Christmas at Grey Sage

by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  Maude came through the kitchen with Jedediah, Beth, and their young son, Daniel, behind her. She introduced them to Laura and headed for the checkbook on her desk as they piled groceries on the far counter. Once that was done, Jedediah excused himself and headed to find Maude, receipts in hand.

  “You going to your folks’ for Christmas?” Lita asked Beth.

  “We’re going to Jed’s parents’ tomorrow for Christmas Eve dinner and then to my parents’ for Christmas Day, weather permitting.” Beth brushed her fingers through her son’s hair. “Only about fifty miles, and hopefully we can make it. We must be home tomorrow night for a special visit from St. Nick. I’m so sorry Doli and Catori won’t be home for Christmas.”

  “Don’t start that if you don’t want to see me cry. My first Christmas without my girls.”

  “No crying. You know they’ll get here as soon as they can. No use losing sleep or getting your joy robbed over something you can’t fix.”

  “It’s that howling wolf causing me to lose sleep, not missing my girls.”

  “Daniel, why don’t you help your dad and Maude?” Beth sent him out, then walked closer to Lita. “Oh, yes. That howling makes my skin crawl, and Daniel crept into our bed about one thirty this morning. It must make his skin crawl too. Jed puts all the animals in the barn at night, and Shep sleeps in the laundry room. I don’t think the animals mind being in out of the cold.”

  “Good thinking. Alo spotted some tracks down by the creek this morning when he was cutting Christmas trees. Says there’s more than one.”

  “Sounds like a pack, and that’s usual, according to Jed. Just hope it’s a small one. Since the barn cat went missing a few days ago, Daniel’s been grieving that cat and frightened since he overheard Jed say it was probably the wolf.”

  Jed, Daniel, and Maude returned to the kitchen. Once the neighbors had said their goodbyes, Maude turned to Lita. “Really, Lita, eight gallons of milk? And six pounds of butter?”

  “Can’t make hot chocolate without milk, and you can’t make anything without butter.” She winked at Laura.

  Maude looked at her watch. “Oh, it’s two thirty. Best get to the gathering room to see who showed up. Careful, Laura. Lita will make a cook of you.”

  “Yes, I will. After the cookies, she’s making another salad for dinner, and I’m teaching her to make Indian fry bread to go with our pasta this evening.”

  “Sounds delicious. And I’ll be back to start brewing something warm to drink for our guests. Maybe some of the apple cider I just paid for.”

  Maude found her guests settling in the gathering room. The colonel, with his lit pipe in hand, was seated comfortably in the wing chair next to the fireplace. The chair had become his perch since his arrival. Alo sat on the hearth near him, conversing about weather predictions. The others trickled in and took their seats. Beatrice was the last, dragging two shopping bags as she walked.

  Alo saw her and jumped to her rescue. “Let me help you. Where would you like these?”

  “They will eventually go under the tree, but I have to write names on the name tags first. So please put them there in front of my seat on the sofa.” She looked around the room. “Did anyone else bring gifts?”

  No one answered, sitting with sheepish looks on their faces.

  “Beatrice, you’re always the thoughtful one,” the colonel responded. “But you might recall none of us expected to be here for Christmas. While you do your gift tags, I want Alo to finish what he was telling me. Some of the rest of you might find it interesting how he predicts the weather.”

  Alo took his seat on the stone hearth again. “Sir, you give me far too much credit. I’m no meteorologist. These are the old ways my ancestors used, and they still work.”

  Henry removed his pipe and tapped it. “So you were saying that halos around the moon forecast snowfalls, and you were beginning to tell me how you predict an unusually cold winter.”

  “Yes, the halos have been telling us about the coming snow. And back during the harvest season, thicker than normal cornhusks told us to expect a cold winter. Then there was an unusual abundance of acorns this year, and that kept the squirrels busy for weeks. And the thick, bright bands on the raccoon tails. All signs of bitter cold coming. And then there was the whole army of mice that took up residence in the barn very early this year.”

  Beatrice interrupted. “Did you say an army of mice?”

  “Yes, I did say that, but you’re not to worry. You won’t find a mouse anywhere around in Grey Sage. I took care of that.”

  “Remember, Bea,” Lily added. “Alo has taken care of the mice. You have absolutely no need to give them a second thought.”

  “Of course I’m not worried. I once was Clara in The Nutcracker.” The look on Beatrice’s face let the others know that she had departed for a different time and place. “Yes, Grandfather Drosselmeyer gave me a nutcracker doll for Christmas, and that dreadful Fritz broke it, but Grandfather magically repaired it.”

  Beatrice rose from her seat and stepped in front of the hearth as though ballet slippers covered her bony feet. “And I fell asleep under the Christmas tree, holding that beautiful nutcracker.” She, as though choreographed, shrank and folded herself up with fluid motion until she was curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace.

  Eyes rolled as Beatrice drifted happily from one reality to another, but the telling of her story brought such joy to her, no one had the heart to interrupt her.

  Beatrice jumped up spryly. “But in my dream the toys all came to life, and the room filled with a whole army of larger-than-life mice. And the Nutcracker, my Nutcracker, led the fight against the evil Mouse King and knocked him dead on his feet. Then the whole army of mice scampered away carrying that evil Mouse King with them.”

  With flawless and fluid motion, Beatrice lifted her arms until her fingers touched above her head. She extended her right leg with the same graceful motion and brought it slowly to the outside of her left knee and then out again. When her foot touched the floor, she began stepping and spinning to her right—and stumbled.

  Her small audience was breathless, but Alo was there to catch her before she tumbled over the coffee table. Alo backed away when Henry stood and took her arm. “Bea, maybe you should sit down,” Henry said.

  She straightened her sweater, brushed her hair behind her ear, and pushed Henry away. “But you haven’t heard the very best part.” She assumed a perfect fourth position, with her angled right foot a step in front of her left, and continued her story. “My Nutcracker was suddenly transformed into a prince who took me to an enchanted forest and then to the Land of Sweets. I think that’s why I like candy so much. And you’re all getting candy from me for Christmas. That’s the end of my story.”

  Beatrice waited for their applause and walked with grace and precision toward the sofa. Halfway there she stopped. “Except I must tell you, I hated that Sugar Plum Fairy. When she danced her pas de deux with that handsome cavalier, she was nothing so special.”

  Beatrice sat down. A stunned silence lingered for a moment. Maude stared at Silas, both in disbelief. An impromptu retelling of The Nutcracker from the ballerina hadn’t been on Maude’s list of entertaining things to do this afternoon, but no one would deny it was unforgettable.

  Beatrice broke the silence. “I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing The Nutcracker this year. Although Alo, you were quite good in being my third leg, as any great partner is, so you and I just might perform a lovely pas de deux if we could get this infernal coffee table moved.” She reached for another gift bag and her pen. “And tell me how to spell your name, please. I’ve never heard that name before.”

  Alo spelled his name.

  Beatrice asked, “Is that American?”

  “Yes. It’s American Indian. My name means ‘spirit guide.’”

  Maude, realizing her guests’ interests in Alo’s culture, asked, “While we’re all here, would you tell them about naming Catori? That’s such a beautiful story, and it’s sort
of a Christmas story.”

  Alo stood again. “But Lita loves telling this story. Maybe we should wait and let her tell it.”

  “Oh, Lita’s busy, so please tell it, and I’ll go to the kitchen to check on something warm for us to drink.”

  Alo looked out at the group of expectant faces, collecting his thoughts. Then, taking a breath, he began.

  “Forty-one years ago, Lita gave birth to our first daughter on the fifth day of December. Our family is Christian, but we have tried to stay true to some of our culture if it doesn’t conflict with our faith. We have a Hopi custom about naming our children, and that custom was very important to our parents. When we brought our daughter home, Lita put her in her crib with an ear of dried corn. For the next twenty days, we only called the baby ‘daughter,’ and she slept night and day with this ear of corn.”

  He smiled, picturing his firstborn, remembering those days of early parenthood. They’d been so nervous, he and Lita.

  “So, what is the significance of the ear of corn?” Greg asked.

  “In our culture, corn represents Mother Earth. But our faith teaches us our God created Earth and everything else. So every night, we prayed to our Father God to bless our daughter. On the twentieth day after her birth, as was our custom, it was time to name her. And that made it Christmas Day.”

  “Ooh,” several of his listeners responded, nodding in understanding.

  He paused and rubbed his palms together. “This was the most memorable Christmas of my life. Before the rising of the sun on that cold Christmas morning, we drove to the top of the mountain from where we lived below. The baby’s grandparents were with us. At the first sign of the rising sun, we stood in a clearing atop that mountain. We held our tiny baby up until the first ray of light touched her forehead, and then we named her. We named her Catori. Her name means ‘spirit.’”

  Maude and Lita entered the gathering room just in time to hear Alo finishing up his story. Lita joined Alo, drawing near him. “Yes, we did, and she has lived up to her name. I’m sorry that you won’t have an opportunity to meet her,” she told everyone, then looked at Alo. “She’s a beautiful spirit, like her father.”

  You’re both beautiful spirits, Maude thought fondly.

  Maude spoke up. “Lita and Laura have the kitchen humming, and I’m told there is hot cider in the dining room, and then we can start the games—cards and Scrabble, and I have a Christmas trivia game for the whole group. What do you say we get something to drink and divide into teams?”

  The Unlikely Christmas Party moved into the dining room and huddled in small groups, dividing themselves up and deciding how to spend the afternoon.

  Emily approached Maude. “Maude, I’d really like to spend some time in your studio this afternoon, if you wouldn’t mind. I will only use a few pieces of drawing paper and some colored pencils if you have them.”

  “Of course! Come with me, and I’ll set you up at the drawing table. I’m out here most days painting, and I’m getting into sculpting again. I think you’ll like being in the studio. Only, if it were a bright sunny day, you could see far into the mountains. It’s my favorite place in the house.”

  Kent, a cup of cider in hand, followed them out of the dining room and down the hallway to the studio.

  Maude turned and asked, “Kent, would you like to paint or draw?”

  “No, ma’am, I think I’ll be happy just to watch Emily.”

  Maude smiled and kept walking.

  Emily sat at the drawing table facing the window and searched through the box of pencils, choosing colors and stashing them in her left hand. Kent walked around the studio, studying the works in progress, and revisited his handprint on the wall, and Emily’s right beside it. He looked at his damaged arm and hand, still bandaged down to his fingers, and wondered how long it would be before he could use it again, if ever.

  He walked to the end of the drawing table. “Guess I should have asked your permission to hang around in the studio with you this afternoon?”

  Emily stopped searching for the Golden Yellow pencil. “Oh, I’m glad you did.”

  “Never was good at Scrabble.” He looked at his hand again. “And card playing is still awkward with one good hand. And Christmas trivia—well, that’s just trivia to me.”

  “Rather interesting to think there’s anything trivial about Christmas.” She resumed her search for Golden Yellow.

  “Oh, they’ll be naming Santa’s reindeer and trying to remember who made the first recording of ‘Jingle Bells.’ That sort of thing, I imagine.” He pulled up another stool and sat at the end of the table where he could study her face in the gray light coming through the window. Her soft, thick brown hair hung to her shoulders. He wanted to touch it, to tuck it behind her ear so he could see her profile. Her eyes were warm and brown like her hair, and her eyelashes were thick and heavy.

  “Beatrice’s impromptu performance set me to thinking about the power of art and stories,” Emily explained as she rummaged. “And I just wanted to draw. I had some ideas about my children’s book. I want children to know there’s always hope.” She pushed the box of pencils away and began to sketch.

  “So, tell me about this children’s book. Or is it some secret that I’ll have to wait and see?”

  “Well, it’s about a little girl named Daisy who loves flowers and playing in her garden all day long,” Emily said as she drew. “She has conversations with the blossoms and the butterflies, and one day she asks her friend Sunflower what she does during the night all by herself while Daisy is asleep. Sunflower tells her that she hangs her head because the sun is gone.”

  Kent pulled his stool closer and looked at her drawing. “That doesn’t look like a daisy or a sunflower to me.”

  “That’s good, because it’s not.” She smiled pleasantly at him. “This flower is about the rest of the story.”

  “You’re not planning to leave me in suspense, are you? Tell me the rest.”

  “Well, Daisy talks to her mother, Rose, and tells her she doesn’t like the nighttime anymore and that she’s only happy when she can see her flower friends.”

  “And what does Daisy’s mother tell her?” Kent was almost hypnotized by the movement of Emily’s pencil, watching an unusual flower appear on the page before him.

  “Her mother tells her to have another conversation with Sunflower about why she hangs her head. And Sunflower explains it’s because she’s been turning her face to the sun all day, because that’s what sunflowers do. And she’s just resting and waiting for the sun to come back.” She stopped and looked into Kent’s eyes, which were nearer than before. “And then her mother hands her some seeds to plant right outside her bedroom window.”

  “Seeds, huh? This is getting suspenseful.”

  “Yes, seeds. And every day, Daisy waters the seeds and watches a vine grow up to her window. And she begins to see tiny white buds. But they won’t open. Finally, one evening, Daisy is lying in bed next to her window and looking out at the stars when she smells the sweetest fragrance.”

  Kent stood up. “I know. Daisy smelled cookies baking in the oven.”

  Emily pulled him down again with a laugh. “Stop it. I smell the cookies too. But you’re about to miss the best part.”

  “So, what does she smell?”

  “Daisy smells a flower she’s never smelled before. She jumps out of bed and goes to the window to see a large, fragrant white blossom smiling in the moonlight—her moonflower.”

  “A moonflower? Is there such a thing?”

  “Oh yes, they’re lovely, and my back garden fence is covered in them, and they only bloom at night.” She showed him her drawing.

  “And the moral of this story is?”

  “The moral. Hmmm.” She paused to think. “I’d say the moral is that nighttime comes, and we should plant seeds of hope in the daytime so that we’ll have sweet-smelling blossoms in the darkness.”

  “And kids will get this?”

  “Of course they will—especially
when I’m finished. I gave you the condensed version. You haven’t heard the conversation with Moonflower and Mariposa and Tulip, but Daisy learns that without the darkness, she’d never get to see the stars or gaze at the moon or watch the fireflies down by the stream. And better than all that, the children will remember the story.”

  Kent got up and went to the window and looked out at the grayness. He was quiet. “I’ve seen the desert in Iraq, barren with nothing growing, but never have I seen stars like I did in those wide-open spaces in that vast darkness.” He paused. “My parents planted seeds in my soul when I was a kid. They taught me that life wasn’t always fair, but they taught me there was always hope. I learned that truth when I was a child, and it was like water to my soul in that dry, parched place.” He turned back around to Emily. “My parents taught me well, but never so beautifully as your story. You must finish this book. And I’d like to buy the first copy.”

  “What if I wanted to give you the very first copy?” She stood and walked to him at the window. They stood side by side, her hand barely brushing his.

  “Then I’d gladly accept it, especially if you’d sign it. Of course, you’d have to give me your address so that I could come and pick it up.”

  She spoke quietly. “Two twenty-two Meadowlark Lane. It will be the house with the teal-blue mailbox with sunflowers on it.”

  Facing the window, he took her hand in his. “I still have some work and some healing to do when we get home, but Emily . . . do you think we could see each other after this trip?” He paused. “But maybe I should ask first if there’s someone else in your life?”

  Emily squeezed his hand and turned to him. “I’d really like that. I did just give you my address. And no, there is no one else in my life outside all those cute fellows in my class of kindergartners.”