A Winter’s Tale
December 30, 2023 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as Christmas tree, holidays, Memoir, snowstorm, writing
One memory from this time of year that’s still as crisp in detail as the night it happened was when I was eleven. That was more than thirty years ago, a time before cell phones or Taylor Swift. A time when I hadn’t yet left the magic of childhood.
My Uncle Charles picked me up several days before Christmas to buy a tree. It was our annual outing, just he and I. My family celebrated the holiday, but my parents didn’t care whether our tree was live or fake. In fact, I’m told we had a fake silver tree decorated with glossy red balls for the first few years of my life. I have no memory of that.
At some point, my uncle stepped in, insisting that we have a fresh-cut tree even if he had to foot the bill. And, he said, I was to be his yearly assistant; my Aunt Ruth was too busy to join us on our search for the perfect tree.
The year that’s so vivid has the late afternoon sky spitting snow when my uncle stopped by for me. I grew up in a suburban Bucks County neighborhood, but Uncle Charles wasn’t interested in buying a tree from one of the tree lots that sprang up at the area malls. He drove me out to the Springtown Holiday Tree Farm, which covered acres and acres of Pennsylvania countryside with Douglas fir lined up in neat rows.
He and I shared a game each year: As we walked up and down the lanes of trees, we pretended we were judges, intent on selecting that season’s winner. Once we had our top three picks, the tree that ranked first was the one he bought. In addition, he always purchased a second tree for himself and Aunt Ruth, even if it wasn’t as lovely or full, even if it had a few less-than-perfect branches.
That year, with a light snow dusting our hair and shoulders, we cast our ballots. My favorite, and his, was a tree that stood a good head taller than my towering uncle. Without fail each year, we picked the identical tree as the “winner.” Looking back now, I think that my uncle only pretended to vote; he ultimately ceded the decision to me.
After paying for the two trees, he expertly sawed each down. I’ve always wondered at his skill with the saw. My father—his brother—had no affinity for sharp tools—or any tools, for that matter.
My uncle gently placed the trees in the back of his pickup and tied them down carefully so they wouldn’t be damaged on the journey home, a good forty-five minutes away.
By the time we were ready to head out, the snow had increased in intensity. Thick flakes now blanketed the fields, and the long farm drive had maybe three inches on it.
I was nervous about the weather. My mother hated driving in snow, so I must have inherited that autonomic fear from her.
“Don’t you worry, Elf,” my uncle said, using his nickname for me as he started down the drive toward the main road. “It’s just a little snow.”
But once we were on the two-lane highway, the snow worsened into a squall. Switching the wipers and defroster to high, my uncle slowed his speed to a crawl. It was difficult to see the road ahead, and the rear window was iced over. No one else seemed to be out, not even the plows. In that time before cell phones, we couldn’t call my parents to let them know we would be later than we’d hoped.
On one sharp curve, the tires on the truck slipped, and we skidded toward the edge of the road. The brakes were useless, and although my uncle tried, he could not keep the truck from sliding into the ditch.
He cursed softly, but immediately checked on me. We were both unharmed, yet the vehicle was mired in the snow. He fought his way out the driver’s side door to make sure the tailpipe wasn’t buried, and then turned the engine back on to keep us warm.
One hour became two, became three. Uncle Charles switched the engine off every so often. The slender self I was at eleven got cold even with the heater on intermittently, and Uncle Charles dug out a thick Carhartt coat from behind the seat to snuggle around me. He also discovered a few wrapped chocolates and a stale package of crackers in the glove box, and we shared that scant dinner.
While we waited, he told stories of his own childhood. I learned things about my father’s family no one had ever mentioned: Uncle Charles and Dad had had a sister who died of the measles at age three. My uncle thought the world of Dad, although Dad always seemed to resent him.
Even in the darkness that surrounded us on that silent stretch of roadway, the cab was illuminated with a glow and a warmth I can’t explain. I must have drifted off.
When I awoke, I was riding in the jump seat of a tow truck. Uncle Charles was in the front seat with the driver. The pickup was trailing behind us as a tow.
“Almost home, Elf,” my uncle said. He handed me a paper cup of hot chocolate. The snow had stopped, and the sky was lightening toward dawn. The plows had cleared the road, and we made good time.
My mother remembers it differently. She says that we were not stuck in the snow for nine hours, but only for about two. That I was home and in bed by midnight. That my uncle had more personal problems than I was told about at age eleven.
But I know what I recall: It was the night my uncle saved my life. Unfortunately, he passed away several days afterward, having succumbed to a bad case of the flu.
And the tree we brought home? I still have a photo of it, ablaze with extra lights from Aunt Ruth, and glittering with tinsel and glossy cellophane candy canes. Decorated with love.
I take the photo out every year and prop it on my mantel. To remind me.
Read more of Dianna’s stories in the following anthologies:
More Holiday Reading
December 28, 2023 by Alina K. Field in category Quarter Days by Alina K. Field tagged as Bluestocking Belles, historical romance, Holiday Romance Collections, Regency romanceHow is your Yuletide shaping up?
This autumn I managed two extraordinary (for me) writing accomplishments:
1. Some butt-in-the-chair speedy writing for a last-minute holiday collection of stories put together during a time when I was attending two different week-long writing events, and
2. Writing short (8000 words). Which of course, helped me meet the deadline. Ideas for developing secondary characters came to me later. When the rights revert to me in a few months, I just might work in some changes.
Christmastide Kisses
My story, Twelfth Night Treasure is set among some longer novellas. The tales in this collection put together by four of us Bluestocking Belles plus author friends Ruth A. Casie and Aileen Fish will help brighten your holidays:
- A beleaguered uncle whose wards have run off every governess–what he needs is a wife, if only he can persuade the latest applicant
- A country solicitor who becomes an earl and then finds a secret that changes everything
- A very proper clergyman who battles very improper urges when he and a lady with a murky past find themselves snowbound
- A viscount whose search to unearth generations-old family secrets kindles the fire of love for his lovely search partner
- A former army captain who wonders if the best friend of his ex-fiancee is the woman he should have married
- A vicar with a misspent youth and the duke’s daughter who brings out the best in him
Six gentlemen and the ladies with whom they discover the power of a Christmastide Kiss.
A Villainous Vicar Reforms
The hero of my story is a clergyman who happened to be something of a villain in the my 2022 Christmas story, Flowers for His Lady. He had a whole year to reform since he almost ruined his sister’s chance at happiness last year. I’ve done my best to redeem him. If you read the story, let me know if you think I succeeded!
Happy Rest of the Holidays!
Besides taking time for holiday reading, be sure to grab a kiss under the mistletoe if you can!
I’ll be back in March for another Quarter Days Post.
0 0 Read moreBrewing Time by Neetu
December 26, 2023 by Neetu Malik in category Poet's Day by Neetu Malik tagged as Neetu, no rushing, staying a while, wayside brewery
Brewing Time
unaware, you become
resigned to
where you find yourself
relieved there’s no rush
to hit the road again
the road will be there
it never ends
you’d rather stay awhile
make some friends
enjoy a short stop
at a wayside brewery
pulling over
you scrutinize the long list of brews
names you haven’t heard before
the bartender smiles as he explains
the dark and the pale
you’re tired of the same old stout and ale
you ask for the hoppiest he can recommend
you take a swig, a sharp tang on your tongue
tells you it’ll do
the road has a long wait
it’s going to be quite a while
before you’re ready to move
© Neetu Malik
Some of Neetu’s Books
INTERIOR DIALOGUE by Kidd Wadsworth
December 25, 2023 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as ambiguity, body movement, humor, interior dialogue
My main issue with fiction, written in first person, is interior dialogue. Often interior dialogue is self-serving—or rather author-serving. Take this passage from The Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard:
I’m an accident. I’m a lie. And my life depends on maintaining the illusion.
The character is talking to herself to explain stuff to the reader. This pops me out of the story. It’s unreal dialogue. Very few of us have such cogent thoughts. Instead, our thoughts are entwined with our actions. Our body, our emotions and our thoughts are jumbled together. I’ve attempted to rewrite this passage below.
I tried not to let her see how much I hated her, but I could barely breathe.
I get it. I’ve got to lie for you.
My hand clinched itself into a fist.
Interior dialogue also often lacks ambiguity. People neither move nor think in a straight line. Our writing should mimic that. The reason it often doesn’t is that our real thoughts, like real dialogue would be uninteresting and/or confusing. As readers we want the condensed version. If you’ve ever seen a transcript of an FBI wire-tap you understand. I feel so sorry for those FBI agents. Most of that stuff—a good 99%–is boring and repetitious.
“Should we a . . . a . . . go to Denny’s or—”
“I hate Denny’s. Don’t forget your wallet.”
“Ok, ok, maybe . . . what’s that place that’s orange on the inside?”
“All I’m saying is, I’m not paying for your ass. You mean Panera?”
Of course, this enlightening conversation is taking place while the agents are listening for details about the next bombing attempt. It could be hours before they hear anything remotely interesting like:
“Did you pick the stuff up?”
So, obviously, we can’t write dialogue exactly the way it occurs in real life. Not if we want anyone, except our moms, to read our stories. But when interior dialogue is too polished, it stops being real.
Most interior dialogue also lacks humor. Humor inserts itself into our lives frequently. Yet, because our characters are constantly saving the world, running for their lives, or at least obsessing over which lipstick will make the love-of-their-life finally notice them, we delete the humor. This is a mistake. Humor breaks the tension, but more importantly, if our character is still willing to laugh, especially at themselves, it can draw the reader in, simultaneously making our character more likeable and more believable.
Finally, interior dialogue tends to suffer from monotony. In other words, the character repeats herself. Again, from The Red Queen:
I can’t do anything but steal.
And
I’m a coward.
I am really tired of hearing this character put herself down. These two thoughts are excellent candidates for humor. Consider my attempt:
I’m a coward and a thief. Across the room I spot my next mark. Tall and clean—obviously, he can afford water for a bath. Well at least I’m not a cowardly thief. My fingers are literally itching. I hope he doesn’t smell me coming.
So, here’s the list:
- No info dumps.
- Entwine the dialogue with body movement.
- Add a smidgeon of confusion or exhaustion or forgetfulness.
- Add humor.
Happy Writing!
Kidd
You’ll find some of Kidd’s stories in the following books.
A Year Is An Ocean by Veronica Jorge
December 22, 2023 by Veronica Jorge in category Write From the Heart by Veronica Jorge tagged as beginnings and endings, End of year, Veronica Jorge
As the year draws to an end, preparing to close its final chapter, I think of the beach.
It might seem perfectly normal to those of you living in sunny climates, or to snow bunnies hastening away from the cold. But to those of us in areas that have already seen our first snow, it might sound strange.
To me, beginnings and endings can be like the ocean.
Like a rushing tide, every New Year, we rush toward new goals and hopes.
Sometimes shrinking back in fear, or drifting away into distant doubts and difficult memories.
Sturdy ocean rocks, like strong foundations, enable us to stand secure. And even walk on water, like faithful friends that make us believe we can do the impossible.
Our footprints in the sand are washed away like our past failings and errors. While a merciful new year, grants us another chance at life.
The 1960s song, Try to Remember, written by Harvey Schmidt and Tom Jones, plays in my mind. Emotion tightens my throat. My heart forms a prayer for the coming year.
May no one weep. Not even the willow.
Veronica Jorge
See you next time on January 22, 2024!
0 3 Read moreFeatured Books
THREE TREATS TOO MANY
When a romantic rival opens a competing restaurant in small-town Wheaton, Alabama, Sarah Blair discovers murder is the specialty of the house . . .
More info →
