Distant Cousins

Issue 80, Spring 2025 

When I got the email from an unknown “attorney,” addressed “Dear Samuel Giffords,” I didn’t give it a second thought. Next to Nigerian princes, a fake inheritance from a long-lost relative was among the most popular scams out there.

But when I took another look, I realized that “Henry Giffords of Johnstown, Pennsylvania” rang a distant bell.

My father grew up in a family of miners in one of the soot-covered coal towns of Western Pennsylvania. He hated it. After my one and only visit to my grandparents, he turned to me and said, “Now do you understand why I never want to go back there?” As soon as he was old enough, he’d left home, worked his way through Penn State, and got a tech job in Connecticut. That’s where he met Mom, where I grew up, and where I still live.

When I was eight, my father moved out and pretty much disappeared from my life. I never knew too much about him, let alone any of his family.

But after Mom died last year, I had the odd thought that maybe I was an orphan and didn’t know it. Out of curiosity, I started tracing my family tree. I soon discovered genealogical research is a deep rabbit hole into an endless warren. I never found an obituary for my father, so he might still be alive somewhere. One thing I knew for sure—he wasn’t in Pennsylvania coal country.

The lawyer’s mention of Pennsylvania got me wondering. Pulling out my family tree, I checked for a Henry Giffords. His name wasn’t there, but I did have relatives from Johnstown.

Still doubtful, I Googled the lawyer’s name. Her name turned up, listed as a specialist in trusts and estates in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. This scammer did their homework. Then I checked for obits for my supposed deceased relative and found a Henry J. Giffords whose father’s name was  Hiram Giffords—both from Johnstown.

I had a Hiram in my tree. And Hiram isn’t all that common a name.

My Hiram died in the Johnstown Flood of 1977, at the age of forty-nine. This Henry died three months ago of black lung at sixty-three. If it was the same Hiram as in my records, Henry was my second cousin—the son of my father’s first cousin. We shared great-grandparents.

I dimly remembered meeting some relatives on that Pennsylvania trip so long ago. The grownups didn’t pay much attention to me; they just talked to each other. But I remembered they had a nearly grown-up son. He played with me, tossing a ball around, even though I wasn’t very good at catching. Or throwing, for that matter. And he made me laugh without laughing at me. Could he have been Henry? The ages matched, but in my innate skepticism, I still suspected a scam.

I went to bed and dreamed about Henry J. Giffords. Was he, or wasn’t he? I woke up several times, only to plunge back into the same dream.

Waking early, I was still tired, and still asking the same question. How could I be sure? And if I wasn’t sure, I didn’t dare answer that email. Yet, my subconscious clearly wanted to know, even if I tried not to care.

I settled down at my easel with my cup of coffee, as usual. As a freelance artist, I was happy for the commission and needed to finish the work to get paid, but I couldn’t concentrate. I had to figure out a way to resolve this.

Checking my phone app, I discovered that if I left after lunch, I could get to Johnstown before dark—six hours away—and put the matter to rest. So, I focused on my work for a couple of hours, packed an overnight bag, and headed west.

I’m not usually this impetuous, but curiosity had overcome my inertia. As I navigated the interstate on-ramp, I considered whether I was extremely crazy or merely eccentric. “You’re unique. An original,” Mom used to say of my artistic temperament, as if it was the most wonderful thing in the world. Maybe she was just relieved I wasn’t like my dad.

The mountains just past the New York border momentarily took all my attention. I’d have to paint them someday. Maybe an autumnal mountainscape. A trucker blared their horn as I drifted out of my lane. My heart pounding, I tried to focus on the highway, not the scenery. Still, crossing the Hudson River to Newburgh, I dared a few quick glances at the shore’s cliff-like walls overlooking the wide water below. I understood the inspiration for the Hudson River School style of art.

Two hours later, after passing Wilkes Barre—do you say it “Wilkes Bear” or “Wilkes Barry”?—I was soon engulfed in tree-covered mountains. My restless night caught up with me and I needed a bit of stimulation to stay awake. Unfortunately, among the mountains, the radio didn’t offer me much company, so I started singing to myself. One guy gave me a weird look as he passed. Yeah, Mom. I’m unique.

Road signs told of upcoming exits: Mile Run, Jersey Shore (really?), and many miles away, Penn State. I thought about taking a detour to check out my father’s old school but couldn’t spare the time if I wanted to make Johnstown before dark. Maybe I’d swing by on my way home. If I felt like it.

Crossing into a valley, idyllic farmland spread out before me with red barns, silos, and gently rolling hills. Could my brush do it justice?

By the time I got to Mile Run, I needed a cup of coffee. Exiting south in search of a Dunkin’, I ended up pulling into a convenience store to top off the tank. My stomach grumbled when I saw a sign: Country Kitchen. I asked the guy at the next pump, “That place any good?”

He shook his head. “Died of Covid,” he said. “Too bad, too. Great Amish cookin’ there.”

“Amish?” I asked. “Aren’t we pretty far from Amish country?”

He squinted at me and chuckled as he returned the nozzle to the pump. “You-uns aren’t from around here, are ya?”

I shrugged.

“All Amish don’t live in Lancaster.” He screwed his gas cap back on and grabbed his receipt. “They ran out of farmland to divide among their sons and have spread out all over Central Pennsylvania. South of town is all Amish farms.”

I felt the tug of the tourist, wanting to catch sight of a horse-drawn buggy or brightly colored quilt.

“Too bad it’s Thursday,” he continued.

“Why’s that?” I asked as he opened his car door.

“Next market day isn’t ’til Wednesday. You’d get your fill of Amish food there.” He laughed, revved his engine, and drove off.

I grabbed a large coffee and a power bar in the store and got back on the road, more eager than ever to see Johnstown. Other than a couple historic floods, I didn’t know anything about it, except that it was still two-and-a-half hours away. Maybe there were Amish there too. I imagined a bucolic paradise and hearty food.

My GPS told me to take the Bellefonte exit, which serendipitously was the one for Penn State. Exit signs enticed me to side roads into town, but I didn’t want to go too far off course. Then, rising above the roadside berms, I spied the top of a vast stadium. Beaver Stadium, the signs said. I’m no sports fan, but I was pretty sure their team’s name was Nittany Lions. So where’d the beaver come from?

From the position of the sun, I knew I’d have to hurry to make the remaining hour and a half before nightfall. More exits flew by: Bald Eagle, Tyrone, Tipton. Getting off the highway at Hollidaysburg, I wound my way the several miles to the motel parking lot, arriving just before sunset. All I wanted to do was get a meal and a bed, but I had something else to do first. The obituary told me where Henry was buried. If the surrounding graves matched up with other family names, I’d have to believe he really was my distant cousin.

After registering, I headed back to the car. Flicking on my headlights, I hoped the dusky sky was bright enough to see my way around. Even in this light, I could tell the town was no rural beauty. It looked old. Worn out. No signs of gentrification or even consistent maintenance.

GPS led me to the cemetery gate. It was locked.

On my way back to the motel, I grabbed a pizza and six-pack of Rolling Rock beer—going native. As I ate, I found a 2020 article on my phone that said Johnstown had the worst quality of life in the state. More scrolling told me opioid addiction and the crime rate were rising while the population was declining. No wonder my father didn’t want to live around here. Why did Henry?

The next morning, I was surprised to find I’d slept well. Good. I had things to do. The first was to stop by that lawyer’s office and see what she knew. And if she really had emailed me.

I grabbed a coffee and Danish at the breakfast bar, then headed for the car. It wasn’t hard to find the law office in a dying strip mall.

“Would Attorney Friedman have time to see me?” I asked the expectant receptionist. “My name’s Samuel Giffords.”

She held up a finger, then punched a key on her phone. “There’s a Mr. Giffords here to see you about—” She raised an eyebrow in my direction.

“I think she emailed me about an estate she’s handling. Henry J. Giffords?”

“About the Henry Giffords estate?” She nodded, hung up, and escorted me down a shabby hallway into a small office. A sixty-ish woman sat behind a desk covered with file folders.

“Thanks, Doris,” the woman said, grabbing a folder and waving me to a metal chair.

After reviewing the file, she squinted at me over her glasses. “Are you Samuel Giffords?”

I nodded and clasped my hands across my middle, resting my elbows on the arms of the chair. “I got an email from you, but I’m afraid I don’t know any Henry Giffords.” I shifted in the hard seat. “Are you sure I’m the person you meant to contact?”

She leaned back in her chair. “Well, I didn’t expect you to turn up in my office, but yes, you’re the right heir.”

Heir. Weird. I opened and closed my fists. Maybe this inheritance would amount to something. I wasn’t a starving artist, but money is money.

She went to a filing cabinet and drew out a box the size of a Rubik’s Cube with an envelope taped to the bottom. When seated, she leaned towards me. “I tried to contact you by mail,” she said, “but my letters were returned. Your cousin had an address in—” She checked her file. “Hartford, Connecticut.”

“Oh yeah—I moved to Danbury three years ago.”

“Well, thank goodness your cousin had your email. Of course, I’ll need to see some ID.”

“I feel funny inheriting anything from him,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “I didn’t even know him.”

“Too bad,” she said. “He was a mensch. Never got rich, but a pillar of the community. Someone you could always rely on. Generous to a fault. Made living here better for everyone he met. What savings he hadn’t given away went to the spouse, but he left you this.” She picked up the box.

This was no scam. Scams hold out hope of millions if you’ll only give them a substantial finders’ fee first. Then they disappear.

“What’s inside?” I asked.

“The inventory only says, ‘family memento.’ Maybe the letter will explain.”

After signing for the bequest, I took my inheritance to the car and opened the box. Under tissue paper lay two lumps of coal. One small, one a bit larger. Hard, black, and shiny. What the heck?

Henry must have written the letter near the end. His cursive was small, shaky, and nearly illegible. It took me three or four readings to make it out. He said:

Dear Sam.

You’re the last of us Giffords as far as I know. I never had kids of my own. My dad gave me these little treasures when I graduated high school. He got them from his father when he was the first in our line to graduate. Even when you were a little tyke, I was pretty sure you had the smarts to finish school. (But I wonder if you ever learned to throw straight. Hehe.)

I thought of the twinkle in that teen’s eyes when we played catch. He was right. I was no athlete, but I got my arts degree, so yes, I finished school. I read on.

Our great-grandfather brought the small one with him from Yorkshire, and the bigger one was the first rock he mined in Pennsylvania. He kept them as a reminder of his roots and an anchor to his new home. Even if we never owned a piece of ground, he said, we would still own a piece of our two homelands.

I felt a tear prick my eye. These folks were the salt of the earth. And they were my family. Part of me. I should never have judged them all by the behavior of my father. How I wished I’d known them. His letter went on.

I know we didn’t keep in touch, but when I got sick, I looked you up online and found your address and email. I probably should have written but didn’t know what to say. I just wanted a Giffords to have these. Maybe you can pass them on if you’re lucky enough to have kids of your own.

Your cousin Henry

I read it again before starting the engine and heading toward the cemetery. The gates were open, and a directory sent me to the right section. Strolling among the headstones, I found Hiram and his wife, Jane. Harley and Eleanor Giffords rested nearby. They matched the names I had for Hiram’s parents. Disturbed ground indicated Henry’s final resting place. Only the foundation for the headstone was present. The marker must still be at the stonemason’s.

I held the coal and knelt by Henry’s grave.

“Thank you, cousin,” I said. “I’ll treasure them.”

Then I looked at Hiram’s and Harley’s graves. “And thank you, sirs. I hope to make you proud.”

Walking back to my car, I found another Giffords not far from Henry’s family. Hannah and Elmer. My grandparents. The parents my father left behind, reunited with the son he left behind. We had more in common than I’d ever realized.

As I headed home, I knew this wouldn’t be my last visit to the coal region of Pennsylvania. And next time, I thought, I’ll bring my son.

***

Carol L. Wright is a former book editor, domestic relations attorney, and adjunct law professor. She has stories in each of BWG’s “Sweet, Funny, and Strange” anthologies. Her debut mystery, DEATH IN GLENVILLE FALLS, was named a finalist for both the 2018 Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award and for the 2018 Next Generation Indie Book Awards. Her latest publication, APPLE, TABLE, PENNY . . . MURDER, is a novelette that was a finalist for both the 2024 Next Generation Indie Book Awards and the 2025 Chanticleer Book Awards. Carol is the author of several short stories in various literary journals and award-winning anthologies. Many of her favorites appear in  A CHRISTMAS ON NANTUCKET AND OTHER STORIES. She is a founding member of the Bethlehem Writers Group, a life member of Sisters in Crime and the Jane Austen Society of North America, and a member of Pennwriters and SinC Guppies. She lives in the Lehigh Valley of Pennsylvania. You can learn more on Carol’s website, or by following her Facebook page. 

***

Part 2: Trevor, a Teenager

Part of "A Fish Out of Water" (Spring 2023)

So here we all were that Saturday. Two cars and three places to go.

My big brother Ben had planned on taking his girlfriend Sarah to the beach. They were rising college seniors, class of ‘86, and he’d just bought a heap of a car with his earnings as a lifeguard. Meanwhile Gloria, alias “Daddy’s Little Girl,” had to get over to waitress at the Clam Shack’s lunch shift.

I’d just got my license, and—yes, I’ll admit—I was always looking for an excuse to drive somewhere. But my buddy Jared and I worked for a landscaper that summer and Jared’s grandmother had asked us to help her with her yard work in our spare time.

Mom said I could use a car, but Mom wasn’t home. She’d gone to work, so we only had Dad’s Pontiac and Ben’s VW at home. As the youngest, it looked like I would be the big loser. As usual. I hated to let Jared’s grandma down, but Dad always sided with Gloria. Sure, they shared an irrational love for the ocean—I’d much rather play in the dirt than the water—but does that mean I don’t deserve equal treatment?

Ben’s feeble excuse for a car was, after all, his. Naturally, he thought he ought to have the use of it. “I’d be willing to drop Gloria off at work on our way to the beach,” Ben suggested.

Thank you, Ben.

Gloria wrinkled her nose. “That’s not a great solution,” she said. “I would need a ride home too.”

“Well, Mom should be back before your shift is over, so she could bring you home,” Dad said in his isn’t-that-a-good-solution voice.

She jammed a fist on her hip. “That won’t work. Sometimes the boss lets us go early. Should I just have to cool my heels until she comes and gets me?”

“You could walk home,” I said.

“Or you could,” she snapped.

I knew it would take her an hour to walk home from the Clam Shack, but Jared’s grandmother’s was even farther away, and we had to bring tools.

She must have thought Dad was weakening, so she went into martyr mode. “Do you have any idea how miserable it is working in a restaurant during tourist season?” She faked a catch in her voice. “Well, it’s awful. It’s busy, and smelly, and you’re always on your feet, and people are always complaining.” She blinked as if holding back tears. “After all that, walking home would be just . . . too much.” She whimpered.

Mom would have rolled her eyes and called her Sarah Bernhardt, for some reason.  I saw her take a sidelong look at Dad to see if her little act was working.

“Well, I’m taking my car,” Ben said. “After all, I paid for it, and it has the beach parking permit on the window.”

“So, I’ll take Dad’s car,” Gloria said.

“Wait. I got permission from Mom to . . .” I started.

“But your trip, just like Ben’s, is optional.” Gloria knew she was winning. “I have to go to work, or I could get fired!”

I thought about that. If she got fired, she would be around the house more. I didn’t want her to get fired. But still . . .

“Jared’s grandmother needs help with her yard work, and this is the only day we can both go.”

“That’s not my problem. If we spend much more time arguing about it, I’ll be late!” She turned to Dad.

“Come on, kids,” he said in a calming voice. “Let’s all be reasonable.” He gave me a can’t-you-help-me-out-here look.

 “I can give anyone a ride who needs it,” Ben said, jingling his keys, “but Sarah and I are going to the beach. It’s a perfect day and I don’t want to waste it indoors.”

I knew what I had to do. I stormed out of the house, imagining Gloria’s victorious smirk. I only wish I could have seen her expression when she realized I had Dad’s car keys with me. I dashed right to the car, started the ignition, and drove off to Jared’s house. Sometimes, you just gotta do what you gotta do. Still, I felt a twinge of guilt knowing Ben would have to deal with the princess’s tantrum as he drove her to work.

***

Jared and I had a good day, mowing, pulling weeds, pruning, mulching. His grandmother supplied us with all the fresh-squeezed lemonade we could drink. The place looked great when, sometime near dusk, we were done. With ten dollars each from grandma in our pockets for our day-long efforts, we decided to blow it on a burger and ice cream at the DQ before heading home.

I dropped Jared off at his house and drove toward home, hoping Gloria might still be at work.

As I turned the corner of our street, I could see down the road to our house. It never occurred to me that the flashing red and blue lights came from a police cruiser parked in our driveway. Mom worked for the police, but she never drove a cruiser.

I parked in front of the house. My first thought was about Dad. Did he have a heart attack? Why wasn’t the ambulance there yet? What was going on?

I ran in the front door.

“Dad? Dad, where are you?”

“In here,” he called from the kitchen.

Thank goodness. He sounded okay.

A cop stepped out of the doorway to let me into the kitchen. Mom was there, sitting at the kitchen table. Dad was standing at the counter starting up his Mr. Coffee. If it weren’t for the cop, it could have been any normal day. Except Dad never made coffee after dinner. No one seemed to notice me. Like I said—the youngest child.

“What’s going on?” I yelled.

Mom looked up. “Oh, Trevor.” Her lip quivered and she opened her arms, asking for a hug. I looked at the cop. He didn’t even smirk. This must be real bad.

Mom held me tighter than I knew she could.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

Coming over, Dad hugged us and said, “Ben drove Gloria to work, but she wasn’t there when Mom came to pick her up. Her boss said she wasn’t even on the schedule today.” He covered his face with one hand and squeezed Mom’s shoulder with the other. “We don’t know where she is, and we haven’t heard from Ben, so we don’t know whether they’re together or not.”

“Cliff . . . Mavis . . . don’t worry,” the cop said. “I know it’s hard to wait, but we have officers scouring the nearby beaches. And Ben’s a lifeguard, so . . .”

I was totally confused. What did Ben being a lifeguard have to do with Gloria not being at work? I knew she didn’t really need the car.

Dad poured mugs of coffee for Mom and the cop. “We called Sarah’s parents,” he explained to me as he brought them to the table. “But they said they thought she was with Ben like they planned.” He shook his head. “Maybe she is.”

“So why is this guy here?” I asked, nodding toward the cop.

“In case there’s a phone call.” Dad left it there.

Why would he need to be here for a phone call from Gloria? It took me a minute to figure out what Dad was saying. Then it dawned on me. In case there’s a ransom demand. Gloria might have been kidnapped. But we weren’t rich. Why would anyone want to kidnap her?

I wanted to say something that would fix it, but nothing came to mind.

I didn’t much like Gloria, but I didn’t want this to happen. Whatever this was.

Connecting the Dots

Summer 2022

Shut up in a dusty attic was about the last place I wanted to be on the first really sunny Saturday of the spring. But how could I say no?

“Dory, dear,” my mom said when she called. “I need your help.”

I knew when she added “dear” to my name she was making an offer I couldn’t refuse.

“I’ll be over around ten, Doe,” I said, using the nickname everyone called her, including us kids.

“And bring some trash bags,” she added as I hung up the phone.

I had hoped to get outside and enjoy the sunshine, but Doe had something else in mind.

I was the only one of my mom’s six kids who had not completely left the nest, so to speak. The others had gone off to various colleges, married people from far away, and established careers in other states. But my parents divorced in my last year of high school, so I lived at home and went to the local community college.

Oh—don’t get me wrong; I don’t still live at home. I moved last year, when I was twenty-five, to share a townhouse with two of my friends from high school. But I was still the one who lived in town—and still the one that she called when she needed help with anything.

When I arrived that morning, Doe was at least a little apologetic. “Thank you, sweetheart. I know it’s not what you’d like to be doing. . . . But I have the get the house ready to . . .”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. Doe had grown up in that house. It belonged to her grandparents, for heaven’s sake. She loved every square inch—creaky floors, noisy pipes, and drafty windows included. But now she had to sell because, in a fit of matrimonial optimism, she put my dad’s name on the deed. Now he wanted “his share” of the money out of it.  No way my mom could buy him out, so she had to sell her family legacy and the only place she—or I—had ever really called home.

“It’s just that . . .” she continued, steadying her voice, “I feel like losing this house is like losing my mother and grandmother all over again.”

It made me sick to think about it. Each of us kids had taken a crack at Dad, trying to get him to change his mind. “Financial reverses” was his only answer. He needed the money.

So today, I was going to go up into the attic to try to cull the must-keeps from the why-did-we-save-theses. I figured that there would be a lot more of the latter.

Truth be told, I thought it might be fun. You know—find an old item tucked away by great-grandma that would bring tens of thousands on Antiques Roadshow? I mean, my family was never rich, but geez—they had to have something worth keeping to have filled up an entire attic, right? If I could find it, Doe could stay.

So, armed with a cold bottle of water and a fresh box of trash bags, I picked my way up the cluttered staircase. Everything from hub caps to metal milk jugs blocked the path, daring me to make my way to the top. When I got there, I was pleased that I could stand upright—at least down the center of the space.

Any thoughts I had of an authentic Tiffany lamp or Chippendale bureau or long-lost Vermeer died when I saw the dusty trunks and sagging boxes stacked willy-nilly under the sloping rafters. They nearly obliterated the meager light that came through the smudged-up windows at the gable ends. Fortunately, despite a collection of dented oil lamps, somewhere along the line someone ran electricity up here, so I had a bare bulb to see by—probably one of Edison’s first.

A-a-a-a-CHOO! I never was too good with dust and this place was musty enough to give the Statue of Liberty asthma.

I unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and took a swig. Okay, I told myself. It might be no picnic for you, but it’s better than having Doe do it. It made me feel a bit noble, and helped me get down to it.

By noon, I had gone through enough boxes to begin sorting them by type: cardboard boxes full of disintegrating newspapers (most of which had become mouse condos, sad to say); books and magazines from who knows how long ago that were growing a mold of some sort; and broken stuff. And by broken stuff, I mean all kinds: chairs with loose legs, a rocking horse with broken springs (and peeling paint that had to have lead in it), TVs in need of tubes they stopped making during the Nixon Administration; tools with broken handles; and a host of discarded toasters, lamps, blenders, shoe-shine machines, electric frying pans, and some things that I’m not really sure what they were. Beyond those was the most special category of all: stray pieces of stuff. I swear, my ancestors never threw anything out. If there was any chance that a screw, bolt, fitting, pipe, board, or twist-tie could be used again, it was preserved. It was then I realized this wasn’t my mother’s attic; it was junk heaven.

When Doe called up to see if I wanted lunch, I was glad to get back downstairs where I could inhale air I couldn’t see. I’d check with her to see if we could get a dumpster delivered—and position it right below the attic window.

“Oh, Dory, you have cobwebs in your hair,” she said, picking at the schmutz that had made me prematurely gray.

“That’s the least of it,” I said, rolling my eyes for effect. Then I saw her expression. It wasn’t just sadness I saw there; it was grief. This was harder on her than she wanted to let on—even to me.

As I munched my turkey sandwich with mayo and cream cheese—don’t knock it until you try it—I thought about what clearing out the attic meant to her. To me it was junk; to Doe it was her family—her whole life.

I had to find something of value that she could sell and buy Dad’s share of the house.

* * *

I started in after lunch with renewed enthusiasm—and my iPad. Anything that looked like it might have intrinsic value got Googled. I didn’t want to be one of those fools who let a priceless whatever get sold at a yard sale for two dollars.

But the more I dug through piles and boxes, the less optimistic I became. Even in mint condition, the antiques I found were pretty common and not worth much. And the stuff in this attic was seldom in mint condition. But I was determined to keep looking.

By Sunday night, I had looked into every box, moved every pile, and dug through every stack of odds and ends. Nothing. No treasure that would enable Doe to keep the house. There was just one trunk left to open. From the size of it, I knew it wouldn’t hold anything large. What could possibly fit in there that would be valuable enough to save her home? Coins? Jewelry? My people weren’t the kind to have a treasure horde. Could an antique clock or lamp of sufficient value be locked inside? Only one way to find out.

I wiped my dirty hands on my jeans. There was a padlock on the trunk, but no key. I had been finding loose keys for two days. Where did I put them?

I found the bin I’d used to hold small items that might be of some use and dug through. I found old skeleton keys, car keys, house keys, and luggage keys. There were only five keys, though, that might fit the padlock on the trunk. I tried the first. No—of course it wasn’t the one. In such situations, you always need to try all five before you find the correct one, right? That is, if you actually have the correct one at all. So, I tried the second. It jiggled just a little in the lock. My heart skipped a beat.

“Where is that WD-40?” I asked aloud, looking around. I found the can and shook it up, hoping the propellant would still work. I popped the cap and sprayed the snot out of that lock.

I inserted the key again. It wiggled a little more than before. I knelt next to the trunk, leaned against the lid, and bore down with all the force my tired fingers could manage.

It opened. It opened!

I removed the lock from the hasp, and undid the latches. I was almost afraid to lift the lid. This was my last chance to be a heroine. 

I yanked it open.

Paper. That stupid trunk was filled with stacks of notebooks and loose paper. I knew that unless one of them was a copy of the Magna Carta, Doe was screwed.

 I took out one of the broken chairs. With a couple of screws from the loose junk box, I was able to make it stable enough for my purposes. Then I pulled out an old floor lamp with frayed wiring. I was sure I had seen . . . Sure enough, there was lamp cord in the perhaps-salvageable box. I was able to make a quick job of rewiring it and plugging it into the lone outlet under the window. I turned the switch, and—no—of course the old light bulb had blown. But there was a box of incandescent bulbs up there, too. In a few moments—light! A lot of it. It must have been a hundred-watt bulb. So I dug around until I found an old maroon, chenille lampshade, complete with frayed ­ball fringe on the bottom. Hideous, but utilitarian.

I pulled the lamp over to the chair, and picked up the first few sheets. There was cursive writing all over it—a bit flowery—in what now looked like light brown ink. Must be old.

* * *

“What is it?” Doe asked. My Cheshire cat grin and hands held behind my back must have alerted her to my excitement at my discovery.

“Sit down,” I said, keeping my treasure behind me to prevent her getting a look at what I was concealing.

She sat on the chintz sofa, and I moved to sit next to her, but she put up an arm. “No you don’t, sister. Not in those dirty pants. Get a towel before you sit on my sofa.”

I obeyed, and, when I was finally next to her, said, “Now close your eyes and hold out your hands.” She looked at me sideways, but did as I asked.

“What did you find?” she asked. “You’re being very mysterious.”

“These,” I said, placing a stack of small books into her hands.

She opened her eyes and held the stack up close to her face. I knew the musty smell of those old books was a little off-putting, but it wasn’t the smell that made me bring them down to her.

“What are these?” I think she hoped I found first editions of Shakespeare’s folios, but, of course, my people wouldn’t have those, either.

“They’re diaries,” I said, trying to keep the triumph out of my voice.

“Diaries? Whose?” Doe put the stack in her lap and picked up the top volume, opening it to the fly leaf. She gasped. “Dorothea. Why she’s . . . she’s my great-great-grandmother!”

“Yes! And some from her daughter, and even a few from her granddaughter.”

“Where were they? I never knew they were there. I didn’t think we had any papers of Dorothea’s. Just the old stories handed down.”

“I know.  I’ve heard them all my life. How she came to the US after the Civil War with nothing but the goods she could carry and a two-year-old daughter in hand.”

“That child was my great-grandmother, Thea,” Doe said nodding. “Dorothea started a dressmaking business, and built it up to be one of the most successful in the city.” She had a far-off look in her eye. “But none of her work survived except that pillow I’ve saved for you.”

“There are some of Dorothea’s patterns in there, too.”

Her eyes grew wide. “I almost thought the whole story was just a family legend.”

“And in each generation since, a daughter has been named ‘Dorothea’ in her honor,” I said. “Me, you, Grandma Dot, Great-grandma Dottie, and Thea. It’s a long chain,” I said, feeling like I was part of something big and important.   

She put her hand against my cheek. “I almost broke that chain. I didn’t give the name to either of your sisters, but somehow, when you were born, it just seemed like I’d been saving it for you all along.”

 “Awww,” I said, giving her a hug. We both blinked back tears for a moment. Then I remembered I had something else to show her. “That’s not all,” I said, flourishing a photo in a metal frame from behind my back, magician-style. “We have her picture.” I held up the image of a young woman, dressed in all black—Victorian widow’s weeds—with a young girl at her side. On the bottom, their names were written in what I now knew to be Dorothea’s handwriting, and the date: 1872.

Now the tears really flowed. “I never saw a photo of her,” Doe said. “Even without their names, I’d know that the little girl must be Thea. I only knew her as a very old woman, but I can see the determined expression in her eyes.”

I scrutinized the child’s face, trying to make it look like Doe or me or Grandma Dot. “I don’t see a resemblance,” I said.

Doe pursed her lips. “Perhaps not,” she said, but then turned to me with an arched brow. “But surely you can see something else?”

I studied the photo in a way I hadn’t when I found it in the attic. It was a typical late-1800s photo—stiff bodies, unsmiling faces. The clothes were typical of the age. But then I studied Dorothea’s face. “She looks kind of familiar,” I said.

“Oh, Dory,” Doe said. “She’s you!”

* * *

I never found a treasure that would save Doe’s house. She sold it and paid cash for a condo with her share. But what I did find enabled Doe to take our family with her. It was worth much more than an old house with creaky floor boards, noisy pipes, and drafty windows. I found a connection to our ancestors—and an even stronger connection to my mom.

A Trip Through Time-Travel Literature

Literary Learnings, Winter 2021

The new year gives us an opportunity to think about the passage of time. But what exactly is time?

Most of us do not even try to understand Einstein’s concept of time as a fourth dimension. Still, anyone who has driven an unknown route to an unfamiliar destination and back again knows that the way to it feels longer than the trip back home, even though the distance traveled is the same. It’s axiomatic that doing a tedious task seems to take forever (unless you’re on a tight deadline), but “time flies when we’re having fun.”

How we perceive time, according to a 2017 study, might even depend on what language we speak. English speakers think of time as a distance (a short time), while Spanish speakers perceive it as a size (a small time). See https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2017/05/170502112607.htm.

So, with all these elements affecting our perception of time, is it any wonder that the human imagination has long pondered the possibility of time travel? Is the attempt of ancient prophets to see into the future so very different from trying to visit it?  And isn’t the experience of reading an old or historical novel similar to visiting that time period, if only as an observer?

Time travel fiction has been with us for centuries. Memoirs of the Twentieth Century, written by Irish author Samuel Madden in 1733—during the reign of King George II of Great Britain—purports to reveal letters written by a Twentieth Century British King George VI. (In fact, the twentieth century did have a King George VI, Queen Elizabeth II’s father, but we’re pretty sure he didn’t write the letters.)

By the nineteenth century, such classics as Rip Van Winkle, A Christmas Carol, and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court employed time travel of one sort or another, with a supernatural cause or while unconscious. After all, while asleep, we can travel wherever or whenever our subconscious takes us. Perhaps the first mechanical or science-based, time-travel story was “The Clock That Went Backward,” by Edward Page Mitchell, first published anonymously in the New York Sun, in 1881. In this short work, two boys discover an old clock with hands that run counterclockwise, turning back time as it goes.

Later, H.G. Wells’ so-called “scientific romances” included The Time Machine, published in 1895. Despite its title, Wells’ novella is more social commentary than science. In it, an inventor creates a time machine (with no specifics of theory or mechanics shared with the reader). He traveled hundreds of millennia into a future world inhabited by two human species: the Eloi, a soft, child-like race, and the Morlocks, a more brutish, ape-like human. The inventor decides that these two races are the inevitable result of the growing wealth and class disparity in late nineteenth century England. The privileged class, he reasoned, would become more helpless and dependent on the working class that keeps the mechanics of civilization operating. Wells might have been influenced by American author Edward Bellamy’s Marxist time-travel novel Looking Backward, published in 1888, which idealized a socialist system in America in the year 2000 over the abuses of the unfettered capitalism of Bellamy’s time. That novel is credited with helping to spark many of the reforms of the turn-of-the-century Progressive Era.

Today’s time-travel fiction spans both supernatural and science-based time travel. Some of the former include Jack Finney’s Time and Again and its sequel From Time to Time, Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series, Stephen King’s 11/22/63, and Octavia Butler’s Kindred. In each of these, there is no scientific explanation as to why time travel occurs, but each lays out the process by which it happens.

In Finney’s novels, time travel is more a mental exercise than a trick of physics. One must dress in the period to which they wish to travel and surround themselves only with things that could be present in their target time. Then, as if by magic, they emerge into that time period. The hero, New York ad executive Simon Morely, not only travels back and forth through time, he falls in love in the earlier time period with a woman long dead in his own time. Now what? Read it and see.

In Diana Gabaldon’s world, a time traveler passes through ancient standing stones in the Scottish Highlands and moves from post-World War II to early 1700s Scotland. And, once again, the traveler, army nurse Claire Randall, falls in love. It's with Jaime Fraser from the earlier time, even though she is already married in the twentieth century. In her many sequels, Gabaldon introduces other travelers and other standing stones that also serve as portals. But travelers must pay for the trip with a gem—and their destination might not always be where they expect.

Stephen King uses a time portal of a different sort—a “rabbit hole” in the murky backroom of a diner. This wormhole theory of time travel is common, but King makes his more interesting because the traveler who steps through it also appears at the same place and time: Lisbon Falls, Maine, on September 9, 1958, at 11:58 a.m. Jake Epping, a high school English teacher, uses the “rabbit hole” to go back in time hoping to prevent the assassination of President John F. Kennedy in November 1963. Because he arrives years before the event, he ages several years before he can attempt to save the president. Whether he does or not is . . . well, you really ought to read it!

In Octavia Butler’s version, the main character, Dana Franklin, experiences vertigo as she is drawn back to an earlier time to save a distant ancestor whenever he finds himself in mortal peril—which he does with alarming frequency. She can only return to her own time when she feels herself to be in mortal peril. This can take weeks or months, but when she returns to her own era, only hours or days have passed. The story is complicated by Dana being a black woman from the 1970s transported to antebellum Maryland. The ancestor who needs saving is a white boy growing up in a plantation-owning family that enslaves her during her visit to their time.

The authors of these books do not attempt to explain the travel in scientific terms. It is up to the reader to suspend disbelief enough to accept that if characters follow the rules laid out, they can slip into another time.

Science-assisted time travel (as opposed to relying on the supernatural or a conveniently placed worm hole) appears in Connie Willis’ Oxford Time Travel series, Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife, Michael Crichton’s Timeline, and Gregory Benford’s Timescape.

Connie Willis set her series in the mid-twenty-first century when historians use a “net” to visit many different time periods in the past. This series includes the novels Doomsday Book, To Say Nothing of the Dog, Blackout, and All Clear, and the short story “Fire Watch.” All are highly recommended, but Doomsday Book makes exceptional pandemic reading.

In Audrey Niffenegger’s novel, a man travels uncontrollably through time due to a rare genetic defect, visiting his wife in random order throughout her youth and adulthood. Michael Crichton wrote about historical researchers traveling back to medieval France to rescue their time-travelling professor using a machine based on a fiction-friendly version of quantum physics. Gregory Benford, meanwhile, wrote in 1980 about scientists in the late 1990s sending a message to the early 1960s to help avoid an environmental disaster. Benford relies on still-theoretical, faster-than-light tachyon particles to carry the message.

One thing all time travel stories have in common, whether using magic or a machine, is that each author gives us firm rules about the way time travel works in their fictional setting. What does a traveler need to do to make time travel work—if they can control it at all? How can they get back? Do they age at the same rate in the alternate time period, or do they return at the same age as when they left? Can a change in the past result in a change in the present?

Time-travel fiction is rife with paradoxes. Is there a butterfly effect that will destroy humanity because of a small change to the past? Can you kill your own grandfather before he meets your grandmother, thus making it impossible for you to be born and live to kill your grandfather? In Benford’s work, if scientists are successful in sending their message to the 1960s and their world is saved, would they still send the message in the 1990s? And if they didn’t, would their world be destroyed? Or, as Willis’ characters hypothesize, does the space-time continuum preserve itself and prevent tampering that could severely alter the future? Chat rooms are full of discussions of such incongruities.

H.G. Wells notwithstanding, the majority of time-travel fiction involves travel to the past. A surprising number of them include travel to a specific time period: November 1963. Stephen King makes no secret about that in 11/22/63, but it is also addressed in Benford’s Timescape, Stanley Shapiro’s A Time to Remember, and many others. The Kennedy assassination was such a horrific, watershed event that undoing it is bound to have an impact on the time that follows, but is it always for the better? We will undoubtedly see similar time-travel fiction, trying to undo 9/11 or perhaps prevent the Covid-19 pandemic. Great crises call for great remedies.

But what about travel to the future? There are many older novels that have tried to predict the future with limited success. Historical settings are easier to research, better known to readers, and require less invention than creating an unknown future. Perhaps that is why peering into the future is a staple of dystopian novelists, while time-travel sci-fi more often sticks to the past.

I have listed only a few of myriad time-travel novels. Everyone has their favorites, and I shouldn’t conclude this without acknowledging the giants: Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clark, Philip K. Dick, Madeleine L’Engle, Robert Heinlein, Joyce Carol Oates, Kurt Vonnegut, and (for one of our BWG members) Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. But don’t overlook the many other time-travel stories available from mid-list authors whose talents are only now being recognized. And remember, just because the Vulcan High Command declared time travel to be impossible in the twenty-second century, it didn’t prevent every Star Trek captain from romping through time in every one of the franchise’s series.

So, is time travel really possible? I guess only time will tell.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear . . .

 Literary Learnings, Spring 2020

April always takes me back to my childhood in Acton, Massachusetts, right next door to Concord (pronounced more like “conquered” than like “concorde”). Growing up there imbues a child with both a sense of history and an appreciation of literature.

Concord is famously the home of many legendary authors including Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-82), Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-64), Henry David Thoreau (1817-62), William Ellery Channing (1818-1901), Louisa May Alcott (1832-88), and Harriet Lothrop, who wrote as Margaret Sidney, (1844-1924). Even today, well-known authors are drawn there, including Doris Kearns Goodwin, Alan Lightman, and Gregory Maguire. What a wonderful place to grow up. Writers can, as we know, make us see the world in new ways.

Equally ingrained in the culture of the area is its history. There, kids don’t get a “Spring Break” from school. Instead they get a February vacation (the week including Presidents Day) and April vacation (the week including Patriots’ Day.)

What is Patriots’ Day, you ask? It is the commemoration of the Battles of Lexington and Concord—events with local celebrations that rival or exceed Independence Day. Over time, those battles have been the inspiration for many of the region’s poets, not least of whom was lyric poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-82) who immortalized the “midnight ride of Paul Revere” in his poem, “Paul Revere’s Ride.”

Listen, my children, and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere

On the 18th of April, in Seventy-five:

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year. . . .

That’s 1775, when British General Thomas Gage, who commanded the British troops occupying Boston,  ordered 700 Redcoats to scour the countryside for the radical leaders Sam Adams and John Hancock, rumored to be staying thirteen miles away in Lexington, and to discover the location of stores of munitions and supplies for local militias, rumored to be hidden in Concord, seven miles farther on.

Colonial spies learned of Gage’s orders and planned to warn Adams, Hancock, and the surrounding towns. That night, two lanterns were hung in the steeple of the Old North Church, signaling the route British troops would take out of Boston.

“One if by land, and two if by sea;

And I on the opposite shore will be,

Ready to ride and spread the alarm

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country-folk to be up and to arm.” . . .

And they were. In Middlesex County towns, Minutemen—so named because they were ready to rise to arms on a minute’s notice—were alerted not just by Paul Revere but by William Dawes, who took a different route out of Boston to avoid the risk of both of them being captured at once.

It was one by the village clock,

When he galloped into Lexington. . . .

After Revere and Dawes alerted the Minutemen of Lincoln, Massachusetts, they met at Lexington and warned Adams and Hancock who quickly departed. The two couriers then set out for Concord. Fortunately for history, they were joined by Samuel Prescott who was out late, returning home to Concord after visiting a young lady in Lexington.

Just as the sky began to lighten on the morning of April 19, an advance party of British troops, led by Major John Pitcairn, arrived in Lexington. A militia of seventy-seven armed colonists stood on the town green. They faced each other down, both sides having been ordered not to fire. Pitcairn ordered the colonists to disperse, and they began to do so. Then a shot rang out. Its source is unknown, but its effect was that the British opened fire, killing seven Minutemen. One mortally wounded patriot crawled home from the green, only to die on his doorstep.

It was two by the village clock,

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. . . .

Despite Longfellow’s heroic telling, before Revere could reach Concord, he was arrested by the British and held for questioning before being released hours later. Dawes and Prescott eluded the British, but Dawes lost his horse and walked back to Lexington. It was Prescott who, knowing the terrain, was able to get through to alert the patriots in Concord. He then travelled on to Acton while his brother, Abel, alerted other towns. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

Who that day would be lying dead,

Pierced by a British musket-ball.

Captain Isaac Davis, the captain of the Acton Minutemen, had been preparing his land for spring planting and left his plow in his field the evening before. After hearing the alarm, at least thirty of his force of forty Minutemen (including a young drummer and fifer) mustered there. Besides being a farmer, Davis was a metal worker who had fashioned bayonets for his militiamen. They were ready for close combat if need be. In the early morning hours of April 19, they marched with their arms along a nearly seven-mile trail (now followed each Patriots’ Day by local residents, scouts, and history buffs) to the home of Major John Buttrick of the Concord militia. The Buttrick farm served as the meeting place for the approximately 400 Minutemen from various towns who had responded to the call. Between the Buttrick home and the center of Concord a half mile away, flowed the narrow Concord River spanned by a wooden bridge.

By eight o’clock, the British arrived in Concord. Frustrated by not being able to find the stash of weapons and supplies, they went into houses, dragged out furniture, wooden bowls, and anything else flammable, and created a bonfire on the village green. The Minutemen saw smoke rising above the bare trees and feared the British would set the entire town afire.

The Minutemen advanced toward the bridge to cross with orders not to fire unless fired upon. Captain Davis volunteered his men for the front line because they had bayonets, saying, “I haven’t a man who is afraid to go.”

A small company of the British forces had crossed the bridge as the colonists approached. Seeing a combined milita that outnumbered their ranks, the British retreated back across the bridge, pulling up some of its planks to delay the Minutemen's crossing. Once across the bridge, the British turned and fired on the undaunted Minutemen. Isaac Davis and another young Acton Minuteman, Abner Hosmer, fell—the first to die at the Battle of Concord. 

But instead of turning and scattering as they had in Lexington, the assembled militias held their positions. Captain Buttrick shouted, "Fire, fellow soldiers, for God's sake fire!" They fired on the British--the first time colonists had fired a shot for liberty. It was the British who turned and fled.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,

How the British Regulars fired and fled,—

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,

Chasing the red-coats down the lane,

Then crossing the fields to emerge again

Under the trees at the turn of the road,

And only pausing to fire and load.

Longfellow put it well. The British, never expecting armed resistance, reassembled and marched in formation back to Boston. The colonists pursued them, shooting from behind trees and stone walls. When the day was over, forty-nine colonists had died, but they had killed 73 of the much larger force from the finest army in the world. 

More importantly, the Revolutionary War had begun.

Longfellow was not the only poet of his generation inspired by these events. Concord resident Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote “Concord Hymn,” a portion of which is inscribed on the base of a statue of a Minuteman which stands at the Old North Bridge.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood

Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood

And fired the shot heard round the world.

Both poets highlight the heroic acts of the colonists, heaping immortal praise on those who fought to free Americans from the yoke of the tyranny of King George III. But there is a portion of one more poem, by the lesser-known poet James Russell Lowell (1819-1891), that struck me the hardest the first time I visited the Old North Bridge as a young girl—so much so that I memorized it that day. It’s not on the tall Minuteman monument erected in 1875 that sits on the colonists’ side of the bridge, nor the obelisk erected in 1836 and placed on the other side of the river to commemorate the battle. Rather it is engraved on a slate slab attached to a stone wall on the town side of the bridge. Overlooked by most tourists, it is flanked by two small British flags. It marks the grave of two unnamed British soldiers who died at that bridge, far from their homes, on April 19, 1775.

They came three thousand miles, and died,

To keep the Past upon its throne:

Unheard, beyond the ocean tide,

Their English mother made her moan. 

Standing there, a chill ran through me as I read it. I then realized that the Minutemen weren’t the only patriots in that battle. 

Writers can, after all, make us see the world in new ways.

Sally Paradysz and BWG

Carol L. Wright

Winter, 2017

Sal was at the first-ever meeting of the Bethlehem Writers Group in 2006. She had written several vignettes that she hoped would be inspirational, and brought them to the group for a critique. I remember it well. We had never met before, and here was a bright-eyed, white-haired woman with short bits of writing on several aspects of life and spirituality. The only problem was . . . they came across as preachy.

All of us who knew Sal know she was never preachy—but that’s how her writing came across. And that’s what we told her.

Instead of being discouraged, she went home and tinkered with them some more. At the next meeting she brought another draft, then another and another at the meetings that followed. She told us later that after each meeting she would go home and Mel would ask, did they like this one better? She just shook her head. Nope.

But, in true Sal fashion, she never gave up. She kept writing until she finally found her voice—by writing about her life. And when she did, she wrote from her heart.

Once she found her voice she wrote about nature. She wrote about recovery. She wrote about strong women, good friends, and spirituality. And then she combined the best of all of them when she wrote about building her house.

It took her years to complete her memoir, From Scratch: Why I Walked Away from My Life and Built This Home. At first, it was hard for her to share her private pain with members of the writers group—let alone imagine sharing it with the world. But every time she gave more of herself to her story, she lent it a truth that, when published, helped others in pain to find their own path to healing.

When she finally published the book, all of the writers group family celebrated. And, in the months that followed, she learned that her words were inspirational to her readers—and anything but preachy.

She stayed with our writers group for the rest of her life. Over the years, Sal became so much more than a fellow writer. She became a cherished friend.

We are so happy to have been part of her journey, and feel very blessed that she was a part of ours.

- - - -

Sally W. Paradysz was born, raised, and earned her degree in the Berkshires of New England. She grew up reading, riding horses, and learning a love and respect for nature from her lumberman father. She married and raised three children in the Lehigh Valley of Pennsylvania. As years passed, her marriage became a struggle against a controlling man who could be quick to anger, and all too willing to undermine the self-confidence Sal had once known. Even so, she found a way to seek out higher education by auditing classes and completing course work that, had she been able to pay the tuition and fees, would have entitled her to a graduate degree. 

After a violent rape, about which she feared even telling her husband, Sal's ability to maintain the status quo wavered. Eventually, she found help through the Network of Victim Assistance in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. With their help she began her recovery from the physical violence, and grew to understand the emotional violence of her marriage. After thirty-five years, she divorced her husband, and began a new life. At age 60, she decided to build a house in the woods of Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Sally wrote memoir, essays, and fiction from the cabin she built in the woods by her home, and it is from there that she penned a weekly blog and Facebook posts for those searching for a breath of calm. She produced short stories and essays that have been published in such anthologies as 65 Things To Do When You Retire and 70 Things To Do When You Turn 70, both from Sellers Publishing. In addition, she has stories in many BWG anthologies. In 2015, she published her book, From Scratch--Why I Walked Away from My Life and Built This Home. 

As an advocate for the self-empowerment of women, she drew upon her own life experiences, bringing the world a message of healing, love, and inspiration.  Ordained into the ministry of the Assembly of the Word, founded in Quakertown, PA, Sally provided spiritual counseling and ministerial assistance for more than two decades. She was the mother of three, grandmother of eight, and along with her housemate, Melanie, lived with their two flamboyant Maine Coon cats, Kiva and Kodi, who love their life in the woods.

After a lengthy battle with cancer, Sal passed away while on retreat to the Maine coast, in October, 2017. You can read more of her philosophy of life on her blog, Finding Paradysz in the Woods, or on her Facebook Page.

You Better Watch Out. . .

Carol L. Wright

(Featured, Nov/Dec 2016)

“Great party, Joy,” Wendell Owens said, taking a snowball cookie from the tray. “It just wouldn’t be the Christmas season without your open house.”

“Thanks, Wendell.” Joy smiled at her guest. “For a while there, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to put an open house together this year. I’ve been so busy at work.”

“That would have been our loss,” Wendell said. “Where would we all go after lighting the town Christmas tree?”

Wendell was a jovial man, who, when suited up in red fur and supplied with a white beard, made a very convincing Santa Claus for the town tree lighting every first Friday of December. As a long-time resident, and publisher and editor of the New England village’s weekly newspaper, he knew every child in town by name. When he handed out gifts at the town celebration, he always had a comment or two that made each child wonder how Santa really knew whether they had been bad or good that year.

“Well, I am glad to help keep the town’s disreputable characters off the streets!” Joy laughed as she looked around at the members of the Board of Selectmen, the minister from the Congregational Church, the town’s only doctor, and several of Joy’s colleagues from her law practice who filled her living room. The church organist regaled the group with variations of songs of the season on Joy’s permanently out-of-tune upright piano.

The doorbell rang, barely audible over the laughter and music.

Joy shook her head. “Don’t they know it’s an open house?” she said and handed her tray to her teenage daughter, Noelle. “Take care of this for me, will you, sweetie?”

By the time Joy reached the front door, her husband, Nick was already opening it. She could see the blue and black of the police officer’s uniform and the reflection of the porch light on his leather holster.

“What’s happened?” she asked, before Nick or the officer could utter a word.

“Accident,” Officer Dan Davis said. “Dr. Barnes here?”

“Is someone hurt?”

“I got a call. Jimmy Corcoran fell off his roof a few blocks down. He’s in a bad way. His sister called for an ambulance. Figured since I was nearby I’d get Dr. Barnes if he’s here.”

“I’ll get him,” Joy said, turning toward her guests. She had no trouble picking out Dr. Barnes. He was tall and thin, about forty, with a pock-marked face that looked like it never held a smile. He had just moved to town from Springfield to open a small practice and to take a job as a part-time county medical examiner. People were glad to finally have a doctor in the community, but his permanently dour expression held friendly overtures at bay. Joy approached him, but had to call his name before he noticed her.

“Dr. Barnes, there is a police officer at the door.”

The doctor flinched. “Why tell me?”

“They need you immediately. There’s been an accident.”

“Dead people aren’t usually in much of a hurry,” Dr. Barnes said with a scowl, “so this one must still be alive.”

“Yes, and in need of medical attention. Please hurry.” Joy took Barnes by the arm and led him to the door. “Do you have your medical bag?”

“In my car,” Barnes said as Nick handed him his coat and he left with the officer.

“Oh dear,” Joy said to Nick as he closed the door. “I hope everything is all right. I feel like going to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“You can’t help the doctor, Joy. And, you don’t want to appear to be an ambulance chaser,” Nick said with a wink.

Joy grimaced. “I guess you’re right.”

“Thanks for a wonderful time,” Wendell said as he rushed past Joy and Nick to follow the police, putting his coat on as he went. The life of a newspaperman was always subject to interruption.

“Now he’s an ambulance chaser!” Joy said with a laugh after closing the door.

***

Once the party was over and the dishes done, Joy’s thoughts turned to Jimmy Corcoran. He was a life-long resident of the small town, and had run a local auto repair shop for several years before selling it and retiring. Since then he kept busy as a handyman. Joy guessed he must be in his late seventies. He lived in the modest house where he grew up, with his sister, Margaret, who, like Jimmy, had never married. He was one of those local institutions whom everyone recognized and thought well of, but who never seemed to be part of any of the goings-on in town. An independent New Englander. Joy hoped his independent spirit would help him recover from his fall.

It was after one in the morning, but Joy couldn’t sleep. Nick snored in the bed next to her, but she got up and walked into the hallway. She crept past Noelle’s room, across the hall to the spare bedroom that they used as a library to look for a book to help her get to sleep. Once there, she decided to call the police department non-emergency number to see if she could get an update on Jimmy Corcoran’s condition.

“Well, you didn’t hear it from me,” the dispatcher told Joy, “but I hear he has some broken bones and he’s in a coma.”

“Do they know why he was on the roof?” Joy asked.

“His sister said he was trying to fix a skylight before that snow moves in tonight.”

“In the dark? That doesn’t seem like a very good idea, does it?”

“Turned out not to be.”

New England understatement.

***

By morning, the ground was covered with eight inches of new snow. Shortly after dawn, Nick was outside clearing their driveway and the sidewalk in front of their century-old, four-square house. Joy started the coffee maker and prepared milk and eggs so she could make French toast as soon as he came inside. She didn’t expect to see Noelle up for at least a while.

Joy settled down with the morning’s Springfield Republican. There was a story about a man from Longmeadow who went to court to keep from having to tear down his stone wall, one about a Connecticut teen who robbed an old woman and was tracked all the way to Amherst, and a report on Christmas illustrations at the Norman Rockwell museum in Stockbridge. Nothing, of course, about Jimmy Corcoran. She knew that Wendell Owens would cover the story in the Town Monitor, but it wasn’t due out for another five days. She thought about calling the police station again to find out what was going on. Instead, she started heating the griddle and set the kettle to boil for a cup of tea.

Before the teakettle whistled, Nick came onto the covered porch by the kitchen door, stomping snow off of his boots. Joy poured a cup of coffee, and handed it to him as soon as he had his coat off.

“Thanks, Hon.” Nick smiled, removing his fogged-over sunglasses. “It’s a nice packing snow out there.” Nick’s cheeks were bright red, and Joy could see a sparkle in his hazel eyes. It wasn’t the first snow of the season, but so far it was the biggest. It seemed to have put Nick in the holiday mood.

“Maybe I can get Noelle to build a snowman with me after she gets up.” Nick’s grin showed off his dimples. They always made Joy smile.

“I have two kids!” Joy said, ruffling Nick’s hair.

After breakfast was cleared away, something about the sun reflecting on the new snow drew Joy outside.

“I think I’ll take a walk, Nick,” she called upstairs to him.

“Sure thing. Hey, if you’re in town, could you pick up some bread? It looks like the French toast nearly wiped us out.”

“Sure.” Joy bundled up for the six-block walk. While some of the sidewalks were not yet cleared, the roads were cleaned down to wet pavement. An occasional car spit slush up along the curb, but Joy was quick enough to avoid being splashed.

Turning a corner, she saw the proud blue spruce that always served as the town Christmas tree, glistening with new-fallen snow. Joy thought about the legend of Martin Luther seeing a snow-covered evergreen during an evening walk in the woods. It glowed in the moonlight, and left the religious reformer so awestruck that he brought a tree home and lit it with candles to share it with his family. Joy could understand his wonder when nature decorates itself so well.

She ducked into the local grocer’s and picked up a loaf of bread. Walking along the town green, Joy smiled at the sound of children’s voices, shouting at each other from behind snow forts. Then, she glanced into the windows of the various merchants, each with a new holiday display. When she came to the office of the Town Monitor, she peered in the front window, hoping to see Wendell inside. The office was dark.

“Casing the joint?”

Joy jumped at the voice behind her. Turning, she saw Wendell, carrying a box of doughnuts and a tall paper cup of coffee.

“Wendell! No—I was just wondering if you were inside.”

“Nope, but if you’ll wait a second, I will be.” He pulled out his key and opened the door. Joy followed. The office smelled of stale coffee, dust, and old paper. He put the box of doughnuts down, and lifted the lid to offer one to Joy. She surveyed the array, all frosted and decorated with holiday sprinkles.

“Uh, no thanks.”

“So,” Wendell said, taking a bite of a chocolate frosted, “what brings you to my office?”

“I was just wondering what happened last night with Jimmy Corcoran.”

“Oh. Tough old buzzard, Jimmy. We got there before the ambulance. Dr. Barnes looked at him, and then the EMTs arrived and took him off to county hospital. I got some pictures for this week’s paper.” Wendell pulled a digital camera out of a desk drawer and turned it on. “Here’s where last night’s pictures start.”

Joy looked at the camera’s display and saw a photo of Jimmy Corcoran, lying on the ground, his face contorted in pain.

“He was conscious when you got there?” Joy asked.

“Yeah. He was mumbling something, but I couldn’t make it out. Poor old guy.”

Joy pushed a button, and the picture dissolved, revealing another.

“What is Dr. Barnes doing?” Joy showed the newspaperman a photo of Dr. Barnes with his face turned to the side hovering over the injured man’s head.

“Don’t know. Listening for a heartbeat?”

Joy shook her head. “That’s not his chest. Maybe trying to see if he’s breathing?”

“That doesn’t make sense. He was conscious.”

“True. What did Dr. Barnes do for him?” Joy asked, handing the camera back to Wendell.

“Nothing much. The EMTs were there a moment after we got to the scene. They took over, and Barnes didn’t even go in the ambulance. I guess the cops didn’t need him after all. It worked out for me, though. I don’t know how long it would have been before I heard about this if they hadn’t come by your house to collect Dr. Barnes. And, I wouldn’t have gotten these pictures.”

“What do you hear from the hospital?”

“Nothing. The hospital won’t answer questions from the press due to HIPAA patient privacy laws, and his sister isn’t answering the phone. You know these old New Englanders. Their business is their business—not yours.”

“Well, it’s Saturday. Here’s hoping that by Thursday, you have some good news to report in the paper.”

“It’ll have to come by Tuesday at four. That’s when I have to send the paper to press.”

“I hope he’ll have come around by then.” Something about the accident had put a damper on Joy’s holiday spirit that even the splendor of the town Christmas tree could not repair. Perhaps it was the way it interrupted her holiday open house; maybe it was just because Jimmy Corcoran was such a town institution. She shook her head as she walked home, the loaf of bread swinging at her side.

When she got home, a small snowman stood in the front yard. Inside, she found Nick in the library grading papers. He taught history at the county community college, and as the end of the semester approached, the term papers flowed in.

“I don’t know why you assign so much work for your students,” Joy teased him. “If you didn’t assign it, you wouldn’t have to grade it.”

“And, they would know no more at the end of the class than they did at the beginning,” Nick grimaced and removed his reading glasses. “Although, from the look of these papers, I am not sure how much they have learned.”

“Poor baby,” Joy cooed, rubbing Nick’s shoulders. “That’s a cute snowman outside. Where is Noelle?”

“She went over to Bethany’s house to work on some project for school.”

“Great. How about I make us some lunch?”

***

After lunch, Nick took his iPod and returned to his grading. Joy settled down at the dining room table with her address book and a couple of boxes of Christmas cards. It was the first weekend of December, but Joy knew that getting their cards out was a long process. She always tried to write a personal note in each one, and she had a feeling that it would be hard for her to do so this year. To help put her in the Christmas spirit, she put on some Christmas music, lit a fire in the living room fireplace, and made herself a cup of holiday blend tea. Before long, she was humming along with “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” and admiring her growing stack of completed cards.

That close to the winter solstice, the sun set early. By five o’clock it was fully dark outside, and Noelle still had not returned from her friend’s house. Joy texted her daughter’s cell with a message that dinner would be at six. Then, she went to work preparing the meal.

With water running and pans rattling, Joy didn’t notice any noises coming from outside. She flipped on the backyard light and smiled through the kitchen window at the bird tracks in the snow under the birdfeeder. Nick kept it filled all winter long. Just then, a load of snow fell from the roof, dropping past the window. Joy was surprised that there was enough melting after dark to loosen the snow. Maybe they needed more attic insulation.

A pot of spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove as Joy prepared cutlets for chicken parmesan. The windows steamed up as she boiled pasta, and Joy’s face was flushed. Cooking usually put Joy in a good mood, but thinking about poor Jimmy Corcoran, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was not right about the whole incident.

Just as she was about to drain the pasta pot, she sensed a presence behind her. She dropped the pot into the sink, and whirled around to find Nick leaning in for a hug.

“You scared me half to death.”

“What? I was just coming in to see if I could help with dinner.”

“I could have scalded us both. Never sneak up on a woman cooking pasta.”

“I’ll make a note of that. So, do you want me to make the salad?”

“Sure. I’ll see what I can do to salvage the spaghetti. Is Noelle home yet?”

“Haven’t seen her; I’ve been upstairs grading.”

“What could be taking her so long? Perhaps we should call Bethany’s house and see if she has left yet.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

At the sound of a scream outside, Joy and Nick raced to the front door. Nick pulled it open to see Noelle standing halfway up the front walk, clearly panicked, but apparently uninjured.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Nick yelled as he ran to his daughter.

“Ohmigod, Dad! Are you okay? I thought I just saw you fall off of our roof!”

Joy followed Noelle’s frightened gaze. Outlined on the snow was the figure of a man dressed in red fur with white trim.

“Nick, call 9-1-1,” Joy said, dashing over to the prone figure. “Wendell? Wendell! Are you all right? We’re calling an ambulance. You’re going to be fine.” She touched the man’s neck and felt for a pulse. She could not find any. She lifted the man’s shoulder and tried to turn him onto his back so that she could start CPR.

“Uh, Mom, that’s not Mr. Owens,” Noelle said, coming up behind her.

“What?” Joy asked, looking for the first time at the man’s face. “Who is it?”

“I guess it’s Santa.”

***

Once the EMTs arrived, Joy took Noelle inside to warm her up, and make sure she was no worse off for the shock she had received. Next, she called Wendell. She knew it was not he who had fallen on her lawn, but she needed to hear his voice to reassure herself that he was all right.

“Weekly Monitor,” Wendell answered the phone on the first ring.

“Wendell. It’s Joy. There’s been another accident, only this time it was at our house.”

“Your house? Is anyone hurt? What happened?”

Joy took the phone to the window and watched as the EMTs brought out a body bag.

“We’re okay, but someone is …” she had trouble saying the word. “I think someone is dead.”

“I’ll be right over.”

***

The next morning, the doorbell rang as Joy, Nick, and Noelle were getting ready for church. Nick opened the door to Officer Dan Davis.

“Dan. Come in. Don’t you even get Sundays off?”

“Not when there’s been an unexplained death in town. And, right after Jimmy Corcoran’s accident, too.” He shook his head. “Why do people think it’s a good idea to be up on a roof in the middle of winter?”

“Do you have any information on who that guy was, or why he was here?” Joy asked, joining the men in the living room.

“Yeah. I thought you folks would like to know. He didn’t have any ID on him, but we ran his prints. He has a lot of aliases, but the name he uses most is Harry Watts. Does that ring a bell with either of you?”

Nick and Joy looked at each other, and shook their heads.

“He’s a second-story man with a long rap sheet. I guess he decided to bring his business to town. Too bad he picked the night after a big snowstorm. You can see on your roof how he slid on the snow. Half of your roof is wiped bare.”

Joy remembered seeing snow fall past the kitchen window.

“A burglar? Here?” Nick said. “We haven’t had any real crime in town as long as I have lived here. That’s one of the reasons we like it here. It’s far enough away from the city to avoid their problems.”

“Well, this guy’s last known address was in Springfield. But, city folk have cars, too. No one is safe these days. I wish I could convince more people to lock their doors around here.”

“He came an awfully long way to die.” Joy shuddered. “Do you have any idea why he was dressed as Santa Claus?”

“No real theories on that. And, we can’t ask him.”

Nick shook his head. “Is there anything else we can help you with, Dan?”

“Nope. I think I got everything I needed last night. Let me know, though, if you think of anything, or remember ever running into this guy Watts. There will be an autopsy, of course, but I think we’ll find that he died of overconfidence.”

***

Joy usually found that being at work pushed personal problems to the back of her mind, but the next day she found it hard to concentrate. It’s not every day that a man dies in your yard. She couldn’t get the image of him lying in the snow out of her mind. What was he doing there? Why did he come all the way from Springfield to burglarize their house? And, why was he dressed as Santa?

On her lunch break, she went over to the newspaper office, to see if Wendell had any more information on either of the two falls in town over the weekend.

“From what I’ve been able to gather, there’s no change in Jimmy’s condition. The doctors don’t know if he’ll ever wake up,” Wendell told Joy.

“How’s his sister holding up?” Joy asked.

“Tough old bird. She’s okay, and even if she weren’t she wouldn’t let anybody know it.”

“What a terrible Christmas season this is. Do you know any more about this Harry Watts character?”

“My sources in Springfield confirm that he was in and out of jail most of his life. His last stint was for robbing the houses of the recently deceased, while their families were out burying them.”

“I’ve heard of that happening. How awful to add such an injury to people who are already burdened with sorrow.”

“I don’t think that mattered much to him.”

“But that really doesn’t explain what happened here. Why would he come all the way from Springfield? And why would he dress as Santa?”

“No idea.”

“And, Nick and I were home. Is it likely he would change his MO so dramatically without a reason?”

“Maybe his reason was that he got caught with the old one.”

Joy considered this, but it didn’t seem to be a sufficient explanation. “No. It has to be something more. Something had to bring him here. And, I can assure you it was not our collection of paperback books and refrigerator art. Maybe he has a connection with someone in town. Do you know anyone with connections in Springfield?”

“Well, let’s see. Most of the businesses in town probably have contacts there. It’s a decent-sized city, after all. Some wholesalers there. I think the bank’s regional corporate office is there. Not sure what else.”

“I don’t think that’s it. It has to be more, I don’t know. More personal, I guess.”

“Oh, you mean like family in Springfield? Sure. Some folks probably have relatives there, or went to school there, or something like that. Hey, I think the Carlton’s kid goes to college in Springfield.”

Something had been nagging at the back of Joy’s brain, but she couldn’t bring it into focus. Then, she remembered.

“I’ve got it. Dr. Barnes is from Springfield.”

“True. But, a lot of people are from Springfield, Joy. That doesn’t mean anything. Just because he’s an unpleasant SOB doesn’t mean he’s in cahoots with a burglar.”

“But, don’t you see how it fits? Dr. Barnes is a medical examiner. Medical examiners know about who has died. He and Watts could have been working together all this time. So, when Barnes’ job moved, so did Watts’.”

“But no one died at your house, Joy. In fact, no one has died in town all month. This would be a lousy place for him to take up his old habits.”

Joy could not come up with a response. She really felt that she was onto something, but the pieces didn’t fit. Or, perhaps some of the pieces were still missing.

When she got home, she tried her theory on Nick. “Maybe,” she said, “he was casing our house during the party, and that’s why Watts came here.”

“If he were casing our house, it wouldn’t take him long to figure out we don’t have much of any value here,” Nick said. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Joy. Sometimes it’s better to just let it go and be glad that Watts didn’t harm anyone other than himself.”

It always annoyed Joy when Nick accused her of having an over-active imagination, but she had to admit he had a point.

***

On Wednesday morning, Joy heard the good news. Wendell called her office to tell her that Jimmy Corcoran had regained consciousness. He was still groggy, and did not remember the fall, but the prognosis was good. The news lifted Joy’s spirits.

***

As expected, the Thursday Town Monitor had both falls on the front page. “Nightmares on Elm Street” read the somewhat hyperbolic headline. Joy was glad that at least one nightmare appeared to be nearing its end.

Wendell had abutting columns devoted to the two accidents. They ran down the center of page one past the fold, each accompanied by a photo of the victim. Jimmy’s photo looked like it was taken about thirty years ago. Wendell probably got it from his sister, thought Joy. In the left column, with a subhead reading “Local injured on West Elm,” was an account of Jimmy Corcoran’s fall, and interviews of people who knew him. Former customers of his garage said he was always honest. Those for whom he had worked as a handyman thought his workmanship was first class. There was even a quotation from someone he had known since high school that talked about his impish sense of humor. Reading it, Joy wished she had known him better.

Of more interest to Joy, however, was the other column, with a subhead reading “Suspect dies in fall on East Elm.” The picture seemed to be an old mug shot of Harry Watts. She looked at the photo, trying to see if she could discern anything familiar, but had no success. She scanned the article, mostly drawn, it appeared, from the archives of the Springfield Republican, with information on his last crime from Officer Dan Davis. Joy had not thought until that moment how nice it was that Wendell had not sought a quotation from her, or worse from Noelle, about the incident. Nothing in the article, though, gave her a clue as to why the man chose her yard in which to die.

Wendell had made good use of his photos, but readers had to open to page three to see them. The photo array included several of Jimmy Corcoran, lying on the ground, one of him on a stretcher, and one of him being loaded in an ambulance. The ones of Watts were less graphic, perhaps out of respect for the dead or for the readers. They included one of the ambulance, a photo of Officer Davis giving an interview, and one of Watts’ home in Springfield.

While it seemed to Joy that the articles were complete and well-written, they yielded little new information. Joy sighed. What more could she expect from a local weekly?

Looking through the rest of the news, Joy saw that the high school holiday pageant would be performed Friday night, the choral society concert was set for Saturday, and the children’s Christmas parade would be held downtown on Sunday afternoon at two. The last of these events usually brought out most of the town, and was followed by vigorous holiday shopping at the downtown merchants. For most of a week the dark cloud of the two accidents had hung over her small town. Perhaps now their holiday celebrations could proceed unfettered.

***

The weather on Sunday was perfect for the children’s parade. Noelle declared she was too old to participate in such things. Nick and Joy convinced her to come and watch anyway, with the promise of an ice cream soda at the drug store after the parade was over.

As usual, most of the town was in attendance. Wendell was there with his camera taking photos of the crowd, and awaiting the first group of marchers to come around from behind the town hall and begin the route around the town green.

Joy looked at the crowd, and noticed most of her guests from the open house were there. The Selectmen huddled together near the Town Hall, and several of her coworkers stood with cameras at the ready to take pictures of their children. Even Jimmy Corcoran’s sister was there, surrounded by other women, all wearing red hats. Joy searched the sea of faces. Where was Dr. Barnes? She could not silence her lingering suspicions about the man. Then she looked again at Margaret Corcoran.

“I’ve got it!” Joy said, grabbing Nick’s arm. “I know what happened!”

“Hunh?” he said, looking toward the town hall.

“Where’s Dan Davis? I need him.”

She found Officer Davis working crowd control, ducked under the yellow tape, and ran out into the street.

“I’m sorry, Joy, but you’ll have to stay behind the tape. The parade will be starting any minute,” Officer Davis told her.

The clock in the town hall’s tower struck two, and Joy could hear the drums of the high school band start their rhythm.

“I know, Dan,” Joy insisted, “but you need to come with me. I figured it out! I know what happened last weekend, and what is probably happening right now! We have to get over to 509 West Elm Street. Now!”

She turned and looked up the street. The parade was just coming around the corner of the town hall. Wendell had his tripod set up, ready to take pictures.

“Wendell,” she called, “Bring your camera and come with us!”

Wendell turned and looked at her as if she were crazy.

“Believe me, Wendell. This is one exclusive you will not want to miss!”

Officer Davis led her to his police car, and with Wendell in the back seat, they sped along Elm Street. Along the way, Joy explained their errand.

“I would never have figured it out without your headline on Thursday, Wendell. The answer is in the two Elm streets.”

“What was the question?” Officer Davis asked.

“The question is why Watts picked our house to burglarize. And, the answer is he thought it was the Corcoran’s. They live at 509 West Elm, and we live at 509 East Elm. He was an out-of-towner, so he didn’t realize there was more than one 509 Elm Street.”

“Why would he want to go to the Corcoran’s?” Wendell asked as they pulled up to the address.

“Let’s ask him,” Joy said, pointing to a Santa on the roof who was trying to open the skylight.

Davis got out of the car, and using the door as a shield, he drew his gun. “Put your hands in the air and freeze!” he shouted, pointing his gun at Santa.

Wendell started snapping pictures out the window. “Joy, I can’t get out of here. Open the door for me. I’m missing the best angle.”

“Stay inside,” Davis barked.

Joy opened her door and released Wendell from the back seat.

“Don’t shoot,” Santa yelled. “I’m unarmed. I don’t mean anyone any harm.”

“Dr. Barnes?” Wendell said, snapping more pictures. “Is that you?”

Davis called for back-up, and approached the house. “How did you get up there?”

“I have a ladder in the back,” Barnes said.

“Okay, then let’s walk toward the back, and you come down the ladder, nice and slow.”

Officer Davis read him his rights, and by the time the back-up arrived, Barnes was in handcuffs, sitting in the back seat of the cruiser, spilling his guts while Wendell took down every word.

“When I got to Corcoran’s house the night of the accident, the old man thought he was a goner. He told me that while he ran his garage, he saved every old coin that came through his till. He said he had a collection worth over $100,000 under a loose floorboard in the attic, and no one knew about it—not even his sister. From the look of him, I thought he probably wouldn’t make it, so I called my old buddy, Harry Watts. We’d, uh, done some work together in the past.”

Joy gave Wendell a smug look.

“Anyway, Watts was a screw-up. He went to the wrong house, and he died for his trouble. There isn’t even a skylight at that other house.”

Joy nodded. “Never has been.”

“So you came back today to get the coins?” Wendell asked.

“I tried to get them out of my mind. But, I figured that after the coma, Corcoran might not remember telling me about them. Heck, he might not remember that he even had them. So, I figured it was worth a try.”

“And you picked today, because everyone would be at the parade?” said Joy.

“Yeah. I hate parades, but it seemed like such a big deal in this town, that I figured none of the neighbors would be home to see me here. And, I dressed as Santa because Watts said that if he did that and moved like a robot, if anyone saw him they would think he was just a mechanical Christmas decoration. It sounded like a good idea to me.”

Joy rolled her eyes. “We may be small town, but we’re not idiots.”

“You didn’t have to go to all that trouble,” Davis said. “Like too many people in this town, the Corcorans never lock their front door. You could have just gone right inside.”

***

The following Thursday, the Town Monitor sold every copy. “Caught Red-Suited” read another of Wendell’s classic headlines. But the story of Dr. Barnes’ criminal ways did not end in their small town. The Springfield police came up to talk to him while he sat in county jail. It looked like Dr. Barnes would not be celebrating Christmas without bars on his window for a very long time.

“Now, what was that you were saying about me having an over-active imagination?” Joy said, handing the paper to Nick.

“I guess it turned out to be a good thing that you do,” Nick said with a wink.

“Uh, guys,” Noelle said. “You still owe me an ice cream soda.”

The Top Ten . . . Books to Read With (or without) Children Over the Holidays

Carol L. Wright

With the publication of the new BWG anthology of children's stories, ONCE UPON A TIME: SWEET, FUNNY, AND STRANGE TALES FOR ALL AGES,I couldn't help but think about which stories I most enjoy sharing with the kids in my family this time of year. The holidays can be so busy--for adults and for kids--that it's even more important to take some time to slow down, sit together, and share a story--or a few.

Some of my favorites for this time of year help to relax the pace and remind us of times when life moved just a bit more slowly. It's the mood I tried to create in my story, "A Visit From Belsnickel" in the new anthology. (I hope you'll read and enjoy it!)

Just as we did with ONCE UPON A TIME, I've arranged my list below with those for the youngest children first--moving on to those for older children. So turn off your tablet, silence your cell phone, and enjoy these stories together with the kids in your family--no matter their ages.

1. THE MITTEN--Jan Brett

Jan Brett is an exquisite illustrator who has published many books, including several specifically for Christmas. But I love this winter tale the best. While the simple story unfolds, illustrations allow kids to predict what is to come on the next page--including the humorous ending.

2. THE SNOWMAN--Raymond Briggs

This wordless story allows a child's imagination to soar along with the snowman and the boy. This was animated in an Oscar-nominated short film with an intro by David Bowie and a wonderful, evocative soundtrack. Briggs sequel,THE SNOWMAN AND THE SNOWDOG continues this tradition, but with words simple enough for early readers.

3. STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING--Robert Frost

This classic poem has been beautifully illustrated by Susan Jeffers, and tells of a man who takes time to enjoy watching "woods fill up with snow." It reminds me to slow down to enjoy the beauty of the holidays. (I've found that if you point out the harness bells to your kids, you might be treated to a youthful rendition of "Jingle Bells!"

4. THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS--Clement Clarke Moore

This poem, originally entitled "A Visit From St. Nicholas," was first published anonymously. Some now speculate that it was actually written by Henry Livingston, Jr. despite Moore having taken credit for writing it several years after Livingston's death. Regardless of its authorship, however, it is perhaps the best known American poem yet written, and is the source of much of what we associate with Santa Claus. It's a tradition in our family to read this classic before the kids go to bed on Christmas Eve. Lately, we've added one of the many parodies. Our favorite is the PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS by Chet Williamson, illustrated by James Rice.

5. HOW THE GRINCH STOLE CHRISTMAS--Dr. Seuss

While there are TV and movie versions of this, the book is still my favorite way to experience how the warmth and joy of the holidays can make even the Grinchiest heart grow three sizes.

6. THE POLAR EXPRESS--Chris Van Allsburg

Can you hear the ringing of Santa's silver bell? This story of magic and belief has become a holiday classic.

7. THE VELVETEEN RABBIT--Margery Williams

While this is not a holiday story, it embodies the magic we associate with the season: the magic of love. Note, though--this is not a quick bedtime story. It takes about half an hour to read it aloud, but it is well worth the time to share this story in one sitting. Our favorite edition includes William Nicholson's beloved illustrations.

8. A LITTLE HOUSE CHRISTMAS TREASURY--Laura Ingalls Wilder

This assembles several holiday stories from the "Little House" series of books about a 19th century American pioneer family settling the Great Plains. They can be read all at once or on successive nights as Christmas approaches. Enhanced with illustrations from Garth Williams, this makes a heart-warming read.

9. A CHRISTMAS CAROL--Charles Dickens

This classic is retold in so many variations that there is sure to be an appropriate version for nearly any age. The original, though, is still the best.

10. THE LION, THE WITCH, AND THE WARDROBE--C. S. Lewis

Four children stumble into a land where it's always winter, but never Christmas. For me, the well-loved Chronicles of Narnia begin with this book. I'd recommend reading them in the order in which they were first published. It makes THE MAGICIAN'S NEPHEW much more fun when you read it next-to-last. And you can give a child the next book in the series as a holiday gift to start off the new year with another great adventure. (For a discussion of the order in which to read the Chronicles of Narnia, see:http://www.narniaweb.com/resources-links/in-what-order-should-the-narnia-books-be-read/)

I could list many more, but this list is limited to only ten. Add your own family favorites for a season of happy reading. And, whichever of the many holidays you celebrate this time of year, I hope they are happy ones!

American Flyers

 by Carol L. Wright

(&More January, 2014)

You’d think a grown man would have known better. But there’s something about the first big snowfall of the year that makes a kid out of all of us. We got eight inches overnight. And now I have a kid of my own to share it with.

George is inexhaustible. At four, he’s fully aware of the purpose of a snowball. Even if he needs a little help forming one, once I pack it for him, he flings it at my legs before I have a chance to back away. 

We build a huge snowman in our front yard—at least on George’s scale it’s huge. He stands just off the sidewalk so he can keep an eye on the neighborhood. I take off my scarf to wrap around its neck as George goes inside to beg buttons and a carrot from Mommy. No top hats in our closet for the final touch, but he makes a very respectable snowman—or snow PERSON, as Mommy apparently told George it’s supposed to be called.

When we go inside, though, all the PC crap is forgotten. The woman made us grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Just like the commercials.

We peel off our smelly, wet wool coats to air out in the mud room. Then, after the mandatory five minutes at the bathroom sink to wash our hands “thoroughly, this time,” we’re back for inspection, and the joy of comfort food.

I look out the window and see it’s starting to rain. Just a bit. Not enough to melt our snow person. No need to concern George about that.

When lunch is over, George struggles to put his coat on again. How come he never tries to do it by himself when we’re running late for church?

Mommy puts the brakes on George’s ambition. Not so soon after lunch, she says. It’s quiet time. But I had promised George we’d go sledding. Can’t break a promise, right?

Mommy says it’s raining anyway. We can go after George’s nap if the rain has stopped. Fine by me. A little quiet time doesn’t sound so bad—especially if George is asleep, and Mommy isn’t.

Georgie’s “nap” consists of lying on the bed while Mommy reads to him. Oh well. I got some sleep, at least. 

The rain has stopped, so George  and I get into our still-damp coats. I pull out the new toboggan and remove the big red bow from Santa.

“Okay, kiddo. Let’s go sliding.”

George has never gone on a toboggan before. And I know the perfect hill. George, the toboggan, and I pile into my car and I drive to the golf course. This is going to be great.

It’s turned colder again, and the roads are a little slick with frozen rain. Fortunately the ruts left by uncleared snow give me all the traction I need. We pull up on the road by the golf course at the top of what I know will be an epic hill.

“This is gonna be great, Georgie.”

I help him out of the car, and his little red snow boots  don't even make a dent in the snow.  My footprints look like a giant's where I crunch through the ice layer left behind after the rain. I fill my lungs with the pine-scented air; I can't wait to get started. 

I put the toboggan down, and it starts to slide away from me right away. It’s as eager as we are.

Keeping a foot on the back end of the sled, I place George in the front, then get in behind him. As I prepare to instruct my son in the finer points of steering, I put my feet up on the wood. And we take off.

The ice on the unbroken snow makes the steep hill more treacherous than I thought. We’re not just sliding, we’re plummeting down the hill. George screams. I think it’s with delight.

We gain speed as we go: down the hill, across where the rough might be, onto the buried fairway. I’ve gained enough of my senses to throw my weight in time to avoid the sand trap, only to realize that we’re now rocketing towards the woods. There’s no traction—no friction. We’re sailing right for a tree. Good God. I have to save my son!

I pull my feet off the rails and jam my heels against the snow. The ice is hard and barely dents as we whiz past, but my knee complains. Once more, with all my effort. I ram a foot into the ice, burying one ankle in the snow. The toboggan spins to a stop, just as I hear my leg bone crack.

I can now see George’s face as I scream every word I know I’m not supposed to use in front of him. It hurts too much to move—and too much to stay still. George’s happy face turns to alarm. Then he bursts into tears. No kidding, George. Tears are the only appropriate response if you don’t know swear words.

Fortunately, we aren’t the only ones on the course that day. An elderly couple is cross-country skiing with their Labrador Retriever. As they approach, all I can say is, “Gotta cell phone?”

So now I’m home after three days in the hospital and surgery to set my leg. It will be several weeks before I can walk without crutches. And several more before I’m able to even think about going sledding again.

With any luck, it will be an early Spring.

Nana's Chocolate Cake

Carol L. Wright 

(&More December, 2012)

Every family has its Christmas traditions, and in my family some of our favorites revolve around baking. We have our traditional Christmas coffee cake—the one we all love, but for some reason only make at Christmas. Then there is the red and green cherry loaf cake that is as close to a fruit cake as any of us is willing to go. And we always make a wide variety of Christmas cookies, bars, squares, and balls, without any of which Christmas would seem incomplete.

But, above all of our Christmas baking traditions, is my grandmother’s chocolate cake. Nana acquired the recipe from the mother of a friend in the 1910s, when Nana was still a young woman. When my mother was growing up, Nana would make the cake for every occasion: a picnic with friends, a potluck at church, a birthday. She was famous for it. But, for us, it is our Christmas cake. The recipe, such as it is, has been handed down to every household in our family for generations.

It is a simple recipe with a list of ingredients and minimal instructions. It goes back to the days when bakers knew the difference between a pinch and a dash. They knew flour was never“pre-sifted” and mixers were spun by hand. Most of us in the later generations have filled in our recipe cards with the notes we less accomplished bakers need, and we all adhere to the recipe very carefully. That is because we all know the story about our great aunt.

Great Aunt Lilah was Nana’s sister-in-law. She was the one who, on my grandparents’ wedding day, dressed in black and moaned, “Oh, my poor brother. My poor, poor brother!” Needless to say, the relationship between the two women was never warm. Heated, sometimes, but never warm.

Over the years, they competed over silly things. Lilah was Grandpa’s younger sister, and resented that his attentions focused on his wife, and eventually their children, instead of on her. Even after Lilah married, she still competed with Nana over who knit better, who kept a better home, and most of all, who was the better cook. On the last of these, Lilah felt she had the advantage.

Nana was a very good cook, but she always followed a recipe. Lilah, like her mother, was an instinctive cook. She could make nearly anything without requiring directions, and would improvise when she did have a recipe to follow. She was never at a loss for what to make for dinner, because she could make a meal from whatever she had on hand. It was her forte, and she was extremely proud of it. Not surprisingly, she really resented the popularity of Nana’s wonderful chocolate cake. She tried to devise a competing formula, but never found anything to compare with it. Finally, she asked Nana for the recipe.

Nana wrote out a recipe card for her, as she had done for dozens of friends over the years. The next day, Lilah made the cake, but she was disappointed with the results.

“Dora, you didn’t give me the right recipe,” Lilah accused Nana. “It didn’t come out the same.”

“No, Lilah,” Nana told her. “I copied the recipe I use.”

“No you didn’t. You left something out. You just don’t want anyone else to make your precious cake.”

“Now, Lilah, I wouldn’t do that,”Nana assured her. “I’ve given that recipe out lots of times before and no one else has had any problem with it.”

“Are you saying I’m not a good enough baker to make your silly cake?”

“Not at all, but you need to follow the recipe precisely. You cannot improvise, or make any substitutions, or it won’t come out the same.”

“I am still sure you left something out. Just give me the recipe again. Then we’ll see.”

“Okay. Here it is,” Nana said, getting out her recipe card. “But remember to follow it exactly.”

“I will.”

Nana began, “The first ingredient is four one-ounce blocks of unsweetened baking chocolate . . . “

Lilah wrote it down, then looked up with squinted eyes and said, “How much is that in cocoa?”

* * *

After many years of being told her chocolate cake was the best, Nana developed a certain proprietary pride in it. So, many years later, when women at the office where she worked as a secretary compared notes on their favorite recipes, she was certain that her cake would stand up against the challenge of another who claimed she had the best of all possible chocolate cake recipes.

"I hate to tell you, Dora," said Evelyn. "I am sure yours is good, but mine is indisputably the best. I had it once at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel when I was on a trip to New York City. I was so taken with it, that when I returned home, I wrote to them and asked for the recipe. I didn't know whether or not they would share it, but I figured that if they didn't, all I'd lost was the three-cent stamp for the letter."

The women all nodded. It seemed worth a try.

"So, imagine my surprise when a little while later, an envelope arrived with a return address from the Waldorf-Astoria. Inside was not only the recipe for their chocolate cake, but a bill for $100!"

A general gasp ensued, for in those days one-hundred dollars was a small fortune.

"What did you do?" the coworkers wanted to know.

"I didn't really think I had any choice," she said, "so I paid the bill. But, I have made a point of sharing that recipe with everyone who asks for it since then. I want to get my money's worth out of it!"

It certainly seemed as though Nana's cake might have met its match. Still, the proof of the pudding--or in this case the cake--is in the tasting, so the two women agreed to go home and bake their respective cakes, and bring them into the office for their colleagues to decide which was better. And, each one would bring her recipe to share with their friends.

No one was out sick on the day of the taste-off.

Nana's cake sat on her desk, and Evelyn's on hers. They looked the same. Even their icing looked similar. It was difficult, but they waited until lunch before cutting into either cake and serving them to their coworkers. And, of course, Evelyn and Nana had to taste each other's.

Nana took a bite of Evelyn's, and let it sit on her tongue. Then, she moved it around her mouth, trying to savor every last nuance of its texture and flavor. It was, Nana had to admit, a wonderful cake. She looked over at Evelyn, who was testing Nana's cake with the same attention to detail. They put their forks down and looked at each other. Neither wanted to be the first to speak. While their colleagues raved about both cakes, the two bakers knew which one was the superior effort.

"Your cake is better," they each said at the same time. Then, realizing what had happened they both broke into a laugh. The tension relieved, they freely agreed that while the cakes were very similar, they enjoyed the one baked by the other woman better.

"Well, I can't tell them apart," said a coworker. "They are both wonderful. I couldn't pick between them."

Neither Evelyn nor Nana thought so, however. They got out their recipe cards to see where the minor differences in ingredients or proportions were. They swapped cards, so each could review the other's. As they read, their expressions changed from curiosity, to confusion, to amusement. The two recipes were identical.

“I guess it’s true,” Nana said, “that food tastes better when someone else does the cooking!”

Everyone in the building got a recipe card that day. And, since then, in our family, it has been known as "Nana's $100 cake."

We Gather Together

by Carol L. Wright

(November, 2012)

Rosy couldn’t wait for her three kids to return home for the Thanksgiving weekend. She shopped, and cooked, and prepared their rooms with clean cartoon-character sheets.

She’d done her job well. Now a lawyer, a school teacher, and a banker, her kids were all grown up. Pride filled her heart.

“That’s my seat,” said the banker as they gathered in the living room. The school teacher stuck out her tongue. The lawyer played video games with the volume too high for conversation. Dirty dishes littered every surface.

They’ll go home soon, Rosy thought. Not quite all grown up after all.

Carol L. Wright is a former book editor, domestic relations attorney, and adjunct law professor. Her debut mystery, Death in Glenville Falls, came out in September of 2017 and was named a finalist for both the 2018 Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award and for the 2018 Next Generation Indie Book Awards. It is the first of her Gracie McIntyre Mysteries. In addition to the new series, Carol is the author of several short stories in various literary journals and award-winning anthologies. She is a founding member of the Bethlehem Writers Group, a life member of Sisters in Crime and the Jane Austen Society of North America, and a member of Pennwriters and SinC Guppies. She is married to her college sweetheart, and lives in the Lehigh Valley of Pennsylvania with their rescue dog, Mr. Darcy, and a clowder of cats. You can learn more on Carol's website, or by following her Facebook page.

A Christmas on Nantucket

(Featured Story: November, 2011)

The mood in the church was somber for the twenty-third of December. Mourners filed out, heads down, and drew their coats closer as they made their way to their cars. Inside, the new widow cradled the urn containing her husband's ashes and fought back her tears.

"Come home with us, Laura," the widow's mother offered. "Brian wouldn't want you to spend Christmas alone."

Laura grimaced. She realized that from now on, people were apt to tell her what Brian would or would not want, and she could no longer check with him to see if they were right. She shook her head.

"No thanks, Mom," she said. "Besides, I won't really be alone, you know."

The older woman looked at the urn and frowned. "Well, let us know if you change your mind."