Did she like it? people have asked. Did Madeline like her gift?
I'll let you be the judge. :)
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Gifts of the Season, a story
“New hockey gloves,” said ten-year-old Jackson. “That’s what I want to buy with my money.” Our family was driving to one of Jack’s hockey games the day after an early Christmas celebration, during which both kids had received a crisp fifty dollar bill from their Papa Jones. They were pondering what they might do with that kind of loot.
“How about you, Madeline?” I asked our daughter, age seven.
Silence from the backseat while she considered the question. Then a happy gasp. “I know! I’ll buy Benny.”
Scott and I chuckled. Benny played goalie for Jackson’s team and as such had recently secured our daughter’s admiration. At an out-of-state tournament a few weeks earlier, we’d gotten to know Benny and his dad, Pat, a bit—well enough to know that the pink ribbon tattooed on Pat’s arm honored his wife, now two years breast cancer-free. And to know that Pat was a stay-at-home dad, while his wife, a physician, supported the family. All of which we found pretty cool.
When we saw Pat at the game, we relayed Madeline’s wish. Pat grinned. “There are days when Benny’s for sale,” he said. We laughed.
Three days later, at the boys’ next practice, Pat approached me as I huddled beneath my blanket on the chilly rink bleachers. He handed me a manila envelope. Puzzled, I slid its contents into my hand—an 8x10 glossy of goalie Benny sprawled across the ice as he blocked an opponent’s shot. And on the back, his signature: Merry Christmas. Ben #19.
I looked up at Pat. “For Madeline?” I asked and he nodded. I felt warm, despite my frosty surroundings, touched by Pat’s playful thoughtfulness. Discovering the autographed photo beneath the tree on Christmas would certainly make our daughter’s day. But more than that, I recognized the gesture as the gift of friendship—in any year, at any age, one of the very best gifts of the season.
“How about you, Madeline?” I asked our daughter, age seven.
Silence from the backseat while she considered the question. Then a happy gasp. “I know! I’ll buy Benny.”
Scott and I chuckled. Benny played goalie for Jackson’s team and as such had recently secured our daughter’s admiration. At an out-of-state tournament a few weeks earlier, we’d gotten to know Benny and his dad, Pat, a bit—well enough to know that the pink ribbon tattooed on Pat’s arm honored his wife, now two years breast cancer-free. And to know that Pat was a stay-at-home dad, while his wife, a physician, supported the family. All of which we found pretty cool.
When we saw Pat at the game, we relayed Madeline’s wish. Pat grinned. “There are days when Benny’s for sale,” he said. We laughed.
Three days later, at the boys’ next practice, Pat approached me as I huddled beneath my blanket on the chilly rink bleachers. He handed me a manila envelope. Puzzled, I slid its contents into my hand—an 8x10 glossy of goalie Benny sprawled across the ice as he blocked an opponent’s shot. And on the back, his signature: Merry Christmas. Ben #19.
I looked up at Pat. “For Madeline?” I asked and he nodded. I felt warm, despite my frosty surroundings, touched by Pat’s playful thoughtfulness. Discovering the autographed photo beneath the tree on Christmas would certainly make our daughter’s day. But more than that, I recognized the gesture as the gift of friendship—in any year, at any age, one of the very best gifts of the season.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Christmas 1932, memoir excerpt
And now for the conclusion of Alice Anderson's Christmas tale...
Christmas 1932, Part 5
When all were seated at the table Papa nodded to John and me. In unison we repeated our Swedish table prayer. And then the feast began. Hot, steaming fruit soup, rich rice porridge, lutefisk with potatoes and white cream sauce, then came the sausage, meat balls, scalloped corn, brown beans, pickled pigs feet, jellies, pickles, rye bread, and finally the array of Christmas cookies and fruit cake along with the Swedish dessert, kräm.
We ate for a long time. Then it was time for the Christmas tree candles to be lit. Mama had three milk pails of water close by, just in case.
But first, Papa picked up the English Bible, the one with all the pictures, and he read the Christmas story from Luke 2. Then he prayed, thanking God for sending the Savior to lost mankind. His amen was echoed by Sivert’s hearty response. Amen!
Jimmy shifted nervously and then said, “Been a long time since I heard that read. And Otto, you read real good in English. In fact, you read better than you talk. I didn’t know you had schooling in this country.” Papa reached for the box of matches he had laid on the bookcase. “I taught myself,” he replied.
To see the candles burning on the Christmas tree was like watching the angels on the first Christmas night. It was glorious! Mama had other opinions regarding burning candles on the tree. Every thirty seconds she would say, “I think you can blow them out now.” But Papa waited until a third of the candle was gone, and then we helped him blow out the candles.
There was a package for each one in a bag that Santa Claus or the Swedish tomte had dropped on the front porch. Jimmy and Rod got new socks, hand knit, and Martha gazed delightedly at the box of handkerchiefs. Sivert was pleased with the new necktie.
We played pick-up sticks with Rod while Papa and Mama visited. Then it was time for our guests to go home. Their coats had been hung near the kitchen stove. Lanterns were lit and Rod decided he would walk the road with the Torgersons. Jimmy would find the path across Carlson’s field to his shack.
Tonight our guests had entered and departed through the front door. Otherwise, on ordinary days, everyone came to the back door. We stood shivering in the crisp December air, watching our guests leave.
Mama was especially pleased as she began to clean up the kitchen. Papa began reviewing the evening. “So, I read better than I talk!” And he laughed heartily. Little brother John had noticed that Martha warned Sivert not to use too much pepper on his lutefisk. He would remember that on Christmas Eve for the years to come whenever he ate his lutefisk.
Joy to the world had come to our home and to four of our lonely neighbors that Christmas Eve. I would remember that night as one of the happiest Christmases ever.
Comment from the coach: In concluding her story of that long-ago Christmas, Alice again allows the facts to tell the tale. She gives us a great example of when less is more, and her conclusion serves as an effective reminder that simplicity is often sublime.
Christmas 1932, Part 5
When all were seated at the table Papa nodded to John and me. In unison we repeated our Swedish table prayer. And then the feast began. Hot, steaming fruit soup, rich rice porridge, lutefisk with potatoes and white cream sauce, then came the sausage, meat balls, scalloped corn, brown beans, pickled pigs feet, jellies, pickles, rye bread, and finally the array of Christmas cookies and fruit cake along with the Swedish dessert, kräm.
We ate for a long time. Then it was time for the Christmas tree candles to be lit. Mama had three milk pails of water close by, just in case.
But first, Papa picked up the English Bible, the one with all the pictures, and he read the Christmas story from Luke 2. Then he prayed, thanking God for sending the Savior to lost mankind. His amen was echoed by Sivert’s hearty response. Amen!
Jimmy shifted nervously and then said, “Been a long time since I heard that read. And Otto, you read real good in English. In fact, you read better than you talk. I didn’t know you had schooling in this country.” Papa reached for the box of matches he had laid on the bookcase. “I taught myself,” he replied.
To see the candles burning on the Christmas tree was like watching the angels on the first Christmas night. It was glorious! Mama had other opinions regarding burning candles on the tree. Every thirty seconds she would say, “I think you can blow them out now.” But Papa waited until a third of the candle was gone, and then we helped him blow out the candles.
There was a package for each one in a bag that Santa Claus or the Swedish tomte had dropped on the front porch. Jimmy and Rod got new socks, hand knit, and Martha gazed delightedly at the box of handkerchiefs. Sivert was pleased with the new necktie.
We played pick-up sticks with Rod while Papa and Mama visited. Then it was time for our guests to go home. Their coats had been hung near the kitchen stove. Lanterns were lit and Rod decided he would walk the road with the Torgersons. Jimmy would find the path across Carlson’s field to his shack.
Tonight our guests had entered and departed through the front door. Otherwise, on ordinary days, everyone came to the back door. We stood shivering in the crisp December air, watching our guests leave.
Mama was especially pleased as she began to clean up the kitchen. Papa began reviewing the evening. “So, I read better than I talk!” And he laughed heartily. Little brother John had noticed that Martha warned Sivert not to use too much pepper on his lutefisk. He would remember that on Christmas Eve for the years to come whenever he ate his lutefisk.
Joy to the world had come to our home and to four of our lonely neighbors that Christmas Eve. I would remember that night as one of the happiest Christmases ever.
Comment from the coach: In concluding her story of that long-ago Christmas, Alice again allows the facts to tell the tale. She gives us a great example of when less is more, and her conclusion serves as an effective reminder that simplicity is often sublime.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Christmas 1932, memoir excerpt
The penultimate installment of Alice Anderson's story...
Christmas 1932, Part 4
The Torgersons were old, at least in their seventies, and they were Seventh Day Adventists and Norwegian. They didn’t hold with frivolities and did not even acknowledge Christmas. Papa said he was sure they would come, if only to remember their childhood in Norway where they, too, had eaten lutefisk and pickled herring. We invited them and they accepted. We walked on to call on Rod, munching on the thick sugar cookies Martha Torgerson was famous for.
Rod’s farm looked like a picture out of a story book. Gates hung straight, the mowing machine was under cover, harnesses and bridles hung uniformly by the horse stalls. Everything about the farm was neat. We sat down in his little house and explained our purpose. “Christmas Eve? Sure, I’ll come up after I’ve done the chores. That’ll be nice. Christmas Day I’m walking to Clear Lake to be with Mother and Rose.”
One more to go. Jimmy Trotter. Why had the folks invited Jimmy? I wondered if Jimmy knew he should clean up before he came. He often worked for us during spring plowing. Jimmy walked with a decided limp, and he had other ailments too. Mama often voiced concern for him. “Probably the way he eats,” she would mutter.
We stood on the rambling porch. There was no chance of being invited inside. Even Jimmy, who was certainly no socialite, smiled broadly when invited. “Been a long time since I really celebrated Christmas Eve,” he said.
On Christmas Eve day we skipped along the cow trails to the woods. We would cut our Christmas tree, the one we had pruned and cared for since it was just a tiny tree. The wooden stand Papa had made the first year they had been on the farm was retrieved from the attic. The tree stood nude and green in the front room. Papa was in charge of clipping the candle holders onto the branches. Mama arranged the decorations. We put the candles into the holders.
The table was ready, food had been prepared for many days. John and I peeked through the front room curtains for our guests to arrive. We could see the lantern carried by Sivert Torgerson, swinging slowly, as they trudged up the road. Across the field and toward the woods we caught glimpses of Rod’s lantern. He would probably arrive before the slow going Torgersons. A knock at the door announced Jimmy’s arrival.
Comment from the coach: I love how Alice weaves snippets of dialogue into her tale to capture the personalities involved. Dialogue is one of the most powerful tools in a writer’s box, allowing writers to show, not tell.
Christmas 1932, Part 4
The Torgersons were old, at least in their seventies, and they were Seventh Day Adventists and Norwegian. They didn’t hold with frivolities and did not even acknowledge Christmas. Papa said he was sure they would come, if only to remember their childhood in Norway where they, too, had eaten lutefisk and pickled herring. We invited them and they accepted. We walked on to call on Rod, munching on the thick sugar cookies Martha Torgerson was famous for.
Rod’s farm looked like a picture out of a story book. Gates hung straight, the mowing machine was under cover, harnesses and bridles hung uniformly by the horse stalls. Everything about the farm was neat. We sat down in his little house and explained our purpose. “Christmas Eve? Sure, I’ll come up after I’ve done the chores. That’ll be nice. Christmas Day I’m walking to Clear Lake to be with Mother and Rose.”
One more to go. Jimmy Trotter. Why had the folks invited Jimmy? I wondered if Jimmy knew he should clean up before he came. He often worked for us during spring plowing. Jimmy walked with a decided limp, and he had other ailments too. Mama often voiced concern for him. “Probably the way he eats,” she would mutter.
We stood on the rambling porch. There was no chance of being invited inside. Even Jimmy, who was certainly no socialite, smiled broadly when invited. “Been a long time since I really celebrated Christmas Eve,” he said.
On Christmas Eve day we skipped along the cow trails to the woods. We would cut our Christmas tree, the one we had pruned and cared for since it was just a tiny tree. The wooden stand Papa had made the first year they had been on the farm was retrieved from the attic. The tree stood nude and green in the front room. Papa was in charge of clipping the candle holders onto the branches. Mama arranged the decorations. We put the candles into the holders.
The table was ready, food had been prepared for many days. John and I peeked through the front room curtains for our guests to arrive. We could see the lantern carried by Sivert Torgerson, swinging slowly, as they trudged up the road. Across the field and toward the woods we caught glimpses of Rod’s lantern. He would probably arrive before the slow going Torgersons. A knock at the door announced Jimmy’s arrival.
Comment from the coach: I love how Alice weaves snippets of dialogue into her tale to capture the personalities involved. Dialogue is one of the most powerful tools in a writer’s box, allowing writers to show, not tell.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Christmas 1932, memoir excerpt
The continuation of Alice Anderson's remembrance of a Christmas long past.
Christmas 1932, Part 3
In between all of the preparations, we practiced our Christmas recitations for the Sunday school program at the Swedish Mission church in town. Our clothes for that occasion were new, though often they were made over from the city cousins’ castoffs. New shoes were a must. The money for them came from the proceeds from the bean patch behind the barn.
So the month’s preparations continued. No mention was made about company for Christmas Eve. Then one Saturday morning at the breakfast table, the subject was brought up.
“This year we can’t go to Seattle at Christmas, and they aren’t able to come here, so Papa and I have decided to invite some of the neighbors.” Mama was interrupted by her inquisitive children. “Who?” Some would be out of the question. Imagine inviting the Russian family with all those kids, or some of the others who wouldn’t think of eating lutefisk.
“We’re going to ask the old folks Torgersons, and Rodney Stevens, and Jimmy Trotter.” Mama spoke definitely and Papa concurred. Not a kid among them! What kind of a Christmas Eve was this going to be!
“You can walk with Papa this morning to invite them.” This was Mama’s last word as we got ready to call on our neighbors.
Comment from the coach: Here, Alice returns to the problem—a Christmas her family must spend apart from loved ones—and presents the solution…which in turn presents a new problem, at least for young Alice. A Christmas without kids! Again, the author doesn’t dwell on her emotional reaction to this turn of events but allows her spare retelling to capture the conflict.
Christmas 1932, Part 3
In between all of the preparations, we practiced our Christmas recitations for the Sunday school program at the Swedish Mission church in town. Our clothes for that occasion were new, though often they were made over from the city cousins’ castoffs. New shoes were a must. The money for them came from the proceeds from the bean patch behind the barn.
So the month’s preparations continued. No mention was made about company for Christmas Eve. Then one Saturday morning at the breakfast table, the subject was brought up.
“This year we can’t go to Seattle at Christmas, and they aren’t able to come here, so Papa and I have decided to invite some of the neighbors.” Mama was interrupted by her inquisitive children. “Who?” Some would be out of the question. Imagine inviting the Russian family with all those kids, or some of the others who wouldn’t think of eating lutefisk.
“We’re going to ask the old folks Torgersons, and Rodney Stevens, and Jimmy Trotter.” Mama spoke definitely and Papa concurred. Not a kid among them! What kind of a Christmas Eve was this going to be!
“You can walk with Papa this morning to invite them.” This was Mama’s last word as we got ready to call on our neighbors.
Comment from the coach: Here, Alice returns to the problem—a Christmas her family must spend apart from loved ones—and presents the solution…which in turn presents a new problem, at least for young Alice. A Christmas without kids! Again, the author doesn’t dwell on her emotional reaction to this turn of events but allows her spare retelling to capture the conflict.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Christmas 1932, memoir excerpt
Continuing with Alice Anderson's remembrance of a long-ago Christmas in the Northwest...
Christmas 1932, Part 2
As the days went by, Mama was keeping her December schedule. It was the Bonde (Farmer) calendar, she explained to us each year. At the beginning of the month the pig was butchered and hung from the high rafters in the barn, to age. Mama boiled the scrubbed pig’s head and the feet. She made head cheese, wrapped it in the skin and then in cheesecloth, then weighted it down in a brine in the stone crock. She used the same big rock to hold the sausage in place year after year. Tradition, I guess, or maybe she knew that stone was just the right size, and it was clean.
In the evenings my brother John and I sealed the envelopes on the Christmas cards. Mama selected each one carefully to fit the recipient. The most special ones were sent to Sweden, even as early as November. Always, every year we heard Mama admonish Papa, “Today, you are going to write to Ida and Gust back home.” She often ended up doing it herself.
The most exciting day of all was December 10 (Anna Day in Sweden), when the lutefisk was put into the wooden tub to soak. The Saturday before Anna Day Papa would go to Mount Vernon to the butcher shop and buy the dried cod, each piece measuring at least three feet. These he would saw into pieces about six to eight inches long. The cats relished the dust that fell from the sawing, dancing excitedly under the saw buck. Twice a day until Christmas Eve Mama would change the water on the fish. We watched as the fish was reconstituted, becoming white and fluffy.
During all of these preparations Mama and Papa explained to us that this is the way it was done in Sweden. The humble people made use of the poorest parts of the animal carcass. They added spices to enhance the flavor of ordinary food.
How we loved the pickled herring! And best of all was the Christmas baking, especially the pepparkakor, a ginger cookie. Mama made dozens of them and declared that during December we could eat some every day. This, she said, made children good and that was important before Christmas Eve.
Comment from the coach: Note Alice’s storytelling style—simple, yet satisfying. Her inclusion of homey details allow her readers a glimpse into a simpler time. She doesn’t dwell on emotional impact; she lets the facts speak for themselves. Compelling memoir need not be fancy, only from the heart.
Christmas 1932, Part 2
As the days went by, Mama was keeping her December schedule. It was the Bonde (Farmer) calendar, she explained to us each year. At the beginning of the month the pig was butchered and hung from the high rafters in the barn, to age. Mama boiled the scrubbed pig’s head and the feet. She made head cheese, wrapped it in the skin and then in cheesecloth, then weighted it down in a brine in the stone crock. She used the same big rock to hold the sausage in place year after year. Tradition, I guess, or maybe she knew that stone was just the right size, and it was clean.
In the evenings my brother John and I sealed the envelopes on the Christmas cards. Mama selected each one carefully to fit the recipient. The most special ones were sent to Sweden, even as early as November. Always, every year we heard Mama admonish Papa, “Today, you are going to write to Ida and Gust back home.” She often ended up doing it herself.
The most exciting day of all was December 10 (Anna Day in Sweden), when the lutefisk was put into the wooden tub to soak. The Saturday before Anna Day Papa would go to Mount Vernon to the butcher shop and buy the dried cod, each piece measuring at least three feet. These he would saw into pieces about six to eight inches long. The cats relished the dust that fell from the sawing, dancing excitedly under the saw buck. Twice a day until Christmas Eve Mama would change the water on the fish. We watched as the fish was reconstituted, becoming white and fluffy.
During all of these preparations Mama and Papa explained to us that this is the way it was done in Sweden. The humble people made use of the poorest parts of the animal carcass. They added spices to enhance the flavor of ordinary food.
How we loved the pickled herring! And best of all was the Christmas baking, especially the pepparkakor, a ginger cookie. Mama made dozens of them and declared that during December we could eat some every day. This, she said, made children good and that was important before Christmas Eve.
Comment from the coach: Note Alice’s storytelling style—simple, yet satisfying. Her inclusion of homey details allow her readers a glimpse into a simpler time. She doesn’t dwell on emotional impact; she lets the facts speak for themselves. Compelling memoir need not be fancy, only from the heart.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Christmas 1932, memoir excerpt
My guest blogger this week is Alice Anderson, a lovely woman with a delightful gift for storytelling. Back when I led a bunch of writers in regular critique sessions, she was one of my favorites. Always, her stories were heartwarming and evocative. Thank you, Alice, for allowing me to share one of your stories here, in timeliness for the season.
Christmas 1932, Part 1
The first day of December in 1932 was wet and cold. That was quite typical in the Pacific Northwest. I lay snuggled deep into the homemade quilt listening to Mama and Paper conversing in the kitchen.
I liked the little bedroom off the kitchen. Early in the morning I would hear Papa rustling the newspaper, gathering the bunch of kindling, turning the grates on the Monarch stove. Then I would hear the match struck to light the fire. Soon the teakettle would make the sound of “S,” and the aroma of fresh brewed coffee would drift into my bedroom.
Mama would then come down the stairs and stir among the kettles. Oatmeal, she was cooking oatmeal. I could do without that. Today as on other mornings I was listening to their conversation.
Mama broached the subject. “We’ll be alone this Christmas, I suppose. The car broken down and what little money we have will have to go for the Federal Loan. It’s a long way for any relatives in Seattle to come. I guess we’ll just resign ourselves to Christmas alone.” Papa didn’t reply. He was reading.
Christmas all by ourselves! No one to play games with and all the good Christmas food for just the four of us! Not fair, not fair! I knew I’d have to pretend that I hadn’t heard what Mama had just said.
(to be continued)
Comment from the coach: Good stories present a problem to solve. Here, the problem is a family’s Christmas to be spent alone. Even before the problem is revealed, Alice takes care to reveal homey details to draw her readers into her tale.
Christmas 1932, Part 1
The first day of December in 1932 was wet and cold. That was quite typical in the Pacific Northwest. I lay snuggled deep into the homemade quilt listening to Mama and Paper conversing in the kitchen.
I liked the little bedroom off the kitchen. Early in the morning I would hear Papa rustling the newspaper, gathering the bunch of kindling, turning the grates on the Monarch stove. Then I would hear the match struck to light the fire. Soon the teakettle would make the sound of “S,” and the aroma of fresh brewed coffee would drift into my bedroom.
Mama would then come down the stairs and stir among the kettles. Oatmeal, she was cooking oatmeal. I could do without that. Today as on other mornings I was listening to their conversation.
Mama broached the subject. “We’ll be alone this Christmas, I suppose. The car broken down and what little money we have will have to go for the Federal Loan. It’s a long way for any relatives in Seattle to come. I guess we’ll just resign ourselves to Christmas alone.” Papa didn’t reply. He was reading.
Christmas all by ourselves! No one to play games with and all the good Christmas food for just the four of us! Not fair, not fair! I knew I’d have to pretend that I hadn’t heard what Mama had just said.
(to be continued)
Comment from the coach: Good stories present a problem to solve. Here, the problem is a family’s Christmas to be spent alone. Even before the problem is revealed, Alice takes care to reveal homey details to draw her readers into her tale.
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