Hi, since it's that time of year..I'm sharing a Christmas story for those of interest. It's actually a chapter from a book I'm writing so please ask before reproducing or modifying. I revised it to a short story form and is rough in draft. I appreciate honest critisicm and hope any, express such.
(Draft of Chapter 3- Revised 12/6/04 as a Short Story)
" Christmas Memoirs of an Old Geezer!"
By
Andrew Boucher/2004
I arrived home tonight just after doing some Christmas shopping. I had spent a good portion of my afternoon being pushed and shoved from one end of the mall to the next in my seemingly endless quest for gifts. After I was done, I left feeling nothing remotely close to being in the Christmas spirit. Something about being surrounded by thousands of other shoppers whose full intended purpose was to enter the stream of mayhem, purchase the necessary gift requirements for this year and get out! My last store for the evening found me in the toy department looking for one of those bug-eyed dolls my granddaughter wanted. I looked everywhere, and finally found one. But, as I walked toward the last remaining doll, I was suddenly stopped by a young womans sharp voice behind me. Thats the last Bratz Doll in the city! You touch it and Ill snap your arm like a pop-icicle stick, you old geezer! she exclaimed. So I stood there in shock as she hurried over, grabbed the doll and rushed away. I trudged out of the mall and searched for my car as I tried to figure out how and where I lost the Christmas spirit I had when I was younger.
The traffic out of town was heavy as usual for this time of year and was slowed even further by the added fresh snow that was still falling down. The car ahead stopped for a red light, so I looked off through the passenger window and watched a young boy pulling his little sister in a sled as they made their way back up an embankment for another enjoyable ride down. My mind suddenly slid back in time over 60 years ago to similar events of my youth .
My sled finally came to a rest as I stopped and leaned against the milk shed to try and catch my breath. I had just got done pulling my little sister all the way over from the hill by the apple orchard where we were sliding. I looked over towards the barn and saw no light, so I knew Dad was in the house. The days last rose-colored light promised the tree line with an agenda of finality and winters slumber over the farm had settled over us without regrets on that Christmas Eve of 1943. The weeks leading up to then had been busy with the harvest of turkeys we had raised on the farm for the holiday season. The last order we filled was just 4 days ago for the Ganong Brothers in St. Stephen, they had purchased 49 turkeys that year for their employees at the chocolate factory. I knew this because I was involved in the demise of each and everyone of those poor feathered creatures.
I turned back to the sled and told my sister to get off. We drug the sled over to the woodshed then went over and kicked what snow we could off our boots before entering the house. I pushed the door open and the sound and smell hit me with the crackling of a wood fire. The hint of cinnamon told me Mom just pulled a batch of cookies out of the wood fired oven. I watched my father pull the last of the 6 thick, flat bricks off the wood stove and set them out on the step towards the barn.
He stopped long enough to look at us and said, Hurry up, we have to leave soon, then turned back to the task at hand. We kicked off our wet boots, and threw our wet mittens on the oven door left open from the cookies that Mom just took out. I stood by her as she filled the cloth-lined basket with fresh cookies and threw my best look of, I love you Mom, till she finally gave in and handed me one. My sister shot me a cold look at first, but then smiled in awe of my 8 year old wisdom after Mom turned and handed her an equal share. We reveled in the warmth of that tasty treat, seasoned with the warm hands of a mother who knows how to quilt an enveloping blanket of love around a childs heart . Some years later, I still havent found a cookie that can both taste such feelings of warmth and love! So we finished our prized cookie and quickly drew on dry clothing while we waited for Dad to bring the team up to the house. We ran outside as we heard the rhythm of bells on the harnesses of the 2 large Belgium horses drawing the sleigh up to the steps where we stood watching. It was amazing how our father could almost talk to the horses with a few clicks of his tongue, whistles and soft words. He moved them a few steps left or right, even back, as he needed them to be. I smiled knowing it took years of working together either pulling pulp or plow to develop that type of bond between horse and man but, thats another story for another time.
We clamored into the sleigh and buried ourselves into the horse blankets as father covered us all up with the large buffalo robe he bought a few years ago for $5. That was a lot of money since he only earned .50 cents a day hauling pulpwood to the roadside and what little bit extra we earned from the farm. He still thought it a wise investment in keeping the ones he loved warm on evenings such as this. My mother, sister and I agreed enthusiastically on his opinion on such a matter.
He climbed in and with a sharp whistle and small tug of the reigns we were on our way to the church. It was truly mesmerizing the soft sound of the horses hooves cutting the fresh powdered snow. The creaks and soft groans of leather harness and the angelic sound of bells are true fond memories. The cold air was sharp with threats of freezing our nostrils shut, but the warm bricks off the stove and under our feet chased away any worries of feeling the chill. As we quickly made our way up the path and through the woods, the light from the lantern hanging on the hook behind us cast swaying shadows of snow-laden branches amongst the trees seemingly bowing there brambles in respect to our passing.
We finally arrived at the church that was lit up and looked invitingly warm for the Christmas Eve gathering of neighbors and family. My mom and sister got out and carrying the basket of cookies headed off into the church. Dad asked me to help him with something before running off. He pulled the tarp back behind the seat of our sleigh, then handed me a large turkey and grabbed another for himself. He answered my questioning eyes with a smile and said, Go put that in the Connors sleigh son, they had a rough go of it this past year. I know what he meant. They lost their son Jimmy to the war in Europe and had just found out a few weeks ago. That on top of losing most of their crop to blight left them in poor shape for that winter. I watched him walk over to the Hurleys sleigh and place the other turkey on the seat. He turned and looked at me .. Are you ok? he asked. I look at the turkey in my arms then turned and ran over to the sleigh and gently laid the awkward gift down. I noticed somebody had placed a canvas sack filled with what looked like preserves and bread on the seat of their sleigh. It had a tag on it that read, Merry Christmas. I remember my eyes getting blurry and wet while choking back the lump in my throat. I was overwhelmed with love and admiration for the kind heart of my Father and others in the community. I turned back to join my father as he entered the church. The sound of Silent Night came drifting back to us as we walked between the pews filled with smiling family and neighbors as they sang. I was overcome with a sense of belonging and a hint of understanding for what being a Christian was supposed to be about. I accepted Jesus into my heart that night over 60 years ago, on his birthday. That truly was a joyous Christmas worthy of remembrance.
The sound of a blaring horn behind me brought me back to my car. I looked up and see the traffic light had changed. The impatient driver races by me with one last blast of the horn and a wave. At least Id like to think it was a wave as I silently mouth the words, Merry Christmas! to him. I continued my drive home with the comforting knowledge that my Christmas spirit was indeed intact, even if I am an old geezer!
Merry Christmas!!
(Draft of Chapter 3- Revised 12/6/04 as a Short Story)
" Christmas Memoirs of an Old Geezer!"
By
Andrew Boucher/2004
I arrived home tonight just after doing some Christmas shopping. I had spent a good portion of my afternoon being pushed and shoved from one end of the mall to the next in my seemingly endless quest for gifts. After I was done, I left feeling nothing remotely close to being in the Christmas spirit. Something about being surrounded by thousands of other shoppers whose full intended purpose was to enter the stream of mayhem, purchase the necessary gift requirements for this year and get out! My last store for the evening found me in the toy department looking for one of those bug-eyed dolls my granddaughter wanted. I looked everywhere, and finally found one. But, as I walked toward the last remaining doll, I was suddenly stopped by a young womans sharp voice behind me. Thats the last Bratz Doll in the city! You touch it and Ill snap your arm like a pop-icicle stick, you old geezer! she exclaimed. So I stood there in shock as she hurried over, grabbed the doll and rushed away. I trudged out of the mall and searched for my car as I tried to figure out how and where I lost the Christmas spirit I had when I was younger.
The traffic out of town was heavy as usual for this time of year and was slowed even further by the added fresh snow that was still falling down. The car ahead stopped for a red light, so I looked off through the passenger window and watched a young boy pulling his little sister in a sled as they made their way back up an embankment for another enjoyable ride down. My mind suddenly slid back in time over 60 years ago to similar events of my youth .
My sled finally came to a rest as I stopped and leaned against the milk shed to try and catch my breath. I had just got done pulling my little sister all the way over from the hill by the apple orchard where we were sliding. I looked over towards the barn and saw no light, so I knew Dad was in the house. The days last rose-colored light promised the tree line with an agenda of finality and winters slumber over the farm had settled over us without regrets on that Christmas Eve of 1943. The weeks leading up to then had been busy with the harvest of turkeys we had raised on the farm for the holiday season. The last order we filled was just 4 days ago for the Ganong Brothers in St. Stephen, they had purchased 49 turkeys that year for their employees at the chocolate factory. I knew this because I was involved in the demise of each and everyone of those poor feathered creatures.
I turned back to the sled and told my sister to get off. We drug the sled over to the woodshed then went over and kicked what snow we could off our boots before entering the house. I pushed the door open and the sound and smell hit me with the crackling of a wood fire. The hint of cinnamon told me Mom just pulled a batch of cookies out of the wood fired oven. I watched my father pull the last of the 6 thick, flat bricks off the wood stove and set them out on the step towards the barn.
He stopped long enough to look at us and said, Hurry up, we have to leave soon, then turned back to the task at hand. We kicked off our wet boots, and threw our wet mittens on the oven door left open from the cookies that Mom just took out. I stood by her as she filled the cloth-lined basket with fresh cookies and threw my best look of, I love you Mom, till she finally gave in and handed me one. My sister shot me a cold look at first, but then smiled in awe of my 8 year old wisdom after Mom turned and handed her an equal share. We reveled in the warmth of that tasty treat, seasoned with the warm hands of a mother who knows how to quilt an enveloping blanket of love around a childs heart . Some years later, I still havent found a cookie that can both taste such feelings of warmth and love! So we finished our prized cookie and quickly drew on dry clothing while we waited for Dad to bring the team up to the house. We ran outside as we heard the rhythm of bells on the harnesses of the 2 large Belgium horses drawing the sleigh up to the steps where we stood watching. It was amazing how our father could almost talk to the horses with a few clicks of his tongue, whistles and soft words. He moved them a few steps left or right, even back, as he needed them to be. I smiled knowing it took years of working together either pulling pulp or plow to develop that type of bond between horse and man but, thats another story for another time.
We clamored into the sleigh and buried ourselves into the horse blankets as father covered us all up with the large buffalo robe he bought a few years ago for $5. That was a lot of money since he only earned .50 cents a day hauling pulpwood to the roadside and what little bit extra we earned from the farm. He still thought it a wise investment in keeping the ones he loved warm on evenings such as this. My mother, sister and I agreed enthusiastically on his opinion on such a matter.
He climbed in and with a sharp whistle and small tug of the reigns we were on our way to the church. It was truly mesmerizing the soft sound of the horses hooves cutting the fresh powdered snow. The creaks and soft groans of leather harness and the angelic sound of bells are true fond memories. The cold air was sharp with threats of freezing our nostrils shut, but the warm bricks off the stove and under our feet chased away any worries of feeling the chill. As we quickly made our way up the path and through the woods, the light from the lantern hanging on the hook behind us cast swaying shadows of snow-laden branches amongst the trees seemingly bowing there brambles in respect to our passing.
We finally arrived at the church that was lit up and looked invitingly warm for the Christmas Eve gathering of neighbors and family. My mom and sister got out and carrying the basket of cookies headed off into the church. Dad asked me to help him with something before running off. He pulled the tarp back behind the seat of our sleigh, then handed me a large turkey and grabbed another for himself. He answered my questioning eyes with a smile and said, Go put that in the Connors sleigh son, they had a rough go of it this past year. I know what he meant. They lost their son Jimmy to the war in Europe and had just found out a few weeks ago. That on top of losing most of their crop to blight left them in poor shape for that winter. I watched him walk over to the Hurleys sleigh and place the other turkey on the seat. He turned and looked at me .. Are you ok? he asked. I look at the turkey in my arms then turned and ran over to the sleigh and gently laid the awkward gift down. I noticed somebody had placed a canvas sack filled with what looked like preserves and bread on the seat of their sleigh. It had a tag on it that read, Merry Christmas. I remember my eyes getting blurry and wet while choking back the lump in my throat. I was overwhelmed with love and admiration for the kind heart of my Father and others in the community. I turned back to join my father as he entered the church. The sound of Silent Night came drifting back to us as we walked between the pews filled with smiling family and neighbors as they sang. I was overcome with a sense of belonging and a hint of understanding for what being a Christian was supposed to be about. I accepted Jesus into my heart that night over 60 years ago, on his birthday. That truly was a joyous Christmas worthy of remembrance.
The sound of a blaring horn behind me brought me back to my car. I looked up and see the traffic light had changed. The impatient driver races by me with one last blast of the horn and a wave. At least Id like to think it was a wave as I silently mouth the words, Merry Christmas! to him. I continued my drive home with the comforting knowledge that my Christmas spirit was indeed intact, even if I am an old geezer!
Merry Christmas!!
