Sample Chapter

Over the life of this blog, I have been encouraged often (especially by Janice Cartwright!!) to write more on my short story tribute for my foster father, Grampy, who was known to me as "Mister" during my earliest years.  I have finally committed over 40,000 words of an average length novel to paper, and am wrapping up the final 10 to 15 thousand words shortly.  I thought I might share a chapter here.  I have no idea whether this work will eventually be published, choosing to go the traditional route rather than self-publishing and self-marketing, but if not, plan B would be to eventually commit it to this blog, chapter by chapter.

I hope you enjoy this particular chapter from MISTER, Meme - I am sharing this sample here for you! :)

Christmas 1978

           “It’s so pretty!  Can I put on the ornaments?” I was admiring the tree that Grampy had set up in front of the big window in the living room.  He had just come up from the garage and was unrolling the lights with the big green and red bulbs.

            “Why don’t we do it together, Elizabeth?” Gram smiled at me as she rummaged through a large cardboard box of ornaments, pulling out a smaller container of silky blue and white balls with rusty hooks. The fine thread on a few of the old ornaments had previously snagged, showing the white styrofoam ball underneath.  Gram had many homemade ornaments from friends and foster children mixed in with a few ornate glass globes meticulously hand painted with winter scenes on them, along with jingle bells and a hodgepodge of other decorations.  I had seen trees in other homes that had themes, but Gram’s lovely tree was a potpourri of mismatched sentimental treasures. 

            “Tonight the church is going out Christmas caroling.  Be sure to bundle up.  It’s going to be very cold,” Gram said.

            Now in her late sixties, Gram always minded the cold and wore a kerchief on her head, even when we were in the car going a mile down the road to the store.  She often shielded her right ear from the wind because of her frequent earaches.  Gram and Grampy no longer went Christmas caroling, so I tagged along with the grandchildren if I was there during the holidays and joined in the fun.

            This Christmas meant more to me than in years past.  When I was nine, Dad had met a Jehovah’s Witness and grew very interested in that religion, taking me to Kingdom Hall and giving me one of their Bibles and some literature to read.  I had been surprised that Dad showed an interest in God again after such a long time.  When I was at The Home, Dad and Maum visited our little Baptist church a few times with all of us.  During one of their visits, someone in the very back of the church must have taken a photo of the congregation standing to sing because for a long time afterward, that photo was on the front cover of the Sunday weekly bulletin handed out for the morning service.  Even as a young child I found it strange to see that snapshot of my father worshipping in a church he only went to once or twice.

            When he converted to becoming a Jehovah’s Witness, he sat me down and told me that Jesus was hung on a tree, not a cross.  I wasn’t sure why that was so important to him, but he raised his voice when he talked about it.  He also told me that it was wrong to celebrate birthdays and Christmas, so we would no longer have a tree or gifts for either.  I blindly obeyed his instructions, but refused to believe that Grampy had been wrong all those years when I heard him preaching and teaching about Jesus.  As with everything else Dad decided for me, I just went along with whatever he said.  I had to and did not harbor any anger at my young age.  The anger would come later.

            Now Gram was scraping up some old tinsel from the bottom of the box to add the finishing touches to our tree.  I had to smile at the box of tinsel that remained unopened and probably had been for a few years as long as we could continue to reuse the salvaged tinsel from the year before.  Gram was thrifty and reused anything and everything as long as she could squeeze some more life out of it.  When a box of cereal was empty, she took the wax covered bag from inside the box and put prunes in it to keep them fresh in the refrigerator.  Apple and banana peels were saved as compost for the garden.  If there was a half of a baked potato left over from Sunday dinner, she would mash it up in a frying pan with a little butter to serve at the next meal.  Gram was a good cook, but often burned baked goods in the oven.  We always knew that if our brownies were sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar, it was a sure sign that they were scorched underneath.

            I began taking clumps of the wilted tinsel, impatiently throwing them over the branches of our tree.  While I enjoyed the nostalgia of hanging the ornaments, I always rushed through the slow, methodical work of separating each strand of icicles.  My personality quickly grew tired of any work that required precision - no matter what the task - and this trait spilled over into my schoolwork.  While I easily spent hours creatively writing for fun in my room, I agonized over the methodical thought required for difficult math problems.  Now in the fifth grade, I didn’t even try to learn percentages and decimals.  I sped through my math papers and tests, making up answers as I went along so I wouldn’t get in trouble for not doing an assignment.  When standardized testing came along, my English skills rated in the entry level college category, while math lagged a grade or two behind.  Discouraged, I agonized through anything that forced me to slow down and pay attention.

            “The tree won’t look very pretty with the icicles thrown at it,” Gram patiently walked behind me, separating each piece of tinsel as she went along.

            Feeling guilty for causing her extra work, I sighed and began helping her undo my careless decorating, not wanting her to be on her feet for a long time.  Gram had begun to wrap her ankles from time to time because she had developed boils that randomly appeared and caused her pain.  She never complained and had been to the doctor once about it, but there wasn’t much that could be done except to elevate her feet as often as possible throughout the day.  Gram wrapped her ankles before putting on her hose to go out, both to protect them and to hide the wounds.  Even at my height of five feet, two inches, she was much smaller than I, and I often felt protective of her as though she were a fragile porcelain doll that could break at any moment.

          As Grampy packed the smaller empty boxes into the largest to take back down to the garage, he stopped to admire the little tree. “We have much to be thankful for,” he said. “This is a time of year to reflect on Jesus coming to earth as a little baby. He was God in the flesh - imagine that! He had to learn how to walk and talk, just like the rest of us even though he created the trees that were fashioned into his own manger – and cross! ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of men.’”

            Whenever he quoted scripture, Grampy had a way of emphasizing points in just the right places to bring the Bible to life causing me to imagine Jesus, himself, supervising the many seasons of sunshine and rain from heaven that would nurture the trees which would eventually both cradle and crucify him after he came to earth.

            That evening, I stood in the back of our caroling group with some of the other church kids, admiring the bright lights that adorned the small ranch style home where one of our faithful elderly couples was smiling at us through the storm door.  My lungs felt alive with the tingling chill of the night air. Huddled close for warmth, we cheerfully sang a few songs from our spiral bound Christmas hymnals and finished with a robust rendition of “We wish you a Merry Christmas!” 

            When I was dropped off back at Gram and Grampy’s, I told Gram how the night sky was deep, making the stars seem to shine even brighter than usual as we sang, ‘It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.’  I had been able to imagine the clear, still night that suddenly erupted with a host of fiery angels proclaiming the birth of the King as I climbed into my warm bed that night. 

           Gram and Grampy had always taught me the true meaning of Christmas since I could remember.  We never talked of Santa Claus, and I never felt like I was missing out.  I would gladly spend my holidays with the simple gifts under the tree and the story of Christ’s birth that came alive each year in their home.  I didn’t put out cookies and milk, or ran to the tree to see what Santa left me.  It really never crossed my mind because I was so happy to simply bask in the glow of our little family.

            The next morning, I arose to find Grampy in the kitchen, eating his Shredded Wheat and bananas, just as he did every morning for years.  Sometimes he added Raisin Bran and wheat germ to his bowl.  When he was finished, he took out the bottle of Cod Liver Oil from the fridge and swallowed down a tablespoon, depositing the spoon in the sink and washing it down with a swallow of orange juice.  Grampy had often extolled the virtues of a daily dose of Cod Liver Oil, stating that he couldn’t remember the last time he had ever had a cold.  I was content to let him have it – it smelled horrible!

            As poured out my own bowl of cereal, Grampy made his way into the living room where Gram was already sitting in her chair with her Bible in her lap.

            “Well, what do you know about that!” I could hear his booming voice from my chair in the kitchen. “Somebody littered paper all over our poor tree!  That wasn’t very nice of them, was it?”

            Knowing Grampy was teasing because of the feigned dismay in his voice, I bounded out of the chair and eagerly rushed to the living room to see what ‘happened' to the tree.  There were more than ten wrinkled bills randomly arranged on the boughs.  I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I knew this was going to be fun!

            “I suppose we need to clean up that tree,” Grampy continue to sound perplexed about the ‘mess’ in front of him. “Elizabeth, I suppose if you can name the presidents on each bill, you may have them!” He pretended that idea had just struck him, and pulled down the first bill. 

            “This is one dollar.  Which president is on the dollar bill?” His broad smile let me know the game had begun. 

             Gleefully, I collected the one and five dollar bills after rattling off George Washington and Abraham Lincoln with ease.  Grampy gave me a penny and quarter to match the presidents on the bills. 

             “This is a ten dollar bill.  Can you name the president?” He asked, showing me the president’s picture while hiding the name underneath.

             “No, I can’t,” I said sadly, searching the tree for anymore bills with George or Abe on the front.  I fanned out my two fives and six ones in my hand.  I had sixteen dollars.  It was more money than I usually had, but I knew if I could just get the ten dollar bill, I would be rich!

             “His name is Alexander Hamilton,” Grampy informed me, smiling.  “After we’re finished here, you may have this bill if you look him up in the encyclopedia and tell me what you learn about him.” 

Encouraged, I added the ten to my stack and excitedly exclaimed “Alexander Hamilton!” when Grampy showed me the next two bills from the tree. 

           “I guess we’re all done, now,” he said as he began to walk away.

           “No, no, Grampy, there are two more,” I cried.  “See them?”

            Grampy pretended he couldn’t find them until I impatiently took one of them down and pressed it into his hand.  It couldn’t be a $20, could it?  He showed me the picture of the president with a beautiful head of white hair on the front.

           “I don’t know that one, either, but I’ll even write you a paper on him if you tell me who he is,” I promised.

           “This one is Andrew Jackson,” Grampy said, satisfied that I already knew the ‘rules’ of the game.  He handed me not one, but two twenty dollar bills and finally, we had completely cleaned up the ‘mess’ on the branches.

           “Thank you, thank you, thank you so, so, so, SO much!” I hugged Grampy’s neck before running off to find the encyclopedia.

            Gram called me back into the living room to finish our little Christmas celebration.  Grampy read from Luke, chapter two, and I was able to unwrap the two gifts that had been placed under the tree when we first decorated it.  One gift was a book about Joy Sparton and her problem twin, and the other was a pretty blouse that I could wear with a skirt on Sundays.

            We always prayed after our morning Bible reading, but this time, Grampy took off his glasses and got down on the floor to kneel, hands clasped, resting on the seat of his chair in front of him.  I felt a special reverence come over me as I saw this great man of God kneeling before his king in an intimate position of humble worship.  As Grampy’s voice began, my soul was hushed and I somehow understood that this was a deeply intimate moment.  Grampy was a beloved public servant of God and people admired his scripture memory and wisdom.  His preaching, however deliciously long it might be, was powerful and blessed.  Publicly, he would stand in the congregation praying blessings over God’s people with his booming voice and Northern Maine accent.  Grampy even prayed scripture to God, verbalizing the Lord’s promises and admonitions throughout his conversation with the Lord.

         Now, here was this humble man, bowing low to his Lord and Master with thankfulness pouring from his soul.  Usually, I fidgeted and daydreamed while he and Gram went on and on in our morning prayers, but today was different and not just because it was Christmas morning.  For the first time, I sensed a small understanding of what it might mean to have a relationship with God.  My eyes were opened to the fact that God was a real person we could talk to, just as Grampy was talking to him as his king, father and friend.

        “We thank Thee and Praise Thee for all Thou Hast done, and will continue to do for us.  In the Lord Jesus’ name, Amen.”  Using the chair to help him up off his knees, Grampy rose to a standing position. 

Grampy assured me that he would take me to Ames in the next day or two so I could spend my Christmas money on one toy and some new clothes, then opened the door to his office to work on his ledgers for the bookstore.

        “Don’t you want me to tell you about Alexander Hamilton and Andrew Jackson now?” I asked him, eager to hold up my end of the bargain.

        “You can share that with me at lunch today,” he smiled, apparently pleased that I had remembered our deal, then stepped into the office and closed the door.

         As the day wore on, Grampy walked through the house as usual, with a purposeful stride belting out hymns, half-sung/ half-whistled to his own unique ad-libbed verbiage and melody.  I loved the music he and Gram made every day, whether it was Grampy suddenly sing-shouting the lyrics to Onward Christian Soldiers, making everyone in the house jump, or little Gram standing at the sink in the kitchen, sweetly whistling In the Garden.  More than once, I was a little embarrassed at church when I sang a hymn I thought I knew because Grampy had sung it so often at home.  Such was true of a hymn called Sound the Battle Cry.  Unbeknownst to me, his unique version began with the words of the hymn and ended with some lyrics from Row, Row, Row Your Boat. I loudly sang, in Grampy’s words, “Rouse then, soldiers, rally round the banner; Ready, steady, life is but a dream!”  The kids in the pew in front of me turned and giggled as I blushed.  “Good old Grampy,” I thought, too amused to let it bother me.

         Now on this comfortably lazy Christmas day, I took down the big black encyclopedias and asked Gram for a pen and paper.  I researched everything I could about each president and lunchtime came much too soon for me, so I didn’t bring my reports to the table just yet.  Grampy didn’t ask me for them at that time, so I figured he had forgotten.

        The day went on peacefully with the ticking of the electric baseboard heater keeping me company as I finished up my reports.  Finally, I taped a twenty dollar bill at the bottom of the Andrew Jackson paper, and did the same with Alexander Hamilton’s to show what the presidents looked like.  I folded the sheets in half and drew hearts and flowers all over the outside, finally writing SWAK boldly on the front. When suppertime arrived, I helped Gram set the table and put my pages next to Grampy’s plate.

        “Well, what is this?” he beamed. “I never heard the word SWAK before.  Did you misspell the word snack?” he teased.

         “It means sealed-with-a-kiss,” I explained, proud of myself for holding up my end of the deal.

Grampy read the reports and praised me for my thorough work.  He gently peeled off the money and put them in his billfold, not saying a word.  All through supper, I wondered whether he realized he was supposed to give them back to me, but neither of us said anything about it.     As Gram got up to cut the date squares Grampy liked for dessert, I offered to get the ice cream.  When I turned around, I saw that Andrew Jackson and Alexander Hamilton were reclining on the table next to my place setting, joined by Abe Lincoln and good old George Washington.
        The rest of the evening went casually by and peace enveloped us all.  I sucked on a candy cane while I read my new book, sleepily basking in the heat of the woodstove and the peaceful warmth of our little family of three.  Soon the excitement would build with the noise, love and laughter of the ‘kids and grandkids’ pouring into the house on New Year’s Day, which was always the highlight of the holidays for me. Tonight, though, my heart was a strange mixture of quiet contentment and exuberant joy, which was best expressed as a gentle, smiling sigh.