“I could sure use a miracle right about now,” she grumbled into the chilling, opaque mist. “Something to believe in.” She was weary from Christmas shopping that began while pumpkins were still ripening on the vine. She was plagued with the knowledge that some folks placed a Christmas tree in every room of their house, while others were blessed to have just one.
I stood at the greeting card display, searching for the perfect Christmas card for my husband. Beside me, a charismatic gentleman wearing a green and white striped stocking cap pulled card after card from the slots. “I am looking for a card for my wife and I just can’t seem to find one that fits,” he mumbled.
Mom, Grammy McIntyre and I were on our way to visit my Great Aunt May. It was a bitter, brown and gray November day; one of many days that waited patiently for the cleanse of pure white snow, platinum frost and the glory of Christmas.
I sat in the car, shopping list and debit card tucked in my pocket. I simply did not feel like going into Walmart. Now, please don’t misunderstand me, my friends; I am always game for some quality shopping! I also love to study people; especially during the Christmas season.
A few years ago, on Thanksgiving Day, I awoke to find myself dealing with a nagging, lower back pain that would not go away. Our Thanksgiving feast was nearly ready and our guests would be arriving soon. My husband Dale is a Thanksgiving-dream-come-true. His turkey is succulent.
The assisted living center was immaculate; boasting beautiful, short pile rugs, soft beige walls and skylights armed with sunshine. I found Mr. C’s room quickly and I was delighted to see him perched upon the side of his bed, obviously prepared for his 9 a.m. appointment with me.
I looked at myself in the mirror one last time before leaving for work and frowned at that familiar face. “You are beginning to show your age, Belinda.” My voice sounded far away; lost in the annoying hum of the bathroom fan.
His given name was Roscoe but he was and will always be Uncle Billie to me. He was my mother’s brother: one of 14 children and he was one of the most important male figures in my life. I loved him.
It was late September and a swift, sharp rain hammered down upon northern Aroostook County. It was a day designed for a book, a fleece blanket, and a hot cup of my Grammy McIntyre’s Red Rose tea, with just a nip of cream. It was Saturday and despite my longing to succumb to the will of the rain, I found myself driving to Presque Isle, my eyes in sync with the movement of the car’s wipers.
The dining room was flooded with famished conference attendees, their plates overflowing with sweet potato salad, burly slices of roast beef stacked on fresh sandwich rolls, blocks of fresh fruit, and luscious Snickerdoodle cookies.