Who wrote it? Stories from our holiday gatherings, December 2022.

Lenore Troia-The Elusive Black Dog

THE ELUSIVE BLACK DOG

“Good girl!” the hunter exclaimed as a bullet pummeled rabbit dropped at his feet.

“Wow! She’s a great fetcher!” said his buddy. “Trained already!”

Gun powder dusted the crisp November air as ribbons of sunlight danced through the forest.

“I know!” replied the hunter. “I love this little gal! She learned quick. Natural for her breed.”

The pursuit continued as Raven, the young black Lab, retrieved rabbit after rabbit throughout a long and plentiful day. At dusk, the dimming light signaled time to pack up munitions and Raven followed the happy hunters down the trail back to their pickup. The men piled their bounty into the truck bed and racked their rifles behind the cab window.

“Great day!” said the hunter as they peeled off their orange vests.

“You bet,” said his buddy. “Got a lot of rabbit meat to process!”

“We sure do! Hey where’s Raven? You see her?” asked the hunter.

“Can’t be too far. She was right behind us.” said his buddy.

The hunter circled around and scanned the area. No sign of the pup. He looked under the truck and then back in the truck bed. His buddy headed back toward the trail.

“You see ‘er?” the hunter yelled.

“No. I don’t.” his buddy yelled back.

“Where the hell is she?” said the hunter as panic set in.

Their high-powered flashlights illuminated deep into the woods. But no sign of Raven. Darkness set in. Their hearts sank. They had to find her. But they didn’t.

Days went by. Many days. Then, miles away, a lakefront communities’ Facebook page suddenly blew up.

“Is anyone missing a black dog?”

A comment, “Saw it in my yard too.”

A picture appeared with the caption, “This dog is wandering here on Secord Lake Shore Drive close to the little marina. Anybody?” Then another post, “It was in my yard too. Called to it but she ran.”

Appearing in several yards, she ran from anyone trying to engage with her. Photos revealed a collar with a tag. Posts stated specific locations and directions. “Black dog still running. Just spotted heading south towards the Eagles restaurant.”

Twenty-seven days went by with the dog appearing and disappearing. Then, the neighborhood organized. A two-mile radius was set up to try and capture the mysterious canine.

People kept posting. “Is there a spot you recommend to patrol looking for the elusive black dog?”

“OK. I’m at the curve on Okemos waiting for the little stinker to come back. She ate half a can of dog food. Could not grab her. I’m on a stakeout now,” followed by “I’m on the corner of Cherokee St. She’s heading toward Lake Shore.” Then “spotted in woods on Thendara Drive. Headed toward Pineland Dr. 10:45am, Nov 29” and “Update, black dog seen on Glave Cove off Boman, 15 minutes ago. Looks like she met a porcupine.”

By request, the local Humane Society provided a live trap. Setting inside it a large chunk of ham, everyone involved watched and waited patiently. Finally, after another several days, the dog appeared in the cage. Friendly enough, she allowed folks to view her tag. It read “Raven” followed by a phone number. The happiest of posts announced “The little black dog that has evaded capture for the past month has been caught as of 20 minutes ago. She is safe, warm, and fed.”

The remaining details of Ravens story were covered on social media. The hunter explained how she strayed off, and heartbroken, he thought he would never see her again. But with the teamwork of caring folks, she was finally returned to her grateful owner. The final post on Facebook read, “She’s going to be home for Christmas. Reunited. Best post all year.”

Laura Bender-The Living Nativity

The Living Nativity “Finally, it’s started,” Adriane said to the seven other teenagers gathered in a lean-to on the far side of the church building. “Good, ‘cause I’m freezing,” said Peter. He pulled his long brown robe tighter. Over the wind, the sounds of laughter, mingled with the somewhat in-tune singing of Sunday School classes, wafted through the cracked-open back door of the fellowship hall. Ginny shifted from one cold foot to the other. “It’ll be another forty-five minutes before they bring everyone outside to see our nativity. What do you want to do until then?” “Hey, quit that,” Adriane said to the goat attached to the leash wrapped twice around her wrist. “Quit humping my leg.” “He only wants to chew on your sleeve,” Peter said, as he patted a wooly ewe on her head. “This miniature cow is cute,” Ginny said, but she’s restless. “Do you think we could take these guys for a walk? We have plenty of time.” “If it’ll get this goat off me, I’ll go,” said Adriane. Animals in tow, the group set off down the main road, past the church to the grocery store two blocks away. Mary, Joseph, an angel, two shepherds, three kings, a goat, a donkey, two sheep, and a mini cow circled the perimeter of the parking lot. Before heading back to the church, the teens and their menagerie wandered past the store’s large plate-glass window and waved at those inside. Lesley looked at her watch. “We’d better get back. The Sunday School presentations are gonna end soon.” The wandering creche returned just in time to take their places around the manger. Suddenly, the rear fellowship hall door opened. The teens, in biblical garb, posed on cue as overly excited children dragged their weary parents into the night air. Two members of the chancel choir broke into song and the crowd joined them. “Away in a manger, no crib for a bed.” “Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains.” Parental paparazzi cameras flashed. During the third hymn, a sixth grader sang “We three kings of orient are, smoking on a rubber cigar.” His father took swift action. “Field and fountain, moor and mountain, following yonder star,” he continued properly. The trip to the manger ended with the heavenly sounds of Silent Night. All four verses. The Living Nativity of 1987 was a success. The next morning, the office phone rang. “You’ve reached the church secretary. How may I help you?” Without identifying herself, the caller replied, “I think my husband is drinking again. He’s been sober for two years, but last night when he came home from the grocery store, he told me he’d seen an angel leading a cow through the parking lot. Is the pastor available? I’d like to make an appointment.”

Ken Stephenson-The Naughty List

The Naughty List

Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg. The Bat-mobile, lost a wheel, and the Joker got away.

Tragic.

I learned that little ditty from my older brothers. I remember singing it, ad nauseam, until my brothers regretted ever teaching it to me. I was six years old and up until then I had been a trouble-free child. But that year I discovered my independence, and began to delight in the sounds of exasperation from my mother whenever I misbehaved. My brother Tom had always been the problem child and reveled at the idea that I, our mom's sweet angel, was not so perfect. He went so far as to insinuate that a few of his past misdeeds were mine. I didn't care that parental anger was misdirected, until the threat of spanking was introduced. My illicit activities were curtailed for a short time, but soon I discovered the threat held no real punishment. The one time I actually did receive a slap, it hurt my mother’s hand more than my fleshy bottom. My illicit activities were finally curtailed that Thanksgiving when the Elf on the Shelf appeared on the mantle over the fireplace. At first, I thought it was just another Christmas decoration, sitting there with its long spindly legs, a red elf hat, and huge eyes that saw everything. He made the room smell like cinnamon. Tom informed me that this was Santa's spy. He told me the elf would watch a particular child all day, then report her behavior to Santa. If you were good, you would be put on the nice list and you would receive a toy for Christmas. If you were bad, your name would end up on the naughty list, and you received a lump of coal in your Christmas stocking. If only I could have reached him, the Elf on the Shelf might have had an accident, like falling into the fireplace while it was lit. Christmas morning finally arrived and I found a black plastic piece of coal in my stocking (courtesy of my brother). From then on I was very good. Or, at least, I was never caught again. Even today I keep an eye out for that little fellow with spindly legs wearing a red elf hat just in case Santa is still watching me. Although I thought this practice was cruel when I was a child, I must admit, over the years I have employed the Elf on the Shelf to keep my own kids in line. At least for awhile.

Ty Black-Brain Drizzle

Frank poked his head into Ben’s meager office, “Ben! Any ideas for the new project yet?” Ben squinted at the screen feeling pain inflicted by Frank’s voice, “Nothing that seems to work yet.” “Well better get a brainstorm brewing soon. Beth wants something by the end of the week.” Beth ruled the office from the top down. A stunning woman, like a snake bite. Ben forced a reply, “It’s more of a brain drizzle so far. I’ll let you know when I get something.” “Great!” Ben listened as Frank’s footsteps scuffed down the hall toward his office stopping by the secretary station, “Barb, make sure I’m copied on the teams write-ups,” and her reply, “It is in the template you gave us.” Ben thought, “Yeah, Frank. I’ll let you pick the bones of another idea as soon as I get it.” His mind felt numb and he felt trapped by the four close walls with one open doorway. A fantastic upgrade from an open cubicle, Frank’s reward for Ben’s ideas that got Frank the promotion. “This is a lease space so no marks or holes in the walls. And keep your desks neat in case clients come through.” Clutter inspired Ben. But his office was anything but inspiring with barely a scheduling calendar on his right wall and one small family picture squeezed onto his desk among the working papers and computer. The computer was a hand-me-down from bosses. Ben rated the best one. The latest bells and whistles of two years ago. The screen held his special type of clutter. He filed his documents and drawings in his own way. “At least they aren’t telling me how to organize my own files; for now,” he thought. He still had his personal bubble of sanity, beaten and scarred but functional. Ben stared at the screen, then took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes and face, and stretched his back before settling in the chair again. “Clutter, ” his mind shouted. “Resources!.. Treasures'.” Ben’s mind suddenly focused, his head cleared. “What? No. Wait,” he said to himself. He thought about it. This machine had access to thousands of documents. Scraps of past thought. Maybe a search engine. No, a different kind of engine. One that can find hidden relevance, yes branches in the thicket of ideas. An engine that could navigate the forest like squirrels chasing branch to branch. But what would they look for, how would they find the treasures... Ben looked at the photo on his desk. Clare and the kids at The Ledges park along the trail. They tried out geocaching that day; clues, coordinates, observations. Three-dimensional. Dynamic. “It could work, ” he thought. His cellphone vibrated and began the irritating tune he had assigned to Frank’s number. “Yeah Frank.” “Hey Ben. Have a team meeting tomorrow at ten to nail down some ideas. Get a note out to everyone, alright.” “Alright Frank, but is there any more guidance for a goal?” “I’ll be there to help you along. I’m sure we’ll come up with something great. See you tomorrow.” “Alright, tomorrow.” The mind numbness returned. Ben took a deep breath, stretched, stared at the wall behind the desk. Another breath and then he sat up in the chair again. “What was I thinking about?... The note. I’d better do that while I remember.”

Diane Hammond-Oh, Christmas!

Oh, Christmas!

Tinsel. Strand. By. Strand. No clumping, no cheating, no tossing. Placement was the thing, until you could scream from the tedium. No lights, though. Who knew from lights? We were Jewish. Our Christmas traditions were newly minted, our skills self-taught. Our ornaments did not go back decades or generations. The fiddly little hooks were new, the finishes on the glass balls still mostly virgin. But oh, the presents! So many presents; too many presents, and all of them right. And over way too quickly.

Still, soon it would be Easter!

Nancy Renko-A Home for Kris

A Home for Kris Andy loved watching birds. He saw how the starlings gathered in a single tree calling to any lost birds who were looking for a flock and a safe place to shelter. At the age of nine, he knew when the starlings fly together, twisting and turning and changing direction in perfect unison, it is called a "murmuration." Aaron, his twin brother, paid no attention to nature. He didn't notice the blue eggs in a robin's nest, nor did he know that the brighter blue eggs meant a healthy female would soon emerge. Aaron was good at other things though. He played soccer and often scored goals, making him a hero to other boys. Andy did not care for sports and didn't have a lot of friends, but when he watched the birds, he felt at peace, until one bird broke his heart. On a late December day, when the skies were completely covered by gray clouds, Andy found an injured starling on the ground. Andy gently lifted his little friend and placed it in a shoebox. He showed it to Aaron, who said, "What are you going to do with that bird? Just leave it alone." "But it's hurt, and I'm going to feed it worms and keep it warm until it can fly again." "You wouldn't catch me playing nurse to a stupid bird." Andy fed the bird and kept it warm. But despite his best efforts, the bird died. Andy buried the small creature in the backyard and felt sadder than he had ever felt in his short-lived existence. Mom attempted to distract him from his sorrow by asking him to help bake Christmas cookies and decorate the tree. He agreed to help but did so with little joy. Mom worried this was going to be a blue Christmas. She asked dad to help. That evening, dad took Andy out for a walk to the park. The shimmering snow and deep velvet, clear skies made for a good night to stargaze. Dad pointed out the Big Dipper and the North Star. Andy brightened a little, then shivered. He asked to go home because he was cold. Dad, not wanting to give up, suggested, "Andy, let's go Christmas shopping tomorrow, you, me and Aaron together, to find a special gift for mom." Andy tried to be excited about shopping, but still felt so sad about his bird that he cried himself to sleep. On Christmas Eve day, Andy, Aaron, and dad headed out to downtown Midland and found the perfect gift, a crystal ornament, a hummingbird with its wings in flight. Andy perked up momentarily, but by the time they got back to the car, his smile had faded. They stopped at Walmart for milk. Near the door stood a dark-haired girl with a sweet smile who seemed about Andy's age. An older boy who appeared to be her brother, guarded the box sitting on the pavement in front of them. "Could you give our puppy a home for Christmas?" She reached into the box and pulled out a baby Golden Lab with whitish fur. The pup had dark eyes, a black nose, and floppy ears. "Can I just hold him for a minute, Dad?" "Okay Son." The puppy licked Andy's face all over, as Andy giggled. "Can we take him home, please, can we keep him? Aaron echoed, "Please Dad, please." "He's free," his owner explained," We had three pups earlier and this is the only one who doesn't have a home yet." "Well, Andy, I think Mom would say yes, so let's do it. All that's left is to find a name." "Well, it is Christmas Eve and in honor of Santa, how about calling him Kris, as in Kris Kringle? Andy laughed. Aaron hugged Andy and their new furball adding, "I can't wait till mom sees Kris, the best Christmas present ever!"

Marylou Bugh-RM Kevin

rm Kevin As a homeless character at Christmas, the Libertytown's Beneficent Association paired me with a family who volunteered to host a wretch like me for the day, a plan I originally resisted. I lived on the streets by day, retired to my little carboard shelter at night and felt little need to spend Christmas any differently. I finally agreed, only because the young woman who arranged it reminded me of my sister before I went off to war. Like Teresa, this young woman thought a day in the embrace of family would change my chosen way of life. Such a child. But I couldn't bear to disappoint her and I'd get a good meal. I arrived at the McClean's at the appointed time, an hour before the Christmas feast, 'to get acquainted' the young woman said. Mrs. McClean opened the door and threw her arms around me. "I'm so glad you came, Oliver." "I'm Kevin," I said. "Come, meet the family." Mr. McClean jumped off the couch and held out his hand. "Welcome to our home, Oliver." "Kevin," I corrected him. "Bureaucratic bungling." He waved his hand. "Meet our daughters, Skye and Althea." He didn't bother to tell me which was which and neither enlightened me as they raised their hands to wordlessly greet me. An old man shuffled into the room but nobody bothered to introduce him. "Been in a war, have you?" the man said. "Father, we don't talk about war," Mr. McClean said. "Lost my wife when I came back," the old man said. "Lost my job too. Couldn't keep my job" Before I could reply, the door burst open and a hale and hearty man followed by a skinny woman breezed in. "Merry Christmas," the man yelled. The skinny woman smiled at me. "You must be Oliver. We've heard so much about you." "Kevin," I said. "I was in Korea and bulldozed frozen bodies into a pit," the old man said to me. "Where did you serve?" The hale and hearty man strode over and clapped a hand on the old man's shoulder. "Shouldn't you be in your room resting?"

The old man shuffled back down the hall. "Got to take him in hand, Ervin," the man said to Mr. McClean. "The man should be in an institution." I went down the hall and opened a door where the old man sat on his bed. "Afghanistan," I said before I escaped out the back door.

Debbie Walker- A Christmas Tale

A Christmas Tale

Once upon a time, in Christmas, Michigan, Theodore and Stella Hansen with their eight children, Christopher, Angela, Mary, Felix, Josephine, Bennett, Holly and Nicholas lived on Santa Clause Lane in a rustic, two-story farmhouse with a capacious wraparound porch.

Theodore was a giving man, worked hard, loved his wife, and raised his children in the north-pole type settlement on the Lake Superior shoreline. His wife Stella treasured the town’s ambience with the 35-foot-tall Santa Clause, the elf-lined streets, and snow-crusted trees.

In the warmer months she enjoyed working in her garden and spent her evenings on the porch admiring her favorite bush, a Snowball. The years past, the children grew up, moved away and eventually Theodore and Stella Hansen were buried in the Wetmore Cemetery.

When my dad, Nick, learned his childhood home was scheduled to be torn down, he asked my Uncle Chris, “Is the snowball bush still there?” My Dad drove to Christmas, dug up a part of that bush and planted it on his own property.

And, although the family of Theodore and Stella Hansen from Christmas, Michigan are all gone, their Snowball Bush thrives, bigger and lovelier than ever and I smile knowing that one day, my ashes will be buried next to my dad’s under the Snowball’s white loving branches.

Mike Salsbury-Best Christmas Present Ever!

Best Christmas Present Ever!

In my prepubescence, a favorite aunt had been babysitting my little sister after school until my mother got off work; and of course, my younger brother and I went along. My aunt was always playing Scrabble, baking, and doing other fun things with us. One day while baking, I grabbed a sheet of tin foil (what we called it way back then) and began sculpting it into shapes, musing all the while how fun I thought it would be to make an entire sculpture out of foil. When my aunt asked if I ever had done that before, I replied that my mom would kill me if she caught me using her tin foil for artistic purposes (Mom was ever practical and never a great supporter of my artistic endeavors). My aunt allowed me to make all kinds of cool little sculptures with her tin foil that afternoon, I had fun, and we went home. End of story — or so I thought. When Christmas rolled around that year with Mom's side of the family, I was very excited because, under the tree, there was an oddly shaped gift with my name on it. My brother, cousin, and I were all nearly the same age so we always got identical gifts, e.g., three of the same shirts, each a different color, or three model cars, each a different model but same price point... you know, everything according to the "rules." Anyway, my gift was shaped differently than my brother's and my cousin's so I was convinced I had somehow, as the oldest grandchild, graduated to the adult gifts or something. This was going to be cool. When it came time to unwrap our gifts, my brother and my cousin both unwrapped plastic model cars (Camaro's, I think) and then my aunt said I could unwrap my gift. You guessed it: four giant economy size rolls of aluminum foil! Remember I said I was a prepubescent. I tried, I really did try to be as gracious as any 11-year-old boy faced with four giant rolls of tin foil could ever be while my aunt retold the story of my glory day making foil sculptures; but evidently, I failed. I remember my mother finally pulling me from the living room to the family room, where she scolded me for my lack of appreciation and promised she would buy the aluminum foil from me so I could take the money and get a Battling Tops game instead. I promptly and gratefully took her up on her never-to-be-repeated, all-sales-are-final offer. Oh, I loved my Battling Tops game, to be sure, but it didn't take too many years before I began to look back on that memory with more mature eyes and to realize that my aunt had actually given me the very best Christmas present in the whole world that year. In my whole life and to this day, I don't believe I’ve ever received a Christmas gift with more care, thought, and encouragement put into it than that gift. That along with many other memories of my aunt have grown dearer to me with each passing decade, especially now that cancer has ended her time on earth with us. I’m sure her foil is made of gold these days! May my own gift-giving always be filled with as much thought, love, and encouragement, whether I follow all the unwritten "rules" and expectations or not.

Laura Bender-Dear Elmer

Dear Elmer, Written in 2010

It’s Christmastime again. Last week when I was out to sea on USS New York, my husband Ken (you’d like him) brought down the boxes of decorations from the attic and before I got home, had hung your sleigh bells on the front door. I love how they jingle on our way in or out, and they were especially cheery to hear when I arrived home after ten days away. How is it you have been gone for sixteen years and can still bring joy to others?

I remember when we met. I was standing by the side door greeting parishioners on my first Sunday as pastor of my first church. I felt inadequate and awkward; secretly wishing the real minister would show up and take charge. You stopped to shake my hand and asked if you could show me around town the next day. I remember that you told me you had made the same offer to the previous pastor on his first Sunday, too, but he had not taken you up on it. So how could I refuse? You were the patriarch of the congregation–you’d been there longer than anyone else. I didn’t want to turn down your invitation, but I was anxious about it. You were more than fifty years my senior. It seemed silly to imagine I could be your pastor.

The next day you came to pick me up at the parsonage and we headed straight for the cemetery. That this was our first stop surprised me. We drove up the hill near the more recent interments and got out of the car. “Let me tell you about your congregation,” you’d said as you began pointing to various graves. “Let’s start with their parents who are buried here. That will help you understand why they are the way they are,” you said with a grin.

You know, Elmer, the stories you told me that day gave me valuable insight into the dynamics in our church. And when later in the day you took me to the other churches and helping agencies in town and introduced me as you pastor, I started to think or at least hope that perhaps I could be. But nothing made me feel as welcome as when we visited your wife Evelyn’s grave and after telling me at length about her, you paused, looked right at me and said, “You know, she’d like you.” It was the best compliment I could imagine.

Although making me welcome was part of your agenda for that day, I know it was not the whole story. You were also getting things settled. At eighty you knew you would not live much longer, and you needed to make plans. So, you took me to see the graves of the people you had known and loved throughout your life and then got down to business.

“One day you will bring me here and leave me,” you’d said. “And when you do that, I don’t want you to feel bad. I’ve lived a good life and have now outlived most of my closest companions. On the day you bring me here, Pastor, remember that you are really bringing me home.”

I guess I should not have been surprised when four and a half years later, on my last Sunday as your pastor before I transferred to my next assignment, I got a phone call after lunch. “Elmer was found dead in his recliner” the voice on the other end of the line said.

“But I just saw him a few hours ago. He attended the Sunday service and shook hands with me on his way home. How can he be dead?” But you were. After worship you’d gone back to your house, sat down in your favorite chair and gone home to be with Evelyn and all those people to whom you’d introduced me. And the last thing I did before I left that church for good was take you up the hill in Wappingers Rural Cemetery to where the more recent graves were located and leave you, just as you’d said I would. And I didn’t feel bad doing it. It’s not that I didn’t miss you; we all missed you. You were a sweet and caring man. But I didn’t feel bad because I’d been able to do for you exactly what you’d asked me to do — send you home to that place we both know is wonderful.

Now since it is Christmas again, Elmer, I must report to you on how my other assignment is going. You remember, the one about the bells? It was a snowy day when you gave them to me. The church youth group had stopped by your house to sing a few carols, and as you’d done every year, you’d come out on your porch to jingle the bells and join us in singing.

They were real sleigh bells, you’d told us. They’d come off a sleigh you’d ridden in as a child, and the sound of them accompanying the carols never ceased to bring a smile to our faces. They were one of your treasures, so I was surprised when, on what turned out to be your last Christmas, you called me back as the teens headed off toward the next house. Placing the bells in my hand, you gave me the assignment: “Make sure you find a way for them to bring someone joy each Christmas,” you’d said.

Well, Elmer, here is this year’s report: Tonight, my husband was invited to play Santa Claus for the children of Sailors who are not yet halfway through a nine-month deployment. These Sailors will not be home for Christmas, nor were they there for Thanksgiving. They will miss Easter with their families and even Memorial Day. But tonight, when they heard your sleigh bells, their faces brightened with expectation, for Santa (who is not subject to Navy deployments) was arriving as scheduled, just as you did in heaven.

So, thank you, Elmer, not only for helping me to become your pastor, but for your perpetual Christmas gift, which warms our hearts every year — that of finding ways to bring joy to others.

Oh, and my husband Ken, he’d like you, too! Love always, Pastor Laura

PS. It is now 2022, and you have been gone for 28 years. But looking at these faces, I think you’ve done it again…

Kay Butzin-A White Christmas

A WHITE CHRISTMAS

by Kay Butzin

Snow crystals glittered under the rising sun, and jackrabbit tracks cut through the corn stubble. We walked down the middle of the gravel road preceded by clouds of breath. Our rubber boots squeaked; and when my sister Donna talked, her frozen chin moved like Howdy Doody's wooden jaw. I could see the fins of Grandpa’s Cadillac above the snow bank lining Aunt Gerry’s driveway.

"When Gerry called, she said the kids have been awake for an hour," Mom told Dad.

He chuckled. "They'll be wound up," he predicted.

***

Mom stuck her head through the back door and called out, "Merry Christmas!"

"They're here!" Randy hollered.

"Yay!" yelled Tim.

Joni toddled behind, raising her arms for me to pick her up.

Perked coffee and fresh pine replaced the odor of cold in my nose. Aunt Gerry knelt next to the pile of gifts stacked around a tree whose star aspired to touch the ceiling. Mom and Dad joined Grandma on the davenport, Dad draping his arm around Mom's shoulder. My sister and I settled cross-legged on the floor, while Tim clowned and Randy rummaged through the gifts looking for one with his name on the tag.

Grandpa presided from the LaZboy.

In fifteen minutes, what had required weeks of shopping, hours of wrapping, and hundreds of dollars to put together littered the floor.

"Don't throw away any presents," Mom warned Donna and me as we rolled up the wrapping paper carpet and stuffed it into trash bags. "And keep the bows. We can use them again next year."

Grandma pulled a pinafore apron over her head. "I'll put on the bacon while you baste the turkey,” she said to Aunt Gerry.

Dad, Grandpa and Uncle Ed sauntered out to the garage where Grandpa had deposited a bottle of Seagram’s for the annual Christmas toast. Uncle Ed stuck his head into the kitchen and motioned for the women to participate in the ritual, but Mom said she’d wait till after she ate.

"You might not get another chance," he teased.

“Tell everyone breakfast is ready," Grandma said.

Uncle Ed hollered, "Soup's on!"

We converged, squeezing elbow to elbow around the table.

"Who will say grace?" Grandma asked.

"Grace," Grandpa answered.

We laughed even though we'd heard the joke every Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter in memory. Then we bowed our heads and prayed together,

God is great, God is good. God, we thank You …

Nancy Renko-Father Nguyen’s Last Midnight Mass

Father Nguyen’s Last Midnight Mass by Nancy Renko

I was one of the eight hundred thousand Vietnamese “Boat People,” who fled our homeland on vessels overloaded with refugees. We braved the dangers of the China Sea and the Pacific to escape tyranny. The seas swallowed thousands who perished from storms, piracy, starvation, and dehydration. My journey took me far away from home to distant lands.

Tonight, I am celebrating my last Midnight Mass before retiring. I sit alone at the altar absorbing the beauty in this quiet space, enjoying the fragrance of the pines. White Poinsettias with red bows and Christmas trees aglow with twinkling lights surround the manger. The scene of the Holy family floats me back to my childhood.

I lived with my parents and eight siblings in a village near the city formerly called Saigon, now Ho Chi Minh City. My family enjoyed a simple life and we children shared a happy childhood. My parents farmed and fished. They took us to the village Catholic Church where we received the seed of faith.

War plagued us and destroyed our lives, one bomb, one bullet at a time. The Viet Cong invaded; American soldiers followed. My father saw hopelessness ahead, but as a farmer, he had learned to save seeds for future plantings. He handed me his wedding ring and money.

“You Nguyen, my first child must flee. We have no life now; only the hope of surviving, but the future is yours. Someday, you will be able to help your brothers and sisters. Cherish your roots, your country, and your family. Remember us as we were before the war and pray for us.”

Another memory looms. I sense the rocking motion of the sea and remember a sixty-foot fishing boat that launched my journey to freedom. Fighting seasickness, homesickness, and food shortages, I prayed, despaired, then prayed again. A freighter picked us up. Foreign sailors fed us, gave us blankets, and housed us in the bowels of the ship. The Germans, good people who neither looked like us, nor spoke our language, rescued us. In time, I acclimated. I began to understand my father’s vision and marveled at his wisdom.

I went into the Seminary; took vows as a Catholic priest. I served the Church for twenty years in Germany, then arrived in America to minister to this parish. The people here are loving and kind. They helped me file papers to bring my brother to the USA. My heart is full to have family with me now. It’s time for me to retire and although I’m sad, I’m thankful for a time to rest. I have been waiting thirteen years for my sister to join us in America. The paperwork is complete at last, and she will be here in a month. I thank God for yet another grace.

As people file in for Mass, I look up and see my brother in the vestibule. He is smiling brightly. He motions for me. I walk down the long aisle to greet him, and he steps aside. I see my baby sister standing behind him. She is a remarkable woman, fifteen years younger than me, with a beauty that is amazing.

She kisses me on both cheeks and says, “I am here. I got here in time. I prayed to hear my brother, Father Nguyen say Mass, and I am at last here.”

After seating them, I walk to the back of the church ready to start the processional. The choir sings, “O come, O come Emmanual, to ransom captive Israel, that mourns in lonely exile here, until the Son of God appear.” I walk steadily but tears wash over my face. Fifty years in the priesthood and there is no more glorious moment than this. “Rejoice, Rejoice, Emmanuel shall come to thee O Israel. “

Lenore Troia-Doc Who?

Doc Who? by Lenore Troia

“I can’t be sick on Christmas!” Stella declared between sneezes. “I’m calling the clinic.”

The blender buzzed away. Prepping dinner, Jake didn’t hear a word she said. Cell service was chronically sketchy in their remote neighborhood, so as usual it was difficult to decipher what the person on the other end was saying.

“Hel…, this… Doc Nic…. How…help…”

“Hold on, you’re breaking up.” Stella moved to a different room. “Doc who?”

“Doc Nicholas. Can you hear me now?”

“Yes Doc.”

“You sound terrible. Not feeling well?”

“No, think it’s the flu.”

“Well, the staff has gone home for Christmas, but I’m doing rounds tonight. I’ll bring something to make you feel better.”

“Thanks much Doc!” she rasped, ending the call.

“Poor guy,” Stella thought. “Has to work on Christmas eve. Can’t believe he’s willing to come out this way. Must live north of here. Saved Jake a trip into town.” She put on flannels and headed for bed.

“Chicken soup babe?” Jake realized dinner plans had changed.

“No hon, need to sleep. Best if you stay in the guest room tonight. And keep an eye out for Doc Nicholas.”

“Doc who?” Stella barely heard him ask before passing out.

Disappointed, Jake packed up the food hoping to resume the feast on Christmas day.

After some wine, he drifted off on the living room recliner and snoozed deeply as shadows from the blinking tree lights spread softly across the walls. Sleeping through the rooftop thumping above, he only remembered a strange dream about a chimney sweep cleaning the flue when his slumber was interrupted by bells jingling in the yard.

“Must be carolers,” he thought, getting up to investigate. But as the blur of his sleepy vision came into focus, he noticed a bottle in front of the fireplace alongside several sooty footprints. “What the heck!” he muttered.

Northern Brewery Tonic, read the label. “Active ingredients: sugar, honey, lemon, ginger, molasses, peppermint, licorice, elderberry, nettle, yarrow, mint, horseradish, lemongrass, rosemary, and thyme. Alcohol 50%.” Directions: “Stella, drink this down and feel better in the morning. Doc Nicholas.”

Jake checked the front door, then the side. Both were locked. He thought about the windows.

Stirring in the bedroom, “Everything alright? Did Doc Nicholas come by?”

“Well…apparently somebody did!” Jake quipped bringing her the concoction.

“Whew! Smells like whiskey!” Stella sniffed the open bottle as Jake handed it to her. She took a long swig directly out of it and gently floated back onto her pillow falling into a peaceful slumber.

Finishing his wine, Jake did the same, in the guest room. Visions of sugar plums danced in their heads. A serene and blissful sleep took them all the way till the early morning light when all was calm, and all was bright.

Jake was up early grilling pancakes. Stella awakened refreshed and with the aroma coming from the kitchen couldn’t wait to eat.

“Merry Christmas darling! Glad you’re cooking because I’m famished!”

“I see you’re feeling better! “

“Feeling great! Slept like a baby!”

“Guess that magic potion Doc Nicholas dropped off worked like a charm!”

She wrapped her arms around Jake and gave him a kiss. Then she asked, “Doc who?”

Ken Stephenson-Honey-Do

Honey-Do

by

Kenneth A. Stephenson

“C'mon Tom, up and at 'em, lot's to do today.” A large ginger cat lying on a disheveled blanket near the heater vent, half opened one eye and considered me a moment. Then yawned, stretched, and rolled up on his back, and went back to sleep.

“Sleeping in this morning are we?” I groused. “Lazy cat.”

I shambled to the kitchen in my robe and slippers, started the coffee maker and found the mug with I Love Cats on the side. With a groan I sat down at the table and pulled a yellowed piece of paper from my pocket. Written across the top, in my wife Lily's neat hand was honey-do list.

It was a list of chores she wanted me to finish while she was away. My dear mother-in-law had twisted an ankle and was making a major deal out of it. A few days had turned into three weeks caring for her but Lily was finally coming home. And I hadn't done a thing on her list. Mostly it consisted of hanging outdoor Christmas decorations, and getting the inside lights and ornaments out of storage and ready for her return (she loved to decorate for Christmas). Also, I was to have purchased a tree.

I admit I had taken full advantage of my wife's absence to eat carry out and watch sports on TV. But now that she was coming home I was in a panic. I had one day to clean up my mess, and decorate the yard. Hanging outdoor lights was easy as the hooks and fasteners were there from last year but finding a tree was going to be a bit trickier.

As luck would have it, our neighbors had won a trip to Jamaica at the last minute and had left a big, beautiful pine tree by the curb for pickup. I thanked my lucky stars and quickly had the tree setup inside our house, ready to be adorned with the Christmas spirit. I was relaxing in my chair when I remembered, it was Christmas eve, and I hadn't gotten my wife a present yet. Hoping that Walmart was still open I headed for the door and opened it to find Lily standing there.

“Hi honey. I heard you pull up and I was just coming to help with your bags.” She looked skeptical and walked past me into the living room.

“You did get a tree. Mother was sure you would forget.” She looked at it from several different angles. “You did good.”

“Was there ever any doubt?”

“None whatsoever dear.” Lily kicked off her shoes, put on her favorite Christmas music and set to work. “Help me put on the lights, and I'll handle the rest.”

I took up my spot in my favorite chair and watched as she expertly positioned the garland, then searched through several boxes to find the perfect first ornament. Once decided she placed it carefully on the tree and went to find another. When she turn back around she found the first ornament on the floor. She picked it up and replaced it on the tree, then walked around to place the other. When she looked back the first was on the floor again. She hung it on the tree, but this time she watched and squealed as a tiny orange paw shot out and tapped the ornament until it fell off. Then the garland was slowly being pulled into the tree.

We looked closer and saw two large, green eyes staring back at us. It was a tiny kitten. It must have hidden in the tree to get away from a dog, or just to get out of the winter wind. However it had ended up there, Lily believed I had done it as a gift and I didn't argue. We called him Tom.

As the weeks and months passed, Lily spoiled Tom. She bought him the best food, several of the softest cat beds and pillows, and even a self cleaning litter box. I bought her a coffee mug. On warm days she went on walks with him to the park. He was the child we never had. She was so happy.

Believing it was the reason we had found Tom she had kept the Christmas honey-do list in a scrapbook along with pictures and other memorabilia. Then, Lily passed away, one year to the day after she wrote that list. It was a bad time for Tom and I. The following year, after Lily passed, I was moping in my chair, when Tom jumped up onto my lap, placed his front paws on my chest and stared into my eyes as if to say, “I miss her too. But we have to move on.”

And so for the past ten years, on the same day each December, I sit with my coffee and reread the Christmas honey-do list. Then I get dressed, get a tree, turn on Christmas music and begin decorating. With Tom's help, of course.