Yuletide Lights - Tales of Home and Family

2nd Edition

Stories in this book are copyright 2016 Lenore Plassman, except where otherwise stated, stories used with permission.  Illustrations copyright Rohvannyn Shaw, 2016.  Brush-Tail copyright Rohvannyn Shaw, Two Bottles And A Box copyright Dave Plassman, 2016.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN-13:  9781981147267

ISBN-10:  1981147268

Published by On-Demand Publishing, LLC

Illustrated by Rohvannyn Shaw

www.rohvannynshaw.com

Edited by Rohvannyn Shaw

Cover art and Jacket Design by Rohvannyn Shaw

The stories herein are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

5Forward

7Sketch of the Author

8Sketch of the Editor

9'Bember Snow

27Cat Eyes

37Christmas Toasties

45Lila Mae's Christmas Star

63It's Goin' A Snow

83A Loving Spirit

93Moon's Menagerie

127Haunts

123Cash Register Number 3

129Goose Egg

151Beware the Fat Man

169Resembling Ben

193That Year

213Two Bottles and a Box

227Brush-Tail

239Scotty's in the Wood Pile

Forward

by Dave Plassman

THE VOLUME BEFORE YOU is the result of a rather lengthy tradition; lengthy in terms of today's changeable world.  In 2000 Lenore (the author) and myself moved to a place called Moses Lake, Washington which is about 100 miles West of Spokane and 130 East of Seattle; to a new job and a computer! The later made it a lot easier for both of us to work on our writings and get them into showable form.  Lenore has a rather extensive family so we started sending everyone literary offerings of one sort or another for Christmas.  We sent poems the first couple of years, with illustrations by our daughter.  Around 2003, Lenore had some Christmas stories in her file and we chose one of them to make the rounds of family and a few friends.

The Christmas story was so well received that it gave inspiration for another offering the next year and after that the pattern seemed pretty well set with Lenore turning out stories each year, not always intended originally, as holiday writings, and being reshaped later.  Others flowed from personal memories of Winters past and elfish people known.  The stories, written by Lenore, with excellent illustrations from our daughter, materialized each year around December one.  My contribution was the binding of the whole, with yarn or sparkly string, sometimes adding a bell, candy cane charm or other holiday doo-dad.  Thence into a plastic sleeve and manilla envelope for addressing to relations and a gathering circle of close-held friends.  (It helped a lot with the Christmas shopping!)

During the year 2015, there had been a lot going on in our home and Lenore didn't have a story for the 2016 Season but I had written my own take on Christmas Past during break time at work and the final offering in this book is the result.

The thirteen stories included herein (with a couple extras) are drawn from the author's childhood experiences and incidents in our married life, usually seen through the eyes of fictional characters.  They often feature crotchety but loving parents and irascible elder brothers who are nevertheless there for you, when the real pinch occurs.  There are bothersome younger sisters who bring creative imagination to a whole host of confusions and difficulties.  The people we meet are much more likely to wear hand-me-downs or thrift store specials than designer suits.  Indeed we imagine threadbareness and holes in shoes and elsewhere, hence the title for this collection.  Santa is here in all of these stories, sometimes as the neighborhood drunk a reclusive woodworker or a kindly surrogate grandma; once as a well-disguised predator! God's in these pages too, in one or another of Her manifestations.

When I look back at the stories and how they came to be written, I think, that what they all have in common is the theme of giving.  Gifts, tangible or no; are offered freely from unlikely people, given to and accepted by, other folks who usually don't know that they had the want or need of the The Gift.  One way or other, everyone ends up at storys end with something she or he didn't have at the beginning.  Even when the giver passes away before the morning comes, like the Spirit of Christmas Past, the gift lives on not only in the hand but in the gifted one's heart.  Isn't that ever the true meaning of Christmas?

The fifteen stories before you therefore, are offered as a gift for anyone keeping this season of Yule, Solstice, Christmas; however you keep it; with love and in thanks.  So many of you, our friends out there with your encouragement, have helped these pieces, pulled from many places and many times, to become not only a collection, but a history and a hope for the future.

Blessings,

Dave G. Plassman

December 24, 2016

A Sketch of The Author

Lenore Plassman 1956 -present) was born Lenore Thomason in Bellingham, Washington and grew up in Whatcom County, Washington and Saint Paul Minnesota.  A dedicated reader as far back as she remembers, Lenore received some encouragement from a 9th Grade English teacher, setting her on the road to writing down her own thoughts.  A writing instructor at Skagit Valley Community College in Mount Vernon, encouraged Lenore to apply to the University of Washington where she majored in English, specializing in Poetry.  An interest in medicine and love for animals led Lenore to complete programs of study in Medical and Veterinary Assist in Kirkland, and Bellingham, Washington respectively.

Through her adult life  Lenore has Lived in Western and Eastern Washington as well as Northern Idaho.  Though she primarily writes poetry she manages one or two stories each year.  Her publications include articles on health and nutrition for The Courier Times in Sedro Woolley, Washington; poems for the Bellingham Herald and Beltane Papers; and interview-based articles on Interesting Persons for Grant County's Venue Magazine.  Her poetry chapbook, Sunset Reflections was published in May, 2015.  Lenore has won several awards for her writings, including three honorable mentions from the Yakima Art annual poetry competition.

Lenore lives with her husband Dave, two dogs, three cats, a turkey, a burro and a flock of hens on three acres; a dozen miles out of Moses Lake, Washington.  She is an avid blogger and raises tomatoes, herbs and whatever else can be coaxed of of the rocky ground on her farm Dunne Alba.

Visit Lenore at https://creative-fancy.com

A Sketch of the Editor/Illustrator

Rohvannyn Shaw, Dave and Lenore's daughter, grew up in the Pacific Northwest.  She studied art from the first moments she could get her hands around a crayon – not one of those chunky toddler crayons, mind you.  She fussed until her Mom got her a real box of crayons and she's been drawing since.  Much of her youth was spent near a place called Lummi Island, and she has fond memories of riding the portly little ferry to the library once a week.

Educated at the University of Washington and then truly taught at the School of Hard Knocks, she's never forgotten that she's from a family of writers.  She started writing stories since she learned to type, and hasn't quit that either.  Currently she lives in a place so dry, the name means Dry Place, and loves every cactus, every bird, and every fluff that crosses the blue, blue sky.

She has edited and illustrated several books, both fiction and non fiction, collaborated on two poetry chapbooks, and illustrates stories and poetry as well.  She runs the blog Mind-flight.org, as well as her own art site at Rohvannynshaw.com.  Her novel, The Dice of Fate, is available on Amazon, with more books and stories coming out all the time.

She lives in Arizona with her partner and a very fluffy calico cat who rules the house with an iron paw.  Her other hobbies include storm watching, baking, nature photography, drawing, painting, playing electric guitar, and drinking cheladas on the back patio in the sun.

‘Bember Snow

Head down, feeling like a bowling ball careening down an alley, I pulled her along.  There.  Made it over the railroad tracks. Just rusted pieces of iron, not worth noticing most days, now slick as river rocks, up and over, ankles not twisted, hand firmly grasping the small arm, feet lifting and falling, done. 

She.  My child. Broke free with the sudden fierceness seldom seen and mostly attributed to hawks free falling into thermal currents.  Snow! Barely heard in the whistling wind.  The storm would have reminded me of a run away motorcycle if I hadn’t been totally engrossed in getting us home.  I’d mentally thumped the side of my head as we’d ran skipped through Deeter’s Market’s parking lot and across Thayer Street and steered our course for the railroad tracks. The storm had held off for days and then, just when we’d made the trip to the market to retrieve Tiger’s meat, it had blasted us with its idea of a joke. 

I’d resisted making the trip.  Truly had.  Uncle Al had watched me cutting chicken fat into flour for biscuit dough and at last, coughed and announced that, being a cat, Tiger couldn’t digest beans the way we two leggeds could.  I answered that the cat had another meal in the fridge and Al had shook his head.  Nope.  Tiger had bummed at noon until Al had fed him the bite that was left. Peering out, seeing only unremarkable coming on night, I’d at last given in to Raina’s wheedling and allowed her to slip on her boots.  We’d make a game of it, this thrice weekly trek to the Market.  I’d befriended Timothy, the butcher’s boy. He kept the leavings from the meat saws for our Tiger cat.  In return, every so often a loaf of warm home baked bread or applesauce cake would end up on his truck’s seat.

Bember snow, Unca Al! shouted Raina, barreling into our little living room.  Al poked his head from the kitchen.  Good timing. Biscuits just getting done.  He shucked Raina’s coat off, poking her in the ribs. December, not Bember, kid. 

She hurtled a wet boot in the direction of the hall closet. Bember!  Chortling, chasing Tiger’s fleeing tail, Raina slapped her wet legs.  I pointed in the direction of the bedroom, indicating that she should put on dry pajama bottoms.  Mom?  Trying to extricate my self from Tiger’s demands and Al’s grumps while stirring cabbage and bean soup, I made a sound that indicated I’d heard.  How come that lady and man had a donkey? she softly asked.

Spoons and bread knife; biscuits laid on a plate, bowls on table. Yes, still a bit of honey left. 

Get those warm pj’s on and come to the table, Rai.

She stuck her lip out.  It’s not a story, Mom.

I peered down at her. I just am not sure what you’re talking about.  Now sit.

They were there.  Just when we came from the store and you yelled at that man. ‘Member? Slow down!  You jerk!

Al laughed as he forked a biscuit. Got you there, Mom.

Well, the guy could have hit us. I didn’t see any donkey or any other walkers, Raina.

She sat quiet a moment then spluttered, She had a blue bathrobe on, and the guy had a brown bathrobe on. By the car parts store.

Hmm.  I spooned honey onto her biscuit and watched her lick a sticky crumb from her little finger.  Where had this little story teller come from?  Her hair stuck up in damp unruly snarls. Have to do something about that after supper.  You sure you weren’t thinking about Pastor Bob’s bible stories?

Un uh. You just don’t believe me cause I’m not tall as you.

I reached over and ruffled her wet mop.  Let’s just eat. You say you saw two people and a donkey, then you did.

How come Tiger gets burgie and we don’t?  I’m tired of soup.

Fee fie fo fum. I see a girl who needs to eat a little more. Dad’ll be sending a check soon and we’ll have roast chicken and all the fixings.  I sighed. Maybe Raina got her yarn spinning from me.  Doug sent money orders from Davis, the latest logging camp, to be sure, but there was never a rhyme to be counted on.

Felt like years, this desert island existence, here with Uncle Al. Truth to be told, Raina and I had descended on the old geezer the previous early fall.  He’d needed a bottle washer and mouse chaser and we’d needed shelter.  A good match.  Between us adults, we’d squeezed the little house into manageable size for three humans and a rangy orange cat.

That hairy guy- he stays outside, right? asked Al and I’d shook my head.  No. Tiger soon had Al wrapped around his big claw.  Tiger would pat Al on the knee for tidbits of cheese and instead of slapping him as I expected, Al would just shake his head and chew off a bit and toss it. That was Tiger’s lesson on fetching and Al’s lesson on playing Santa to a feline.  You no good scalawag. One of those mice shows its face to you, you’re going to run and hide, ain’t you?

Pretty soon Raina was galloping around shouting, "You bum! You no good scalawag, god awful retard! ‘Form school for you!’  Those words fell on my numbed temples like earwigs on corn. The next morning I gave Uncle Al a dollar for gas money and drove Raina and I the two miles across town to Redeemer Lutheran Church.  That first Sunday I glued her to me, not trusting her to be alone in the preschool room. A man who should have appeared fat but didn’t approached me that morning.  From that moment on, he was known as Pastor Bob to both me and my Tonto. 

His blend of bible knowledge and genuine kindness slowly dug into our reserve. Every so often Pastor B. would appear on our door step with a block of cheddar under one arm and dog eared bible under the other.  Happened on a sale- bought one for my family and one for yours.  Couldn’t pass the deal up.  I’m a confirmed shopaholic.

This night, the wind hammered out a devilish saw tune outside. I’d coaxed Raina to spoon enough soup and broth to feed a couple of mangy gulls and smiled at her eager wolfing biscuit and honey, meantime breathing in a steamy bowl myself, her easy breathing a novena for all healthy children.  The evening meal over, Raina cuddled under a patched sleeping bag and sleepily puzzled words from a cartoon version of Snow White.

I watched Al wipe down a hammer. I forgot to ask you something. He looked up at me.

Gracie stopped by yesterday afternoon to ask if I’d clean the church after the Allan’s wedding.  You going to be able to sit Raina?

Now he was examining drill bits. Short notice but I guess I can help out if you get ‘er done by noon. Going to help Sherman with a patch job.

In his younger days, Al had been a bang up carpenter and all around Jack. Nicotine puffing had cut short his largest project; a four story edifice and for a while he’d drifted in and out of Jack Daniel parlors. He confided to me, over a cup of Joe, that one day he’d woken up with a swollen head and black eyes and just bellowed, I quit!  And here he was, waltzing into his mid sixties, social security check stiffly clenched in one hand, Camel stick in the other.

My head shake brought a Wuff! from him. Not going to work.  Wedding's at eleven. That group will party till midnight if Pastor Bob didn’t boot them out. Could you be done by 4?

Al sighed. You should play poker or live in Vegas, Linda girl. If I’m not back by 4:30, take Raina to the church and I’ll come get her. Not supposed to be a huge repair though that can mean the toilets backed up and somebody’s kicked a hole in the wall.

Tiger jumped up and batted at a drill bit then dodged as Al lightly swatted back. Mangy free loader. There’s mouse turds in the Possibles drawer again.

Raina tumbled onto the floor as she spilled out of the sleeping bag.  All the way through her shower and tucking into bed, her new song pounded my head’s keyboard.  Mouse turds!  Unca’ Al said mouse turds!  Replacing those syllables with a Christmas tale did not appear to be an option. The delicious taste of naughty grownup slang fed her giggle box.  She fell asleep grinning.

Al extended a flyer to me when I emerged from settling down Raina. Santa had scheduled a stop over in our community. He would be at the Coast to Coast Hardware from 3 to 6 a week from Saturday.  I ain’t never taken any body to see the fat man in his red suit.  You mind if I take little Rai?

I looked Al over.  It was like looking at a newly hatched butterfly. For a fast moment the crusted mud was no where to be seen. Instead, a sweet older brother gazed back.

You must have been a good brother to Auntie Susie.

He laughed. I had a good aim with a snowball.  Santy Claus wasn’t nobody in our vocabulary, you see?  We kids had to help out Ma and Pa; had to shovel coal and keep the stock fed and shovel the paths so we could get to the barns. He saw my raised eyebrows. Still, we had fun.  Made snow forts and Pa was good at stretching tall tales.  Gawd, he could tell a whopper.

You think Raina is getting into a new phase of telling stories?  She sure is determined that she saw a lady in a blue bathrobe and that donkey!  In town!

He shook his head. She’s a bright one. With her reading so early, her imagination could take her anywhere. She’s been a bus and an elevator.  You tell me.  She’s your kid.

I smoothed down Tiger’s fur. Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

Stretching and yawning, I gathered up a pair of navy blue tights from the mending baskets. Raina would need these for church. 

Monday morning would see me spending the twenty-five earned from cleaning after the wedding party on new larger tights (Really? Red? I guess you can have red. You don’t wear dresses that much so it’ll be OK.) and then extending ten to the Power bill clerk and finally selecting a box of powdered milk and rolls of ground turkey, a pound of sunflower seeds and a bag of marked down bananas. Raina stuck her tongue out as I put the milk box into the grocery cart.

I’m bus driver Bob and I’m driving this bus to Ohio! she told one blue haired elderly lady. Pretending to examine a can of green beans, from the corner of my eyes, I saw the granny smile and reach up a wrapped butterscotch disk to the loud kid in the cart seat. Here’s my fare, bus driver! she said as she pushed her own cart away from us.

We’d almost made it to the car. Raina suddenly put her Not Going Anywhere face on. I’m going to help grind the sunnies cause I’m a big girl now!

Fine, I agreed. The wind whipped up arctic eddies all around us. Something else was giving Raina the urge to scratch.  I pulled her impatiently toward the shelter of the car. Once inside and the ignition key turned, asked her what was up.

Bible Lady said that Jesus helped his mother and dad when he was a kid. She frowned, thinking.  That picture!  Looked like those people I saw.

I reached over and pulled her cap tighter around her ears. Maybe they were in a play or something. You know, actors, like movie stars.

She did her own reaching and tweaked an unraveling bit of yarn from my own hat. Funny Mommy. Let’s have sunny sandwiches for lunch, OK?

I mentally calculated the width of the day. Somewhere in it, would be a visit to the laundromat. Guess there would be time and energy to get out the grinder.  If Al was home and he had the wind, he’d probably take on the task of converting sunflower seeds into sandwich makings. That would leave me space to mop the kitchen floor. You could always help me skin the beds, Rai.

She drew a line on the car window.  Nuh uh.  That’s your job, Mommy. ‘Member?  Mommies keep the beds clear of giant bed bugs.

If I hadn’t been behind a steering wheel, I would have closed my eyes in pain. Telling fantastical tales about giant bed bugs and snakes that slithered along bed sheets- totally a Doug bed time moment. He knew how to play into Raina’s 4 year old fears, lifting them into silly beasts that could be squashed and defeated; reduced to the status of something as harmless as the Jello that sat in the fridge.

Pain and Mommyhood can also raise the roof. I found myself humming Santa Claus is coming to Town!  Raina shrieked. Mommy, that hurts! You don’t hum it right!

That’s all it took, that tinny thread, to slice through the memories and the need. Raina became, just that quickly, a four year old again. We teased our way down the icy streets to home, the car’s ancient tranny grumbly when I eased it into 2nd, rounding the last corner without braking.

Raina banged on the passenger door until I opened it. Mommy.  The suit men! She pointed. Indeed, instead of the three wise men, two young men, stiff and formal in dark two piece suits, walked up the gravel driveway. Preserve us all! I thought as I gathered the groceries and shooed my daughter toward the house.  The Mormon youth, for that was who they were, approached and held out a small paper bag. It’s Christmas time. Thought you might enjoy this.  A lady down the block shared this with us. We want to extend the Lord’s blessing on you.

I bent and whispered into Raina’s ear. She dashed into the house then emerged with two sugar cooky lions.  The tallest man thanked her primly. I cut short a Bible quote, saying I had to get my girl inside the warm house and suggested they get out of the