Elizabeth Inglee-Richards's Blog

“Twelfth Night,” refers of course to both the play by Shakespeare and to the last of the Twelve Days Of Christmas. This last night is also the Catholic holiday of the Feast of Epiphany. In different cultures, this twelfth night after Christmas day is the day that the three Magi arrived in Bethlehem ( the“We Three Kings” of the song) or the day of Christ’s baptism.
I’ve always been fascinated by the pre-Christian traditions that the Twelfth Night festivities co-opted. Much like Christmas itself, Twelfth Night was one of the holidays celebrated in Germanic Paganism, a midwinter celebration. The Yule Log was left to burn until Twelfth Night, which brings to mind enormous logs in immense fireplaces, doesn’t it? Similarly, the traditional Yule Boar as part of a feast can now be seen in the Ham many eat throughout the holidays. The prevalent theory is that the Twelfth Night feasting and revelry was originally based on a Roman holiday at the same time of year called Saturnalia. It was a time when people let loose, partied, switched roles socially and sexually, and had fun. People sang a lot, ran around naked, and played games like women being chased by men and dwarves chasing cranes. There was also what sounded like a very un-fun game where people got dunked in ice water naked.
One of the most interesting parts of how Twelfth Night came to be celebrated is exemplified by the Shakespeare play. If you’re not familiar with it, it involves a lot of gender-switching, mistaken identities, and class disparity jokes. The theory is that Shakespeare wrote it, as he did many of his plays, to reflect the society in which he lived. The gender- switching, aka cross-dressing, was common for men of the day. To a lesser extent the same could be said of women. I would guess that was probably true of the women who could afford to be seen as eccentric.
It is interesting that sexuality was much more fluid in a sense at the time Twelfth Night was written. Especially when you consider that most often all roles were played by men. In this play, a man played a woman, who was disguised as a man, who fell in love with a woman, who was in actuality played by a man. Science of the day held that women were “imperfect versions of men,” to add another layer of confusion. The funny thing is that given the play’s popularity through the ages, the notion of gender fluidity is neither uncommon or particularly a modern idea.
My favorite part of Twelfth Night is the Saturnalia aspect; I imagine a night of bonfires and roasting spits of meat, dancing with linked hands and vats of spiced wine. (Never mind the fact that the wine in the 1600’s was probably spiced because it was borderline awful!) So I guess I’m saying it’s all about the food, drink, and people, which isn’t a bad thing. It’s nice to have a big party to send off the season before it descends into the dark, cold, snowy throes of winter, and that was the point. And use lots of candles- those were traditional gifts to symbolize the light that would eventually return to the world.Saturnalia Mulled WineThis is a good use for that decent bottle of “Two-Buck-Chuck” or decent, but not great, wine you might have left over from the holidays. This recipe is Ina Garten’s, and I don’t like Star Anise, so I don’t add it. You can cut the orange peel into crescent moons or stars just for fun.In Jane Austen’s time, Twelfth Night was cause for a special cake recipe here. It was tradition for a bean to be baked into the cake, with good luck to the person who got the bean in his or her slice. Have a lovely Twelfth Night feast, whatever your tradition, and a lucky New Year!

  MAGIC OF YULE    Natalie Nicole Bates
The only thing keeping her in the café was the warm fire and the fact it was snowy and freezing outside.Ryanna drummed her fingers on the table before once again looking at her watch. It was the morning of January 5, five minutes past midnight. It was official: She’d been stood up.Now sitting alone and staring into the dredges of leftover cold cappuccino, she contemplated the reality of her situation. From the very beginning, when she first met Bobby Pearson, something felt—off. The first time she saw him was a week before Christmas, through a window at the long closed antique shop. She was admiring an antique Frozen Charlotte doll, similar to one her grandmother once gave her as a child. Ryanna loved the doll, and was fascinated by the tale of the young woman who didn’t listen to her parents and went out in a blizzard for a ride with friends without a coat, and perished in the storm.Bobby was inside the shop cleaning glass counters. He looked up from his work and raised a hand with a small hello.The day following Christmas, she was once again in front of the shop admiring the doll and wishing the shop would open soon so she could at least ask the price, but knowing it was likely well out of her budget.Lost in that thought, she startled when a hand touched her shoulder. It was him. Tall, with long way hair and dark eyes she knew she could lose herself in. “What’s caught your fancy?” He asked.     “The Frozen Charlotte. I love looking at it.”     He only nodded in response.     “Are you reopening the antique shop?” “Perhaps. I inherited this building recently from a relative. Right now, I’m just cleaning up, taking inventory, and…” he shrugged his shoulders beneath his heavy winter coat. “We’ll see, I guess.”     They met for coffee a day later, and another coffee a day after that. Things seemed to be going well, at least for Ryanna. Then it happened. New Year’s Eve she went to the café to celebrate the new year with a glass of wine and enjoy the atmosphere. She was delighted when Bobby appeared. They danced close, and at the stroke of midnight, she waited for a magical kiss to usher in the new year. A kiss which never happened.He was just shy, she assured herself. So she took matters into her own hands…or actually, her lips. On tip-toes, she attempted to place a friendly closed mouth kiss against his lips, only for Bobby to move his face, and her kiss landed awkwardly on his chin.Talk about an embarrassing moment. He averted his eyes and mumbled an apology, while Ryanna wanted nothing more at that moment to vanish. Which she did, moments later when he offered to get her another glass of wine.Then out of the blue, he sent a text asking to meet her at the café that night. She was skeptic, but wanted to give him one more chance. The truth was, she liked him, but maybe any interest on his part was just her imagination.Yet, sadly she’d been right. Here is was, now the first minutes of Twelfth Night, and she was alone. The signs were all there. He spoke little about himself beyond scratching the surface of his life. She sensed he wasn’t a cold or cruel man, just lonely and…stuck.    Sometimes she could see it in his eyes. That he had things to tell her, so much to reveal. But in his dark eyes lurked a world of sorrow and hurt. A man who lost his magic and happiness and didn’t know how to reclaim it.She dabbed her lips with a linen napkin and slid back her chair. Enough humiliation for one night. It was time to trudge back to her home and forget all about this night, and about that man.Climbing into her coat, she tossed a few bills onto the table to take care of her tab, and made her way to the exit. As soon as she stepped outside the warmth of the café, the cutting wind whipped her hair furiously around her face. She made her way along the sidewalk and tried to step on the snow that had already been smushed down by others before her. The sky above was dark and clear, the snow clouds pushed out. It was colder than ever.Almost no one was on the street, just a man filling the newspaper box with the morning edition, and a couple walking hand in hand and laughing across the street. Most likely everyone was home in bed, or snuggling with a loved one in front of the television.She didn’t think much of the footsteps she heard thudding on the snow behind her until they were nearly on top of her. She glanced back to see Bobby. She picked up her pace. “Ryanna! Wait!” He called out.Should she stop, or just ignore him? Her conscience teetered.    “Please, Ryanna, just stop!”     Well, he did say please. She halted in her tracks, but did not turn back.     Within a few seconds he was beside her.    “Why didn’t you wait for me?” he asked.    “Wait for you? I waited for two hours!” She blurted. Her tone was stronger than she intended, but damn, she was angry and freezing.    “I left a message for you. Didn’t you get it?”     She chuckled a little, but not pleasantly. “Come on Bobby, you’ve lived in this little town long enough to know that cell phone service is patchy at best.” She opened her clutch and rifled around the contents for her phone. She pressed a few commands, and handed him the phone. “See, no service? No service, means no message.”    She began to walk again.    “Ryanna, I’m sorry,” he said.    There was such a sincerity on his voice, but she waved off his apology.       “Forget about it. It’s fine.” She said the words but she knew it wasn’t fine. He caught up and fell into step alongside her. “Ryanna…” He wasn’t going to give up, she realized, so she stopped. “Listen, Bobby…I’m cold and I’m tired. I just want to go home and call it a night.” She flexed her fingers before they could turn into icicles, and reached into the pocket of her coat in search of her wool mittens. Instead, she found the little New Year’s gift she had for Bobby, but left it in her pocket. Maybe she would give it to him, maybe not. He might think it was just a silly little tradition anyway.He steadied her chin with his gloved hand, and locked his dark eyes to hers. “Please, just give me a minute of your time, and if you don’t want to talk to me anymore, I won’t bother you, I promise.”Her resolve to leave slipped a little. “Be quick,” she said as she finally found her mittens in another pocket.But as soon as she tried to slip one on, it fell from her hand and landed in the snow. They both bent down at the say time to retrieve the mitten, his hand landing on top of hers. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and she looked up to see him smile at her. For the first time in this brief, for lack of a better word, relationship, there was a breakthrough. Yet just as his lips descended upon hers, Ryanna heard the sound of a car engine, followed by a car barreling down the street, and then the ear-piercing screech of the brakes.      Before she could react, the car jumped the curb. The next thing Ryanna felt was a mighty shove, and Bobby’s body on top of hers, shielding her from the impact. As she lay in the snow, shock froze her body. For a moment she could do nothing but stare up into the black, night sky. In the distance she heard the car drive off at an alarming rate of speed.    Slowly, she regained her senses. “Bobby, are you okay?” She said a swift prayer to God or whatever Fate might be listening.    After an agonizing few seconds, he stirred above her. “I think so.”    “Do you think we’re still alive?” she asked, only half-joking.    “I believe so, but if we’re dead, we’re together and that’s pretty cool.”    “Yeah, it is,” she agreed.    Slowly he got up from her body, and to his knees. In the light of the streetlamp, she could see blood flow from his nose. She rolled over to where her clutch landed and dug out a few tissues. “I think I broke your nose.” She crawled her way to him, and pressed the tissues against his nose.    “You didn’t break anything. That jerk who was speeding and jumped the curb and nearly killed us is the one who is at fault.”   He slowly made his way to his feet and helped Ryanna up.  “Are you okay, anything hurt?” She shook her head. “Just more shocked and scared than anything. There’s no one around. We could have been injured, and on the ground in the snow until it was too late,” she murmured, fighting back the tears the desperately wanted to flow.   He wrapped a protective arm around her. “We’re fine, so don’t even think that. Let’s get to my flat and warm up. I’ll call the police, and then you and I can talk…if you want to.”   She nodded. “I would like that…very much.” Maybe the little gift in her pocket just performed its first act of good luck and happiness.

    Ryanna finally stopped shaking in the warmth of Bobby’s flat. She tenderly cleaned the blood from his nose, and in the light, it only looked bruised, not broken.     She curled up on the sofa with him beneath a blanket. For a while they simply recovered in silence from the near miss tragedy.  Finally, he spoke. “I want to try to explain to you why I have been so distant.”  She nodded in agreement. If he couldn’t open up to her, then how could they ever move on as friends, or possibly even more?     “First let me say, Ryanna, I like you. Even though we haven’t known each other very long, I like you…a lot. There was this…instant spark, at least on my part.” He shifted a bit beneath the blanket.  Maybe he was embarrassed. “Of course I feel it, too,” she admitted, and hoped it would alleviate his discomfort. Now that he was talking, she didn’t want him to clam up again.    “Some time ago, I lost my fiancée. She died shortly before our wedding. Since then, I’ve sort of distanced myself from everyone and everything that meant something to me.”Shock rocked her body. She didn’t know what she expected he’d say, but it wasn’t this. “Bobby, I’m so sorry…”He put a hand up to silence her. “Don’t be sorry, just listen, if that’s okay.”“When the opportunity came about to move here and work on the antique shop, it gave me a lot of time to think, and the more I thought about things, the more my mind cleared. Maybe it was acceptance…I don’t know. Then I met you, and I went back into a tailspin. There was the part of me so happy to connect with someone again, and the other part…” He stopped and shock his head, “that felt guilt. I mean, I know Lauren is long gone, and never coming back, but still…”    She absorbed his words, glad that he was able to unburden himself. Taking his hand, she said, “Thank you for telling me. All I ask of you is to be honest, and don’t hide what you’re feeling because it’s unfair to both of us. If you need to just be friends, that’s okay with me. If you think you’re ready to see where this might lead, I’d like that.”His answer was to press his parted hips to hers. “I have something for you.” He smiled. “Really? I have something for you, too.” He rose from the couch and retrieved a small wrapped gift from the mantle. “I’m sorry it’s late for both Christmas and New Year’s,” he sighed as he retook his seat beside her. “It’s just in time for Twelfth Night,” she assured. She removed the tiny bow, the festive wrap, and removed the lid of the small pink box to reveal the Frozen Charlotte doll she’d admired so many times in the window of the antique shop. “Oh, Bobby!” She gasped. “It’s perfect! Thank you so much.” She pressed her cheek to his. “Now you,” she handed him the little pouch. His dark brows drew together. “Thank you, but…”     She laughed. “What is it, right?” Before he could answer she said, “It’s a Twelfth Night tradition. The remnants of my family’s Christmas tree from last season. You use the wood chips to start the fire to bring about happiness and good luck in the new year.”“Wow, I love the sound of this tradition. We should start the fire together.”    “I couldn’t agree more.”When the fire was glowing bright, they shared cocoa and kisses to ensure a perfect dawn.“Thank you for saving me from getting killed earlier,” she said. “Thank you for giving me a second chance. Not only me, but for giving me a second chance at happiness,” he replied.    She smiled. The magic of Yule was definitely working. “You’re very welcome. Happy dawn of Twelfth Night. Let’s spend it together.”    He pressed his lips to hers, and mumbled, “And hopefully, this is just the beginning.”
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What Was Missing         By Natasha Lane

Darkness swarmed around the trees like mist from the swamp. The darkness swirled around the trunks of the bark giants and forced them down, so their branches hung right above my head. Branches that reached out for me and grabbed at the red scarf my mother had made me last Christmas. The teased me. They poked and prodded at me from every direction and laughed as I turned from side to side trying to catch their violating hands. But every time I turned there was nothing behind me. I was alone.I could have been swallowed up whole by the forest, my hand stretched out toward the last patch of blue sky I would ever see. I would disappear. I would be gone and no one would care about the missing girl. No one would care because I had failed. I had ruined my family’s reputation, so if I wandered forever in the maze of black mist and broken branches, it would be seen as a suitable punishment.Maybe my parents would adopt. Maybe my replacement would be a better finder than. I couldn’t believe I was going to let my family down. I tucked my scarf into my coat and pushed on to my end. The trail winded through the forest, guiding my exhausted legs when my mind was not sure which way to go. Occasionally I stopped to look under a rock or search through a ditch for the treasure. Each time I would climb back to the path with empty hands.I knew if I could just find the Twelfth Night Treasure, it would guide me home. It would shine so brightly the black mist would disappear and the trees would shrink away in fear. Demons always ran away from the light. It was a fact. Father said so.But that was my problem. I couldn’t find the treasure and so, I couldn’t find my way out of the forest. I wasn’t sure how I had gotten lost. I had followed my father’s instructions precisely. Twelve Bigfoot steps past the rotten tree with the face of an old man and twenty Hercules leaps to the caverns. What had I done wrong?I felt a wet spot on my hand. Then, a second one, a third, and soon my hands were nothing but drops of wetness. My body, too. I breathed and my breath formed into smoke. Because of the rain, the mist had become a fog. The path soon disappeared in front of me. I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. It was like I was surrounded by a kind of scary nothing.I closed my eyes in fear of the nothing and walked blindly through the forest. It got colder and colder. My teeth began to chatter loudly, only tuned out by the sound of rushing water. I continued to walk and the sound grew louder. If I was by the river bank, I would be close to home.I continued to walk until my right foot felt nothing but air beneath it. I stepped back. I bent down and stretched out my hand. I had reached my end. I was not at the river bank. I was on a cliff.    I tried to take a breath, but my chattering teeth would not let me. The coldness had grabbed hold of me and did not want to let go. I dropped to the ground and waited for the coldness to freeze me into a statue. I pictured how everyone would react when they found the statue of the missing girl. Maybe I would become a tourist attraction…“Felene! Felene!”The fog was broken.“She’s here, everyone. Look.”“Felene? Felene!”Warm hands grabbed my shoulders and began to shake me. I opened my eyes and looked into the grey eyes of my father.“Oh, my God. I found her!”“I’m sorry, D-Dad,” I said through shaky breaths. “I-I didn’t f-find the treasure.”“What?” he asked.“It’s still missing,” I said. “The Twelfth Night Treasure…for the town. I know we win it every year. I’m sorry.”“Shush, Felene,” he said. “You were the only thing missing and now I’ve found you.”Then, the coldness disappeared. We found our way home and the treasure remained lost forever.


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 Two Moose and a Tree by Leia Weiss
The snow fell languidly across the furrowed timberline.  It was not quiet; the flakes were tiny, but wet, landing with a rustle upon the dead leaves and hibernating branches of the state forest.  Birds twittered and flitted, and squirrels chased their tails through the sodden scrub.  And above all the bustle eight hairy stalks plod through the underbrush.
The stalks led to two separate torsos, which were commanded impressively by two large, shaggy heads.  Atop one of those crowns spread a rather unmajestic, quite pathetic-looking palmate antler.  Just a single wide antler, and a shabby one at that.  Its owner was yet again bemoaning the loss of the other, despite the time of year.
"Farley, look at it!  It's making my head ache.  And I look funny."
"I have no problem saying this; you always look funny."
"Farleeeey, that's not nice!"
"Your whining isn't particularly pleasant either, yet here we are."
The two herbivores carved their way through the new snow, their casual chatter uninterrupted as they scaled hillsides and traversed clearings, all the while keeping a concerned eye out for the careless yetis infesting the area.
Farley had never met a yeti up close and in person.  He'd seen evidence of their abominable presence from meters away, usually with clear barricades separating him from the creatures, and many times on the journey they had passed through territories with scores of them at once.  Their demon-armor was everywhere – he'd seen plenty of those up close, too close.  He'd even caught sight of their small lumpy bodies twisting frantically around their bizarrely-constructed dwellings.  Outside some of the domiciles, short pines, firs, and spruces lay upon their beaten paths in various states of decay, many with obnoxious designs of intricate frippery still clinging to them.  The abused evergreens lay there, abandoned, for no other purpose than to warm the ground!  Yet at the very start of their journey he'd seen other yetis from a distance, placing spruces, firs, and pines in their dens, adding their toys onto their newly-chopped greenery piece by piece.  So first they take the tree, cover its naturalness, and then suns and suns later they are done with it and discard it from their habitation?  Yeti were, as a whole, strange and bad news.  Moose, however, didn't have as much of a problem with them as Farley did.  He claimed that one of them was really his father (but naturally he "Got all my good looks from my mother's side.")  That's how he'd been named 'Moose', after all.
"Farley, is my head lopsided?  It is, isn't it?  It's lopsided!"
"No, Moose, it isn't."
"But you said-"
"I said you are lopsided...and you are.  Once you drop that right antler-"
"But I like my antlers!"
Farley did not correct Moose.  If he reminded the alces that one of his antlers had fallen it would set off a whole new slew of compl-
"Except I don't have antlers; I've got just one!  One!  I miss my other antler, Farley."
Farley snorted and his head bobbed low; this was nearing the end of a very looong trip, and he couldn't be more happy to see it coming to a close.  Farley was incredibly tired, he was hungry, they'd been walking for what seemed like ages, and they were both treading entirely too close to the habitats of the dangerous yetis for Farley to feel comfortable.  In fact, he wouldn't feel safe until he was miles and miles away from the whole business.  But...
But.
A quiet part of Farley, deep down, was proud that he'd come so far.  He was fortunate and grateful for Moose's company during the whole excursion, without whom he would not have found his way and probably would have been injured a dozen times over by the yetis' demons.  Moose was...something else.  Resourceful and world-wise, his silly-ish personality sometimes grated on Farley's seriousness, but they were inseparable friends and Farley wouldn't change a thing.
Also, Farley didn't have to make this journey; he chose to.  He could have ignored the little one's pleading eyes and told his friend Moose 'no' a few dozen more times until the ungulate finally gave up.  He could have refused outright.  Instead, he and Moose were nearly there.
Well...if 'nearly there' meant 'several more miles of walking', at least.
*

Surprisingly it had taken several more days of intense traveling – of Moose's complaining and Farley's hooves aching and stopping nearly a whole day to fill their bellies as they'd been traveling on next to no food, and then more of Moose's complaining until finally Farley had 'helped' him rid himself of that lingering antler, and then more walking, walking, walking and sidestepping yeti encounters until Farley had really had enough – but Moose was there with him, encouraging him on even though Moose hadn't really bothered to ask why they were traveling to Hershey, PA, in the first place; he was happy to roam with Farley no matter where they went.  Moose had energy and bravery, while Farley did not.  He would rather graze the lands near where his mother had roamed that first year of his life, breathe the clean air and revel in the freedom of the unfettered forest.
Farley was on a mission, though.  His determination had wavered, but with Moose's help they would make it.  They were so close Farley could almost taste the filthy over-sweetened fat of it again.  Hershey, PA.  He wasn't terribly concerned with why this place of yeti indulgence trafficked skinny bricks of poo-colored sugar, all he wanted was to get in, grab the "harmonica" for his brother's calf, and go.
"So what's the plan, Farley?"
"Plan?  We approach one of the yetis and get this 'harmonica' thing, and then we go home."
"Uhhh...Farley..."
"Yes, Moose."
"One: yeti only talk to themselves, and two: most yetis like to fight our kind.  How are we gonna get one to give us an harmonica?"
"Since you're descended from one, maybe they'll listen to you."
"I dunno Farley..."
"Well how about this, then.  They seem to like evergreens.  How about we find a nice one and bring it to them?  If they like it, maybe they'll help us anyway."
*
"Good evening, I'm Bill McClaggan standing in for Maureen tonight on Channel 16 news.  We're following breaking news right now: two bull moose have been spotted near northern Shellsville just east of the I-81 South Rest Stop, heading south and crossing local roads and highways to do so...but that's not what's most shocking about this story; it appears one of the moose is dragging a conifer tree along with it.  Yes, that's right – one of the moose is towing a tree behind it, and the other moose seems perfectly content to stick with his fellow as they make their way south along Shells Church Road.  They were first spotted lugging their precious cargo with them as they crossed the greens at Manada Golf Club, then surprised an elderly couple stopping for directions at the Therapeutic Riding Association.  Based on the sighting made just a few moments ago by eye-witnesses calling into the station, it looks like they'll be heading into the Hanover Elementary School area soon.  Fortunately, classes have not yet resumed due to the holiday break."

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Today is the last day of the year, do you have any fun traditions?  
Tonight my family will eat Chinese food and maybe rent a movie.  It isn't exciting.  When my husband and I lived in Revere (town just outside of Boston) I would have to order our food on the thirtieth and then pick it up around noon on New Years Eve, and keep it in the oven to keep it warm until my husband got home. The restaurant we used assigned 15 minute pick up times.  Everyone in that time slot had a name in a red plastic cup, you gave your name and they searched the cup.  If you didn't make it at your assigned time, your food went back into the kitchen.  
I always made it, so I have no idea what happened after your food went back.  
Here in Delaware we can just call at five and then pick it up.  That is all.  Easy.  
Tonight the town where I work will drop a giant mushroom.  In the town's defense it is mushroom capital of the world.  
Also there will be shooting.  I know that isn't restricted to my area, but when we moved to the Delaware Valley I had never experienced it before, but after spending most of my childhood here it seemed normal.  Then I married and he moved back here with me.  My husband isn't a fan of the shooting.  
Tomorrow is the Mummers Day Parade and he just loves that!  

   Five Gold Rings  By Julie Kavanagh“Are you sure about this?” Cassie looked up into her boyfriend’s dark eyes. They had always reminded her of chocolate buttons, but she supposed this wasn’t the time to think of that. She had more important things to worry over.“Stop worrying, Mom will be thrilled to meet you,” Josh said as he pushed open the door. “We’re here!” he bellowed along the beautifully decorated hallway. Dark evergreens adorned the white bannister, intermingled with glittery scarlet tinsel. “They’re here!” Loud voices echoed as a door open and two children emerged in a fluster of noisy movement, accompanied by two identical long-haired dogs which barked in apparent excitement.Said dogs and children, which looked alike to Cassie, threatened to bowl her over until Josh stepped forward with a hand held out.“Stop!” he laughed, dropping to his knees and grabbing both children in a warm embrace, leaving Cassie to fend off the over-excited dogs.“Charlie! Mattie! Behave yourselves!” A tall, elegant woman appeared in the hallway from the same doorway, her voice carrying easily but it didn’t seem to have the required effect as the two dogs knocked Cassie on to her rear. Large, wet tongues covered every inch they could find, causing Cassie to giggle until she realized that the tall, elegant woman stood over her with an unamused look on her face. “Charlie, Mattie, go outside!” She pointed a long finger into the direction the two dogs had emerged from and she waited silently until they slunk aware with barely a wag between their tails.“Cassie, you are okay? They can be a little mad when they’re excited.” Josh held out his hand to brush thick fur from the length of her new black trousers – the ones she’d saved up for and bought especially for today. The ones now covered in dog fur.“Please accept my apologies.” Josh’s mom stood back, appraising the woman lying on the plush carpet at her feet. “Josh knows better than to let the puppies loose on strangers.” She nodded once before retreating back the way she came, clicking her fingers at the children who then followed like little sheep. “They were puppies?” Cassie giggled like a naughty child, accepting the hand held out to help her up. “They’re baby mammoths,” Josh chuckled. “Who knows how big they’re going to get.”“And that’s your mom?” Cassie’s laughter faded under the thought of how evident it was that the woman had taken one look and instantly disliked her. Wasn’t that the story of her life?“She came over a little harsh,” Josh said with a little shrug. “She’ll love you when she gets to know you, promise.” Cassie didn’t answer. She had already worked it out. “Come on, honey. You need a strong coffee after that welcome.”She followed her boyfriend into a warm, bright kitchen with sunny yellow walls and cream cabinets. This was a kitchen to die for. One day, she would have a kitchen this big and well-equipped. Right now, her entire apartment would fit into this room with enough space to fit a car in too.She sighed as a huge smile curved her lips – the food she could prepare in here. She couldn’t hide her looks of admiration. “I told you she’d love it,” Josh addressed a man perched on a black stool and leaning on the top of the breakfast bar. “Cass, this is my dad, Jack. Dad, meet the most beautiful woman on the planet.” “Cassie, it’s very nice to meet you although I have to protest about the most beautiful woman part. Josh’s mom wouldn’t take kindly to me agreeing with him although my son has very good taste. Coffee..?” Jack stood up, a hand held out to her and she accepted without hesitation. He looked like Joshua, or how he’d look in later years and it was a look Cassie appreciated. The touch of silver around his temples made him look, dare she say it, very sexy. One cup of strong black coffee later and Cassie had begun to feel at her ease. Jack was as easy to talk to as Josh and the feel of inadequacy faded until Josh’s mom reappeared in the kitchen.“Here you all are,” she said, with a cursory look over the half empty coffee mug and the small pile of cookie crumbs laying claim to how many Cassie had gobbled down. It had been a long journey and she’d eagerly accepted any food offered. “Josh explained that you both have to dash back to college tonight,” she said with a tone which said that she didn’t quite believe it.“I told you that Cassie has a job, and with it being so close to Christmas, the restaurant is fully booked,” Josh said quickly as though he’d just thought it up. Even to Cassie’s ears, it sounded like a lie. “You’re a chef?” Jack asked with evident interest as he nodded as though he now understood her reaction to the kitchen he’d designed.“I’m just a cook,” she admitted, her face growing red. “But, one day, I’d like my own restaurant.”“You’re studying French Cordon Bleu at college?” Josh’s mom, Clare, asked in a hopeful tone. “I'm not at college,” Cassie admitted, her head dropping to avoid seeing the looks of disappointment.“Cassie and I met at the restaurant. I insisted on meeting the creator of the most delicious dessert I’d ever eaten. Of course, I didn’t know she’d be so pretty too. Cassie really does deserve her own restaurant. I know I’d eat there every night,” Josh jumped in quickly. Cassie looked up into his eyes and smiled her thanks but she should have known his parents wouldn’t accept her – not since they lived in this huge house in a wealthy area. She came from nowhere and had only her dreams to offer. She couldn’t afford to go to college and barely made her way on the money she earned in the restaurant but one day…

****“It’s getting late,” Cassie leaned over to whisper in Josh’s ear. They’d had a fun afternoon in the park with Harry and Raya, Josh’s younger siblings and the two dog monsters. She hadn't known a family could be so much fun, but now they had to say goodbye to his parents and she wasn’t looking forward to it. “I need to use the bathroom before we go,” Josh said, holding the door open as the twins and the puppies rushed through. “I’ll be back in a moment.”Cassie waited awkwardly in the small entrance hall by the back door, unseen by Jack and Josh’s mom.“What does he see in her? She doesn’t even have a college education,” Clare muttered. “Did you see the amount of rings she wore? Who needs to wear four gold rings? It’s so cheap.”“She’s easy on the eye, she’s great to chat to and she knows a lot about food,” Jack defended Cassie. “Besides, she’s the first girl Josh has brought home and I wonder why that would be.”“I don’t know what you mean!” Clare huffed loudly as though this was not the first they’d had this conversation.“No one will ever be good enough in your eyes for Josh, but it’s his decision. They’ve been dating for nearly two years…” Jack paused as though he realized his mistake.“I didn’t know that!” Clare grasped. Cassie closed her eyes and sighed softly. Of course, Josh hadn't told his parents about her. Why would he, although, she didn’t know why he’d brought her to meet them now. She thought he’d understood her lack of interest in family Christmases. The holiday season was very different in the children’s home she’d grown up in, although they had tried their best to make it festive.  “I don’t care what they say,” Josh told her as though he’d heard his parents’ conversation. “I love every bit of you.”“They’re right though,” Cassie whispered as though her voice didn’t have the strength to admit the truth.“Come.” Josh said as he took hold of her hand to lead her into the kitchen. He nodded at the twins as they perched expectantly on identical chairs each with a large puppy snoring at their feet. Jack turned with a huge grin on his face at their arrival as though he, too, knew what to expect. Clare simply stared coldly, a cup of coffee held in her hand.“Mom, Dad, I had a very good reason to come here today,” Josh started, pulling Cassie along in his wake. His warm hand told her not to worry, his smile sang of his love and his chocolate brown eyes asked her to be brave. “I wanted you to meet Cassie and I really wanted you to love her like I do. She’s beautiful and funny and brave. I've never known anyone like her. I don’t care if she’s never been to college because she’s taught me so much about life and love and I never want it to end.”He dropped to one knee, whilst keeping hold of Cassie’ hand and ignoring her grasp of astonishment.“Cassie Evans, cook extraordinaire, to-be-owner of the best restaurant in the world, will you marry me?” Josh stared up into Cassie’s face with a look of nervous anticipation.Cassie didn’t know who gasped the loudest, her or Josh’s mum but she realized that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought of her. The man that she loved and adored loved her back and he believed in her dreams. How could she say no?“I thought you’d never ask,” Cassie laughed. “Of course, I’ll marry you, but only once you’ve finished college and not before.”Josh leapt to his feet, his lips caressing hers as cheers and applause echoed around them. Even Clare managed a small smile.“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Josh gasped, fending off excited children and two large dog monsters as they bustled around them. Out of his pocket, he pulled out a small black box and extracted a shiny golden ring which he pushed onto Cassie’s finger. “Now you have five gold rings,” he laughed, leaning in for another kiss, knowing it was going to be the best Christmas ever.The EndFind Julie on Facebook and Amazon

Four Sheep
Sports aren’t easy on families, David knew that. Sometimes he wished he had not become a professional hockey player.  He loved the game.  He loved the people involved in the game.  He wouldn’t really want to change anything.  Not really.   It had been almost two years and he was still working on getting used to being a Bouda.  Sometimes the hyena side of him would rise up at inopportune moments.  It had happened that night when he had decked someone for chirping him on the ice.  The other player had said something about his girlfriend, Rose. Guys running their mouths on the ice was par for the course, agitators were part of the game.  Punching agitators was part of the game as well, but it also got him a seat in the penalty box for seventeen minutes.   David had beaten the other man so badly, he had to leave the game.  The full moon had been the 25th, between then and losing his temper on the 29th there had been two full games and the first two thirds of a game.  Three games in four days.  He was tired and there was this animal in the back of his mind clawing its way out.  And there was one more game to play before going home. He didn’t know how the other guys dealt with it.  After the game he made his way to the home locker-room to apologise to his victim.  Then David had to defend himself to the media.  After swimming through the crap that he had caused himself he finally made it back to his room at the hotel.  The other guys were going out to eat but all David wanted to do was to call home. “Are you alright?” Rose asked, picking up the phone on the first ring. “You’ve seen worse happen to me.” “You don’t normally knock guys out.” “I know,” he sighed, “did Lisa talk to you today?” “About the sheep?  Yes.” David couldn’t tell what Rose was feeling through the phone, he hadn’t realized how dependant he had gotten on his enhanced senses, “And?” “And I am totally confused.  Is this a hyena thing? I mean, what am I going to do with three sides of beef? And a feather?” “Well I didn’t know what to get you, so I got you the twelve days of Christmas.” “I don’t remember the fourth day being sheep.” “It’s the Faroe Island version; one feather, two geese, three meat, four sheep, five cow,  six oxen, seven dishes, eight ponies, nine banners, ten barrels, eleven goats, twelve men, thirteen hides, fourteen rounds of cheese and fifteen deer.” “Is sixteen a farm?” Rose asked with a laugh. “I was thinking that maybe day sixteen would be making you like me?” David’s heart was pounding.  He hadn’t brought up turning her into a hyena shifter since Thanksgiving, and he hadn’t planned on talking about it over the phone.  And she was quiet. Until, “Makeing me like you and a farm for all this stuff you've given me.” “Is this a negotiation?”“No, but you can’t just get animals without thinking about where you are going to put them.” David laughed, “for now Rob and Lisa said they would keep all of the gifts.” “What did you do about twelve? You didn’t get me guys did you?” “I got you chickens.” “Soooo,” she said with a chuckle, “do you have a place in mind?” “Do I need to have a place for you to be ready to take this step?” “It would help.” David’s hear crashed down into his stomach, “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.” “I want to,” she said, “but I talked to Lisa and she thought it would be best if we didn’t live on the property with them.” “I’m buying a place, I close on the third.” “What is it like?” “The place?” “No, I’m sure you picked out a nice place,” She said, “What is being like you like?” “Well, I travel around and play a kid’s game for a living,” he said in a jocular manner. She didn’t take the bait, “that fight, is that the way it is for you all the time?” “It’s not like that all the time.  It is like that sometimes.” There was silence between them. “Are you changing your mind?” he asked slowly.  “No,” she said, “I just wonder what will happen when my boss fights with me after?” “Well, once you are used to it, everything will be fine.” “That’s what Lisa said,” there was a few seconds of quiet, “When do you guys come back?” David sighed, “if there aren’t any delays I should be pulling up the driveway after midnight on the first.” “So I’ll see you for New Years day?” “I was planing on going straight to your house,” he said. “You have a key just come on in.” She sounded more relaxed and so he settled back on his bed, “I will. Unless I just don’t wake up when we land.  We still have that game on the 31st, then we fly home.” “I’ll be here, with all the crazy animal gifts you’ve given me.” “I miss you,” David said, his voice almost a whisper.  “I miss you too,” she cooed, “and you need to get a goal for me to make up for getting kicked out of the game tonight.” “I’ll do my best,” David said.  “Will we talk tomorrow?” “Of course,” he said with a smile, “and when I get home I’ll take you to see the place.” “Deal.” David thought of something before saying goodbye, “the farm has apple trees.”“That will be neat” Rose said.“after we settle I think we should Wassail them.”“You want to sing to trees?”“and give them liquor. Yes. After everything, I’m starting to feel like magic is important.”She laughed. Once she was under control again she said, “and you are a hockey player, so tradition is everything.”“If it wasn't would I have bought you four sheep today?”

My True Love Gave
by Katie C.
Livia loved wintertime. From her perch beneath the gazebo, she relished the crisp midday air and the way the snowflakes fluttered to the ground. A small break in the snow clouds allowed for thin rays of sunlight to peek through. The peaceful scene made Livia feel alive."Livia."But the man whose voice interrupted her thoughts made her heart pound with joy. With her thoughts drifting to the beauty of nature in winter, she had stopped listening to the story Heisuke was reading aloud. They always made time each day to spend an hour outside, talking about their day or reading their favorite stories, or trying to outtalk the other with outlandish tales and theories they had heard.Livia looked forward to that time each day, no matter when it happened.Usually they huddled close together on these cold days, but today, at Heisuke's insistence, they sat the bench so they could sit shoulder-to-shoulder, in opposite directions yet facing each other. Livia wondered why the deviation from the norm, but being outside had distracted her from asking him."Livia, did you hear me?" Heisuke had stopped reading, and turned to look at her with a serious face.Sighing, she shook her head. "No," she said with a smile. "You know how much I love watching the snow fall."Heisuke put the book down and rubbed her head with his right hand. "I know. Plus, I did not choose a good subject to read today," he said."The migratory patterns of European birds isn't my most favorite subject to listen to, no," she agreed, "but you know I listen to anything you read." She thought about his low and soft voice, and how it lilted when he read subjects of interest to him; how it revealed his deep desire for her when they spoke to each other. If he only knew how much she had always loved his voice . . ."So you are not interested in learning about the streptopelia turtur.""Why are you --?" The question died on her lips when she saw the intense look in Heisuke's eyes. She was used to seeing him straight-faced and serious: it was the face he wore every day. She knew how to make him smile, but rarely did he show emotion towards other people. What she saw burning in his deep blue eyes was something she had not seen before. She wanted to look away, but could not.The butterflies in her stomach fluttered."Hei?""Because we are like the streptopelia turtur, the turtle dove." Heisuke closed the book resting on his lap and stared at her.Livia gave him a confused look. "We're birds?""How long have we known each other?" Heisuke asked instead. Livia noticed a sly smile touching his lips.She laughed. "A long time, but you know that."Heisuke stood up and moved around the bench to stand in front of her. "And in that time, how long have we been together?"Together. Livia grinned as she thought about the last few years and their courtship. Not the whirlwind romance one reads about in books; Heisuke took his time with every aspect of life, including the ways he showed Livia how much she meant to him. She did not mind, however; she was patient - a trait she had learned from him long ago."Long enough to know we love each other," she replied after a moment. "Where are you going with this, Hei?"He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her closely. Livia felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "I love watching the blush spread across your beautiful face.""You're just saying that because you like making me blush," she said, and wanted to hide her increasingly red face. Heisuke chuckled. "Yes, that is true. But it is more than that. You are beautiful, inside and out, your failings and virtues make you a perfect kind of woman. I know you better than you know yourself at times."Livia watched his stoic face upturn into a rare heart-stopping smile. The fluttering inside turned into waves of nervousness.He crouched down next to her and pulled out a small ring box from his pocket. He took her hand in his, and offered her the box. Before she could utter a word, he spoke. "Livia Sou, you are my life mate. My turtle dove. I would like the world to know this with a marriage ceremony."Speechless and overjoyed, Livia threw herself into Heisuke's arms. "As if you needed to ask," she said. "I wanted you the moment I realized I liked boys.""When did you ever 'like' boys?" Heisuke's husky laughter was muffled by her scarf."Never. I only always liked you." Laughing, she pulled back and pressed her lips against his. "I love you, Heisuke Takahashi, and I will marry you."He pulled them both to their feet so he could kiss her properly.After several moments, Livia pulled away and gave Heisuke a playfully stern look. "But let's keep the 'turtle dove' angle between us, okay? My family will never let you live that one down."
“Deal,” he said and captured her lips once again with his.

Henry James and the Long Trip HomeLondon, December 1891Emily was tired of the formal manners, the fussy clothing and the conversation about trivial things with people she didn’t know. There must have been 20 of them around the huge table.There was only one other person in the room that she had met before. Henry James was seated to her left. She was surprised to find he knew who she was. "You are Anna Lothorp’s little sister," he said. She was so astonished she could only nod in answer."How did you get invited to this dreadful affair?" he asked. The servant who appeared between them with a carafe, gave him a withering look.She sighed and told him, "I was to come with friends, but there was an illness in the family."He was much more of Anna’s age. In fact Anna had dined at their house on Quincy Street, and had hated every minute of it. And now Emily was about to repeat the experience."How long have you been here? I seem to remember Willy writing to me that your husband had died and you had taken your grief abroad.""If you mean in Europe, March 1890, so almost two years. I’ve been in London for about a month.”"Have you loved every minute of it?" he asked, with a cutting sarcasm. Could he read her thoughts?"No. It was fun at first, but…"  She was trapped between Mr. James on her left and someone named Bryant on her right. It would be impolite to burst into tears right here. Mr. James deftly changed the subject. "Have you been to the South Kensington Museum?" he asked."No. Should I go? What is there worth looking at?""Harvard would do well to look into establishing a museum of its own. For art, I mean, not for those dreadful Natural History exhibits. How can something dead and stuffed be natural?"She took a deep breath as her tears receded."Now be a good girl and talk to the gent on the other side of you. Lord, how I hate these affairs."It felt like hours before the guests were allowed to leave. Emily was reminded of waiting for the school day at Mrs. Agassiz to end. As they bustled into their coats ready to step into the cold damp evening, she found Mr. James at her side. "I would be honored if you allowed me to show you the museum tomorrow. It has some fine examples of Flaxman and Landseer. I can pick you up at the Fields place about two if that is convenient."Why does Henry James want to take me to a museum? He must want something."I must admit, I have an ulterior motive. I hope you will love the museum, of course. I was hoping to find someone like minded to enjoy it with me."Likeminded? Does living a quarter of a mile apart make two people like minded? Surely he was simply being kind. #The day was bright and clear but cold. She would spend the morning in the shops looking for things to send to her nieces and nephews for the holiday. Late as always, it would be well into the New Year before they received them.She found perfect gifts for each of the children if they had been ten years younger. Nothing that would suit the young men and women they had become. Nothing for their mothers; even less for their fathers. A small leather-bound note book appealed to her, but she didn't know of anyone well suited for it. She liked it enough to spend more than a few coins on it.By two she had put away her purchases to wrap and send tomorrow and was ready when Mr. James rang the bell.Emily asked him what he was working on at the moment. He laughed and replied, "When in doubt in conversation with a Cambridge man, ask him about his book. Every man in Cambridge is writing a book. The old saw should include the many women who are doing the same.""But you actually are," she protested.#It was getting dark when they left the museum. Mr. James slipped a small package into her hand. She could feel the smooth paper and lacy ribbon, but she was unable to distinguish the color in the shadows of the cab. The box was heavier than she had expected."Oh, but I have nothing for you.""This is a gift, not a present. There is no obligation to reciprocate. I think you will understand when you open it."Under the street lamp in front of the Field's house, Emily untied the silver ribbon with care and tore the red paper off the box.""This is the fossil of a chambered nautilus. It's very nice but…"He took her free hand as an elder and wiser brother might. "The golden spiral. There is a bit of history that comes with the object. Remember the Holmes poem? 'Leave thy low vaulted past, let each new temple, nobler than the last'…well, you know it."Professor Agassiz gave this to your father sometime before the war. Your father had to make a very difficult decision." "But he and father didn't like each other. Why would he give him such a gift?""I believe you are confusing academic disagreement with personal dislike. You remember the great debate that followed your father's book on education. But didn't the Lothorp girls attend Mrs. Agassiz's school? And didn't your father continue to attend the Professor's morning lectures fairly regularly?"She would have to think about that for a while."How did you get it?" she asked him."Your father gave it to my father when he had to make a similar decision, and he passed it on to me when I decided to give up law to write novels." He shrugged as though the whole story were perfectly clear. "Now you are making a decision that will change the rest of your life. You must have it."


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Why Christmas Carols Make Me Cryby Alison Jean Ash

“..and cried when he remembered his mother.” ~ Jean de BrunhofThe Story of Babar

Preface:  My Mother and Me

My mother has been the single most important person in my life.That sounds unlikely, even to me.  I am sixty-seven years old. I’ve been married three times—happily at last —and survived other tumultuous passions that (mercifully) didn’t go that far.  I have two children, four grandchildren, and several dear friends of various genders who are of great importance to me.All the same, it’s true.  Mom—or, as she was known in various contexts, Shirley Anne Kellogg, Anne Ash, Anne Cramer, Little Tigger, Grandma Tig—sat squarely in the center of my universe until she died, in January of the year 2000, and for some years afterward.Our relationship was tender, turbulent, and cruel, wistful with nostalgia, alight with laughter. Each of us felt for the other, I believe, equal parts of love, irritation, bitterness, and genuine admiration.   For good and ill, I her eldest daughter, revolved around her, planet to her sun.  Now, almost fifteen years after her death, her memory no longer rules my daily life.  Still, whenever I pause to look at  who I am, and at the forces that have shaped my mind and heart—by precept, by example, by accident, and sometimes by opposition—there she is, still, at the center.

Christmas Day, 2014

Twelve days before Christmas I attended a performance of the Bremerton Symphony Orchestra with my husband.  The program consisted of a Christmas carol sing-along, followed by a Tchaikovsky piano concerto, followed in turn by excerpts from Handel’s Messiah.My mother, growing up as the daughter of a small town minister, sang alto in her church choir.  When I was a baby, she sang to me, lullabies, old ballads, songs in French and Russian and Welsh, and the darkly humorous Irish songs she’d learned from her grandfather.When I grew older, we sang together, especially at Christmas-time.  We began a month before the day to play our holiday record albums and to sing carols together.  When we played the Messiah, she always sang along with with the alto part her favorite sections, especially “For Unto Us a Child is Born.”As a girl I sang mezzo soprano. In some carols, such as “Angels We Have heard on High” with its chorus of “gloria in excelsis deo,” my mother taught me to hold the melody while she sang the alto in counterpoint, each voice singing its phrases in separate, independent but interlocking rhythms.Of all the games we played together, from Chinese Checkers to Scrabble, from one-upmanship to emotional manipulation (more deliberate on her part, I believe, than on mine, and certainly far more skilled), the interweaving of our voices was the most intricate and the most joyful. For several weeks every winter, for ten or twelve years, we made a kind of magic together.The night we went to the Symphony, my husband and I, we both became teary-eyed during the  carol singing, as various songs reminded each of us in turn of our departed mothers.  Afterwards we dried our eyes to enjoy a piece with no associations for us, the Tchaikovsky, performed with fiery passion.After intermission came the Handel. With the opening chords, familiar as ever though I hadn’t heard them in twenty years, my eyes began to fill with tears. With “For unto us a Child is born,” the tears spilled out and rolled freely down my cheeks. I had all I could do not to sob aloud. I slept badly that night, and also the next night, Sunday. I woke Monday morning with my feet in agony, especially the right heel, in which I have a bone spur, legacy of the plantar fasciitis I first suffered immediately after her death.  I couldn’t set my heel down all day, in spite of large doses of ibuprofen, but walked on the ball of my right foot, holding onto something or someone.

My Feet, My First Chakra

For two years after my mother died, I’d walked in pain, near-crippled by the fasciitis, until I healed myself, not only by stretches and exercises, yoga and chakra work, but also by meditating, painting, and especially by singing, and at last by weeping for her. Since I had never fully yielded to my grief after her death, the clogged flow of my emotion had settled into physical manifestation as pain in my feet. Once I understood that, I immersed myself in memories of my mother. Deliberately, almost forcibly, I opened myself to grief for her, grief which necessarily included rage:  rage at her, at all the cruel and sneaky things she did to me; rage at the loss of her and all she did for me; rage at whatever had happened to her or been done to her, apparently quite early in her life, that made her spirit so full of pain and terror, rage at whatever or whoever it was that had broken her. Rage at her for being broken.My class-work that year at The Evergreen State College, a full-time Coordinated Studies program about the wisdom of the body and the connection between emotional pain and physical pain, helped focus the process. Readings ranged from hard science to spirituality, and we did yoga eight hours a week. I learned that the feet belong to the First Chakra, which is connected to home, family, our sense of being rooted in this world. My mother’s death had, in a far more physical sense than I had realized, knocked my feet our from under me.In December of 2001, I spent a week at a retreat center.  I painted—not something I do well or often, but this was therapy, not art. First, as warm-up, I made a mad bloody picture of the goddess Kali, and then an equally mad and bloody-looking picture of my mother that I call Sea Monster Mother. A naked woman with her face stands at the bottom of the sea, the mouth exaggeratedly wide and hungry. Her limbs are impossibly long and all her digits stretch away into tentacles, coiling, reaching for something to grip in a half-strangling hold, as she gripped me in her need for so much of my life.Through these paintings I was able to express some of my rage, so widely and unclearly directed, and some of my resentment of the way she had clung to me, manipulated me, used me to feed her voracious needs. I expressed my rage and pain in both senses: I gave it utterance, and I pushed it out of myself, leaving me cleaner and kinder, more open to grieving for her.Near the end of the week I sat alone in a yurt singing, first the Gayatri Mantra, which I’d learned in yoga.  Crudely translated from ancient Sanskrit, it means, “Praise the glorious light of the creative principle.”  I sang it 108 times, the traditionally prescribed number, and then I went on singing.I sang everything I could think of: the lullabies she sang me; the funny, often macabre Irish songs handed down from her flame-haired grandfather; all the songs, the madrigals and hymns and Christmas carols we’d sung together.  I sang until at last the vibrations pried open the locked-up fountains of my tears, and then I continued to sing as I wept for her.That afternoon I laced on my boots and walked along the highway to the ocean beach, a round trip of about twelve miles. At supper time I plodded back uphill to the lodge exhausted, with a fierce ache in my lower back, but no pain in my feet. I was healed. From that time the pain in my feet departed and I could walk normally again.

My Book

A year after that, at the end of 2002, I began to write a book about my mother, about her life and about our life together. I’ve worked at it, off and on, ever since, sometimes a few hours a day every day for a month, occasionally six to eight hours a day during a week-long writing retreat. Between those periods of intensity, I’ve returned to it in sporadic, desultory fashion, altering a few words here and there like a painter adding little touches and then stepping away to let them dry.In 2013 I entered another period of working on it every day:  looking at it again, revising and re-organizing, writing new sections, even reading bits of it aloud at a literary open mic. I presented some excerpts to my writing critique group (though one member balked at it, finding it too “confessional”). But at the time of that Christmas concert in 2014, I’d barely touched it for months. I’d been writing romantic fiction, with some success. An independent e-book firm had put out my novella that fall, and I’d written and published a Christmas story and was at work on my Valentine story.

Aftermath of the Concert

Tuesday morning after the concert, after I’d hobbled around in pain all the previous day, I woke from a dream.  It began in a theater where a play was in rehearsal, a large amateur production.  (I should mention here that my mother did quite a bit of amateur acting, to great acclaim, in her thirties and forties, and was at all times theatrical in daily life.) The play, apparently, was about a shipwreck. A crowd of “survivors,” sailors and rescuers milled around onstage, and more actors waited backstage for their entrance.  My mother was surely there somewhere.Suddenly, in the way that dreams change scene without warning, we were all outdoors, by the sea, some of us in the sea. Now it was not a stage play but a film being produced.  Survivors flailed in the water or clung to rafts; sailors manned lifeboats. The cameras and all—sound, lights, etc.—were also on boats.  The scene was even more chaotic than in the theater, and the waters of the sea were real, salt and wet and constantly moving.The director’s voice rose above all the noise.  “Okay, short break now. I thought we could do this in one take, but I was wrong.”  He dismissed everyone to dry off and dress, eat, rest, etc., and I awoke.At breakfast I recounted the dream, which I recalled very clearly, to my husband, and suddenly I understood. Yeah, Mom I get it, I thought. I’d imagined I could grieve for her in one take, but I’d been wrong.So I got back to work on my book—and my feet immediately stopped hurting.

Christmas-tide 2015

Again, the Symphony, the Christmas carols, the tears. It’s the opening chords of “Joy to the World” that feed the fountains this time—an instrumental performance, but I sing the words in my head, harmonizing with my mother’s ghost. And even though the orchestra is now playing another carol, we go on singing, my mother and I. We finish the first verse and move on to the second. “Fields and floods, rocks, hills and plains/Repeat the sounding joy/Repeat the sounding joy/Repeat, repeat the sounding joy.”
Shouldn’t I know by now?  Well, yes, I do know. And my feet don’t hurt. I don’t need the reminder this time. Beginning today, December 26, I am leaving for another week-long writing retreat, which I will devote to the book, her book.  The Valentine romance will have to wait.
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