Simply Christmas II

SIMPLY CHRISTMAS II

Published by Cappy Hall Rearick at Smashwords

© Copyright 2010 Cappy Hall Rearick

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. Some of the material for works in this ebook publication were drawn from columns written by Cappy Hall Rearick and originally published in Simply Christmas, 2001 edition. Other stories were inspired by the author’s own experiences and early childhood memories. All characters, incidents and dialogues are, in fact, products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

Dedication

"For my mother, Zola Sorrells Hall

And for James Calvert Rearick, one of 185

sailors who survived the 1944 sinking of the

USS Johnston in the Leyte Gulf.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Preface

Christmas In The Past

The Legacy

Bride Doll Baby

Silver Dollar Miracle

The Least of These

The Merit Badge

Midnight at Mayerling

Fruitcake and Friends

Through Thick and Thin

Got Milk?

Next of Kin

Zippity Doodah

A Prince of a Man

A Tisket, Tasket and Big Red Basket

The Christmas Candy Caper

Home For Christmas

The Black Friday Crush

Lighten Up

The Tackiest Christmas Ever

Fly Away Home

The Empty Hat Box

That’s the Spirit!

Music Speaks Volumes

Christmas: Not Just for Children Anymore

Jingle All the Way!

Christmas Past and Present

That’s A Wrap, People!

About the Author

Acknowledgements

To my friends who encouraged me to collect the stories I write each Christmas, I thank you. You constantly remind me that one of life’s most precious gifts is that of good friends.

Some of my friends stand out above the crowd. I have grown in word, thought and deed because of them. Janet Shirley, Beverly Williamson Gibbons, Annabel Alderman, Judy Hines, Lynn Bagnal and Mary Stripling. I am who I am today because you are in my life. My stories may be fiction, but the love I have for you all is very real.

Many thanks go to all the people who have bought and read my books and columns and have taken the time to let me know. I enjoy writing because of you.

I am especially indebted to my husband, Bill Rearick for the innumerable hours he has spent listening to me read and re-read my stories. He is my best editor and his ideas and suggestions are almost always good ones. He encourages me to be the best I can be, but the fact is I am always a better person because of him.

Preface

My mother died two days before Christmas. The following year, I dreaded the holidays and wondered how I could ever put a big smile on my face and act like nothing significant had happened only a year before.

After Thanksgiving Day had come and gone, I moped around for a week or so before telling myself to put my heart and soul, even some of my sadness, into a written piece that I might share with friends.

I didn’t want to write a family update letter like so many others do, the kind that compiles everything a family has done since the beginning of time. So I wrote a fictional Christmas story hoping to put a bit of salve on my grieving heart. The following year, I found myself wanting to write yet another. After that, my Christmas stories became tradition. Although many of the story ideas were born way back in my distant past, most of them are simply extensions of those concepts, embellished and/or fabricated by my over-active imagination.

Jingle All The Way! is different. I wanted to write something parents and grandparents might read aloud to children during the holidays.

It is my hope that all of you will read the stories and savor the ones you like best to read again and again.

Cappy Hall Rearick

St. Simons Island, Georgia

Christmas in the Past

The Legacy

"The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious - the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science." — Albert Einstein

Many years ago, a master fiddle maker moved to a small town and began to carve handsome, quality instruments. Because his work was so fine and well respected, word of his extraordinary talent spread far beyond the village in which he came to live with his family.

He was a good man, an earnest man who loved his family, his work, and his church. He thanked God every day for giving him such a pleasant talent—that of carving music with his hands.

It would take months to complete one fiddle, requiring hours of intricate sculpting, for he would not be satisfied with less than excellence. No fiddle ever left his shop that was not as close to perfection as was humanly possible.

As he shaped and molded, whittled and sanded, he often imagined he heard the sweet refrains and haunting melodies that would one-day spring from the instrument on which he was working. There were even times when he thought he could actually hear the notes as they floated out from the solid piece of wood he held in his hands. On those particular nights, he slept more peacefully and awakened with renewed vigor the next morning.

But as life sometimes does, his took a decided turn. After many years of fashioning one fiddle after the other, each one more beautiful than the last, he began to notice dull pains in his hands and fingers. He knew his days were limited, that arthritis would surely win the battle. In the meantime he had a family to think about, children to clothe and feed. His biggest fear was that no one would hire him if his condition became known. Consequently, he told only the young minister at the church he so loved, whose prayers he desperately needed.

He struggled to work harder, but by and by, the pain became too intense. The old man was forced to admit that the long, happy days of doing the work he loved were nearly over. Before he would allow himself to put down his tools for good, however, he resolved to carve one last fiddle.

He envisioned it as his legacy and he planned to give it to the minister who had shared and kept his secret. Had it not been for the rector’s support and confidence, he would not have been able to save up for when he could no longer provide for his family.

It took him much longer to complete the last fiddle than he had expected. The crippling of his fingers had advanced rapidly, impeding his work. Months drifted into years until finally, late one Christmas Eve, long after his family had gone to bed, he held it out in front of him and said, "It is finished. He was willing, at long last, to put away his carving tools for good.

He left his house that cold, December night and slowly walked through the narrow cobblestone streets to the rectory. The wet snow, quickly turning to ice, made his trip even more difficult. It was close to midnight by the time his gnarled old hand knocked softly on the young minister’s door.

A year later, the old man died, leaving a widow with three daughters, one of who eventually became the minister’s wife, and my great-great grandmother.

Every Christmas Eve I tell this story to my family, preserving the tradition as my parents did before me. Afterwards, before going to bed, we each open one gift, then all of us gather around the piano to sing Silent Night, just as those who came before us did.

This custom has been significant to our family; it gives us all a wonderful feeling of cohesiveness and it helps us realize the importance of staying closely connected, no matter what.

Last year, my grandchild, Will, became totally mesmerized by the fiddle I had carefully placed on an easel atop the piano. All during the day, he would stop, gaze long and hard at it, then go away somewhere in his mind, as though listening to music only he could hear.

Around mid-afternoon, I said, You remember the story I tell each Christmas Eve about the old fiddle maker, don’t you, Will? He nodded. But still, each time he neared the piano, his little body would stop again, while he fixed his eyes on the fiddle for a while. In time, he would stroll away, pensive as ever.

It was Christmas Eve and I was busy cooking the turkey for the next day’s dinner and making sure the tree was trimmed exactly right. It was my job to see that the rest of the family was situated. Will’s preoccupation with the fiddle, by necessity, took a back seat until he stopped me in my tracks by asking, Can I just touch it once, Mammy? Please? I need to touch it.

Oh, you need to, do you?

What an odd turn of phrase for a child! It was certainly not typical of Will to express himself like that. I have to admit here that I was more than a little wary of his getting too close to the family heirloom. Will is the proverbial accident waiting to happen. But I figured since the fiddle would one day go to him, why not let him feel the smooth, polished wood, pluck the age-old catgut, smell the rich cherry patina? Had it not managed to survive the small hands and fingers of children for a hundred years or more?

I lifted the fiddle from its appointed place and gave it to the boy, as apprehension grew like Kudzu in my heart. Then I stood back and watched him take it in his hands and hold it as tenderly as though it were a newborn kitten.

My anxiety disappeared like beach fog at noon as Will seemed to enter another room, a chamber only big enough for this one little boy and his reverie.

As if he knew exactly what to do, he placed the end of the fiddle on his shoulder and then cradled it under his chin. His short, chubby, fingers began to curl around the neck of the instrument. He fingered the frets, shyly at first, then with spirit.

I handed him the bow and watched in amazement as he ran it across the strings once, then twice, not squawking it as I expected. He produced something akin to a melody.

Will! Why, you are a natural born musician, did you know that? I am so impressed. Play us a Christmas Carol, why don’t you?

I didn’t really think he could play a song, but all the same, I was amazed that, at the tender age of eight-years-old, he had known, intuitively, how to use the correct posture.

About that time, I happened to notice Will’s eyes become moist, older somehow, as though reaching far into his soul, searching perhaps for the first note to pluck.

He took a deep breath, nestled the instrument down