Spring 2021

After World War II and in the throes of the Korean war I sat on a shelf; pristine, and proud, and new. The people who walked through the isles chatted idly so even from within my box, I knew what was happening in the world around me. One day a shy young lady in a home-sewn dress walked the isles searching for something. She looked just old enough to be a child of the Great Depression, and the way she clutched her change purse to her bosom only accented this. I watched the girl through the thin plastic as she read the tags aloud. One by one she assessed each of the machines until she reached the very edge of the store. I knew that a young lady of her upbringing could only hope to save the money to buy a machine like mine. The latest models were never the cheapest. So, when my box was jostled, and I slid down from the shelf I sat in shock. This young girl could have used the money in her little change purse to buy any number of things, but instead, I was brought up to the store clerk with a few stray fabrics that had been in a sale bin.

After I had been moved into the new house it was straight to work. I had finally been freed from the cardboard prison. The world was brighter without the scuffed viewing plastic that I had been held behind. I missed the view from up on my shelf, but the floor of a bedroom would have to do for now. So long as I got to sew, everything would be alright.

Fabrics and spools littered the floor, each one looked like scraps, only leftovers from a bigger project. A vibrant pink spool was carefully threaded from my spool pin to my needles and my bobbin had been filled with the largest amount of white thread the girl could find. After some adjusting, the young lady discovered a comfortable way to guide me through her sewing and she set off to her closet. She pulled out a pink and white fabric that had been cut to form a skirt. She placed the striped fabric inside out before pinning it with her mismatched pin collection. When the hems were complete, I watched her tie the tiniest pieces of elastic together, one by one until they fit her waist. As she fed the elastic through, I wondered where she had gathered these materials. Perhaps they had come from a family member’s projects, or maybe they had been gifts. While I sat through my musings, I was switched off and the young lady had gone to bed. The day was over, but I was still ready to sew. I wondered when the next project would be, but I thought it selfish to hope for it tomorrow.

“Evelyn!” there was a shout down the stairs, “If you don’t hurry you won’t have breakfast before work.” The young lady, Evelyn, rushed about to get dressed after that. She donned a sewing apron that read “Casey Jones Work-Clothes Company,” and headed downstairs. Not much happened in her absence, but that was to be expected. It had been her bedroom after all. Time passed as it always does, and Evelyn returned with more cloth scraps. If I were to guess now, I’d say they were leftovers from work that she managed to sneak out. Much to my surprise, she had re-strung colored thread through my machinery and began her work on patching up some old work dresses. It had always gone like this, Evelyn would return from work, and I would be shocked and overjoyed as we began to work on something new.

When Evelyn had grown and had married twice, she still brought me along for the moves, I made a couple of sewing rooms in my home and enjoyed each time she would redecorate. She still worked with me on projects most evenings only taking a few days here and there. But one day as she walked into the room, I realized that something was terribly wrong. You can always tell with loved ones when that one little thing is off, she passed by an unfinished project to fish out new fabric. She had never left a project unfinished before. After she gathered her things, she grabbed the chair at my desk. Despite my confusion, I was ecstatic to begin our work, but instead of pulling the chair out, she tried to push it in. again and again she pushed the chair into the desk until eventually, she pulled it out. However, much to my dismay, she did not sit down. She hung her fabrics on the spool shelf and placed the spools in a fabric drawer and left the sewing room. To my utter horror, I didn’t hear her dainty footsteps travel the stairs, but a thump, thump, thump, and the shattering of glass. It was the mirror on the wall at the end of the stairs. I had overheard Evelyn’s husband and daughter talking about it, the doctors had told them that Evelyn had a disease called Alzheimer’s. When Evelyn came back home, I assumed everything was okay now, that my Evelyn would be fine. But it really wasn’t.

The great-grandson stayed over that night, he explored the sewing room and asked Evelyn to patch up his blanket. She used the wrong setting on me, but it was alright, the stitching made a silhouette of dogs. It was a setting we hadn’t used in a long time, but the little boy seemed to like it, so we moved on. Evelyn tried, she really did, but she couldn’t remember how to change my settings when she switched to a sturdier fabric, jeans, they really can’t have delicate stitching. So, I braced myself until snap! My needle broke off into the fabric, but it was alright. I knew she didn’t mean it. She even tried to change the needle, but she had to give up after a few too many stabs from the piece of machinery. She had forgotten how to change my settings, and how to fix me, but it was fine. She still spent time with me, and other people helped her with my maintenance, until her fourth fall.

They said she didn’t remember her family anymore, I wonder If that included me. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care if she had forgotten, I will remember for her. I’ll recount everything that I can just for her. Even if she has forgotten me, I could never forget her. 

I remember what you were; the last project you fulfilled. And I remember before that and before that. I remember when you were a simple flat cloth, ready to be made into her next dress; Evelyn. I remember when she bought me something brand new too. I’m sure she scraped together every penny from her job. A lovely little seamstress she was. I remember her youth when we saw project after project. I remember that when she grew tired of one thing, she would take apart the seams and make something new. Her fabric was never wasted, and I was always primed to sew. From a dress to a shirt and skirt, to a pillow, and a toy. She always knew just how much she could do with one piece of fabric. I remember the poodle skirts and the Halloween costumes from every year. But now I’m stuck, listing off to you what you used to be, what we used to do. Evelyn is gone, and we are forgotten, she has forgotten. We’re covered in dust, surrounded by the projects she never finished and the projects she didn’t yet think of. I expect the door will never open, the blinds will remain drawn, and the grandchildren will find new favorite clothes, their seams industrial and their Halloween costumes will be store-bought until her projects are long forgotten, and until her old toys all but fall apart. Perhaps until I fall apart.

I don’t want to sit here until I begin to rust, but if I were to ever be sold, that would be the first time a sewing machine would ever truly die.

If I were sold, I’d be nothing but a relic. A ‘look at me’ piece that sits behind a glass case. I’d much rather sew than look pretty in a stranger's house.

___________________________________________________________________________

Evelyn, do you hear? The steps are creaking. That would be your husband, retiring for the night. He’s always been early to bed and early to rise, but super has not yet passed, and I hear steps trailing behind. Your granddaughter is here. And oh, I do remember, she asked for projects from us every so often. For her, for her children, and for the sake of it. If we are to be dusted off once more, able to start and finish projects. If we are to move houses and see new walls and people. If we are to hold our spool pins high and move on, I’m glad it’s for our lovely little seamstress; Samantha.

The night before a snowfall holds magic. Just being outside before a big snowfall feels like being mildly electrified. Your whole body can feel the imminent arrival of snow. There is something about the stillness and the barometric pressure (or so I have heard) that feels heavy, thick, and pulsing around you. Take a breath and you feel the sharpness of the crisp air in your lungs. It almost hurts, but not quite. The frosty puff of air floats in front of your face as you breathe quietly, not wanting to disturb the moment. With no stars above, your eyes might search to see that first flake fall, but they won’t. It’s too still and too dark. Waiting for snow feels like a reminder that we are just part of the world, not separate from it. There is no doubt that the night before a snowfall holds magic, but it holds more. It holds hope.

Hope can be defined as “a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen”. What better physical manifestation of hope could there be? Waiting in joyful anticipation for a predicted snowfall is the perfect definition of hope. Who doesn’t want to see a beautiful blanket of snow on the earth when they wake up? Who would not be inspired and refreshed? Wouldn’t everyone feel better? Changed? Hopeful for new experiences? Perhaps that feeling depends on your own experience with snow.

In the mid-Atlantic, we see some snow, but not like in other places. Eskimos, for example, really do have more than 50 words for snow. This idea was once debunked as “the Great Eskimo Vocabulary Hoax”, but now that hoax theory has also been debunked. I guess it was the debunking of the debunking. Scientists and linguists now agree that there are more than 50 Eskimo/Inuit words describing snow. The snow words describe different types of snow and include more that we can possibly conceive of, like drifting snow, snow on the ground, snowflake, icy snow, blowing snow, snow drift and more. There is even a word for “the idea of snow” and that is penstla. That makes me wonder why we do not have an English word for the idea of snow. It seems like the perfect analogy for hope when you have the idea of snow in your head and know that this idea could become reality by morning.

The morning after a snow, there is a swath of clean and white color painted over even the gloomiest of views. A suburban window, a dirty city sidewalk, and even a sooty factory tower all look different dressed in snow. Perhaps you live near the Inuit in the Arctic North where bundled up dog sledders with red cheeks get ready for a run in the nutaryuk (fresh snow) after having glimpsed the snow sparkling with the moonlight (tlun). You might live in Tennessee where fresh snow gives you a rare treat for the eyes, if not perhaps for your morning commute. You might live in the Blue Ridge mountains where that freshly fallen snow clings to evergreen boughs making them look like pages from The Night Before Christmas. For a long time, I was lucky enough to enjoy that kind of view. 

High in the Appalachians, at about 3000 feet up, there stands a cabin in the woods. Sitting on the side of a modest ski resort in West Virginia, it is a place of wonder in every season, but never more than in winter. In winter, Davis, WV gets about 180 inches of snow - at least according to the ski report there. For the first 15 years of my life, I lived in that white wonder. As the youngest of a family with six kids and the youngest of an extended family of 13 cousins, I wallowed not only in snow, but also in love. The warm cocoon of spending a snowy weekend in a family cabin blends into my feelings about snow, but it doesn’t alter the fact that snow is magic. After a snow, when the sun comes out, icicles form on the rooftops and dangle from above, sometimes allowing the sun to shine through forming prisms of rainbows on windowpanes. The sun can set the nearby ski slope alight like fire on the water. In fact, at a local pizza place in Davis they serve a pizza called “fire on the water”. Maybe inspiration for that came from the sun on the snow. Certainly, the magic of snow can inspire creativity in menu items, but it can do much more. The beautiful change of scenery inspires a change in attitude that is born in hope. 

Penstla is the idea of snow. Penstla, I pray, on the night before a snow is predicted. Whispering into the darkness of the cold West Virginia night, I stand here waiting and hoping for snow. I wait for the inspiration and change it provides. I wait to see how my world will change with the snow, even knowing that change won’t be permanent. Waiting for snow is exactly what it feels like to hope. Wanting something to happen, knowing that it might, anticipating the joyful changes that it will bring is an indescribable feeling that takes your breath away as easily as the frozen, still Appalachian air. Penstla. I believe in the magic of snow.

We Are Better Than That There I was on that January day. I stood tall and fair, as I usually do, my white body glistening in the sun. I am old, but wise, for I have been here for two-hundred and twenty-eight years, having served as a symbol of freedom and justice since the day I was erected. This day was supposed to be one of tradition, celebrated and honored every year it has happened. It did not turn out that way. Over the course of the day, a mob emerged. Their numbers were as vast as the sea, almost never-ending. They were wearing the colors of red, white and blue, intending to be seen by the world as patriots. The sounds of animalistic growl-like chants filled the air. It was clear that they were out to stop the tradition that was already being set in motion. I was surrounded on all sides, and soon they started to come closer. The pungent smell of sweat filled the air as the rioters got closer to me. I couldn’t help but to think to myself... How could they have gotten this far? One would think that a protocol would be put into place for a situation like this, but alas, there was not. They fiercely inched closer, death looming in their eyes as their voices became a crescendo of distorted harmony. The terrorists screamed of being silenced while the whole world listened. They shouted about justice while breaking the laws, believing that they were above them. All of them were hypocrites. Finegan 2 Soon, like a monkey up a tree, the animals were climbing the walls that surrounded me. If only they had opened their eyes, they would see that there were stairs right next to them. They didn’t care; they wanted to make a statement, and they were prepared to do so by any means necessary. I could feel their greasy, grimy hands grabbing onto the surfaces, clutching to a symbol of liberty and tearing it down. Finally, the insects approached me, looking as small as ants, but as powerful as giants. They had the resolve to destroy. I felt pain surge through my entire body as they punctured and broke through me. Triumphant yells rose from the traitors as they screeched for victory. They had successfully put a halt to tradition, and they did so even if it meant going against everything their country stood for. I stood there, as I always did, with nowhere else to go. They shattered my windows. They forced my doors open and sat in the chairs of their leaders. I could taste the dirt from their boots covering every inch of my floors. They were attempting to ruin me and everything I stood for. The savages were damaging me internally, externally, and eternally. The barbarians moved in large groups, breathing their infectious diseases onto each other. Their minds were too focused on destruction, not realizing that the world was a place of severe illness. They didn’t care. They were willing to transmit deadly viruses to their brothers and sisters for the sake of a riot. I soon heard the sounds of gunshots ringing from inside me, followed by cries. I could feel blood had been shed. Not in two-hundred and seven years had I experienced something like this. I felt a tear roll down my cheek. Not only had a person passed, but I could sense my country passing with them. Finegan 3 The brutes were here for hours after this. Not a single police officer or military force was present to stop these people. They were being allowed to hurt me for so long, and all I could do was stand there and bite the bullet. Eventually, the police and national guard arrived. Finally, they were going to disperse these criminals once and for all. At first, it seemed like they were barely trying. Their numbers were small, and they used fruitless tactics to attempt to encourage their exit. However, after many hours, I saw the blinding sparks of flashbangs. I witnessed the rioters being forced to see their own ugly reflections in the police force’s shields. A smile formed on my face. Persistent were they, throwing things at the police officers they said they respected. The mob was willing to let others die for their cause, no matter what side they were on. The savages were gone after a while, but the damage was already done. I was left in tatters, empty inside. I could sense the fear of the nation all around me. Was this it? Or was there more they needed to do? The only option the nation had was wait in fear for the tragedy to escalate further. However, even after this humiliating beating, I remain standing. These insurrectionists failed. They may have halted the institutions of this nation for a little while, but not indefinitely. Later that night, tradition continued and was carried out to its fullest. No single person could cancel the very ideals we hold close to ourselves, whether they were alone or backed by an entire army. As I stand here today, I look back on this day with disgust, but also with pride. Those rioters did not represent the true ideals that we hold dear. I may stand here beaten and battered, but I also stand noble knowing that this day did not represent us. We are better than that.

On a seemingly normal day, a young girl named Lindsey decided to take a hike in a nearby forest, little did she know that day would change her life forever. Lindsey woke up to the bright orange of the sun, the birds chirping, and the warmth seeping through her window. As she began to get dressed for the day, the sweet smell of freshly made pancakes filled her nose like a roaring river fills a valley. After a delicious breakfast, Lindsey returned to her comforting bedroom to read her favorite new book. Hours and hours went by as Lindsey furiously flipped the pages of her book and soon, it came to an end. Not knowing how to spend her day next, Lindsey thought about the many days that she used to spend playing hide and seek in the nearby forest with her best friend Kate. Lindsey’s eyes began to glisten with the sweet memories and her nose began to drip as her room darkened and the birds slowly stopped chirping. The last time Lindsey had seen her best friend was in that same forest almost three years ago, but after a day full of hiding-and-go seek, Lindsey failed to find Kate. Red and blue lights flashed and blaring sirens filled the night air. Still, no sign of Kate, and there never would be. Kate was gone, and Lindsey’s only friend in the evil, lonely world was gone. 

Lindsey, filled with sweet memories, decided to venture out to the forest where her best friend disappeared. Green leaves, the whisper of animals, and the memories consumed her. As Lindsey wandered through the forest the sunset across the horizon, filling the area with deep orange color. Deeper and deeper into the forest she went until she could no longer find her way out. The darkness consumed her and her mind raced. Suddenly, Lindsey heard the creaking and snapping of limbs behind her. Beads of cold sweat spread across her forehead. Darkness still, loneliness still. No Kate, no family in sight, no way out, Lindsey was alone. 

With Lindsey’s confidence that was bigger than a lion gone, she wished more than anything she could be back in the safety of her bedroom. More creaking and snapping. The sounds were getting louder, and Lindsey’s confidence grew slim. The happy memories left, and the evil thoughts came. Shadows formed into shapes of monsters all around her and the low whistling of the wind seemed to call her name. Lindsey...Lindsey… LINDSEY!!! Lindsey began to run, she thought, I’ll run, I’ll run as far as I can! Suddenly, there was a figure looming in the shadows. It seemed to be in the shape of a person. What is that? Who is that? Lindsey thought. The dark figure grew closer and closer to Lindsey until she could finally see its face. Could it be? There’s no way! The figure looming in the shadows was her best friend. That frightening shadow was Kate. 

Lindsey ran to her best friend to embrace her in a long hug, something she had been dreaming of for years. Yet, the hug was not returned. Stone cold Kate was just standing there, limp and covered in dirt. “What’s wrong Kate? Where have you been? I’ve missed you!” Still, Kate did not return anything to Lindsey. Kate’s memory was gone, gone forever. There was nothing inside of her that resembled Lindsey’s best friend. Lindsey was still alone. “Kate, what happened? Are you okay?”, Lindsey questioned. Finally, Kate said, “I’m not sure. I woke up in that ditch over there a long time ago. I couldn’t remember how I got there, who I was, and what happened. I woke up and started wandering around not knowing how to find help. I made a camp right over there and have been living off of that strawberry vine, peach tree, and the creek for water.” “Why don’t you come home with me? I know you don’t remember me, but we were best friends three years ago. We were playing hide and seek in this forest, but I couldn’t find you. You had vanished.”, Kate said. Then suddenly, Kate grew angry. Angry at Lindsey. Angry at the whole world around her. Her face grew as red as a tomato and steam came pouring out of her ears. Kate started screaming at Lindsey Louder and louder. This was not Lindsey’s best friend; her best friend would never yell at her like this. 

Out of nowhere, that angry lion attacked Naomi, wrapping its claws around her throat. Lindsey forced the attacker off of her, red marks covered her neck. Lindsey’s blood rushed through her body, her limbs shaking, and thin red liquid made its way down her neck. Getaway! Run! This is not your best friend! Get out! Is all Lindsey could think. So she ran, blurry green images rushed next to her. The snapping of sticks crushed beneath her feet. The wheezing and whistling of her breath filled her ears. The darkness surrounded her, and Lindsey didn’t know the way out. Yet, she kept running as far away as she could get from that angry lion who she thought was her best friend. She ran and ran, more blurred green, more darkness, more snapping of fallen limbs. 

Soon, Lindsey was nearing the exit of the forest. She could see yellow and orange light. Again, warmth started to fill the air. Blue Jays and Cardinals began to chirp. Lindsey could see her way out. Her confidence began to grow again as the darkness slipped away. The sweet sense of home overpowered the evil thoughts. As the area became brighter Lindsey was suddenly back in her haven, safe and sound. She rose out of bed, her head spinning and beads of salty liquid all over her body. As Lindsey looked at her shiny reflection the red marks and red liquid streaming down her neck were gone. Nothing appeared how it was. It wasn’t real. None of it was. Lindsey thought about her old life and what she thought was a true encounter and became calm, relieved. It was time to move on, her best friend will never come home, and it was time to take in life how it truly is. Accept the past and move on to new and greater things. Suddenly, she heard a voice; a familiar voice, then her eyes grew wide as her door opened...

Many years ago, in the days of old Holland, there lived a kind, gentle, and beautiful girl of thirteen named Helena. She came from a poor family and had received little kindness from the people around her. Her grandmother had died some time before, and she and her mother and father had to live off the profits from the wood that Helena sold for her family, as her father was a woodcutter. I’m sorry to tell you this, but Helena’s father was not a kind and loving man like most children would have. He was a moody, sullen man who weighed everything by gain, and every day when Helena returned home, he would ask how much money she had earned that day selling the wood that he brought back. If Helena had plenty of gold coins in her pockets, then all was well. But if she came back with nothing sold and no profits earned, she was beaten soundly and given no food until the next morning.

But her mother loved her daughter because she had been raised to love, for Helena’s grandmother was her mother’s mother and the kind old lady had loved Helena until the end of her days. Helena’s mother often brought words of comfort to her every day and night, and so Helena remained gentle and kind, for she had hope that despite her father’s abuse and their poverty, God would provide for their needs. Indeed, Helena was a pious girl as well, and every day she prayed that God would look after her and her family. Now it was January and winter was still young, and during the day, Helena had gone into the village where she lived, calling out her trade: selling firewood to the more fortunate people there.

“Firewood for sale!” she called. “Four guilders for a log!”

Unfortunately, no one paid attention to her. No one gave her so much as a copper cent. This made Helena worried, for she feared how angry her father would be when she came home. When she wandered the streets in the evenings, she would often look through the windows of the village houses. She would see families eating good-tasting meals or sleeping in soft beds. They all looked happy and content, and it made Helena long for such comforts.

“Everyone else in the village has so much,” she would say to herself. “If only I had such fortune as they do, I wouldn’t be suffering so. Nevertheless, I will pray each day for my family’s well-being, and if I am to be poor, let it be as God wills.”

When she came back, her father met her at the door and said, “Do you have gold in your pockets, child?”

Though she was afraid, Helena decided to tell the truth. She told her father that she had tried to sell the wood that he had brought back from the forest, but no one had given her any money. At this, her father scolded her, saying, “Fool of a daughter! Do you not know that I expect you to play your part? We’ve all done nothing but beg for money, and now I give you a task to handle and you return with not even one coin! What is wrong with you?!”

And in his anger, Helena’s father struck her upon the cheek. Helena was quick to get away from her father and went into her room, where her mother was waiting for her. She embraced her daughter and asked, “Is all well with you, my dear?”

“I wish it were,” said Helena sadly. “But I could not sell even one log for firewood. If only Grandmother were still with us. She would never allow my father to hurt me so.”

Her mother set Helena on her lap and held her close and stroked her long, fair hair. She let her dear daughter weep on her shoulder and rocked her gently. When Helena was calm, her mother tucked her into bed, kissed her cheeks, and said, “Good night, dear.”

The next morning, Helena went out into the village to sell firewood, but came back with only a few coins. Her bad-tempered father scolded her once more, for he always expected Helena to return with a plenty of coins and much wood sold.

Now Helena had no friends among the children in the village because none would greet her or give her kind words, but she was not alone. Every morning, the birds would sing to her when she rose from sleep, and the mice would come out to greet her. Helena would give them bread from the table each morning and then go out to sell firewood. This evening, Helena and her companions journeyed from the house to the place where her grandmother was buried. She placed a single white flower upon the headstone and knelt there in a moment of silence, thinking about how much she missed her dear old grandmother. Then something wonderful happened. When Helena opened her eyes again, her grandmother’s spirit was standing before her, still as beautiful and kind as always.

“Good evening, my dear Helena,” said she. “You look like you’ve had a time.”

“I have, Grandmother,” replied Helena. “My father is still as bad-tempered as he was when we first fell into poverty. I try selling wood for fires, but hardly anyone ever buys wood from me. I just wish I could live a happy life.”

Her grandmother chuckled and replied, “Well, child, what you need is perseverance. God will never leave or forsake you, but you must believe that He will stay by your side and keep you no matter what trials come. If you trust the Lord, then your happiness will come through.”

When Helena came home, she slept comfortably until morning came. Her father had gone into the forest outside the village for more wood, hoping that some money could be made off it. She had a small breakfast of porridge and fruit, and then she gave some of the bread in the cupboard to her friends the birds and mice. When it was midday, her father returned with wood and flatly told Helena to try and sell some of it.

“And be sure to come back with filled pockets, girl,” he said sternly. “Or you will pay for it in more than guilders.”

“Yes, Father,” replied Helena as calmly as she could. And so she took the bundle of firewood and went out into the village. Everywhere she looked, she saw the butchers, the bakers, spinners, and millers all calling their trades and receiving money for an honest purchase. So Helena tried to sell firewood in the same manner.

“Firewood for sale!” she called once more. “Four guilders a log! Enough wood for a fire in your grate!”

But again, no one felt the need to purchase any wood from Helena. What’s more, she was raggedly dressed and had a thin coat, so if anyone passed her by, they saw only a poor girl in rags begging for money. Now it was beginning to snow and Helena was cold in her threadbare dress. She didn’t want to go back to her father because she knew that he would beat her if she came back empty-handed. But she was willing to try appeasing him despite her fear, so Helena went back and told her father that she had been unable to sell any wood. When he heard this, the man became very angry. He struck Helena with hard blows, then pulled off her shoes and threw them into the fire. “And tomorrow, see that you sell the wood I bring in, or you will be very sorry indeed,” her father said coldly.

The next day, there was a fresh blanket of snow on the ground and the village was teeming with activity again. Helena was sent out to try and sell firewood and her father was so merciless as to make her walk barefoot in the snow. But Helena did as she was told and went out into the village. She tried to sell wood to those who passed by, but still, no one paid her attention save only a look at her. When the day was done, Helena’s feet were bitterly cold. Remembering her father’s anger, she became even more afraid to go back home. She stood wondering what was to be done for such a long time that her teeth would have been chattering with fear if not with cold. But in the end, Helena went back to her father and made no secret of her failure. Again, her father lashed out at her, saying, “You are an ignorant goose, for you do not complete your tasks! The third time, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born!”

And again, Helena felt her father’s anger, for she was beaten and then deprived of her coat, for her father said that she would receive warmth only if she sold his wood. But later that evening, her mother gave Helena a warm foot-bath and then helped her to bed, for the soreness filled her body no end.

“I’m truly sorry, Helena,” said she, “I wish there was something I could do to lift the yoke of this burden from your young shoulders.”

“I won’t give up, Mother,” Helena told her. “I will try again tomorrow, and if I fail, I fail.”

So the next day, brave little Helena went out into the village to try and sell her father’s wood, only now she was even more cold without her coat, and her bare feet stung from the snow that blanketed the ground. So when she came to her usual spot where she tried to sell wood, Helena moved as best she could to keep warm. She tried to sell wood, but at the end of the day, she had only received twelve guilders. When she went home she said, “Father, I managed to sell some of the wood you’ve brought back.” And she showed him the twelve gold coins that she had earned.

But her hard-pressing father had been hoping for a larger amount earned, and when he saw that she hadn’t sold all the wood she had, he flew into a passion. He beat Helena and kicked her and sent her into the cold in only her shift and he bellowed, “You little simpleton, you are fit for nothing but to wander the village and beg for food!” And he shut and bolted the door so Helena would be left in the cold of the night to suffer, and her father was certain that she would die.

Helena was now bitterly cold all over and shivering like a leaf in the wind. But she thought quickly to find a way to remedy the situation. She took a rug from the fence and wrapped it around herself as though it were a dress. And so Helena walked on by herself into the village. Soon she came to a small alley where she could keep safe from the snow beginning its descent. Helena sat in that alley for a long while, wondering what she was to do now that she had been thrown out of her own home. She had nothing but a blanket to warm herself, and she had only the bundle of firewood for a pillow. How miserable the poor girl was! All she could think about was how she would get through the night. Snow was falling thickly by now and Helena was becoming colder by the minute. She shivered terribly, her nose and cheeks were reddening fast, and her naked feet were turning blue from the cold. She wanted to move around to keep warm but found it too taxing, and I think there is no sadder thing to see than a poor person having to sleep in the snow with nothing but a blanket to keep warm.

But Helena was resourceful, for she had plenty of wood. Knowing that she could buy a match or two with the little money she had, Helena found a boy selling matches and bought a single box; it was all she could buy. Returning to her hiding place for shelter from the blustering snowstorm, she took a few logs from her bundle, lit three matches, and soon had a warm fire glowing before her. Helena stretched her feet close to the fire so to warm them, but what she didn’t know was that tonight would bring a special surprise. As the fire blazed before her, Helena sat there, wishing that she had some food and a warm bed. She desperately needed a place to stay and her stomach grumbled inside her.

“What is to become of me?” Helena asked herself. “Am I doomed to die here in the snow, to fall asleep and never wake from it? I wish God were close to me at this moment.”

“He has never left you, sweet child,” came a voice, gentle and calm as the feel of a warm bath. Helena looked around and then saw her grandmother’s spirit standing before her.

“Grandmother, my father has turned me out from my home, and I have nowhere else to go,” said she. “I am afraid that I will die in the snow.”

Her grandmother took her hand and assured her, “No, dear. You will not die. Your good heart and trust in God shall bring you to safety. Keep the fire lit, and you will have enough comfort for as long as the wood endures.”

This was all she spoke, but as she faded away, something wonderful happened to Helena. The fire began to glow brighter until it became a brilliant radiance. It lit up the alley until it shone like the sun, and there was such warmth that Helena felt like she was sitting in front of a fire back home. And then she saw a beautiful red coat and lined shoes. These she put on and for a while, Helena was very snug. But the fire soon died, and when it did, Helena was ragged and barefoot once more

Still needing to keep warm, Helena took another few matches and made another fire. Just as before, the fire grew stronger until it filled the alley with light and warmth. This time, Helena saw a feast fit for a king laid out before her: there was roast goose, corn soup, ham and fish, and a bowl of winter cherries. As she was very hungry, Helena said a prayer and then ate contentedly. Then the fire went out again and the feast vanished, but Helena had eaten enough to fill her stomach. But she was still very cold, and the wind had shifted so the snow was blowing around her. Hoping to find a more comfortable place to stay, Helena gathered up her bundle of firewood and walked out in the alley. She struggled to go on as the wind was becoming stronger and the snow was falling thickly. Helena stumbled along the way, but pressed on until she found another alley.

She took some more wood and lit another fire, and again the magic came. The fire became stronger and brighter, and before Helena’s eyes, there appeared a pile of gold coins for her. There was enough money for Helena to provide for herself, so she gathered as much gold as she could into her pinafore. Just when she finished collecting the gold, the fire died, and I’m sorry to say that Helena had used all the wood in her bundle. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t go back home because her father had forbidden her from setting foot there again, and she couldn’t go on into the storm or she would surely die.

So Helena lay back against the wall and just sat there, shivering in the bitter cold with no more wood for a fire. Her nose felt stuffed by now, her fingers were chilled through, and her little toes were red and numb with cold. Soon, her eyes became heavy with weariness. Though she feared that she would freeze to death in the night, Helena prayed silently that God would deliver her from the cold, and she did not stop praying until she finally fell into a swoon.

When she came to several hours later, Helena found herself in a warm room, lying in a four-poster bed with soft covers up to her neck. This place wasn’t her home, nor did it feel like a dream. Helena sat up and looked around, taking in this beautiful room. The walls were white and there was a window looking out to the hills beyond.

“Where am I?” Helena wondered. “This is such a large room, and such a beautiful bed. Am I in Heaven?”

“No, dear girl,” came a kind voice. “You are in my home. I found you shivering in the back alley and brought you here.”

Helena looked around and saw a kind gentleman standing at the bedside. Then she realized that this man had saved her life and had taken her in when no one else would. The gentleman said, “I also found these dozens of coins around you.” And he held out a bag filled with the gold coins that Helena had taken with her after she had used all her firewood. “The money I brought!” she cried. “Thank you so much, sir.”

The gentleman smiled and helped Helena to her feet, saying, “Come, dear girl. Let’s see if we can give you some food and decent hospitality.” And then wonderful things began to her. The gentleman’s wife made Helena warm and gave her a fine white dress to wear, for her old dress had fallen to pieces.

Helena ate with the gentleman’s family and had a wonderful time there. She stayed at the gentleman’s home for a few days and then one morning, she decided to make her way in the world. She thanked the gentleman and his family for their kindness and took her gold coins in the pouch that they had been gathered into. As she made her way through the village, who should she meet but her mother? And then, what a happy reunion there was! Helena’s mother had not been happy since her daughter had been forced from the house, and she was amazed when Helena told her all that had happened the night before. She was even happier when Helena showed her all the money she had found, and so mother and daughter went home together. Helena was not afraid to go back, for she found that her father had left the house after realizing the cruelty of his treatment of her. And Helena and her mother had wealth and happiness for all their days.

To my friend, Seth Philbrik, who is a friend and companion to all.