Happy New Year Ya'll!

A Chance to Win 28 Books from Bookreporter.com!

Bookreporter.com is running a special End-of-the-Year contest through January 4^th.

 For this contest, one Grand Prize winner will be awarded ALL 28 of the 2012 “Bookreporter.com Bets On” selections, while 28 others each will win a copy of one of these titles. These titles were selected throughout the year by Carol Fitzgerald, the founder of Bookreporter.com. 

The ‘Bets On” feature was conceived with the idea that with thousands of books published each year and much attention paid to the works of bestselling and well-known authors, it is inevitable that some titles worthy of praise and discussion may not get the attention we think they deserve. In this feature we spotlight books that immediately struck a chord with Carol and made her say “just read this.”

Complete details can be found at http://www.bookreporter.com/features/end-of-the-year-celebration/end-of-the-year-contest-2012.  

A Note from Idgie

Well, it's been another great year for the Dew.

Books pouring onto the desk from publishers, publicists and the authors themselves.  Stories from far flung lands, along with the local regional gems.  New books, authors, writers and friends found along the way.  Fantastic book events that I was so very lucky to get to attend.

The Dew had an incredibly busy 2012. 

Toward the end of the year, with a small threat of burnout looming, I took a moment to re-evaluate the year, what was accomplished and how to go forward.

Throughout the years that I've had the Dew up and running I've experienced several moments of tiredness and thoughts about taking a break.  Then I go back into the archives and see what wonderful things the past year has brought and I immediately take back those nasty silly thoughts and become energized for the next year.

I have to admit though that my life has become more hectic in recent times and I often feel like I'm juggling on a high wire with live chickens.  Therefore I've decided, so that the quality of the Dew won't suffer, I might just slow it down a teensy bit. 

There might be one or two less stories or reviews presented each week. 

I might require cleaner formatting and editing on stories that are submitted to the Dew, so that there's less time spent on this end getting it "reader-ready". Requiring stronger proofreading so that catch up editing on my end after submissions won't occur.

There might be a very interesting article about writing shared with ya'll instead of a story.  Perhaps an excerpt to a book that everyone's talking about that the publisher has so kindly allowed me to use.  Am I talking about "filler"?  No, I'm talking about other items of interest that we of the bookish variety also enjoy learning about. 

Little tweeks at the Dew to make sure I don't become overwhelmed.  The last thing I want the Dew to become is "work".  It's a joy, the readers, writers and books are a joy, my friends that I've gained in the book world are a joy and I want to make sure it stays that way!

I need to either get rid of the high wire.......or the live chickens!  :)

So here's to a wonderful 2013, but perhaps at a more moderate pace. 

Winter Love

Simply Something for December
Winter Love
By Cappy Hall Rearick


When Nancy visited St. Simons Island between Christmas and New Year's last year, she only wanted to do two things: play golf and meet Davis Love, III. However, the weather, behaving badly, dumped down rain and cold air all over God’s little acre. On the other hand, New Year’s Eve was just around the corner, so we, being grown women, focused instead on the upside of preparing party food. The downside? My cupboard, like Mother Hubbard’s, was seriously bare.

We grabbed raincoats and umbrellas and took off to nearby Tweeter’s. Nancy sat in the passenger seat pouting and whining about the rain and how it had messed up her vacation. "We have better weather in New Jersey," she hissed.

I rolled my eyes. "December weather in New Jersey does not shout sunshine to me, girlfriend." I sighed. "'You’re in the Deep South now; do like Scarlett O’Hara. ‘Tomorrow is another day’."

She shot me a serious Yankee look. "The Weather Channel is calling for rain the entire week."

If Babe couldn't play golf, either, he would be stir-crazy within 12 hours. I don't know a nine-iron from a hockey stick, but neither Nancy nor Babe would dare to suffer without me. Uh oh.

Nancy suddenly said, "I read that book Davis Love wrote." As if I needed a reminder of her hero worship. When Davis competes in a tournament, she plants herself in front of the wide-screen TV she bought especially so he would be life-size.

"Nancy, I thought you read his book several years ago."

She shot me an impatient look that said: You act like you've been sniffing Babe’s golf shoes again. "I read it every week."

I might have known.

We chatted about life in St. Simons and the six golf courses and our one, bonafide golf celebrity. I reminded her that Davis Love was a family man with a wife and kids, just in case she had any whacko ideas of stalking the man.

“Why don’t we bop over to the Davis Love Grill right now? We can shop later. Maybe he'll be there biting into a cheeseburger,” she suggested.

Hero worship is a hard nut to crack.

"Maybe tomorrow," I said quickly. "Today we cook." Pouting, she sighed like Melanie Wilkes.

Did I say we were both grownups?

It was pouring rain and there was only one open parking space, a long way from the store.

"Let’s wait till it lets up, Nancy," I said. Still brooding, she sighed again as though Mother Nature had sent a special rain cloud to pour down on her. Even the inside car windows fogged up, as if competing with the Nancy doom and gloom.

Abruptly, there was a tap, tap, tap on my foggy window. This being a small community, I’d figured it to be one of my friends, but I was wrong. A man wearing a rain-soaked ball cap stood there getting drenched.

"Excuse me. I don’t mean to bother you," he said with a smile, "but you ladies need to be careful getting out of the car because you're parked in a large puddle.” He tipped his waterlogged cap and said, “I thought you should know." He was gone before we could say thank you.

Nancy stared at his retreating figure, slack-jawed, as if looking at a ghost.

"Breathe, Nancy," I said. Her face had gone from apple red to whiter than grits white.

She looked at me as though seeing me for the first time ever, even though we had been friends for forty years. "That was … was … "

"Davis Love, III," I said gently when I realized she was flirting with cardiac arrest.

When words found their way from her brain to her mouth, they tumbled out like dominoes. “Nobody will ever believe this. Was that really him? It wasn't an out-of-body experience? There really is a Davis Love, isn’t there?"

I grabbed my umbrella. "Yes, Virginia, aka Nancy. There is a Davis Love III. He exists as certainly as golf balls and mulligans exist, and they abound and give to your life its highest meaning. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Davis Loves.' Now, get out of the car and let’s shop for groceries."

Nancy ducked her head and giggled. "I can't."

"And just why not?”

She giggled again. "I got excited and ... um ... I'm not wearing Depends."

Did I say we were both grownups?

________________________________
(Originally published at the Dew 12.29.08)

Merry Christmas Everyone!

A Christmas to Remember

                                                        A Christmas To Remember        

 What I want for Christmas covers many things.  Unlit red candles, surrounded by red berries on green holly, are sitting in clear glass bowls.  Red poinsettias are arranged adding to the Christmas atmosphere.  The fire in the grayish stone hearth crackles and sends red sparks upward.  The yellow and red flames  make the room glow with warmth and happiness.  A  six -foot tree towers above with a brightly lit silver angel touching the ceiling.  Decorations of all sizes, shapes and colors adorn the tree.

The older men are grouped together drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.  The smoke in the room is stifling as it curls toward the ceiling.   The younger men have walked outside in the chilly, moist air.   Occasionally a loud laugh is heard coming from the porch.

A  crash comes from the kitchen. A dish drops, striking the shiny linoleum floor.  The women hasten to finish preparing the meal.  Glazed ham, baked turkey, and mustard potato salad are surrounded by delicious desserts and bright red cranberry sauce.   A  delicious aroma coming from the kitchen reaches our nostrils. Two small boys are scolded for darting around chairs knocking a screaming toddler to the floor. Soft melodies are heard in the background. The songs of the season float in the air. The noise resembles the beating of drums as the voices vibrate from low to high. The cooks wave everyone to the tables set with the holiday bounty.  After the meal is quickly devoured, the women bunch to clean.  The men resume their chatter.

What I want for Christmas is a beautiful decorated home, delicious food and wonderful fellowship with friends and family.  Santa Claus dressed in his red fluffy suit with long flowing white beard will come see the children and me. He has promised me a Kindle. I want an old-fashioned Christmas with the theme kindness for all with families sharing laughter, food and remembering hard times.  When the evening is over, couples will stand under the white berried yellow flowered mistletoe for one last kiss.  I want my Christmas to have worries light as snow, love bright as the sun and hope the moon will circle the earth for another day. I will say Merry Christmas to all and to all goodnight.

Author: Revia Perrigin

Merry Christmas, Mama

Merry Christmas, Mama

It was Christmas when two men in uniform walked smartly upon our front
porch, rapped on the door, then told my mama, Carrie Mae Hamilton
Dillahey, that her husband, my father, James Harold Dillahey, had been
killed in action in a place I never heard of.   He was a good Marine and
died a hero fighting for his country, they said, and left.  I became the
man of the house.

My name is McQueen Hamilton Dillahey, Mama's oldest son at the time.  I
was 12.   My little brother, Peter Hamilton Dillahey was six.    They said
 a twelve year old isn't old enough to be anything but a twelve year old,
that he is too young to know what life is about.  What they did not
understand is a twelve year old grows up fast when he has to.

Mama figured it best we pack up and head back to Doaksville where we would
be closer to some of my father's family.  We came in on the bus a week
before Christmas.  At the bus station Mama made a phone call and we all
settled down to wait for someone to pick us up.

The bald headed man behind the counter turned on his radio so we could all
listen to Christmas carols.  That worked for a while but it did not
contribute to Mama's Christmas spirit.  She loved Christmas and needed no
prodding.

"Do you mind if I fix your decorations?" Mama said to the ticket master.

"No, mam, you go right ahead."  Now, Mama was like that.  Not only was she
pretty she had a way with folks and she always made things brighter.

At that time, I saw nothing to be happy about. Deddy gone and his family
in the middle of a cold night without a place to stay. It was his fault.
Why would anybody leave a lady like my Mama and go off to fight in a place
nobody ever heard of?   As I saw it nobody cared if he or we lived or
died.  We were in a mess; Christmas carols and tinsel would not fix it.


"McQueen,"  Mama said, "would you help me, please," holding her hands out
to me like I aught to be pleased to death to fix up a messy wall of
tangled and tacky decorations.  I looked at the ticket master then to
Petey.

"Please," Mama repeated and I went to her.  We took the mess down and
rearranged it, singing along with the Christmas music.  Petey tried to
sing Jingle Bells but Mama shushed him while I frowned.

"There," Mama piped like a little girl, clapping her hands and standing
back to look at the miracle she just created.  The ticket master said it
was beautiful and real Christmassy.   And as always Petey just squealed.

  "Now," Mama said, her voice gentle but commanding, "let's sing a
Christmas carol.  Yes, let us sing "Oh Come All Ye Faithful."  With
falling  snow  turning colors in the neon glow outside the window, we
tried to sing along with her.  We stopped and listened.

If there are angels, Mama was the leader.  She never seemed to cry or look
sad.  She always found the sunshine.

"That was lovely," said the ticket master.

"Boy, my Mama can sing, huh?"  Petey yelled.

I curled up in a folding seat and Mama sat next to me, Petey snuggled up
like a puppy in her lap.  She hummed.  The ticket man nodded.  The snow
fell.

When I woke  Mama and a big fat lady whispered by the door.  Mama frowned
and I knew something was wrong.  Petey stirred and before I could stop him
yelled "Wow,  McQueen, there's Santa!"  The fat lady's face lit up like a
Christmas tree.  Mama's look told me to get us ready to leave so I yanked
on my jacket and bundled up Petey whispering in his ear to keep his mouth
shut.

The driver complained all the way to the house. Mama sat straight between
me and Petey in the back seat.  She wiped Petey's always snotty face then
took my hand.  Her touch told me she was concerned, not afraid, concerned.

Mama sent us to the porch while she talked to the fat lady who stayed
inside the big car.  The  grumbling driver got out and carried a big paper
bag to the front porch and plopped it down by the door.  He mumbled
something about Christmas, slouched back to the car and they roared off
into the swirling snow.

"Oh, we're going to have a wonderful time here,"  Mama said, clapping her
hands, "McQueen, please build us a fire."  To me it was an ugly old ratty
house that nobody wanted to live in anymore.  It stunk like old meals and
burnt out fireplaces.  "McQueen, please help me."  And that's all it took.
 I built a roaring fire from firewood stacked along the wall. Mama emptied
the bag on the floor and by the firelight made us a decent supper from
canned green beans, little round potatoes, and light bread, which she
heated on the hearth.  We topped it off with canned peaches.

Later, after we burrowed  into the army blankets, Mama led us in Jingle
Bells.  The way she sang "Oh Holy Night," almost made me  believe it.
Thank God, she believed, I didn't and Petey didn't know any better.

During the night the cold woke me.  I poked up the fire and added more
wood.   Mama had fallen asleep reading her Bible and it lay near her head.
In the firelight she looked young but sad.  Petey, snotty faced as usual,
curled in his blanket near Mama's knees.  I wondered if visions of sugar
plums danced in his head.

When I woke again it was morning, dark, and cold.  Mama was already up in
the shabby kitchen boiling oatmeal.

"McQueen, hurry now, get Petey ready, school starts at nine."

I stoked the fire, put more wood on, and yanked a squalling Petey from his
covers.

"Mama," I called back over Petey's howling,  "there ain't three days left
before time school lets out for the holidays.  Ain't no need in going back
now, is there?"  After that last school I hoped I would never have to go
back again.

"Isn't, young man.  Why, the way you talk you'd think you'd never been to
school.  Now hurry up, please."  And she started caroling again.

When I finally got Petey awake and into his knickers and half way dressed
I pushed him into the kitchen where Mama sat at the spindly legged table,
hands folded in prayer, waiting for us.

"McQueen Hamiliton Dillahey, would you say grace please."  I glanced at
Petey who stuck his tongue out then tried to pray like I meant it.  But it
was hard.  I really didn't see anything to be thankful for.  Here we were
in a strange cold place, little money, no home and Christmas a week away.
When I said amen and looked at her she wiped the back of her hand across
her eyes.

"Now, see what you did, McQueen?  You made Mama cry.  I hope Santa Claus
leaves you a bunch of switches."  I started to tell him the truth about
Santa but Mama lowered her eyes and I dropped it.

We ate the steaming oatmeal then got all bundled up.  Ice and snow pushed
around by a snappy wind had fallen most of the night.  Out on the little
flat front porch Mama laid down the law:  "Now, McQueen, you know how
important education is.  We must not miss one single day if we can help
it.
You are in charge and it's your responsibility to get you and your brother
to school.   You go down this street then up it and the school is on your
left.  You can't miss it. Once there you must get both of you enrolled.
Even though you only have three days left, you must get enrolled.  Do you
understand, McQueen Hamiliton Dillahey?"

"Yeah," grunted Petey, "unnerstan?"  A hard hand squeeze shut him up.

"Yes, mam."  At that time I did not understand.  In the first place I
didn't like school.  What good was it when what we needed was money to
live on?  What I needed was a job.  Not a bunch of kids making fun of the
brothers with the mile long names:  McQueen Hamiliton Dillahey and Peter
Hamilton Dillahey.  Reading, writing, arithmetic.  Bullshit.  I was twelve
years old and I could work and we could have a nice Christmas.  I could
buy Petey Santa Clause and a present for Mama.  Maybe a new Bible or a
warm over coat.  Mama kissed us both and we started down the hill.

Front porch lights glowed yellow in the gloom.  The snow and ice had
turned to a chilly fog.  As we passed the houses Christmas tree lights
twinkled through the windows.  Petey got excited and tried to stop and
gawk at every window but a good squeeze got him going again.  Other
bundled kids trudged up the hill and we followed them.

I thought about Mama and the gift I would not get her.  But maybe I could
get her something.  Maybe there was something at the school.  Like a
drawing or a card they would let me make to take home.  Little kid's stuff
but it would do.  It didn't take big things to make Mama happy; any show
of love pleased her.  I guess it was because she never thought of herself.
 Just me and Petey.

At the top of the hill, on the left, just like Mama said stood the school,
a massive, Frankenstein  looking place protected by an iron railed fence
that looked like a hideout for King Arthur and his knights.  Petey was
dragging now and not responding to my hand crushing.  Glad and relieved we
passed through the large iron gate.

"What you doin' here?"  I was digging Petey's head out of his scarf and
not sure what I heard.

"You hear me, white boy, I said what you doing here?  Ain't no white boys
allowed in here."

Both my feet came off the ground and I hung in the air like a puppet.

"Put my brother down," Petey howled.  When I finally stopped spinning  I
saw  I was held at arm's length by the biggest kid I had ever seen. The
other catcher's mitt fist he had drawn back aiming it at my face. White
teeth flashed in his basketball sized dark head.

Laughing , he let me struggle, my arms flailing away.  He shook me hard
enough to knock both my eyes in to the same socket.  All the while aiming
that fist at my face.  The more I flailed the more he laughed.  I called
him a son of a bitch but that just made him laugh harder.

When Petey bit him on the leg he decided to finish me.  I spit at him as
he drew back.

"Put him down."  He dropped me and I hit the frozen ground hard my butt
hurting, my mind on Petey.

"Petey, where are you?"  I scrambled around looking for him.

"Over here, McQueen.  Over here."

Another older boy, but not as big, had  Petey by the hand.  From my hands
and knees I charged like a wild bull, head down, aiming to  run over
Petey's captor.

"No," Petey squealed just as I charged.  Too late.  The boy with the grace
of a gifted bullfighter turned sideways still holding Petey's hand and I
whizzed past him into the fence.  It stopped me cold as I sprawled against
it like a fly caught in a spider web.  I slid down, crumpled, knocked
cucoo.

"I told you no," said Petey at my side.  "This is Bobby Joe and he's on
our side."

"Come on, champ, let me help you up," Petey's new friend said,  pulling at
my elbow.

"I can help myself. I'm in the seventh grade and I don't need your help,"
I said, snatching my arm away and staggering to my feet.  He just stood
there smiling and  holding Petey's hand.

"Turn my little brother loose. We don't need your help.  Come here,
Petey."  Petey didn't move, just hung on to Bobby Joe's hand.

"Come on, guys, I'll show you the way to the principal's office,  Her name
is  Miss Barnes," he said, turning toward the front door with Petey
traipsing right along like nothing happened.

We went up the steps and into a hallway bustling with students. Some
gawked at us.  The big boy who had threatened to kill me stood by the
front door with two other scowling buddies but they made no move toward us
or said anything.  Just growled and frowned.  Petey took a new grip on
Bobby Joe's hand and stuck his tongue out at the bullies as we started
down the hall to the principle's office.

"Well, here it is, guys," Bobbie Joe said,  "Miss Barnes will take care of
you.  And don't worry about those guys.  They won't bother you."  He pried
his hand away from Petey's.  "It's okay," Bobby Joe told him and tousled
his hair.  For a second he just stood there looking at us and that's when
I got a good look at him.

About fifteen or sixteen he had a smile that said what he was.  He wore
green cordoroy knickers and dark knee socks and a gray sweater with the
collar buttoned neatly at his neck.  Perched almost squarely on his head
was a Ben Hogan courdoray golf cap. He moved gracefully, spoke calmly, his
voice deep and rich.  Petey liked him.

"My name is Bobby Joe  Bohanon," he said extending his hand to me.  When I
hesitated taking it Petey said "Shake his hand, McQueen, he's our friend."

"My name is McQueen Hamilton Dillahey and this is my brother Peter
Hamilton Dillahey," I said expecting him to laugh.  He didn't.  I took his
hand.

"Glad to know you McQueen Hamilton Dillahey and Peter Hamilton Dillahey."
And he was gone.

We went inside the glass paneled room  to a counter I could just barely
see over. I plopped Petey down on a bench against the wall and went to the
counter.  I guess we made too much noise because as soon as I got there
and looked over,  a huge round head said "Shhhhhh."  Then it's eyes grew
wide and rolled toward the ceiling, nose up.

"Mam," I said, "We may be poor but we don't stink."  Her eyes got bigger
when she heard Petey say "Yeah, we don't stink.  Mama gave us a spit
bath."

"What  do you want?"

"Mam, I want to register me and my brother for school."


"Sit," the lady said, leaning over the counter and looking down at us.
"I'll get Miss Barnes, the principal."

"Merry Christmas," said Petey.

 She disappeared and we sat back down with nothing to do but  look around.
About every two minutes I wiped Petey's nose.  Christmas music drifted in
from somewhere and it made me think hateful thoughts of not having a gift
for Mama.  I hoped they would kick us out then I could get a job to buy
her and Petey a present.  Still plenty of time before Christmas.  Besides,
I didn't like this school at all.  Well, I didn't like any school, but
this one was the worst, it'd be like all the rest.  Teaching one thing and
doing another.

Then I noticed a manger scene with little figurines at the end of the
counter near the wall.  I stood up to get a closer look which made Petey
squirm.  So I held him up to see.

"Look, McQueen," he said, pointing, "there's a colored Jesus"

I wrestled him back to the bench and stuffed him onto it.

"Boy, what's wrong with you, Jesus ain't colored."  Before he could answer
the big head appeared over the counter again and said Miss Barnes would
see us now.  She motioned us around the counter and we followed her
pointing finger to an office that had Principal on it.  We stopped at the
door and she motioned for me to knock.  I wiped Petey's nose again and
patted down my hair.  I guess the lady still thought we stunk because she
stood way back from us.

"Come in," a voice called and I did,  dragging Petey who kept looking back
for Bobby Joe.  I guess we did look like a pair of ragamuffins.

A tall skinny  lady in a red dress stood behind a great big desk.  Her
eyes bulged behind her glasses.  She looked like all the principals I had
seen except she didn't have a 3 foot ruler in her hand.  I looked around
for it but there was none.  I had already made up my mind that she or
anybody else in that school hadn't earned the right to whip us yet.  So
she'd best leave the ruler be.

"May I help you, gentlemen?"

I looked at myself, brushed my hair down then Petey's.  She didn't talk
loud like those other principals.

"Mam, my name is McQueen Hamilton Dillahey and this is my brother Peter
Hamilton Dillahey.  My mama, Carrie Mae Hamilton Dillahey, sent me to
register us for school.  I know there's only three days left before the
holidays but my mama says education is important and we should go to
school every chance we get.  It's okay with me if you don't want us.  Then
I can go and get a job so I can buy Mama and Petey a Christmas present.
That's more important to me than going to school especially in a place
that doesn't want us in the first place...we don't stink...."

"Please, Mister Dillahey, sit down."  We shuffled backwards into chairs
along the wall.  Petey had trouble getting on his so I yanked him by the
arms and pulled him up.  He howled like I was killing him.  The lady
principal walked from around the desk her hands folded and waited for me
to get us situated.

She smiled at Petey and he smiled back, trying not to use the back of his
hand as a handkerchief.

"Is Jesus colored?"  Petey said.  Sometimes he made a whole lot of sense
or could say things that made you think.  He wasn't really as dumb as you
thought he was.  I waited for her answer.

"I don't know, Mister Peter Hamilton Dillahey.  I guess he's what color
you want him to be."  That satisfied Petey and he smiled.  Then he turned
to me.

"She's nice, McQueen.  Do you think you could be nice back?"

I threatened Petey with my eyes but he kept smiling waiting for me to
answer.  I felt Miss Barnes eyes on me and when I looked up at her they
were not principal eyes.

"Yes, Petey, I'll be nice back but I don't take orders from a snot nosed
kid like you.  I'll be nice because I want to.  Not because you tell me
to."  But that little rat  just kept on smiling.

When Miss Barnes got finished with us she walked us back to the outer
office.  Bobby Joe sat on the bench.

"We hope you both enjoy your stay with us," she said.  "This is Bobby Joe
Bohannon.  He'll escort you to your classrooms."

Petey ran to her and wrapped his arms around her.  Oh, no, I thought,
snotty hands and all.  She let him hug her then tilted his head back and
wiped his nose with a tissue.

"See, McQueen, she don't hurt like you do."  Then he strutted over to
Bobby Joe, took his hand and stood waiting for me.  And I could just hear
that little rat saying "be nice, McQueen, be nice."

Since I was now the head of the Dillahey house I would have to act like a
man. A man doesn't cry or whimper or beg.  He looks you straight in the
eye as he shakes your hand and thanks you for what you need thanking for.
If he doesn't get what he wants he takes it like a man and goes on.  He
keeps on keeping on.

I marched straight to her and looked up into her eyes.  "Thank you, Mam,"
I said, extending my hand.  She shook it and said "You are welcome, Mister
McQueen Hamilton Dillahey."

I had done my duty.  I did like mama wanted.  Petey and I'd spend the next
three days in school like she wanted.  Maybe that could be a Christmas
present.  But it wouldn't be much under the tree.

So Petey and I spent the next three days at Church Street School.  We had
a good time and no one, not even Big Banks, was mean to us. Bobbie Joe
Bohannon  seemed to be every where.  And every chance he could Petey had
him by the hand.

On the last day before the Christmas holidays the school held its annual
Christmas play.  Bobby Joe played Santa and read the Night Before
Christmas.  When he finished all the kids clapped and yelled as he went to
Petey, took his hand and led him to the tall Christmas tree in the hall.
He whispered to Petey who smiled like I'd never seen him do before.  They
stood holding hands while a pretty girl sang O Holy Night.  I almost
cried.

As soon as the last note ended Petey scrambled among the gifts under the
tree, grabbed one, and beaming like a Carolina moon, handed it to Bobby
Joe who called out the name it belonged to.  They had handed out maybe ten
gifts when it hit me that there would be no gift for me or Petey.  I
wasn't concerned about me but it would break Petey's heart.  How could I,
the man of the house, let this happen to a little guy who had never hurt
anyone.  God, I wished I had told him the truth about Santa Claus a long
time ago.  Too late now.  And Mama, no present for Mama.

"From Santa to Peter Hamilton Dillahey!"

 By this time wrappings filled the air and it was hard to hear over the
racket.  Again "From Santa to Peter Hamilton Dillahey!"

 I heard it this time and so did Petey who stopped dead and stared at
Bobby Joe.   Oh, no, I thought, he's going to bawl.  But he just stood
there, smiling, then dropped his chin.  Bobby Joe went to him, bent down
and gently nudged the little guy's chin up.

"Open it, Petey, it's from Santa to you."

 Another boy about Petey's age took over Petey's job while he tore open
the present.  He pulled out a matching two gun set of Hopalong Cassidy cap
busters.  Bobby Joe strapped them on  Petey who was jumping up and down
like a Mexican jumping bean.  I almost said "Thank you, Lord."  But what
about Mama?

I was so happy for Petey I didn't feel the big hand pressing down on my
shoulder.  Big Banks.

"Merry Christmas, white boy," he whispered patting my shoulder and letting
a small slender package slide down into my lap.  I opened it and found a
brand new Barlow knife.  I looked for Big Banks but he was gone. Bobby Joe
smiled and winked at me.

Mama was so happy when I told her about our last day at school.

"You are a  wonderful gift from God, McQueen Hamilton Dillahey" she said
that Christmas Eve as we bunched around that stinky old fire place
roasting marsh mellows. "My son, you are a blessing."

"Yeah, McQueen, you ain't mean all the time," Petey cut in, drawing a bead
on me with his Hopalongs.  My Barlow felt solid, substantial, in my pocket
and I fingered it just to make sure it was real.  It was.

Just before we settled down for the night Mama read us the Christmas story
from the gospel of Saint Luke, something she did every Christmas Eve.  I
could never get beyond the thees and thous but Mama believed it.  Every
word.  You could see the joy busting out of her.

My heart ached for Mama.  I did not want to do it but when I got around my
selfishness I made up my mind to go out tomorrow, sell my Barlow to get
her a present.  After all, I'd had it for a whole day and the man of the
house can't let childish feelings get in the way of doing his duty.  It
would be late coming but at least she'd have the present she deserved.

All through the night I worried and wondered why Petey and I had presents
but she didn't.  The one person in the world who really deserved
something, got nothing.  I even tried praying for the first time in my
life.  I mean honest to goodness praying but I got no answer.  Several
times I got up and put wood on the fire.  At least I could see she stayed
warm.

Her pretty face glowed in the firelight.  I fixed the army blanket up
under her chin  and lay down close and put my face almost to hers.  A
little smile kept coming and going on her young lips. Her gentle breath
kissed my cheek.  Everything about her gentle, kind.  I watched her for a
while.  She seemed so happy and peaceful and I tried to figure out why.  I
stayed that way until I had to stoke the fire again.

Petey squirmed, searching for his Hopalongs.  I helped him find them and
he went back to sleep, smiling.

Just before dawn the truth came to me.  Mama didn't want presents.  She
had rather have a gift.  I guess I was growing up because suddenly, deep
into that long ago Christmas Eve, I  realized the difference.  A present
is of the world.  A gift is of  love.  Though presents are given with
love, gifts are love, come from the heart,  and give a part of oneself to
another.  I had given her the most beautiful gift possible: doing what she
asked and trusted me to do.  I had given myself, my love to her.

As Christmas morning slipped in around the faded shades I leaned over and
kissed her.

"Merry Christmas, Mama."

"Merry Christmas, McQueen Hamilton Dillahey...my son."

End

__________________________

Author: Rocky Rutherford

Christmas Lights

 Christmas Lights

      It was a cold, dreary night and Peyton Taylor was alone in the oldest city in the United States. She loved St. Augustine, but even the lights in the Plaza, when she came out of midnight Mass, didn't cheer her up. It was the second year she had been a widow, and memories of Frank flooded her thoughts. They had always done things together. She thought she had adjusted to life as a widow but, for whatever reason, she was haunted tonight. Her grown children lived too far away for a short Christmas visit so, what should have been a joyous night, turned into her own “pity party”.

      She started to walk toward her apartment. From the corner of her eye she saw an older gentleman with a short white beard. He waved at her as he came out of the Cathedral. Of all things, he was wearing a Santa Claus hat. Strange attire for someone who must have been in his mid sixties, she thought.

      His walk was brisk as he headed across the Plaza. His cap bobbed up and down.  Why had he decided to pick her out of the crowd mulling around and who was he?

      “Excuse me for approaching you this way, but I watched you during the service. You looked so sad. Is there anything I could do to help?”

      She shrugged. “Just the Christmas blues. This is the first time I've been alone during the holidays and I'm a little disheartened. It will pass. Thank you for your concern, though.”

      He smiled and his eyes twinkled.   

            “Could I at least offer you a cup of coffee at the Pub around

              the corner?”  

      Why not? she thought. Maybe a little conversation would brighten her loneliness.  When they were inside, hot black coffee warming her, he introduced himself.

      “I'm John Webster,” he said reaching across the small table.

      “Peyton Taylor.” She shook his hand and noticed how immaculate his fingernails were groomed. She liked the way he looked. He had a trusting, slightly jowly face and a wonderful smile. Without the Santa hat, she saw bushy white hair that matched his beard.

      “Forgive me if  I'm staring, but have you ever dressed up and played Santa at Christmas?” She blushed at the audacity of her remark.

      He squeezed her hand and chuckled. “I used to, for the grand kids. Since my wife died six years ago, the family doesn't come around as much. I've had more time since she passed away. I've adjusted. Your pain is still raw. Soon, you'll adjust, too.”

      As he sipped the last of his coffee, he asked her how long she had lived here.

      “Just a year. When my husband died two years ago, I needed to get away from New York and the pain I felt. Frank and I used to visit here every so often. It took courage on my part but I felt it was something I had to do. I opened a small store on Aviles, and live in an apartment above it. It's small and sort of Bohemian, but I have a nice balcony where I can enjoy the night air after a busy day at work. I enjoy hearing the clip-clop of the horse carriages as they bounce along the old brick road. I rarely have time for just sightseeing, though.”

      “I've lived here all my life. I married my college sweetheart and she brought two strong male babies into our lives. Of course they're grown now with children of their own. Did I mention I have three grand kids and one great grand-daughter, Tina, who calls me 'Poopsie'?”

      Peyton laughed. “She'll get it straight when she's older. Meanwhile, it's sort of endearing on her part. I don't see my children very often. They live busy, active lives and it's hard for them to travel so far.” She wiped at eyes that suddenly teared. This is crazy she thought. What must John think? He handed her his handkerchief and grinned sheepishly.

      “Do you like Christmas lights? I know a lot of people who own houses that are magnificently decorated. Would you trust me to drive you around and look at them?”

      She hesitated only a moment before accepting John's invitation. Christmas lights had always enchanted her. They left the Pub and he pointed to his Lincoln. He held her elbow as they crossed the street. They were off and running. Peyton hadn't realized how many different areas there were in St. Augustine.

      They wove through back streets where he pointed to certain houses. He knew the names of all the kids he had been friends with so many years ago. He explained about the people who lived there now. Many had passed on or moved away, but several of the friends he had grown up with were still there.

      The old Victorian houses sparkled like jewels. Open porches were covered with lights and dazzled the eyes. Large Christmas trees were laden with ornaments. As they drove past one house, John stopped the car and got out, waving to a couple who were on the front steps.

      “John, old man,” the woman called out. “Come join us for some eggnog.”

      John bent down and peered at Peyton. “Okay with you?”

      She nodded and found herself being introduced to Ralph and Kendra McClain.

Inside the smell of roasting turkey wafted to her nostrils. A glass of strong, homemade eggnog was thrust into her hand. She sniffed the air.

      Kendra offered an explanation for why she was cooking so late.

      “I always buy the biggest bird I can find and cook it very slowly overnight. Then Ralph nibbles on it for breakfast. It's become a tradition. We love falling asleep to the aroma and I can relax just fixing the veggies and potatoes tomorrow before the family arrives. I don't like to be a slave to the kitchen, so pies and cakes are store bought.”

      John interrupted the conversation. He still had a lot he wanted to show Peyton. After hugs and calls of Merry Christmas, they were on their way again. John continued down the winding, narrow streets pointing at certain houses, explaining about the people who lived there. It was like driving through spun sugar. Peyton was lost in the glow of magic John was providing. She laughed at the stories he told her about his youth. St. Augustine wasn't such a tourist town when he was a teenager, at least not by today's standards.

      “We didn't have the traffic problem we have today. I could ride my Schwinn all over town without worrying I'd be hit by a car.” He slowed down. “Look over there. She's magnificent, isn't she?”

      Peyton turned to look at where he was pointing. A large schooner was anchored in the bay. Its sails gleamed with white lights. A Christmas tree was decorated on the deck.

      “I always wanted to go sailing, but my wife couldn't swim so I never bought a boat. Who knows. Maybe it's not too late.” He cocked a bushy eyebrow at Peyton.

      Peyton giggled. “Somehow, John, I figure you can do anything you want. Age has nothing to do with you.” She reached over and lightly kissed his cheek.

      They had driven around town for over two hours and this stranger had become her friend. When he finally dropped her off at the Plaza he said he'd be coming to see the shop soon as the holiday was over.

      “I'd like that,” she admitted. They said their goodbyes and he drove away.

      To her amazement there were still people strolling the Plaza. Before heading to her apartment, Peyton glanced around the brightly lit Plaza, at the millions of tiny lights caressing the tall trees. Yes, Christmas was here and she felt the glory of it all wrapping itself all around her.

     

      ____________________________

Author Audrey Frank

  

     

No Name Charlie

No Name Charlie

            The town of Hope, Nevada, was quiet as the sun rose over the mountains.  The glow of newly lit lamps glowed through glassless windows of clapboard shacks as the occupants started the day.  Not everyone faced the morning contemplating earning his livelihood.

            No Name Charlie paused with head bent and both arms submerged as he pulled himself off the ground holding onto the water trough.  Droplets of water fell from his shaggy, dirty hair and unshaven face as the water reflected his image.  The musky water added to his grimy appearance after a night of whiskey and sleeping on the ground.

            Never telling his name or where he came from, the owner of the Red Dog Saloon, Tom Winston, called him No name Charlie. Charlie’s favorite sleeping place was the water trough across from the Longhorn Café.  During unpleasant weather, he curled in a fetal position under the trough.  As soon as the clouds dissipated, he made his way across the boggy street to the Red Dog Saloon. He swept the saloon but took his pay mostly in drinks.

Ember, owner of the Longhorn Café, gave Charlie a plate passing it into the alley. Her customers complained about   his rancid smell.  At dusk, Charlie was always seen leaving the saloon, getting his food, and going toward the water trough.  After arriving in town, his first resting place had been the livery stable.  Zeb, the hostler, had ignored Charlie sleeping there until Charlie opened the large doors and stampeded the horses onto the prairie.

            Huddled under the trough, Charlie pulled his ragged coat tighter around his frail body. Opening his red-rimmed eyes, he felt his head explode from a night of drinking and now heard yelling in the street.  Convinced he was dreaming, he lay still. The townspeople had never been rowdy and certainly never in the morning.   Occasionally a cowboy would be rambunctious at the end of a hard days work.  Spending one night in Sheriff Coffee’s jail was usually a determent against repeat actions.

            On his knees, Charlie crawled from his sleeping place. Loud talking and crying vibrated his eardrums .Cautiously peeking toward the street, he glared at tearful women being comforted .Men were huddled in small groups whispering among themselves.  A chill of fear swept down Charlie’s spine as he noticed the empty holsters on the men’s hips.  Finally, the groggy mist in his brain cleared for him to realize something was very, very wrong. Still in a drunken daze, he wobbled to the distressed group.

            No one noticed Charlie as he eased closer to listen.  His stench was ignored as the fearful few talked about the early morning events.  Willie Walker, a lawless cutthroat, had brought his gang of four rowdy, barbaric scoundrels into town to wait on the noon stage carrying a large gold shipment.  The Wells Fargo stagecoach was heavily guarded and crossed open ground making it too dangerous to take on the road.  In the meantime, Willie sat in the Red Dog Saloon with one of his men guarding the mayor along with his wife and daughter.    The rest were going door to door grabbing what valuables they could find and crudely handling the women.  No one could enter the saloon and any type of disturbance would mean death to the mayor’s family.  Charlie knew he could enter the saloon without being a threat.  Staggering through the swinging doors, he yelled, “I want a drink.” The only sound was the swish of a Colt .45 leaving its holster. 

            Willie raising a bottle to his full mustached lips replied, “It’s an old drunk.  Give him a bottle on the house .It’s all ours.” Reaching his hogleg on the table, he shot several bottles.  While the mayor’s family cowered down in fear, No Name Charlie exited to the street hugging his precious liquid tight against himself. 

            Charlie staggered into the street pretending he was more intoxicated than he was...  Sheriff Coffee and the other citizens bombarded him with questions.  Tom said, “Sheriff Coffee, what can we do?”

            “Tom, I don’t know.  If we try anything the hostages are dead.”

            No Name Charlie opened his bottle of whiskey, raised it to his nose for a smell and slowly poured it on the ground. Tom and the sheriff blurted at the same time, “Charlie, what are you doing?”

            “Getting sober.  I want a sawed off shotgun , two Colt 45’s ,plenty of ammunition, a knife and a rope.  Bring them to the back door of the café and stay off the street.”

            Bewildered the men looked at Charlie but were too shocked to reply.  Charlie held the empty bottle tightly to his chest as he crossed toward the horse trough.

            Charlie waited awhile so he could play drunk before leaving the horse trough.  He was handed his meal out the back door of the Longhorn Café by Ember.  Eb, the cook, had the other things he wanted.  No one spoke as Ember kissed his cheek lightly while he shoved the weapons down his pants and under his tattered coat.  While Charlie pretended to be drinking, he watched the two outlaws go to different ends of town. Staggering close to the first man, Charlie said, “Howdy friend.”

            Startled ,thinking he was alone, he said, “what the…”  Charlie drove the knife between his ribs and slowly lowered him to the ground.

            Charlie turning toward the other end of town mumbled, “That’s one.  Three more to go”. Seeing the other man enter the livery, Charlie knew there was an outside ladder leading to the loft.  His steps were softened by musky hay. In the shadows, he saw the man he was hunting with his back to the loft relieving himself.  Looping the rope, Charlie dropped it over the outlaw’s neck pulling his feet only inches from the ground before tying it to a rafter.  The man’s gurgling could be heard as Charlie swayed out the stable door for the Mad Dog Saloon.

            Almost falling, Charlie entered the saloon.  The mayor’s family .huddled in a corner shook with fear. “I’ve come for another bottle.  Gimme two.”

            Willie said, “Pete, give him a couple of bottles.”

            “If the old drunk wants them, he can get them”.

            Charlie slowly made his way behind the bar. His left hand reached for a bottle as his right hand eased the shotgun from under his coat. Sparks flew as the gun blast set Willie’s clothes on fire.  A cry was heard as Pete tumbled sideways to the floor.  Screaming the women ran out the door followed by the mayor.  Charlie throwing the shotgun reached to claim himself several  bottles before leaving by the back door.

            A gruesome sight faced the few men who rushed into the bloody saloon.  Sheriff Coffee said, “Where’s No Name Charlie?”

            Zeb replied, “Charlie’s gone.  He’s Charlie Grant.”

            A surprised look was on Sheriff Coffee’s face as he replied, “The Charlie Grant that was marshal in the Dakota Territory.!”

            “That’s him. I knew him but if he wanted to keep his name a secret, I wasn’t going to tell.  Outlaws killed his wife and two little boys.  He trailed and killed all five of them one at a time.  They didn’t die easy.  He tortured them worse than the Comancheros.   This town owes a debt to No Name Charlie.

            The driver yelled at the eight horses as the stagecoach left town. He was unaware of No Name Charlie under the canvas at the back of the coach.Charlie opening a bottle of whiskey knowing he had two more in the pockets of his coat.settled down for the ride to an unknown destination.

                                                                                               

____________________________

 By Revia Jenks Perrigin