Check out the newsletter post earlier today for full instructions. This can be a short piece of fiction or memoir/nonfiction or poetry. Strive for an emotional quality, not sentimental. No longer than 600 words. And do offer feedback on others’.
Hey Alison. Thanks for the cool prompt. It spoke directly to a piece I've been working on, so I include the link here. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZiUcZpO_xptHuSUDr-27gA_WSzG0OdrdHyueaAzDv3Y/edit?usp=sharing NOTE: I tried to cut/paste the whole thing directly, but it wouldn't accept my drawings! And the illustrations of terrified Christmas trees are a big part of this! Many thanks for the opportunity to share.
I took a quick look to see what the illustrations are like...! and look forward to a close look. I've asked Substack about the possibility of sharing photos and illustrations. Someday, I hope. In the meantime, I'm glad you thought to share this way--thank you!
I suspect that Substack is holding off on making this happen...because of the visual possibilities. But for purposes of sharing illustrated work, I wish we could! I'll be reading your work asap.
I so appreciate you going paid! We have poetry, picturebook, and "scene" (fiction and nonfiction) workshops happening to share work/feedback, if you check out the "workshop" space. Let me know of you have any questions. Thank you, Peter.
Peter, so much to like here, from the Prine lyrics quote (yes!) to the general irreverence, (ah, the ponderosa chirp! I have a weak spot for Charlie Brown pines, myself...) together with the nod of thanks to these trees that give. The illustrations are spot-on! Each can stand on its own, albeit with caption to add a layer. Yes, the terror. The aware human doing his best to look the other way... Thank you for posting this!
“He’s a Bernese crossed with Standard Poodle -a Bernadoodle- on one side and an Aussie Shepherd-Lab mix, with a bit Husky, on the other.”
“That’s a lot of dog,” he said. That’s a mutt, he thought. A Heinz 57.
“And yours?”
“Water dog,” he replied.
“Portuguese?”
“Toilet.”
They watched the dogs tumble and roll, teeth bared, growling and snapping at one other. Dogs play rough.
“No, really. What kind of dog is she? She’s very sweet.”
He shrugged. “She’s a tough little black rez dog from northern Manitoba. That’s all we know.”
Later, driving home, his wife said, “You know, you really should be more careful about what you say.”
He knew what she was referring to. “Tough, little black rescue dog,” he said, with emphasis on “rescue”.
She looked away. She said nothing.
“You know,” he continued, “sometimes I think she was taken from her mother too young, before she was ready. She wasn’t properly socialized. She’s missed out. I think it’s important that she gets to meet and play with other dogs at the dog park.”
Who exactly was he talking about, she wondered, the puppy or himself?
The last here is so good! I'd love to be in her head even before this, to know we can move around thus. It's a treat to be in more than one place in a piece. Or maybe a "He thought he knew..." earlier. Regardless. The last line is the right note.
This is a most happy writing prompt! I quite like Olena's Unsplash photo of the little trailer in the forest--it makes you want to sneak in there. Anyway, what I am wondering is, by "holiday" do you mean a holiday as in St. Patrick's Day or Christmas, or does it mean holiday as in when someone goes on vacation somewhere (e.g. "I'm going on a holiday to Wisconsin"), or is it both? Thank you!
My first impression as the gnarled root sent me propelling through the trees to discover this gem, was the exquisite multiple shades of green – the textures of nature framing the trailer with protective boughs…. exuding displeasure at being discovered so unceremoniously.
“Don’t think you can stay just because you have managed to arrive”, it challenged.
“Don’t think you will be able to sneak in unobtrusively”, it hissed.
Initially, I saw only the naked trailer, stained by the hands of nature, sporting a yellowish aluminum door slightly askew. It creaked with a high-pitched whine as I dared to enter.
The speckled gray counter tiles were wiped clean. Aluminum sink and faucets were polished until they shone. Even the floor with its moss green linoleum tiles slightly curled up at the corners reminded me to take off my shoes before entering. And yet, all personal touches of having been occupied were gone. There was no kettle on the stove, no coffee cup in the sink. Perhaps it had been abandoned, left to the shrubs, cedars and vines to keep it company.
I was enchanted with the possibility of a hideaway of my own – somewhere to come and let down my guard, pretend I was a hermit, resting alone without the complications of life.
So, I kept returning, each time in fear that someone else would have found it, occupied it, taken it away. But as weeks went by, my confidence increased. I began adding things that would make it mine. The green blanket with the tassels slung over the chair. The lantern from a garage sale. My own coffee cup, kettle and peppermint tea.
I left books on the trailer table, gifting them to the space as they were completed. The sun piercing through the maples, shining on my face melted away any anxiety. It was everything I needed and more.
Then one day it happened. Arriving at what had become mine, I almost bumped into an old man with hunched shoulders and bowed legs. He wore a worn brown leather jacket patched at the elbows. His gray hair reached below his ears and his face exposed countless wrinkles. Bushy eyebrows raised in surprise at seeing me and blue eyes examined me.
“Hey missy” he cackled. “Where did you come from?” Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? Don’t get many visitors around here.”
I felt betrayed. My heart was in my throat and anger seeped through my veins. How dare he? How dare I?
“Is this yours?”
“Well, yes”, he replied. “In the sense that possession is nine tenths of the law. I came across this abandoned trailer years ago and it has been my only home ever since. This trailer saved me from homelessness. I have just come out of a long bout in the hospital. I wasn’t sure if I was gonna make it so I cleared everything out for the next person, but what do you know – here I am! I guess God wasn’t quite ready for me.”
It was like the rug had been pulled out from under me. I wanted to hate him but then I remembered I had somewhere to rest my head, a roof over my head. This was his home. But I couldn’t be friendly., couldn’t share a cup of tea.
“I have to go,” I said turning quickly to escape.
“Is this your stuff? He called after me.
“No”, I lied. “I don’t know where it came from.”
As I ran through the trees stumbling once again on the root that had been the doorway to my refuge, I reluctantly hoped my few additions would make his life more comfortable and that he might notice I left just a small piece of me behind.
I'll leave a few thoughts here. The Prompt section is generally pretty quiet, especially in terms of feedback. And especially at this time of year!
I chose this photo because it wasn't "Christmas" or even "winter" but it was inviting, yes. I like how you have imbued the trailer with life. I am wondering about the kettle though, the fact that the character brings one, and--I'm guessing--uses it. Does she (he?) not question why there is propane in the trailer? She might bring a thermos of hot drink instead. OR do you want her to know, as a result of the propane, that there is indeed Some Person to whom this "belongs"?
I wonder about her age, and some hint of why she feels such a need for a hideaway. Curious! And I like the echo of the root at the end, from the beginning.
I am posting the FIRST HALF of a holiday piece by SHIRLEY SILVA here... She's been working on this since the prompt was posted. 2nd part to come...
A Good, Dark, Pudding
by Shirley Silva Jan. 2023
Christmas was coming and so was the ache in my stomach. Not from the thought of too much turkey. Not because of the nutty stuffing or the side dish of sweet potatoes tucked under marshmallows but from a recent history of anxious Christmas gatherings. I guess anxious is an understatement. It was all out chaos at Christmas.
It would start with my mother. Sweet and smiling on the outside, like a sugary, gingerbread cookie, but underneath, underneath there were cracks. You could tell by her tall frame; straight-backed to the point of rigid; dark hair combed severely back from her face, hands wiping constantly on the blotched and wrinkled apron that hung tightly from her waist. Her eyes squinting and alert, would filter through the family scene, as we sat around the table. She monitored all of us. We chatted blandly, waiting for food while she checked for any minor changes in our expressions. This tracking of the emotional temperature would carry on all night and any slight shift to the negative would be corrected by a skilled redirection. This was NOT my mother’s first Christmas.
Again, she came from the kitchen. This time whispering as she put down a mug in front of my sister and I, “One day it will be just the three of us.” The words came out forced and tense, giving up the stress that lay beneath. And then more loudly she announced to everyone, “Wait until you try the Christmas pudding this year. It’s a good dark one!”
One more trip to the kitchen brought two more mugs. These she placed in front of my grandmother and the other in front of my stepfather. It was a drinking game we played every Christmas, but only my sister, my Mom and I were in on it. In our three mugs was a generous pour of cranberry wine. In the last two mugs, coffee. The game was to trick the other two into thinking we were all drinking coffee. You could say it wasn’t playing fair, but there were reasons for this.
//
Ever since my grandmother lived alone, she had developed an elegant evening routine. She would pour a delicate amount of sherry into a cut crystal glass, then clutching her package of Craven A 100’s (the extra long ones) would go and sit in her cherry-coloured armchair. Once seated, she would turn on the television, hoping for a hockey game or a game show and she’d light up the white, almost glamourous cigarette. In between soft exhales of smoke she would sip her drink.
Some nights there would be an extra glass or two of sherry. Some nights there would be cigarette after cigarette. One night she fell asleep in her chair, the ash from her cigarette falling silently like snow onto the upholstery, The soft snowy dust settled among the pink flowers and faded fabric. The glowing end of the cigarette had dropped too; it’s embers, like curled orange peel, soaking into the cushiony fabric. Smoke spiralled around the room, that night, until it reached the detector, setting off a piercing alarm that signalled a neighbour to call the fire department.
Two large firefighters had picked up my grandmother, gathering her small body in it’s crimson dress and pearls and carried her through the dense and drifting smoke. Her thin, purple veined hands with the carefully painted raspberry fingernails, filed to a point, dropped to one side.
Ever since my stepfather had married my mother and moved into her house the tension between them grew. He wore boots in the house causing rough, heavy footsteps that laboured to carry his ever-growing belly. He had white and steel-coloured hair receding on top of his bulky frame, that moved like wild retreating waves crashing a hard shore. His voice and his eyes, were both low; preferring grunts and the ground to speaking or looking at anyone. My mother stuck it out with him for years while my sister and I tiptoed around, staying out of his way.
Outside the house, if you looked closely - like you might if you were a child on an Easter egg hunt- you would find, hidden in the tall grass behind the shed, a 6 pack of beer. Or in the deep crooked arm of the plum tree, a flask of vodka or atop the fence posts, brown bottles, empty of their liquid, marking the spot of Norm’s last swig.
Norm never caught his chair on fire but he was the match to my grandmother’s flame. He was the instigator, the spark, the one who set things off and he did it every Christmas.
//
Of course, somehow the two alcoholics ended up drunk at Christmas dinner, despite the games we played. They had their own tricks, like hunting outside for hidden bottles or sneaking a couple of drinks from the kitchen. They’d be nipping at whatever they could find. Each Christmas, just as my mom finally sat down to eat, my stepfather would push his chair away from the table, its wooden legs grating heavily on the ceramic tile, and make a statement. He’d stand up and shout that “Goddammit, he was going to get a drink because Goddammit he deserved one.” Then he’d say to my grandmother, “Betty you’ll join me in a drink won’t you?” to which my grandmother with her manners and her snowberry pearls looped delicately around her neck, would nod politely.
//
This particular Christmas, the demand for alcohol started earlier than usual. We had still been passing, hand to hand, plate after plate of food around the table. I pulled the large serving fork which was stabbed into the turkey and helped my grandmother who sat to the left of me. I gave her a slight slab of turkey and a few tablespoons of fatty gravy and jellied cranberry sauce. The mashed potatoes, the sweetest sweet potatoes, the bitter brussels sprouts were passed as well, all in the matching rosehip china.
As the serving plates and bowls finally rested on the table, we all picked up our cutlery and began picking at our favourites. Mine was the soft, sweet potatoes. My grandmother went straight to the turkey. Norm returned from the kitchen with two drinks. He placed a wine glass just slightly out of my grandmother’s reach so she had to raise her shaky arms and stretch to grab it’s thin stem. With the tremors in her hands, I realized, it was getting harder for her to hold a wine glass and harder for her to do things like cut her turkey. I reached over with my knife, to cut her food into smaller pieces, just as she began to choke on the large bite she’d already taken. Her small body heaved and bent as she strained to cough. I placed my palm on her back and quickly thumped as hard as I could. I could feel her ribs, like a brittle turkey carcass, rattle from the impact. Everyone’s cutlery dropped loudly to the table as they watched. A chunk of meat finally fell from her lips to the plate. I passed her the wine glass and she gulped most of it, her shoulders shaking with relief.
After cutting up my grandmother’s food, we settled down again, keeping an eye on her tiny body. She took little bites and washed them down with wine. Norm took larger bites and glowered across the table asking for seconds of everything. My mother kept talking about the pudding to come. How she had marinated the cherries, the raisins, the currants and even the lemon peel in sherry for 3 weeks. The mixture had become dark and cloudy just as she liked and when she added the dry ingredients, she was so pleased at the darkened blob of batter in the bowl. After baking, it had turned practically black. She was proud of that and envisioned it with a little brandy butter melting on top. The perfect ending to the meal.
As my sister and I helped clear the main course dishes, we scraped and pushed food scraps along with the sharp bones of the turkey into the trash. We rinsed smudges of gravy and cranberry sauce down the drain. We placed the dishes carefully in the dishwasher and tidied up. My mother had gone to the garage which was used as a cold storage room and collected the pudding and tins of cookies and tarts.
We sat around the table again. The drinking game was over. Played. Lost. We waited tensely for dessert. My mother brought in her favourite platters, one stacked with mince and butter tarts. The other held cookies she’d baked over the last couple of days: moon-shaped aniseed, star shaped sugar cookies, dancing gingerbread men and glistening almond meringues. She presented these like a prize, something for winners and losers alike. The last dish to be passed was the crystal platter with the good, dark pudding. A smooth, moist mountain of dried cherries and candied peel; the smaller chinks of fruit catching the light. The crowning glory of the dinner with its snowy peak of brandy butter, melting slowly down its slopes.
The chair legs dragged again on the ceramic floor and my sister and I exchanged looks. Norm stood and demanded that the pudding be lit. “Where’s the matches?” he growled. “A Christmas pudding needs to have a flame…it needs a flambe!!” He walked to the sideboard and opened a drawer with his stubby, drunken fingers, and clumsily pulled out matches.
Next; the brandy which he asked Betty to help with. She nodded of course and stood wobbly beside the table. Taking the heavy bottle in two trembling hands she tried to dribble a little brandy over the mound of pudding. It splashed down the sides, like a waterfall. Her hands couldn’t stop. Her snowberry pearls swayed. She staggered a little trying to pull back the bottle. The fluid overflowed the platter. I wasn’t quick enough to help her. Norm laughed. A sweet brown, brandy stain began to spread through the tablecloth.
Norm was ready with the matches and after several missed strikes he placed the burning match to the top of the pudding. It caught fire. We sat speechless while yellow and orange spears shot from the top of the dessert and raced to follow the waterfall of brandy. Down the sides. Onto the tablecloth. A recently ironed white linen with strings of embroidered mistletoe and red berries. It burst into flames. While the threads from the berries smoldered, my mother screamed and ran to the kitchen. “Look what you’ve done!” My sister followed her. I was stunned by the flames, but used to emergencies at Christmas. I pushed my grandmother back into her chair and moved it away from the table toward the wall.
My mother and sister were back quickly with the fire extinguisher and pans of water. I watched as they frantically sprayed foam and flung water on the blanket of fire that now covered the table. Patches of linen, some burned, some soaked and soggy were all that were left of the table covering.
Norm, who had stood staring at the mess of fire and booze, and foam and water, grunted and left the table, lumbering off to the bedroom and slamming the door. My sister and I consoled our mother and urged her to take my grandmother home. She had been sitting against the wall, numbed by the events and the wine, her pearls now slung to one side. My mom took her arm and pulled her unsteady frame toward the front door, wrapped her in her coat and then drove her home. My sister and I, silently cleaned up. We wrang the tablecloth out and threw it into the garbage, singed red berries smelling of brandy, sitting on top of the turkey skeleton. We had to throw out most of the tarts and cookies as well and put the mugs in the sink, pouring what alcohol was left, down the drain. We mopped up the floor with rags and wiped the wooden table, already cloudy in spots from water damage and scorched black in other places.
It was NOT my first Christmas either, but it was the worst. And the last one with Norm. The promise of food, family and the good, dark pudding, overshadowed by fire and alcohol. The next three Christmases it would just be the three of us.
After finishing I stepped outside to get some fresh air. I surveyed the fenceposts. All but one encircling the side yard had a beer bottle perched on top. I walked toward the empty fencepost, curious why it was the only one without a brown minaret.
A glint of glass shone in front of me and I saw that a bottle had fallen and smashed on the ground. The full circle moon shone on its fragments.
Hey Alison. Thanks for the cool prompt. It spoke directly to a piece I've been working on, so I include the link here. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZiUcZpO_xptHuSUDr-27gA_WSzG0OdrdHyueaAzDv3Y/edit?usp=sharing NOTE: I tried to cut/paste the whole thing directly, but it wouldn't accept my drawings! And the illustrations of terrified Christmas trees are a big part of this! Many thanks for the opportunity to share.
I took a quick look to see what the illustrations are like...! and look forward to a close look. I've asked Substack about the possibility of sharing photos and illustrations. Someday, I hope. In the meantime, I'm glad you thought to share this way--thank you!
Ha. I was worried I’d broken some sort of Unschooled rule. Glad I didn’t ! Whew!
I suspect that Substack is holding off on making this happen...because of the visual possibilities. But for purposes of sharing illustrated work, I wish we could! I'll be reading your work asap.
Mo(o)re where that came from at petermoore.substack.com. And I just subscribed for real, so we're in this together!
I so appreciate you going paid! We have poetry, picturebook, and "scene" (fiction and nonfiction) workshops happening to share work/feedback, if you check out the "workshop" space. Let me know of you have any questions. Thank you, Peter.
Peter, so much to like here, from the Prine lyrics quote (yes!) to the general irreverence, (ah, the ponderosa chirp! I have a weak spot for Charlie Brown pines, myself...) together with the nod of thanks to these trees that give. The illustrations are spot-on! Each can stand on its own, albeit with caption to add a layer. Yes, the terror. The aware human doing his best to look the other way... Thank you for posting this!
C Puppy Love 3
“He’s a Bernese crossed with Standard Poodle -a Bernadoodle- on one side and an Aussie Shepherd-Lab mix, with a bit Husky, on the other.”
“That’s a lot of dog,” he said. That’s a mutt, he thought. A Heinz 57.
“And yours?”
“Water dog,” he replied.
“Portuguese?”
“Toilet.”
They watched the dogs tumble and roll, teeth bared, growling and snapping at one other. Dogs play rough.
“No, really. What kind of dog is she? She’s very sweet.”
He shrugged. “She’s a tough little black rez dog from northern Manitoba. That’s all we know.”
Later, driving home, his wife said, “You know, you really should be more careful about what you say.”
He knew what she was referring to. “Tough, little black rescue dog,” he said, with emphasis on “rescue”.
She looked away. She said nothing.
“You know,” he continued, “sometimes I think she was taken from her mother too young, before she was ready. She wasn’t properly socialized. She’s missed out. I think it’s important that she gets to meet and play with other dogs at the dog park.”
Who exactly was he talking about, she wondered, the puppy or himself?
Been awhile since we've heard from you, Bach5G!
The last here is so good! I'd love to be in her head even before this, to know we can move around thus. It's a treat to be in more than one place in a piece. Or maybe a "He thought he knew..." earlier. Regardless. The last line is the right note.
This is a most happy writing prompt! I quite like Olena's Unsplash photo of the little trailer in the forest--it makes you want to sneak in there. Anyway, what I am wondering is, by "holiday" do you mean a holiday as in St. Patrick's Day or Christmas, or does it mean holiday as in when someone goes on vacation somewhere (e.g. "I'm going on a holiday to Wisconsin"), or is it both? Thank you!
It's completely open! Not limited to December times. (Which is exactly why I chose this photo.)
So as in "taking a break as life rushes on"! Does that work? That seems Holy Day enough to me...
The Trailer in the Woods
My first impression as the gnarled root sent me propelling through the trees to discover this gem, was the exquisite multiple shades of green – the textures of nature framing the trailer with protective boughs…. exuding displeasure at being discovered so unceremoniously.
“Don’t think you can stay just because you have managed to arrive”, it challenged.
“Don’t think you will be able to sneak in unobtrusively”, it hissed.
Initially, I saw only the naked trailer, stained by the hands of nature, sporting a yellowish aluminum door slightly askew. It creaked with a high-pitched whine as I dared to enter.
The speckled gray counter tiles were wiped clean. Aluminum sink and faucets were polished until they shone. Even the floor with its moss green linoleum tiles slightly curled up at the corners reminded me to take off my shoes before entering. And yet, all personal touches of having been occupied were gone. There was no kettle on the stove, no coffee cup in the sink. Perhaps it had been abandoned, left to the shrubs, cedars and vines to keep it company.
I was enchanted with the possibility of a hideaway of my own – somewhere to come and let down my guard, pretend I was a hermit, resting alone without the complications of life.
So, I kept returning, each time in fear that someone else would have found it, occupied it, taken it away. But as weeks went by, my confidence increased. I began adding things that would make it mine. The green blanket with the tassels slung over the chair. The lantern from a garage sale. My own coffee cup, kettle and peppermint tea.
I left books on the trailer table, gifting them to the space as they were completed. The sun piercing through the maples, shining on my face melted away any anxiety. It was everything I needed and more.
Then one day it happened. Arriving at what had become mine, I almost bumped into an old man with hunched shoulders and bowed legs. He wore a worn brown leather jacket patched at the elbows. His gray hair reached below his ears and his face exposed countless wrinkles. Bushy eyebrows raised in surprise at seeing me and blue eyes examined me.
“Hey missy” he cackled. “Where did you come from?” Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? Don’t get many visitors around here.”
I felt betrayed. My heart was in my throat and anger seeped through my veins. How dare he? How dare I?
“Is this yours?”
“Well, yes”, he replied. “In the sense that possession is nine tenths of the law. I came across this abandoned trailer years ago and it has been my only home ever since. This trailer saved me from homelessness. I have just come out of a long bout in the hospital. I wasn’t sure if I was gonna make it so I cleared everything out for the next person, but what do you know – here I am! I guess God wasn’t quite ready for me.”
It was like the rug had been pulled out from under me. I wanted to hate him but then I remembered I had somewhere to rest my head, a roof over my head. This was his home. But I couldn’t be friendly., couldn’t share a cup of tea.
“I have to go,” I said turning quickly to escape.
“Is this your stuff? He called after me.
“No”, I lied. “I don’t know where it came from.”
As I ran through the trees stumbling once again on the root that had been the doorway to my refuge, I reluctantly hoped my few additions would make his life more comfortable and that he might notice I left just a small piece of me behind.
Hi Joan,
I'll leave a few thoughts here. The Prompt section is generally pretty quiet, especially in terms of feedback. And especially at this time of year!
I chose this photo because it wasn't "Christmas" or even "winter" but it was inviting, yes. I like how you have imbued the trailer with life. I am wondering about the kettle though, the fact that the character brings one, and--I'm guessing--uses it. Does she (he?) not question why there is propane in the trailer? She might bring a thermos of hot drink instead. OR do you want her to know, as a result of the propane, that there is indeed Some Person to whom this "belongs"?
I wonder about her age, and some hint of why she feels such a need for a hideaway. Curious! And I like the echo of the root at the end, from the beginning.
Thank you for posting!
I am posting the FIRST HALF of a holiday piece by SHIRLEY SILVA here... She's been working on this since the prompt was posted. 2nd part to come...
A Good, Dark, Pudding
by Shirley Silva Jan. 2023
Christmas was coming and so was the ache in my stomach. Not from the thought of too much turkey. Not because of the nutty stuffing or the side dish of sweet potatoes tucked under marshmallows but from a recent history of anxious Christmas gatherings. I guess anxious is an understatement. It was all out chaos at Christmas.
It would start with my mother. Sweet and smiling on the outside, like a sugary, gingerbread cookie, but underneath, underneath there were cracks. You could tell by her tall frame; straight-backed to the point of rigid; dark hair combed severely back from her face, hands wiping constantly on the blotched and wrinkled apron that hung tightly from her waist. Her eyes squinting and alert, would filter through the family scene, as we sat around the table. She monitored all of us. We chatted blandly, waiting for food while she checked for any minor changes in our expressions. This tracking of the emotional temperature would carry on all night and any slight shift to the negative would be corrected by a skilled redirection. This was NOT my mother’s first Christmas.
Again, she came from the kitchen. This time whispering as she put down a mug in front of my sister and I, “One day it will be just the three of us.” The words came out forced and tense, giving up the stress that lay beneath. And then more loudly she announced to everyone, “Wait until you try the Christmas pudding this year. It’s a good dark one!”
One more trip to the kitchen brought two more mugs. These she placed in front of my grandmother and the other in front of my stepfather. It was a drinking game we played every Christmas, but only my sister, my Mom and I were in on it. In our three mugs was a generous pour of cranberry wine. In the last two mugs, coffee. The game was to trick the other two into thinking we were all drinking coffee. You could say it wasn’t playing fair, but there were reasons for this.
//
Ever since my grandmother lived alone, she had developed an elegant evening routine. She would pour a delicate amount of sherry into a cut crystal glass, then clutching her package of Craven A 100’s (the extra long ones) would go and sit in her cherry-coloured armchair. Once seated, she would turn on the television, hoping for a hockey game or a game show and she’d light up the white, almost glamourous cigarette. In between soft exhales of smoke she would sip her drink.
Some nights there would be an extra glass or two of sherry. Some nights there would be cigarette after cigarette. One night she fell asleep in her chair, the ash from her cigarette falling silently like snow onto the upholstery, The soft snowy dust settled among the pink flowers and faded fabric. The glowing end of the cigarette had dropped too; it’s embers, like curled orange peel, soaking into the cushiony fabric. Smoke spiralled around the room, that night, until it reached the detector, setting off a piercing alarm that signalled a neighbour to call the fire department.
Two large firefighters had picked up my grandmother, gathering her small body in it’s crimson dress and pearls and carried her through the dense and drifting smoke. Her thin, purple veined hands with the carefully painted raspberry fingernails, filed to a point, dropped to one side.
//
And here is the SECOND HALF...
Ever since my stepfather had married my mother and moved into her house the tension between them grew. He wore boots in the house causing rough, heavy footsteps that laboured to carry his ever-growing belly. He had white and steel-coloured hair receding on top of his bulky frame, that moved like wild retreating waves crashing a hard shore. His voice and his eyes, were both low; preferring grunts and the ground to speaking or looking at anyone. My mother stuck it out with him for years while my sister and I tiptoed around, staying out of his way.
Outside the house, if you looked closely - like you might if you were a child on an Easter egg hunt- you would find, hidden in the tall grass behind the shed, a 6 pack of beer. Or in the deep crooked arm of the plum tree, a flask of vodka or atop the fence posts, brown bottles, empty of their liquid, marking the spot of Norm’s last swig.
Norm never caught his chair on fire but he was the match to my grandmother’s flame. He was the instigator, the spark, the one who set things off and he did it every Christmas.
//
Of course, somehow the two alcoholics ended up drunk at Christmas dinner, despite the games we played. They had their own tricks, like hunting outside for hidden bottles or sneaking a couple of drinks from the kitchen. They’d be nipping at whatever they could find. Each Christmas, just as my mom finally sat down to eat, my stepfather would push his chair away from the table, its wooden legs grating heavily on the ceramic tile, and make a statement. He’d stand up and shout that “Goddammit, he was going to get a drink because Goddammit he deserved one.” Then he’d say to my grandmother, “Betty you’ll join me in a drink won’t you?” to which my grandmother with her manners and her snowberry pearls looped delicately around her neck, would nod politely.
//
This particular Christmas, the demand for alcohol started earlier than usual. We had still been passing, hand to hand, plate after plate of food around the table. I pulled the large serving fork which was stabbed into the turkey and helped my grandmother who sat to the left of me. I gave her a slight slab of turkey and a few tablespoons of fatty gravy and jellied cranberry sauce. The mashed potatoes, the sweetest sweet potatoes, the bitter brussels sprouts were passed as well, all in the matching rosehip china.
As the serving plates and bowls finally rested on the table, we all picked up our cutlery and began picking at our favourites. Mine was the soft, sweet potatoes. My grandmother went straight to the turkey. Norm returned from the kitchen with two drinks. He placed a wine glass just slightly out of my grandmother’s reach so she had to raise her shaky arms and stretch to grab it’s thin stem. With the tremors in her hands, I realized, it was getting harder for her to hold a wine glass and harder for her to do things like cut her turkey. I reached over with my knife, to cut her food into smaller pieces, just as she began to choke on the large bite she’d already taken. Her small body heaved and bent as she strained to cough. I placed my palm on her back and quickly thumped as hard as I could. I could feel her ribs, like a brittle turkey carcass, rattle from the impact. Everyone’s cutlery dropped loudly to the table as they watched. A chunk of meat finally fell from her lips to the plate. I passed her the wine glass and she gulped most of it, her shoulders shaking with relief.
After cutting up my grandmother’s food, we settled down again, keeping an eye on her tiny body. She took little bites and washed them down with wine. Norm took larger bites and glowered across the table asking for seconds of everything. My mother kept talking about the pudding to come. How she had marinated the cherries, the raisins, the currants and even the lemon peel in sherry for 3 weeks. The mixture had become dark and cloudy just as she liked and when she added the dry ingredients, she was so pleased at the darkened blob of batter in the bowl. After baking, it had turned practically black. She was proud of that and envisioned it with a little brandy butter melting on top. The perfect ending to the meal.
As my sister and I helped clear the main course dishes, we scraped and pushed food scraps along with the sharp bones of the turkey into the trash. We rinsed smudges of gravy and cranberry sauce down the drain. We placed the dishes carefully in the dishwasher and tidied up. My mother had gone to the garage which was used as a cold storage room and collected the pudding and tins of cookies and tarts.
We sat around the table again. The drinking game was over. Played. Lost. We waited tensely for dessert. My mother brought in her favourite platters, one stacked with mince and butter tarts. The other held cookies she’d baked over the last couple of days: moon-shaped aniseed, star shaped sugar cookies, dancing gingerbread men and glistening almond meringues. She presented these like a prize, something for winners and losers alike. The last dish to be passed was the crystal platter with the good, dark pudding. A smooth, moist mountain of dried cherries and candied peel; the smaller chinks of fruit catching the light. The crowning glory of the dinner with its snowy peak of brandy butter, melting slowly down its slopes.
The chair legs dragged again on the ceramic floor and my sister and I exchanged looks. Norm stood and demanded that the pudding be lit. “Where’s the matches?” he growled. “A Christmas pudding needs to have a flame…it needs a flambe!!” He walked to the sideboard and opened a drawer with his stubby, drunken fingers, and clumsily pulled out matches.
Next; the brandy which he asked Betty to help with. She nodded of course and stood wobbly beside the table. Taking the heavy bottle in two trembling hands she tried to dribble a little brandy over the mound of pudding. It splashed down the sides, like a waterfall. Her hands couldn’t stop. Her snowberry pearls swayed. She staggered a little trying to pull back the bottle. The fluid overflowed the platter. I wasn’t quick enough to help her. Norm laughed. A sweet brown, brandy stain began to spread through the tablecloth.
Norm was ready with the matches and after several missed strikes he placed the burning match to the top of the pudding. It caught fire. We sat speechless while yellow and orange spears shot from the top of the dessert and raced to follow the waterfall of brandy. Down the sides. Onto the tablecloth. A recently ironed white linen with strings of embroidered mistletoe and red berries. It burst into flames. While the threads from the berries smoldered, my mother screamed and ran to the kitchen. “Look what you’ve done!” My sister followed her. I was stunned by the flames, but used to emergencies at Christmas. I pushed my grandmother back into her chair and moved it away from the table toward the wall.
My mother and sister were back quickly with the fire extinguisher and pans of water. I watched as they frantically sprayed foam and flung water on the blanket of fire that now covered the table. Patches of linen, some burned, some soaked and soggy were all that were left of the table covering.
Norm, who had stood staring at the mess of fire and booze, and foam and water, grunted and left the table, lumbering off to the bedroom and slamming the door. My sister and I consoled our mother and urged her to take my grandmother home. She had been sitting against the wall, numbed by the events and the wine, her pearls now slung to one side. My mom took her arm and pulled her unsteady frame toward the front door, wrapped her in her coat and then drove her home. My sister and I, silently cleaned up. We wrang the tablecloth out and threw it into the garbage, singed red berries smelling of brandy, sitting on top of the turkey skeleton. We had to throw out most of the tarts and cookies as well and put the mugs in the sink, pouring what alcohol was left, down the drain. We mopped up the floor with rags and wiped the wooden table, already cloudy in spots from water damage and scorched black in other places.
It was NOT my first Christmas either, but it was the worst. And the last one with Norm. The promise of food, family and the good, dark pudding, overshadowed by fire and alcohol. The next three Christmases it would just be the three of us.
After finishing I stepped outside to get some fresh air. I surveyed the fenceposts. All but one encircling the side yard had a beer bottle perched on top. I walked toward the empty fencepost, curious why it was the only one without a brown minaret.
A glint of glass shone in front of me and I saw that a bottle had fallen and smashed on the ground. The full circle moon shone on its fragments.
The end -
(There’s a light going forward.)