A Cozy Country Christmas Anthology Read online

  A Cozy Country Christmas

  Anthology

  by Christine Arness

  Published by

  Melange Books, LLC

  White Bear Lake, MN 55110

  www.melange-books.com

  A Cozy Country Christmas Anthology, Copyright 2014 Christine Arness

  ISBN: 978-1-61235-981-6

  Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Cover Design by Becca Barnes

  Table of Contents

  The Memory Tree

  At Christmas, a young mother mourning the loss of their possessions in a fire learns from her children an invaluable lesson on how to start again.

  The Most Important Ingredient

  Anita is grieving over the fact that her broken wrist won’t allow her to continue her favorite holiday tradition of baking cookies for friends and family. Then Anita’s two small daughters assure her that she doesn’t have only one hand—she has five.

  If Wishes Were Horses

  When a horse galloped up and stopped at the barn door, eight year old Kim knew her prayers for a horse for Christmas had been answered. But her thoughts go in a very different direction after her mom shares a life changing memory.

  Live as in Lively

  This live outdoor Nativity turns out a lot “livelier” than the director anticipated.

  Let It Snow

  An overstressed mother remembers a past when her own mom made every holiday full of fun and joy. At the last moment, she realizes what is truly important and changes directions for the family Christmas Eve party.

  One Midnight Clear

  While studying a Christmas store window scene, a homesick man is shocked to find himself handcuffed to the woman at his side. As he looks at her small son’s guilty face, Tim realizes his life is about to take an unexpected turn.

  Star of Bethlehem

  A small girl’s desire for a Christmas tree is granted by a loving community, bringing hope to her family.

  In For a Penny

  A couple who believes their marriage is irrevocably broken finds healing, life lessons, and hope during a visit to an eccentric relative.

  Breath of God

  A Minnesota farm girl in the early 1900’s has been forced into a woman’s responsibilities. Betsy’s struggles to come to terms with her deceased mother’s plans for her bring her in conflict with both family and community expectations. Memories of the love between her parents help Betsy make the decisions she needs to face her future.

  Piano Christmas

  A schoolgirl’s sacrifice of a gift from her cherished teacher gives hope to a classmate and also shows her that giving can bless the giver as well.

  Pocketful of Love

  A grandmother learns that love is never lost when you reach out to others.

  About the Author

  Previews

  This book of Christmas stories is dedicated to my aunt, Dorothy, always a cheerleader for me, my family and my writing. I am blessed.

  The Memory Tree

  “Mom,” asked thirteen-year-old Lynda, clutching a child-sized rocking chair, “What happened to the big box of ornaments?”

  We were gathered in the family room to clear a space for the Christmas tree, and my heart ached at the answer I had to give to the four children staring at me expectantly.

  “It went in the attic after Dad took the tree down,” I explained, trying to control my own emotions.

  “You mean it got burned up?” Six-year-old John’s eyes widened. “Just like my rocking horse and bug collection?”

  Krista, our three-year-old, burst into tears.

  “Hush, sweetie,” I soothed. “It’s okay. Mommy’s here.”

  The ravenous fire that consumed our farmhouse six months earlier had also charred the edges of the children’s security. They grieved again at each fresh reminder of a lost toy or treasured token of childhood.

  “We’re safe,” I reminded them. “All we lost in the fire were things. Things can be replaced. People can’t.”

  “So we’re just gonna have a bare tree this year?” nine-year-old David said with a frown. “Won’t it look kinda funny?”

  “The tree won’t be bare, silly!” Despite his confident tone, Jon turned to me for reassurance. “Will it, Mom?”

  “No,” I vowed. “I thought maybe we could take a trip to town on Saturday and buy some new ornaments.”

  “Buy them?” Lynda cried. “We can’t just go to a store and replace that box! What about other reindeer Grandpa carved when he was a boy? Or the snowflake Grandma helped me crochet when I was little? And that tiny green sled David painted when he was in second grade? We can’t buy stuff like that!”

  I rubbed the spot above my heart, trying to massage away the ache. Those ornaments had told the story of our family—how quickly they’d been reduced to ashes and soot.

  “Now you made Mom cry!” Jon accused his big sister.

  “I’m sorry,” Lynda apologized, chastened.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. That box was filled with precious memories, but we can’t dwell on what we don’t have. Let’s be glad we’ll be together to celebrate Jesus’s birthday. Now, no more blubbering, all right?”

  We worked until bedtime. When I tucked in the children, I got some extra big hugs.

  “We have wonderful kids,” I told my husband the next morning as we sipped our coffee. “Just call me blessed.”

  “If you can say so even though I was finally getting used to calling you Peggy.” Doug dodged the piece of toast I tossed in his direction. He squeezed my hand as he headed outside to tackle the morning chores. “I know this is going to be a tough Christmas, honey,” he said. “But we’ll get through it.”

  “Together we can do anything.” I squeezed his hand back. The ache in my chest was still there, however.

  Soon, it was the weekend. To my surprise, none of the children wanted to come on the Saturday shopping trip I’d promised. “We’ve got something more important to do,” Lynda informed me.

  “A project!” Krista announced. She adored projects.

  That afternoon as I walked in the front door, arms loaded with grocery bags—I couldn’t help picturing the twin milk cans from my grandfather’s farm. They had flanked the entrance hall in our old house. During the holiday season, they were always filled with evergreen branches, a woodsy scent greeting each visitor. I paused, missing them fiercely.

  I blinked back tears. Then, to my surprise, I heard laughter in the family room. I followed the giggles and discovered Doug and the children immersed in a sea of paper, ribbon, cloth, modeling clay and sequins.

  “We’re making memories!” Jon exclaimed, holding up a paper plate splashed with bright colors. “This is a picture of my birthday picnic in a pasture last summer. See, here’s Uncle Matt and the bonfire...”

  Krista tugged at my sleeve. “I drew a picture of my kitty. Daddy’s gonna hang it on the tree with a silver ribbon.”

  “No store-bought ornaments for us, Mom. We’re going to have a memory tree!” Lynda smiled radiantly. “Daddy helped us cut one from the woods, and we’re making things to hang on it—things that remind us of happy times.”

  A proud evergree
n stood in the corner, its branches already decked with a few misshapen ornaments. One of them was a crocheted snowflake.

  Lynda noticed me gazing at it. “I made some mistakes,” she whispered, “Just like on the one Grandma and I crocheted together.”

  I hugged each of our children, then got down on the floor to make a few ornaments of my own. The ache in my heart was gone and in its place, I felt a warm glow of peace.

  Homemade memories, like cookies, truly are the sweetest!

  THE END

  The Most Important Ingredient

  “What’s wrong, Mommy? You’ve got a big wrinkle on your forehead.”

  I stopped scowling at the cast covering my hand and forced a smile for four-year-old Becky’s benefit. “Mommy’s okay, dear,” I assured her.

  As okay as any busy farm wife and mother with a broken hand, I muttered mentally. Just three days ago, a cow had pinned my wrist between her hard skull and a concrete wall.

  I was still adjusting to the cast. Already, however, I knew it would put a crimp in my holiday baking plans.

  Usually, I baked for a solid week each December. Then I presented cellophane-wrapped, bow-topped dishes of delights to neighbors and friends.

  Fragile Swedish lace cookies, rich toffee diamonds, paper-thin butterscotch crisps and round brown sugar drops were among my treasured family recipes.

  This year, I wouldn’t hear my husband’s admiring whistle and customary compliment: “Anyone seeing these creations, darling, can tell you’ve got an artist’s soul!” One toss of a Jersey cow’s head had spoiled my most favorite holiday tradition.

  Ed had been practical about the accident. “So we don’t give cookies this year. Folks will survive,” he’d said. With a sigh, he added, “But I will miss your help in the barn...not to mention those lemon wafers of yours melting in my mouth.”

  Seven-year-old Amy burst into the kitchen clutching a handful of envelopes. “Mr. Anders just brought the mail! He said he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into your cookies.”

  She frowned. “I told him you hadn’t started baking yet. Christmas is in two weeks, Mom. When are you going to make cookies?”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Anders won’t be getting cookies this year, sweetheart.”

  “No cookies!” Army stared at me in disbelief.

  I held up my cast. “How can I mix batter with this on my hand? I’m sorry, girls, we won’t be making any cookie deliveries this year.”

  Amy flopped down on a kitchen chair and turned a woeful face in my direction. “But I told my Sunday school teacher I’d bring cookies next week!”

  “No cookies?” Becky tugged on my sleeve. “No cookies for Pop-pop?”

  “Grandpa will understand. So will everyone else,” I declared. “I can’t be expected to shape dough into wreaths with only one hand.”

  After a moment of disappointed silence, Amy brightened. “You haven’t got one hand, Mom.” She jumped to her feet. “You’ve got five!” Grinning, she held up both hands.

  Becky—not quite comprehending—caught some of her sister’s enthusiasm and held up her tiny palms. “I have five hands, too!” she chirped.

  “Girls, girls, calm down,” I insisted. “You have to understand—cookie baking isn’t easy. It’s grown-up work—”

  I broke off. Suddenly, I’d remembered long-ago hours spent in Grandma Ella’s kitchen, one of her flowered aprons tied around my little-girl waist. Her voice echoed in my mind. “What is the most important ingredient in a good cook’s kitchen?”

  I glanced at the earthenware canisters that were arranged along the table. “Sugar? Flour?”

  She gave me a grin and a shake of her head. “No, child. It’s love. Love makes every dish taste special.”

  My two girls never had the privilege of knowing Grandma Ella. Now, her earthenware canisters lined my kitchen counters—a reminder of a legacy of love.

  I laughed and bent down to kiss each sweet, pleading face. “Amy, get out the mixing bowls. Becky, please find the measuring cups and spoons. We’ve got some serious cookie makin’ to do.”

  When Ed came in from his evening chores, the kitchen was a disaster area. The girls and I were dusted with flour and sticky fingerprints decorated the refrigerator and cupboards. Bowls, baking sheets and cooling racks covered every available surface.

  A smile chased tiredness from his face as he took an appreciative sniff. “Mmmm! My nose tells me my girls must have inherited their mom’s magic touch with cookies.”

  “Run and get washed up,” I told the excited children. “Mommy needs to start getting supper ready.”

  Ed scraped a hump of dough off the nearest counter. “Looks like Mommy needs some help cleaning up,” he observed.

  With a rueful grin, I gestured toward a plate of misshapen snickerdoodles. “I doubt that anyone seeing these cookies would know I have artist’s soul,” I remarked.

  Ed put his arm around my shoulders. “Maybe not, hon. But anyone could tell you’ve got a mother’s heart.”

  I snuggled into his embrace, savoring the start of a wonderful, new holiday tradition.

  THE END

  If Wishes Were Horses

  “Oh, Mom, isn’t he beautiful?” Eight-year-old Kim trembled with excitement. “I’ve prayed every night for a horse for Christmas ... and here he is!”

  “He” was an Appaloosa that had galloped up our lane, nostrils flaring, before stopping at the barn door.

  My husband, Bob, led him into a stall and slapped the animal’s muscular shoulder. “I bet this fella belongs to Sue Martin,” he said. “This morning, at the feed store, she mentioned getting a barrel racer.”

  Kim vigorously shook her head, insisting, “He’s my horse. God sent him!” Refusing to be torn even for supper from “her” horse, Kim remained in the barn, currying the mud-spattered coat with a 5¢ comb she’d bought at months ago at a farm auction.

  I finally got Sue on the phone. She’d been driving around in search of her missing steed. Soon, she arrived with a horse trailer. “‘Silver Dollar’ just got spooked by a neighbor’s dog,” Sue explained. “Thanks for taking care of him.”

  Kim stood by silently as the clop of hooves on the ramp drummed an end to her dream.

  I put my arm around the slumped, narrow shoulders in the faded pink parka. “I’m sorry, Kim. But, even if someone did give us a horse for free, we couldn’t afford to feed it.”

  Kim shrugged me off, weary of hearing how the drought a summer ago had left us barely able to make ends meet.

  Later, as she pushed around vegetables in reheated soup, I noticed a tear splash into the bowl. We sat alone in the kitchen while Bob finished chores.

  “I know you’re disappointed,” I soothed. “Maybe next year...”

  Kim stirred her untasted soup. “I need a horse now. You don’t have to buy me any more presents for the rest of my life. I’ll get a job to pay for his hay—”

  “Kim, we can’t afford new shoes for you and a horse needs two pair!”

  She ignored my feeble attempt at humor. “Christmas is supposed to be when you get what you want,” Kim sniffed. “And I want a horse!”

  I sighed. “You have the wrong idea, darling. Christmas is when we celebrate God’s gift to us—His Son. And the best way to do that is by giving to others.”

  Kim stared into her bowl. Platitudes were useless, I realized. At her age, she needed an example to which she could relate.

  I touched her hand. “For my seventh birthday,” I confided, “I wanted just one thing, more than anything in the world.”

  No response. I pressed on valiantly. “It was a china tea set decorated with violets—a complete set with teapot, cups, sugar bowl and creamer.”

  Grudgingly, Kim queried, “Did your parents get it for you?”

  “They planned to. But then my little brother got sick, and his medicine was very expensive.”

  She scowled but I continued. “Later, an aunt gave me $5 for a present. I was thrilled, because I could buy the tea se
t!”

  Uninterested, Kim squirmed. “I’m not hungry, Mom. May I be excused?”

  “You know what, though?” I ignored her fidgets. “I didn’t buy it.'”

  Kim stopped half way out of her chair. “Why? I thought you wanted it more than anything in the whole world.”

  I nodded. “When my dad took me to the store, I picked up that set and imagined pouring tea for my dolls.” Even now, I could still recall the thrill of clutching that box close to me. “Then I saw a baseball glove and remembered Andy lying in bed at home.”

  Sinking back, Kim really looked at me for the first time. “You bought the glove instead? Did Andy like it?”

  My vision blurred and I swallowed hard, once more engulfed by the anxiety and grief of that long-ago summer. “Andy never got well enough to play, Kim. But he slept with that glove in his arms. That made me happier than any tea set ever could.”

  I saw the sparkle of tears in Kim’s eyes before she darted out of the kitchen, leaving me to my memories...and the hope she understood the message I’d tried to convey.

  On Christmas morning, Kim didn't once mention horses. She thanked us for her new parka and matching scarf. “Open this one next, Mom.” Eyes shining, Kim placed a big box in my lap.

  I ripped away the tissue paper and gasped. In the box was a child’s china tea set decorated with violets—complete with teapot, cups, sugar bowl and creamer.

  Bob gave me a puzzled look as tears rolled down my cheeks. “Kim dragged me to five stores till we found that. And now you’re crying?”