“Let’s go pick up the rest of the windfalls, Erik, and you can help me make applesauce this afternoon. We can have a fight but you must promise not to throw as hard as you can.”
He jumped up and turned a somersault, sprawling on his back and giggling. Betsy laughed, too, as overhead the blue jay fanned out his wings and launched itself into the waiting arms of the wind.
THE END
The Piano Christmas
If Sara hadn’t left her lunch pail behind, she never would have seen Miss Ellen wrapping the Christmas presents—a pile of gleaming glass balls at on the rickety wooden table Miss Ellen used as a desk. Peeking through the open cloak room door, Sara watched her teacher’s deft fingers wrap an ornament in a flannel square and tie up the bundle with ribbon. String for boys, hair ribbons for girls.
Sara tiptoed out of the schoolhouse door and hurried down the snowy path, the memory of the spheres gleaming in the lamplight warming her like a flame.
Christmas Eve was tomorrow and Sara knew Miss Ellen set great store by gifts—the teacher often related stories about her family Christmases back home in Boston. Sara’s favorite tale concerned the holiday referred to as “the Piano Christmas”. On that morning, Miss Ellen had discovered a grand piano, wrapped in a giant satin bow, standing next to the Christmas tree in the drawing room. But Boston and such lavish gifts seemed as far away as Europe to Sara. The only present she received last year was an orange after the church Christmas program.
Sara found herself skipping in her clumsy boots. Mama would scold for being late; after supper, the women planned to decorate cookies to hang on the tree Papa would cut down tomorrow,
As the oldest in a family of seven, Sara was kept busy at mealtimes. Tonight, however, Mama had to ask her three times to pass the dish of pickled beets because Sara couldn't get her mind off the pile of glass balls on Miss Ellen's desk.
Over and over, she pictured her family admiring a tree decorated with popcorn strings and gingerbread men. Sara, stepping forward, would hang her ornament on the tree, the sparkle of the glass in the firelight making the room brighter.
“Oh, Sara! Where did you get it? It’s beautiful!”
Her brothers and sisters would gaze at Sara with awe in their eyes as she explained, “Miss Ellen gave it to me.”
“What are you mumbling about, child? I declare, you must have left your mind as well as your lunch pail back at that school you’re so fond of.”
Grandma's sharp voice penetrated Sara's happy vision and she realized she'd spoken out loud. “'I'm sorry, Grandma. Just excited about Christmas.”
Mention of Christmas sparked a memory in Krista. “Will I get an orange tomorrow?”
“Don’t spoil the surprise for your little brother and sister,” Mama replied, cutting another slice of bread for Eric.
Curled up beside Krista that night, Sara licked a bit of frosting off her hand and thought about her present. A crystal globe was much more exciting than a scarf or mittens; Mama had been doing a lot of knitting lately.
Sara’s ornament was bound to be the most beautiful. Wasn’t she Miss Ellen’s special helper, in charge of leading the Pledge of Allegiance each morning, buttoning up the smallest children’s hobnailed boots, and reading aloud to keep the class quiet when Miss Ellen stepped out?
Out of all fourteen children in the school, Miss Ellen definitely liked Sara best. Sara uttered a sigh of pure contentment. This was going to be her very own Piano Christmas.
On Christmas Eve, Sara had only half a day of school and she had as much trouble sitting still as seven-year-old Anna did. But Miss Ellen kept them busy; each child was set to working on a present for his or her own parents.
Sara chose to draw a picture. Studying the portrait of her family at dinner, with Baby Karl perched on a catalog and Papa carving a roast goose, she decided the drawing lacked something and added a tree in the corner. A tree with popcorn chains, gingerbread—and a glass ornament.
A shadow fell across her picture.
“What a silly present!” Jimmy, the bane of Sara’s life since he’d dipped her braid into an inkwell and made up a silly song about the gap between her front teeth.
“I found a rock to prop the barn door open when Dad’s carrying in water for the cattle,” Jimmy continued. “That’s a real present.”
“Why don’t you just use your head for a door prop? It’s as thick as a rock!” Sara retorted in a fierce whisper.
Jimmy scowled and Miss Ellen, who was helping David make a pen wiper, looked up. Sara ducked her head and pretended to draw. She didn’t want Miss Ellen to hear her squabbling with Jimmy.
Jimmy walked up to the front of the room and used the dipper to get a drink from the water barrel. Out of the corner of her eye, Sara saw his hand jerk and the water spill.
In September while chopping wood, Jimmy had severely cut his arm with an axe blade. Now his right hand twitched and quivered like a frightened rabbit. Some of the children made fun, getting their own back on a boy who had delighted in teasing them. But Sara never laughed. The sight of his twitching hand reminded her of the livid scar and wasted muscles concealed beneath his shirt.
Just before noon, Miss Ellen had the children clear their desks and brought out a tin of homemade fudge. Smiling, Sara watched the little children lick chocolate off their fingers before wiping her own hands daintily on the skirt of her brown pinafore.
Dressed in a dark red skirt, Miss Ellen stood in front of the room, her beautiful hair the color of chestnuts tied back with a wide red bow.
The students quieted as she began to speak. “I’ve had a wonderful time teaching you, children.”
Sara sat with her hands folded primly in her lap. The others thought the fudge was their present—just wait!
“I wanted to get you something special, something you’ll treasure for years to come.”
I’ll treasure my glass globe, Sara thought. I’ll wrap it in cotton batting, store it in my trunk, and the ornament will be a family heirloom, like Grandma’s mirror from Norway. My grandchildren will ask where I got the glass ball and I’ll tell them all about Miss Ellen and this Christmas.
Miss Ellen looked as excited as Sara felt. “My sister bought your presents in a store in Boston. The package arrived this week and not a single one was broken during the trip!”
Sara stifled the urge to chew her thumbnail. She was tired of copper pots, iron stoves, and woolen stockings—she longed to own something exquisite and fragile.
Miss Ellen lifted the flannel wrapped packing from a string shopping bag. The last to receive a gift, Sara held her breath as she untied the knotted pink ribbon. What if the glass had cracked? After all, Jimmy had been tramping around the front of the room in his clumsy boots...
Sara sighed in relief. The glass ball was cold to the touch, but warmed under her palms. The sphere was perfect—more beautiful than she’d imagined—and seemed to glow in the winter light. Inside the fragile bubble sparkled a five-pointed star.
A crash stilled the chattering voices, and Sara whirled in her seat. Jimmy was the focus of all eyes, his own once delicate ornament reduced to powdered glass now sprinkled on the rough boards and across the toe of his boot.
His hand twitched. In a voice as harsh as a bullfrog’s croak, he asked, “Can we fix it? I was gonna give it to Mom.”
Miss Ellen shook her head and got out the broom. Jimmy began sweeping up the mess, his head bowed. Miss Ellen watched him for a moment before walking over to Sara’s desk.
Sara breathed the sweet lavender scent of Miss Ellen’s perfume. She felt sorry for Jimmy, but found it impossible to be sad for him and happy for herself at the same time.
Now Miss Ellen was going to say something nice, maybe thank Sara for all her help during the year. But instead of the expected compliment, the teacher’s words struck Sara like a handful of icy snowflakes borne on the winter wind.
“Could you give Jimmy your ornament? I’ll write my sister and ask her to send another one. You’re my sp
ecial helper, Sara, and I know I can ask you to be generous.”
Sara’s fingers tightened protectively around her treasure. Miss Ellen was asking too much. Give up her gift? Her voice was thick. “Will the new one be here by Christmas?”
She didn’t want a new one, she wanted hers. The one with the star.
Miss Ellen’s voice was gentle. “I’m afraid my sister won’t even get the letter for several weeks.”
Sara glanced at Jimmy. His injured hand trembled again and she looked away. She needed this ornament to hang on the tree tonight. She shook her head.
Miss Ellen smiled, but the light had gone out in her eyes. Squeezing Sara’s shoulder lightly, she moved away.
Suddenly words burst out from deep within Sara, “Jimmy can have my ornament!”
“Are you sure?” The music was back in Miss Ellen’s voice.
Sara nodded dumbly, wincing as Miss Ellen plucked the ornament from her hand and carried it over to Jimmy. Miss Ellen had been cruel to ask such a sacrifice. Winking back tears, Sara pleated the flannel square which had wrapped her ornament; the sweet aftertaste of the fudge charred to ashes in her mouth.
The other children giggled as they left, clutching ornaments and the presents for their parents. Jimmy carried his ornament, Sara’s star ornament, in his good hand. He hadn’t even said thank you.
Disappointment sat cold and heavy as Jimmy’s stone door prop in Sara’s stomach. She waited until the last child had been booted and each stray mitten collected before picking up her drawing and going to the cloak room.
Miss Ellen stood in the doorway. Sara didn’t look up, feeling betrayed by her idol who had asked more than Sara was willing to give.
Stepping in her dainty, high-buttoned shoes, Miss Ellen walked over and studied Sara’s drawing, which lay on the bench, the picture showing a table laden with food, the happy family members, and the tree. A tree on which a crystal globe sparkled, sending rays of beauty throughout the room.
Suddenly, Miss Ellen’s arms were around Sara, enveloping her in the scent of lavender. “Oh, darling Sara, I had no right to ask such a sacrifice. Can you forgive me?”
The icy rock in Sara’s stomach melted away as she returned the hug. “I don’t even like Jimmy,” she confessed and they giggled together.
“Thank you, Sara.” Miss Ellen’s voice was choked up, as if she had a cold.
Sara suddenly remembered her gift to Miss Ellen—weeks spent fancy stitching a handkerchief. In all of the anticipation of receiving her ornament, she’d forgotten it!
“I forgot your gift at home, Miss Ellen,” she confessed.
The teacher chucked Sara under the chin. “You’ve given me the best gift anyone could want, chickadee. I’ll treasure this Christmas always.”
“Even more than the year you got the piano?” Sara asked breathlessly.
“Your generosity to Jimmy is worth more than any instrument, Sara. A gift doesn’t have to be store bought or tied with a satin bow to be very special.”
On the way home, Sara leaped over drifts with the agility of a deer. She had a picture to share with her family. She’d given Jimmy—even if he was a tease—a present and still had the anticipation of another ornament from Boston for next year’s tree.
The warm glow which had vanished when her ornament was taken away had been rekindled inside Sara’s heart. Miss Ellen had given her respect—a gift which would never tarnish or shatter, a gift Sara could treasure forever.
This was truly a Piano Christmas.
THE END
Pocketful of Love
The yellow duck was so lifelike that Wanda wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him quack. Humming “Away in a Manger”, she poked the needle through white cotton cloth. The holidays wouldn’t be quite the same without snow, but Wanda was a survivor: she’d learn how to make do with sunshine and the bright blue skies of Arizona.
The phone rang. Placing the embroidery frame on the coffee table, Wanda rose, wincing as her arthritic knee took her weight. The pain accompanied her into the kitchen like an ever faithful dog.
She had long ago decided that answering the phone was the biggest adventure left in her life. The caller could be Gwen inviting her out for lunch, an announcement that she’d won one of those jingle contests she was always entering, a salesman, or—
“Mother Wanda?” The voice was cultured and confident.
Biting back a groan, she responded with the warmest tone she could muster. “Hello, dear. How are you this beautiful morning?” Too late, Wanda remembered her daughter-in-law never stooped to answering personal questions, no matter how harmless or well meant.
“I’m calling about Christmas, Mother Wanda, and I’ve decided to be blunt.”
Someday, her daughter-in-law was going to cut herself on that sharp tongue, Wanda mused, opening the cupboard door and reaching up for a tea bag. “It’s an open line and an open ear you’ve got, dear.”
“This year, David and I don’t want homemade gifts.” A shiver like an electric current ran through Wanda’s body, but Allyson didn’t hesitate before plunging on. “We prefer money. We have a long list of things we’d like this year. David’s been looking at new flat screen TVs, I need a new carry-on bag for our upcoming trip to Hawaii—and I’d rather you bought the children’s clothes instead of making them.”
Wanda, stunned, clutched the tea bag until it popped and tea trickled like dark sand onto the floor.
The hurtful voice continued. “Jenny’s in fourth grade now and what child wants to go to school in a homemade dress? If you don’t know which designer labels are hot, just give me the money and I’ll pick out the clothes myself. Now, I know David doesn’t want you upset over this issue but be assured we are in basic agreement. Mother Wanda? Are you there?”
Wanda took three shaky steps over to the sink and turned the tap on all the way, the noisy waterfall splashing into the kettle, giving her time to regain her composure.
When the teapot was full, she murmured, “Thanks for sharing your thoughts, Allyson. I’ll be sure to keep your suggestions in mind.”
“Now you’re offended.” Allyson was the one who sounded miffed. “I’m making a legitimate request. We’d rather have money than embroidered hankies and homemade clothes. Family members should be honest with each other about things that matter.”
Wondering whether Allyson’s idea of honest would be to tell a woman on her death bed that wearing a brighter shade of lipstick would improve her looks, Wanda hung up the phone.
Trying to pretend that the call hadn’t happened, she placed the kettle on the stove and turned up the blue flame. The canisters on the shelf rattled as she walked heavily to a straight-backed chair and sat down.
A vision of the work table in her bedroom imposed itself over the yellow and white checked cloth. She saw the twins’ undershirts just finished, Patrick’s embroidered with a blue lamb and Stephanie’s a yellow duckling. A much larger shirt had the words “Dynamite David” and a tiny bowling ball and pins cross-stitched on the pocket. Daffodil bright, Jenny’s skirt provided a light-hearted contrast to the drama of an evening cape shot with glittering silver threads made for Allyson. Each stitch represented a stab of pain—but Wanda’s stiff, aching fingers had been impelled by love.
Wanda remained seated until the impertinent whistle of the tea kettle penetrated her gloom. Pouring the steaming water into a mug, she recognized the cup as the one David had given to her years ago; the crooked letters “M O M” had been painted by a boy who, when he concentrated hard, stuck out his tongue and scrunched up his eyes.
Picturing her son as a child, Wanda’s heart overflowed with memories. Precious memories. She treasured the mug because David had struggled to shape the letters in art class, tied the straggled bow on the handle with awkward fingers, and beamed as he presented his gift. Such pleasure couldn’t be found in a store or bought with a plastic card.
“Now, don’t let that silly, young woman get you down,” Wanda rebuked herself, addressing th
e remark to the glassy-eyed rooster cookie jar which served as her centerpiece this week. “She means no harm, just hasn’t learned yet how to tell the difference between fool’s gold and the real McCoy.”
Despite her brave words, Wanda was still depressed when Gwen showed up on her doorstep several hours later, unannounced as usual, and waving an envelope of pictures taken at the Fit and Fifty talent show last week.
Her uninvited guest immediately accepted the offer of a cup of tea and sank into a kitchen chair, a watermelon pink skirt swirling around her shapely ankles. Wanda put the kettle on again, placed a cup and saucer on the table, and thanked her friend for picking up the photographs.
“No trouble, Wanda. I just finished showing a house two blocks away to a nice, young couple. Your pictures turned out great—I already took a peek.”
Wanda fumbled with the flap of the envelope. “Rip up all the ones of me hula dancing,” Gwen instructed, tapping the table with a fingernail tinted to match her skirt. “They make me look like a forty year old.”
“So now cameras take twenty years off your life? I should look so good!” Exasperated with the clumsiness of her swollen knuckles, Wanda tore the package open and photographs spilled like a deck of cards across the table.
Gwen strolled over to fill her cup from the steaming kettle and returned, bouncing a bag of herbal tea in the water. “Fit and Fifty won’t apply to me after my next birthday. I plan to propose that we change the name of the club to Sexy and Sixty.”
Lifting the lid off the rooster, she spent a reverent moment contemplating the date bars inside. “Yum! Oh, your clever fingers! I can’t wait to open my Christmas present and flaunt my new Wanda original.”
The sincerity of her voice helped to ease the hurt and suddenly Wanda found herself telling Gwen about the phone call, her chin trembling as she repeated the cruel words that threatened to take the joy out of Christmas.
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