One Christmas

Prologue

"I

T WAS TEN YEARS AGO TODAY, TO BE EXACT."

Has it been that long? Memories of my maternal grandmother flooded back to me. For decades, she was the light of my life, a woman of wisdom who epitomized the strong, determined souls who came of age in the mid-twentieth century. Depression children—that's what they called them—who became fodder, both physically and emotionally, for a world war. I preferred to think of them as a generation of Renaissance men and women.

From a young age, I was in awe of my grandmother. She did so many things, and she did them all well. I remember watching her tat decorative doilies from a big ball of thread, make dresses (using her own patterns) from a few scraps of fabric, and knit sweaters like the ones my sisters and I spotted in the Thrasher's Department Store window.

I adored the tea parties she hosted for her daughters and granddaughters. She’d invite us for tea, sandwiches, and conversation served around her cloth-draped table. Not wanting to soil her fine linens, we ate slowly, moved gracefully, spoke thoughtfully. In other words, we acted like ladies in my grandmother's definition of the word.

On summer days, she’d invite us to join her for a little soiree on her patio where she’d serve ice cold lemonade in frosted glasses with homemade tartlets or cream puffs or ladyfinger from her finest silver platter. Less formal than her tea parties, her lemonade parties were filled with fun and laughter, occasions for her to slip in stories of her life now and again. I loved those times the most. I was always the one with the questions, begging Grandma to expound on one particular story or another.

With no formal training, my grandmother was an artist with a camera, any camera, from her beloved Argus Argoflex Seventy-Five to the Olympus OM-10 she received as a gift from my grandfather on her fifty-fifth birthday. She instinctively knew how to coax the best light through the aperture, to frame her subjects with an aura of respect.

When I was a teenager, I remember the weekend a devastating tornado struck nearby Mulberry. Grandma rallied my grandfather and a few of their friends and drove to the neighboring town to help with the cleanup. While the others were lifting and toting debris to the curb, Grandma photographed the storm's destruction and the faces of its victims. Captured on black and white film, she memorialized the pain and anguish of their loss, as well as their hope for the future. Most amazing to me, she captured their individual beauty. Since seeing her Mulberry photographs, I’ve been able to see the absolute wonder of humankind in every facial line and crease in the people I encounter on a daily basis.

Many years later, I sorted through her Mulberry photos, amazed again by her phenomenal work. Grandma, why don’t you put together a show of your photography? I’m sure you could get the county museum to host it.

She laughed. I’m a photographer, not an exhibitor.

Most photographers do both. That's how others get the opportunity to enjoy their work.

I’d rather be shooting photos or serving my girls lemonade on the patio than putting together a silly show. But I’ll tell you what… you can put it together when you grow up, if you have the heart for it. It's fine with me if you don’t. Remember what I’ve always told you… follow your own star.

I have a half-a-dozen boxes filled with her amazing photographs. I’ve been meaning to scan them, to study them, to discover if I have the heart to put together a show in Grandma's memory, but I haven’t had the time.

I’m ashamed to admit I bow to a world defined by hyperactivity and distraction, knowing each passing day thrusts me closer to that one day when my star will flicker out. In that moment, I vowed to myself to do better, to heed the wisdom of my beloved grandmother.

The sound of Attorney Randolph Bentley tugging the drawer of his timeworn desk nudged me from my reverie. I watched as he lifted out an old shoebox tied with twine, and set it in the center of his desk.

I felt my impatience rising. What's in it?

I believe it's the story of your grandmother's life. The old attorney fixed his hazel eyes on me and waited.

I took a breath, struggling to understand what he was telling me. So... it's her diary?

If memory serves… The old man tapped his temple with an index finger as if to jog an important fact loose. …I believe it's several manuscripts she's written—three, as I recall.

I leaned back in my chair, gasping in disbelief. Three manuscripts?

Perhaps you’re not the only writer in the family, Patti. One corner of Mr. Bentley's mouth turned up.

Don’t forget my Uncle Charlie.

How could I forget Charlie Caldwell? A fine man and accomplished writer. I still have all eighteen of his novels on the bookshelf in my den. It was an honor to know him. He tapped the side of his temple again. "I also recall Frank Blinn, your great-great-uncle, who became the editor-in-chief at the Chicago Tribune. Another impressive writer in your family. I guess you get it honestly."

That's kind of you to say but writing for local publications is hardly the same thing. Not wanting to talk about my writing career, I changed the subject. I remember Grandma telling me about Uncle Frank. He built the house on South Street where she grew up.

Mr. Bentley nodded, then fell silent, allowing me to catch up with the rush of recollections I was struggling to hold on to all at once. After a few silent moments, he explained that because I was a writer, my grandmother thought I might appreciate her stories. Do with her manuscripts as you please. That was her fondest desire. No pressure.

I sat in silence looking at the box, remembering how I’d loved listening to Grandma tell me the stories of her life, especially when we had time alone together. I’d heard many of her tales so often that when I re-told my favorites to my children when they were growing up, I told them as if they were my own.

Why did you wait so long to give me this box?

Those were Anna's instructions. She told me to wait ten years. I’d say I’m right on time. She knew most of the important people in her past would be dead ten years beyond her passing. Nothing revealed before it's time, I suppose. And I’m guessing that this was her way of making sure you hadn’t forgotten her a decade after her passing.

I looked up and smiled at the aged lawyer. There's no chance I’ll ever forget her or the impact she had on my life. She's with me every day. I stood, picked up the box, and turned to leave. Thank you.

Patti, a piece of advice from an old friend. Some secrets should remain secret.

I gave the old lawyer a knowing smile. Tell the truth, Mr. Bentley. Does this box hold any of your secrets?

His grin lit up his entire face. I certainly hope so. Just remember what I told you. Use your discretion with what your grandmother entrusted to you.

I nodded. Understood.

I placed the box on the passenger seat of my car and drove home with my right hand resting on top of it. For the first time since Grandma's death, I felt connected to her through this unexpected gift. It reminded me of those packages that showed up under the Christmas tree wrapped in thick gold paper topped with oversized bows. Shaking them as often as we could, my sisters and I never figured out exactly what Grandma had in store for us until Christmas morning. I wanted to imagine the contents of my grandmother's latest gift to me for as long as self-restraint would allow.

At home, I slid the box in the bottom drawer of my writing desk under a few file folders, fished out the brass key I’d long ago tossed into my desk's top-center drawer, and locked the one containing my grandmother's gift. A hollow gesture on my part. Who would want to steal my grandmother's manuscripts? For all I knew, the box contained a handwritten stream-of-consciousness mishmash penned in her precise script. That's exactly what I hoped it was. I wanted her words to take the rest of my life to read.

Ignoring my writing deadlines, I set about doing household chores, fully immersed in the fog of memories of my beloved grandmother.

Later, as I was clearing the dinner dishes from the table, my husband Steve broke the silence that had enveloped our meal together. What did Randolph what to talk to you about today?

Huh?

You know, Randolph Bentley, our attorney? You told me Donna called this morning and asked you to stop by. What was that all about?

He had some of Grandma's old papers he wanted to give me.

Steve leaned against the counter, his eyes fixed on me. He wanted details, but I wasn’t ready to offer any. I wanted to keep my encounter with Mr. Bentley all to myself for a while longer.

What kind of old papers, Patti? Anything interesting?

Honestly, I haven’t had time to open the box and look. You know, deadlines, and all.

My husband took a casual turn around the kitchen. It looks like you’ve been cleaning house all day. My husband knew me so well.

Cleaning is part of my creative process.

So I’ve heard.

You’ll be the first to know if I find anything interesting. I promise.

Once Steve fell asleep in front of the television, I slipped into my office and retrieved the box. I pulled off the twine and lifted the lid of what appeared to be an old shoebox. On top was a sheet of Grandma's personal stationery. In the middle of the page, she had written, Follow your own star. I laid that aside and pulled out a bundle of pages, curved from age and The confines of the box. The cover sheet read, "One Christmas. The next page read, To Patti."

I settled into my favorite chair, pulled a coverlet over my feet and set about reading what my grandmother had written… just for me.

In 1933, the menacing tentacles of the Great Depression had entwined themselves into every nook and cranny of American life. My small hometown of Jeffries, a railroad hub in north-central Indiana, was no exception. That year, when the perpetually failing economy was taking its most devastating toll–when some 15 million Americans were unemployed and nearly half of the country's banks had failed–all hope for better days had disappeared, leaving behind the despair that comes from unrelenting poverty.

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, that despair heaped itself onto my family in great measure. Yet that Christmas evolved into a time of love, joy, and gratitude, creating indelible memories that warmed many Christmases thereafter and created an unbreakable bond between my two sisters and me.

The memories of that time flow easily to me all these decades later, though my aged hand struggles to keep up with my memories.

For my older sister, Gemma, that Christmas brought the sweet taste of a first kiss, more glorious and romantic than she’d imagined it. Fred, the first boy she’d ever loved, became the only man she’d ever love. He orbited her world for decades, touching her life with his sweetness now and again, then disappearing into the shadows, leaving her breathless and numb, for months or even years at a time. Her only consolation was that she knew he’d find her again. On that Christmas, when perfect first love bloomed from a perfect first kiss, Gem was Fred's one and only, and he was hers. They remained that way until a world war tore them apart.

For me, the memories of the days leading up to that Christmas became the place I settled whenever I’d hear carols played on a piano. So many seasons of my life have passed since that nine-year-old me crept onto the porch of a stranger. One minor act of kindness brought Laura Beall into my life, an incredible woman despite the tough hand life had dealt her. Oh, how I marveled at her beauty, her talents, her grace. I remember her dancing eyes as they looked into my soul, sparking my desire to reach for the best in myself, just as she had done despite the odds stacked against her.

My younger sister, Thea, had no memories of her own about that Christmas, so Gem and I wove her memories from our own, painting her the mental pictures of the many miracles that unfolded before us, and her special place in them. Through the years, my sisters and I re-told the story of that Christmas hundreds of times, adding our adult insights and newly discovered details about the people and places that revealed themselves in full measure throughout our lives.

Over so many decades, this life gave me its best and its worst. All my experiences have shaped me and nurtured me; some even cut me to my roots to force me to start again. Bits of memories flicker in the twilight as I gaze from my window onto the quiet boulevard in Jeffries, where I still live. As darkness falls, the tails of shooting stars in the night sky now hidden from my old eyes, I’m left alone with my memories.

Gem passed away a decade ago, and Thea died way too young. The story of the Christmas of 1933, that glorious holiday that redefined so many aspects of our lives, is now mine alone to tell.

This story is about the miracles that happened… that one Christmas.

ACT I

Chapter 1

H

OLDING THE SKIRT OF MY FAVORITE BLUE DRESS HIGH above my knees, I ran the last block of Walnut Street with my coat billowing out behind me. The coal smoke belching from the chimneys smelled of winter. As I turned on Jackson Street, I ran headlong into a stiff October wind that chilled me to the bone before rattling its way through the last of the lifeless leaves clinging to the sugar maples that lined the street at perfect intervals.

There's nothing colder than the ashes of love. Those words slipped across my mind at the most unexpected moments. Where did I first hear them? Not in a feature film I’d seen with my sister Gem at the Clinton Theater. Not from a book my cousin Charlie had read to me. I resolved that the words came to me in a dream some weeks ago, drifting up the cold air register to pierce my sleep, but for a moment. As I ran, I wondered if those ashes were colder than an Indiana autumn wind. Tugging my coat around my body, I kept running.

I felt the ground pitch and shake beneath me as the 4:20 entered the Wanatah station. Nearly out of breath, I gulped cold air into my lungs. Popo, I’m coming.

My patent leather shoes, now a season too tight, clattered along the sidewalk as I picked up speed, leaving a whirl of dead leaves in my wake. On Friday afternoons, I took my place on the platform alongside the conductor to wait for my father when he arrived home from another long week selling feed and seed to farmers across the state.

Today I’d gotten a late start, losing track of time watching Mother prepare my sister Thea's birthday supper of stewed chicken and dumplings with all the fixings, plus chocolate cake with a thick layer of frosting for dessert. A real celebration, Mother had called it. It had been a hard year for my mother, so I was happy to see an aura of contentment return to her face as she moved gracefully about her kitchen chores toward our perfect family meal together.

While Mother prepared for the celebration, my brothers, sisters, and cousin had gathered around the big Zenith radio in the green room listening to the National Barn Dance on WLS out of Chicago while taking turns playing checkers on the floor. After beating Charlie soundly, I’d ignored my cousin's demands for a rematch, choosing instead to climb atop a stool in the kitchen to watch Mother drop the thick dumplings, one at a time, into the simmering stew pot. I could almost taste a piece of the chicken's egg sac, rough in my mouth. On this special day I was sure everyone would get a small bite of the delicacy, but Mother always saved the chicken liver and gizzard for Popo, who would make a lip-smacking production out of eating them slowly while praising Mother's cooking as the rest of his family chuckled at his antics. All the anticipation of Thea's birthday supper, heightened by the sweet smell of chocolate cake wafting from Mother's oven, had distracted me from my Friday afternoon vigil-by-the-clock.

Aren’t you meeting Popo at the Wanatah station this afternoon? Mother had asked me, as she pulled her round cake pans from the oven, careful to set them gently on the counter to prevent the layers from falling. You’d better get moving if you’re going to make it on time.

Did you hear it?

Mother had nodded. Two long whistle blows followed by a short toot and another long blow indicated the train was approaching its last street crossing before the station.

As I jumped down from the stool and raced for the front door, Mother followed me. Be sure to wear your winter coat, young lady. It's cold outside today. I don’t want you catching your death.

The year's mild Indiana autumn had finally bowed to a Canadian front, amping up its frigid fury each time it licked across Lake Michigan. Despite the cold, I focused on being on that platform for my father's grand exit from the passenger car.

Remember, Mother had called from the doorway as I ran across the yard, still struggling to get an arm into one of my coat sleeves. I’m serving supper promptly at six o’clock, so remind your father not to linger. And button that coat!

The passenger train had already pulled into the station as I ran across the tracks before I could make my way up the wooden steps to the platform that ran along the northbound rails. As one foot landed between the rails, the heel of my shoe didn’t clear the next, causing me to slip across the slick worn steel and fall, hands and knees first, into the gravel along the track.

With tears of frustration streaming down my face, I sat up and began picking off the stones that were stuck to my hands. One minute I was crying, the next I felt my father's arms lift me from the gravel and pull me to him.

Is my girl okay? Popo held me close, stoking my hair.

I missed you… on the platform, I sobbed, allowing my emotions to wash over me.

You didn’t miss me, angel. I’m right here.

Burying my face in my father's warm neck, he soothed me a moment, then carried me up to the platform and sat me on one of the wooden benches that lined the outside wall of the depot near the tracks. Taking his white