A Cozy Country Christmas Anthology (2 page)

“Run and get washed up,” I told the excited
children. “Mommy needs to start getting supper ready.”

Ed scraped a hump of dough off the nearest
counter. “Looks like Mommy needs some help cleaning up,” he
observed.

With a rueful grin, I gestured toward a plate
of misshapen snickerdoodles. “I doubt that anyone seeing these
cookies would know I have artist’s soul,” I remarked.

Ed put his arm around my shoulders. “Maybe
not, hon. But anyone could tell you’ve got a mother’s heart.”

I snuggled into his embrace, savoring the
start of a wonderful, new holiday tradition.

THE END

If Wishes Were
Horses

“Oh, Mom, isn’t he beautiful?” Eight-year-old
Kim trembled with excitement. “I’ve prayed every night for a horse
for Christmas ... and here he is!”

“He” was an Appaloosa that had galloped up
our lane, nostrils flaring, before stopping at the barn door.

My husband, Bob, led him into a stall and
slapped the animal’s muscular shoulder. “I bet this fella belongs
to Sue Martin,” he said. “This morning, at the feed store, she
mentioned getting a barrel racer.”

Kim vigorously shook her head, insisting,
“He’s my horse. God sent him!” Refusing to be torn even for supper
from “her” horse, Kim remained in the barn, currying the
mud-spattered coat with a 5¢ comb she’d bought at months ago at a
farm auction.

I finally got Sue on the phone. She’d been
driving around in search of her missing steed. Soon, she arrived
with a horse trailer. “‘Silver Dollar’ just got spooked by a
neighbor’s dog,” Sue explained. “Thanks for taking care of
him.”

Kim stood by silently as the clop of hooves
on the ramp drummed an end to her dream.

I put my arm around the slumped, narrow
shoulders in the faded pink parka. “I’m sorry, Kim. But, even if
someone did give us a horse for free, we couldn’t afford to feed
it.”

Kim shrugged me off, weary of hearing how the
drought a summer ago had left us barely able to make ends meet.

Later, as she pushed around vegetables in
reheated soup, I noticed a tear splash into the bowl. We sat alone
in the kitchen while Bob finished chores.

“I know you’re disappointed,” I soothed.
“Maybe next year...”

Kim stirred her untasted soup. “I need a
horse now. You don’t have to buy me any more presents for the rest
of my life. I’ll get a job to pay for his hay—”

“Kim, we can’t afford new shoes for you and a
horse needs two pair!”

She ignored my feeble attempt at humor.
“Christmas is supposed to be when you get what you want,” Kim
sniffed. “And I want a horse!”

I sighed. “You have the wrong idea, darling.
Christmas is when we celebrate God’s gift to us—His Son. And the
best way to do that is by giving to others.”

Kim stared into her bowl. Platitudes were
useless, I realized. At her age, she needed an example to which she
could relate.

I touched her hand. “For my seventh
birthday,” I confided, “I wanted just one thing, more than anything
in the world.”

No response. I pressed on valiantly. “It was
a china tea set decorated with violets—a complete set with teapot,
cups, sugar bowl and creamer.”

Grudgingly, Kim queried, “Did your parents
get it for you?”

“They planned to. But then my little brother
got sick, and his medicine was very expensive.”

She scowled but I continued. “Later, an aunt
gave me $5 for a present. I was thrilled, because I could buy the
tea set!”

Uninterested, Kim squirmed. “I’m not hungry,
Mom. May I be excused?”

“You know what, though?” I ignored her
fidgets. “I didn’t buy it.'”

Kim stopped half way out of her chair. “Why?
I thought you wanted it more than anything in the whole world.”

I nodded. “When my dad took me to the store,
I picked up that set and imagined pouring tea for my dolls.” Even
now, I could still recall the thrill of clutching that box close to
me. “Then I saw a baseball glove and remembered Andy lying in bed
at home.”

Sinking back, Kim really looked at me for the
first time. “You bought the glove instead? Did Andy like it?”

My vision blurred and I swallowed hard, once
more engulfed by the anxiety and grief of that long-ago summer.
“Andy never got well enough to play, Kim. But he slept with that
glove in his arms. That made me happier than any tea set ever
could.”

I saw the sparkle of tears in Kim’s eyes
before she darted out of the kitchen, leaving me to my
memories...and the hope she understood the message I’d tried to
convey.

On Christmas morning, Kim didn't once mention
horses. She thanked us for her new parka and matching scarf. “Open
this one next, Mom.” Eyes shining, Kim placed a big box in my
lap.

I ripped away the tissue paper and gasped. In
the box was a child’s china tea set decorated with violets—complete
with teapot, cups, sugar bowl and creamer.

Bob gave me a puzzled look as tears rolled
down my cheeks. “Kim dragged me to five stores till we found that.
And now you’re crying?”

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.