-town family and friends.

  Jeff, usually a bit shy, strutted around with his head high...and spent hours grooming the three ewes he and Dave had selected from our flock.

  The pageant took place on a very frosty Christmas Eve night. Jeff, Dave and Lance (who reluctantly agreed to don a fake beard and a bathrobe to help out) left early with the ewes in the truck.

  By the time baby Amy and I arrived, quite a crowd had gathered in the fenced-in area on the church lawn. We found a place near the front of the large canvas tent, and though the flaps were still closed, I could hear bleats and brays—and giggles—coming from within.

  Dave ducked out from behind the flap and joined me, mopping a brow that was sweaty in spite of the cold.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “They’re just about ready to begin,” he informed me. “Mrs. Sims is trying to get everybody posed. But the sheep aren’t cooperating.”

  Just then, the tent flaps were drawn back, and an appreciative murmur ran through the crowd.

  The crèche featured Mary in a blue robe, Joseph in a crooked beard, and a straw-filled wooden manger with a plump baby doll. Three wise men in cardboard crowns knelt in homage, and three bathrobed shepherds stood close by.

  A charcoal-colored burro was tethered on one side of the manger, and our ewes—looking nervous—were huddled on the other.

  The children held their rigid postures, with varying expressions of awe and wonder at the miracle they beheld. Two little angels with wire and gauze wings came flitting around from behind the manger, and when the shepherds knelt in unison, spontaneous applause rippled through the onlookers.

  Tears filled my eyes, blurring the edges of the scene. Amy clapped her chubby hands and waved at Jeff and Lance. Her brothers’ eyes remained fixed on the manger.

  As Pastor Matthews read the Christmas story, the photographer from the newspaper captured the scene on film. But when he focused in on the ewes, I noticed one of them was hungrily eyeing an angel’s wing and stretching its neck for a nibble. Uh, oh, I thought...

  It was just as I feared! The surprised angel gave a yelp and dodged out of the way—knocking the other angel and one of the wise men off balance. The first angel tumbled down, wings fluttering. The donkey brayed loudly and pulled away, tipping the manger while the ewes bolted for the parking lot. Jeff took off in pursuit.

  Lance sprang to his feet, tripped on his robe and fell on his face. He scrambled up again and, after a slippery sprint, made a diving tackle. A flurry of flakes followed. When the snow cleared, he was on his back, clutching the woolly ewe to his chest as the critter’s legs pedaled frantically in the air. More applause.

  Mrs. Sims, wringing her hands, cued the choir to begin a chorus of “Away in a Manger”. After a moment, we onlookers joined in, and our voices quickly drowned out the commotion as the cast reassembled in the tent for the benediction.

  The day after Christmas, there was a full page of color photos in the paper. I mailed out another batch, since the picture of Lance holding the runaway ewe was right in the middle.

  Sunday night over supper, Jeff had a bulletin. “Mrs. Sims says everyone liked the pajunk so much we’re gonna do it again next year.”

  Dave winked at me and smiled at Jeff. “Maybe next time you boys had better wear your track shoes,” he suggested.

  Jeff forked up some mashed potatoes. “No problem, Dad,” he assured around a mouthful. “Mrs. Sims made me promise that next year I’d bring a camel!’

  THE END

  Let It Snow

  “Smile! You love parties.” Nathan put his arm around my waist. “You can dance all night, Sal. That’s why I married you.”

  “I thought you married me because I could dance all night, rise at five a.m., sit on a tractor for nine straight hours and still had enough energy left to inoculate a batch of piglets.”

  “All I cared about was the dancing.” Humming, Nathan waltzed me around the room.

  I let him hold me close, but items from my lengthy “to do” list kept popping into my mind. The living room carpet needed vacuuming and Kyle had spilled cereal in the pantry. Farmland, farm houses and farm kids needed constant upkeep.

  Nathan massaged my back. “The house looks great, but you don’t. Relax, hon, this is just a family party. Everyone would be satisfied with hot dogs on paper plates.”

  “Well, I’m not! I want this evening to be perfect so the boys will have wonderful memories of a family get-together. I hate to cut this dance short, kind sir, but I have a thousand things to do.”

  My partner reluctantly released me. “How about a fire tonight, Sal? Everyone enjoys a crackling blaze.”

  “I agree. A fire in the fireplace is warm and welcoming, but it creates ashes and soot. We're having an elegant buffet, not a marshmallow roast.”

  “I love marshmallows!” Josiah piped up, beaming.

  “We’re not serving marshmallows,” I informed my son crisply and turned to Nathan. “Try to understand, darling. This party is our family tradition and I’m doing my best to make it special. I want the house to look its best.”

  My husband gave me a hug and headed off to puzzle over a tractor repair problem, our three sons in tow. I sighed at the thought of the grease and grime connected with such a job—most of which would end up on the kids—and dashed off to attack the remaining items on my list.

  I tried not to think about my husband’s comments. I loved Nathan and my three boys dearly, but to me, Christmas wasn’t just gifts and gaiety. The month of December was brimful of cleaning, decorating and baking in preparation for our annual family Christmas Eve party. I prided myself on the tradition of serving excellent food and encouraging lively conversation in a beautifully decorated setting.

  But today a strange heaviness weighed me down as I fed the chickens and checked on the yearling colt. My head ached as I twisted cookie dough into candy cane shapes and iced the peppermint-fudge cake. When the boys—three baths and a freshly scrubbed kitchen floor later—started a duel using the branches of greenery I’d arranged on the buffet table, I sent them off to clean their rooms. Again.

  Sighing, I massaged my throbbing temples. Was I getting sick?

  I had just started to tie red and green ribbon bows around rolled linen napkins when the boys reappeared, bubbling with excitement.

  “It’s snowing, Mom!” Ryan exclaimed, nose and hands pressed against the window. He wriggled like a puppy. “Can we go out and play?”

  “Please, Mom!” Josiah and Kyle chimed in. “We could build a
snow fort. It would be so much fun!”

  But I had a party to put on. I didn’t have time for fun. “No! You’ll make a mess and track in snow. Read a book or play a quiet game,” I ordered. “I’ve laid out your good clothes for tonight.”

  Their faces fell and they trudged away, shoulders drooping, while I tackled the window Ryan had smeared. At this rate, I’d never be ready for tonight’s festivities.

  Before he left, Nathan had tuned the radio to a station playing carols. As I wielded a spray bottle of window cleaner, I heard the beginning strains of “Joy to the World”.

  “There’s no joy in our house,” I muttered, feeling woefully unappreciated.

  Neither the boys nor Nathan understood that I was doing all this for them!

  Then I paused, paper towel raised to wipe away the last hand print. What exactly was I doing for the boys? All of my fussing and fretting had taken the “merry” out of our Christmas. My perfectionism had substituted “stress” for celebration of the season. I gazed out at the steady fall of snow, my heart aching, and suddenly thought about my mother.

  She’d been gone for over ten years and I still missed her so much. Somehow, each winter storm had a spell that enticed Mother outside. She reveled in snow, whether it appeared in the form of blizzards or flurries. I remembered watching her smile in peaceful satisfaction as flakes fell on her upturned face and powdered her hair.

  Mother believed snow was a special gift from God. In her eyes, the singular pattern of each snowflake affirmed the uniqueness of each person, the individuality of us all. If anyone questioned her passion for the white stuff, she quoted Shelly, “I love snow and all the forms of the radiant frost.”

  I used my apron to wipe away a tear, recalling those Christmas mornings when my sister and I were awakened early by Mother warbling, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!” Giggling with excitement, we’d jump out of bed and into our snowsuits. The three of us would hurry outside to build a snow manager and shape a baby Jesus to lay in it.

  Then it was off to serenade the cattle with Christmas carols while helping Daddy with his barn chores. Afterwards, we tumbled into the heavenly warmth of the kitchen, our mittens soaked and our noses red with cold, where oatmeal simmered on the stove.

  I blinked back more tears as I pictured that kitchen, cluttered yet cozy, with a scatter of boots and mittens lying in a puddle near the door. Mother's current knitting project usually shared countertop space with the my father’s handwritten milking log and the squirrel-shaped cookie jar handed down from Grandma Ethel. We could hardly eat our oatmeal because we knew that after this wholesome breakfast, we’d open our presents while sipping hot chocolate and nibbling molasses cookies dusted with powdered sugar.

  I shook my head in disbelief at my own blindness. How could I have imagined that I could improve on those long ago Christmas mornings with all my polishing and scrubbing? I wouldn’t trade one of them for a picture perfect party.

  I slowly put down the window cleaner and paper towels, realizing that I’d been trying to create a tradition by hosting a memorable party each year. But in the whirl of planning and preparation, I’d forgotten my past. Forsaken my family customs by leaving them locked away in memory.

  But memories fade. Traditions die if they aren't continued. Abandoned, they have no choice but to melt away, like snowflakes in the sun. Lost forever. Heartsick, I pressed my lips against the child-size hand print decorating the cool glass. Instead of counting my special blessings, I’d wasted my energy in cleaning them up.

  But it wasn’t too late! Snatching up my “to do” list, I tore it into tiny pieces.

  Outside, snow continued to fall. There was time. Time to continue a tradition.

  Nathan entered the room. “Shall I get dressed yet? Or is there something I can do to help you get ready?”

  I tossed the pieces of my “to do” list into the air and laughed as the confetti fluttered down. “You can start by making hot chocolate. Enough for all of us.”

  My husband blinked. “Hot chocolate? What about the buffet?”

  “I’ve decided to serve hot dogs. We can roast them in the fireplace. A fire is so delightful when the weather outside is frightful.”

  “You’ve been listening to too many Christmas songs,” a bewildered Nathan decided.

  “But the weather isn’t frightful—it's perfect!” I tore off my apron and gave my dumbfounded husband a hearty kiss. “Say, what carols do you think the pigs would enjoy? Our cattle always preferred ‘Away in the Manger’.”

  Nathan laughed as, with a song in my heart, I hurried to find my precious children.

  “Boys!” I hollered. “Get your snow pants and coats on. We’ve got some memories and some snowmen to make!”

  THE END

  One Midnight Clear

  The click startled Tim out of his bleak thoughts. “Hey!”

  Raising his right hand, he stared at the woman whose left was lifted in an identical gesture—and belatedly realized they were handcuffed together.

  Ignoring the jostling of passersby, Tim had been studying a store window scene of children sledding. The windblown curls and smile of the littlest mannequin reminded him of his daughter.

  But Amy was in Georgia this Christmas Eve with her mother, a faraway place with no snow, no sleds—and no father. Tonight Tim fancied himself a brooding, Scrooge-like figure and he’d even muttered a few “Bah, humbugs!” as he walked.

  Standing outside the store, he felt isolated amid the hurrying people. They all had places to go and loved ones to buy for while he had no one. Nothing. God, I'm so lonely! his heart cried in silent prayer.

  Wrapped in his sorrowful reflections, Tim had been only vaguely aware that a woman had joined him until he was jarred from his apathy by their bizarre linkage.

  The metal lay cold against his skin. Tim's gaze travelled up the sleeve of his companion to eyes the rich brown of molasses above a mouth shaped into a startled “o”.

  “Am I under arrest?” Tim asked. He'd never heard of cops, even the undercover variety, wearing purple stocking caps sprinkled with snowflakes.

  The woman didn't respond. She might have stepped out of the store window, abandoning her plastic children on the hill of fake snow, before freezing again into immobility.

  “What's the charge? Loitering?” Tim raised his voice. What kind of game was this woman playing?

  “But I didn't. And if I didn't and you didn't—” Awareness animated his companion's features and she whirled, yanking Tim around, too. “Charles Martin Hunt! Where did you get these?”

  Tim realized for the first time that a boy stood just behind them, a child who held his body rigid in a defensive posture.

  Her tone and the use of his full name apparently convinced young Charles that evasion would be imprudent. “In your bedroom.” A gulp. “I was looking for presents.”

  A gal who kept handcuffs in her bedroom. Tim arched his brows, his interest captured, along with his wrist.

  A flush dyed the woman's throat scarlet and she shot an apprehensive glance at the man beside her. “You know you're forbidden to snoop in my room. And why try them out on this poor fellow?”

  A defiant shrug, but Tim noted the sparkle of tears in the boy's eyes. A crowd was gathering, with people staring more at their strange tableau than at the window display behind them.

  “Do you have the key?” the woman demanded, only to be answered with another guilty, but still defiant shrug.

  She glared at the culprit until the comical aspects of the situation caused her lips to twitch. “Charlie, you've come up with a doozy this time.”

  With a charming tilt of her head, she smiled ruefully at Tim. “How do you feel about going to a family party with a pair of lunatics?”

  Half an hour later, Tim found himself sharing a seat on a bus. In that span of time, he'd learned that the woman's name was Ellen, her husband had been a policeman, and Christmas Eve was not the ideal time to find a place where handcuffs can be removed.
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br />   “My husband was killed by a kid high on crack.” Ellen leaned over to breathe the words into Tim's ear, so that Charlie, crowded on her other side, couldn't overhear. “'I kept his badge and handcuffs as a remembrance for Charlie when he's older.”

  “Losing his father must have been rough on your son,” Tim offered gruffly.

  “Charlie misses David.” Ellen looked down at her lap. “Holidays are difficult.”

  In her wistful tone, Tim heard the echo of endless, lonely nights spent in a home where joy and happiness had once dwelt. On impulse, he said, “This season has been difficult for me, too. My ex-wife recently moved to Georgia with our daughter.”

  Ellen squeezed his hand in sympathy. “You must miss her dreadfully.”

  Tim nodded. If he could speak without bursting into tears, he'd confess that he'd give anything to undo what he'd done.

  What had his single-minded climb up the career ladder gotten him? An expensive, soulless condominium, a corner office—and handcuffed to a stranger on Christmas Eve. In pursuing success, he'd ignored the principles for maintaining a healthy marriage, and now he was reaping the unhappy harvest.

  “Thanks for understanding.” Ellen shifted and the handcuffs chinked musically. “Grandma Maria would be devastated if I missed the family party. After I put in an appearance, we'll go to my place and dig out the key.”

  Surprised exclamations greeted their arrival at the apartment which was their destination.

  An elderly woman bustled up and threw her arms around Ellen. “Merry Christmas! Who is this nice person?” Her gaze devoured Tim. “Finally took an old lady's advice, eh?'”

  “'Yes, Grandma. But good men are difficult to find, so when I finally met another great guy, I made sure he couldn't get away.” Ellen held up her hand, her sleeve falling away to reveal that the two of them were joined together.