Monday, December 18, 2017

Christmas-glow! & Christmas Always (excerpt) & Christmas Treasures (excerpt)


Christmas-glow!
 
Ambient-blue transcends the Virgin’s cape
Surrounds stained-glass hushed-whisper shape
 
Softly-reflected calm arched interior
Radiated-comfort on winter-exterior
 
Spiked golden-shafts Mary’s-halo
Blended red, white, green-pthalo
 
Myriad-swirl subtle hues soft-dancing
Interior-space children-choir enhancing
 
Congregants’ Faith!-smiles cheeks red-rosy
Joy-to-the-world” Old-hymn crescendo-cozy
 
Silent-night!”-Sanctuary upon yon village
Spread-wide onto cold-fields awaiting tillage
 
Magic midnight mass-bells born nativity-scene
Christ-child “King” sacred-Salvation intervene
 
Snow-clouds to clear night-sky star-studded soon
Embrace Christian-kind alabaster-pale full–moon
 
God’s-Own blessing on mankind: Live! Love! Laugh! Interdiction
Pure-practice true: Faith! Family! Freedom! Holy-Benediction
 
Dare-intention create Christmas-glow! Each honored-day
Challenge-purpose “Good!” in all manner! I solemn pray!
 
Rejoice! Jesus loves thee! Thou knew!
Celebrate! Santa Claus loves thee, too!
 
Merry Christmas! (Every blessed-day! Amen!)
 
 

Plus:
 
 
 
 
Preface
(to Christmas Perpetual)
 
     Christmas Magic introduced this unique family living in a rural setting. Their holiday time of year is magic, indeed. The farmstead evokes images of a time, perhaps, past, yet yearned for by a society and culture seeking reverence, religion, solitude, instead of the hustle and bustle of modern life inhabitants running wild desperately seeking an elusive perceived value; these real people not only seem to have found it all, they truly appreciate their treasure. They espouse a sense of quality in the pursuit of living, rather than in some vacant imagined destination, often designed by others, which may or may not hold true virtue. The surprise ending is endearing.
     Christmas Perfect brought life to the little village near the farm. Stirring emotions of nostalgia in the town square, replete with holiday storefronts reminiscent of the fifties and sixties, displaying Christmas scenes, model railroads and a myriad of decorated, trees, gifts, toys and fantasy enough for young and old. The city layout is complete with parks, a bandstand, an ice skating lake; the continuation of the story lends further insight to the characters within the play. Bapa’s “secret” present holds wonder for the entire gathering as its “clone” appears. Delightful!
     Christmas Perpetual is the third offering in this Christmas Eve Trilogy: Christmas Treasures!
     A nostalgic sojourn through traditional Christmas experiences reacquaints the reader with the characters of a loving Christian family tied by blood and emotion to time honored values. The virtues displayed by this cast are those held worthy by independent, individual Americans.
     While the setting for the story is the Christmas holiday season, the meaning, the very essence, of a life worth living is timeless in its nature. Each day is an event, an important part of the ultimate adventure---life! The gift of life is for the living!  Contemplate! Enjoy!
 
Merry Christmas!
 
 
 

 
Prologue
(taken from: Christmas Perpetual!)
 
 
     A passer-by on the county road just south of the cozy farmstead could not help but notice the peace and tranquility of the living anachronism; a steady, subtle tempo beat to the cadence of a subdued drum unaffected by the hustle of modern life. The picturesque white house sat neat and tidy in appearance, yet full of surprise and excitement through a special kind of love enjoyed by the unique characters who make up this Christian family.
     Hearts full of generous warmth to all with souls alive in free spirit exuberance toward life and all God’s nature, a conscience for conservation and appreciation for the good to be found, if only the participants might but seek. What is before the eye is there, but for the taking, if intent be pure. Selfless ambition toward the benefit of others brings eternal pleasure to the giver.
     “Do unto others…” cautions man to treat those he encounters in this life with respect and honest opinion, quite simply, stated another way, tell the truth in all things, in all times. The Golden Rule encompasses those Ten Commandments which God gave Moses so many millennia ago. “Love God” clearly instructs man on his relationship with the Lord in the first three mandates while the final seven dictates obligate behavior toward his fellow human beings in a sacred “Love one another” holy decree. Like any good advice in life, the order is simple in the statement, yet, often anything but easy in the accomplishment. Pray for us sinners! Indeed!
     Only two days before Christmas, and, what could possibly happen? Another year chronicled to the exhausted calendar of spent months evaporated in a seeming instant. Yet, since the last winter holiday so much had been accomplished.
     An early Easter in March had seen the marriage of Z. Tyler and his beloved Mary Theresa. An open, white carriage had transported the bride and groom to the little country church just down the road from the farm. The little girls had literally floated into the conveyance in white dresses reflecting the bridal gown; an insistence by M.T., well received by the young maids of honor, and the entire assemblage. Yes, the new bride would fit very nicely into this family.
     Each holiday had been a celebration of life among members of the clan. Come one, come all, including friends and neighbors, alike. On through the Fourth of July with tons of fireworks; of course, Nanny made sure that Bapa had plenty of adult supervision, so there were no serious accidents, and on to a red hot Labor Day bar-b-que to Halloween and Thanksgiving; any excuse for a get together and an impromptu party. The little girls came to visit, often. They were a big help on the busy farm and turned out to be the best leaf-rakers in the state; maybe, the country.
     That Bapa! Over protests from Nanny, the only seeming adult in the household, he brought out the six foot step ladder so the urchins could climb to the top rung and parachute into the giant pile of leaves which they had gathered. When he climbed the tower, Nanny had enough and she put her foot down, issuing a stern admonition in the form of a brash scolding, and, right in front of his little playmates, too. What else could he do, under the circumstances? He jumped, twice.  She had thought that fireworks were his forte, but it became quite apparent that somebody required perpetual supervision, and it wasn’t the children. She really did not want to feel too sorry for him that night with severe pain in both his knees, but, she rubbed the liniment into the tortured tissue for him, anyway. Such is the essence, and relief, of true love.
     As we catch up with the family members preparing for the impending big event, love and chicanery, as usual, are in the air. Bapa and Z. Tyler are about to embark on their annual Good Samaritan trek up the mountain to ferry winter supplies to an old family friend. The girls are busy helping Nanny with kitchen duty, giddy and effervescent at the coming of Christmas.
     And, the rest of the family will shortly be in attendance for the holiday celebration.
     Oh! Yes! Just one more little piece of news: Z. Tyler is about to become a “Daddy” as Mary Theresa is on the threshold of delivery. Maybe, God willing, on Christmas Eve!
     That would just portend: Christmas Perpetual! Amen!
 
Merry Christmas!
Author’s Comment
(from: Christmas Perpetual!)
 
 
     I chose “Trinity Trace Publishing” as the name for my publisher. When we visited Nashville, Dad often took us to the Farmer’s market where we stocked up on fresh vegetables for our stay. He always seemed to find an extra dollar or two for a couple of watermelons which we put in wash tubs, iced them down until they were so cold they hurt your teeth when eaten and took them to Shelby Park for a picnic of fried chicken and untold goodies with the iced, sweet melons for dessert. The entire family joined in and it became a delightful event I still treasure.
     The street near the Farmer’s Market was Trinity Lane and that name, said with a southern accent like Granny had, is music to my ears, even today. I-65 has an exit just north of downtown; you guessed it---Trinity Lane. My love of that triangular Trinity image is sacred as ever present in my cognizant consciousness. I thought to use that moniker for my publishing company name, but, playing with the idea resulted in Trinity Trace. A “trace” is a slight path used by Indians before the coming of the Europeans. Trinity is explanatory of the Deity; the cross fits in, nicely.
     The Natchez Trace is a 440-mile two lane highway connecting Natchez, MS and Nashville, TN. Candy and I had the pleasure of traversing a part of it one spring. For me, it was like reliving the experience of real auto touring, prior to interstates. The scenery is gorgeous; no billboards! We even found a little General Store like the eighteen hundreds-type in a nondescript backwoods burg. All in all, the trip was most delightful. The Trace now offers recreational resources.
     So, from Trinity Lane, a landmark and cherished memory, to Natchez Trace, a duplicate of the physical and emotional reminiscence, Trinity Trace Publishing was born. Voila!
     Does anything really happen by mere chance? Of course, we have free will and get to make our own decisions, but since God already knows all, He is omniscient, everything that occurs is already history, to Him; quite obviously, not to us. That might mean “bad” luck is the result of un-smart decisions on our part. Oh! That is hard to swallow. Perhaps, we should choose wisely.
     “I love you!” is a declaration easily spoken. The narcissist quickly adds a codicil: IF.  If, you will make me proud, make me applauded, make me look good, make me…? Self-love leaves a cold heart emotionally empty while filling it with a vacant arrogant intent of self-defeating evil.
     True love is pure, a gift, without condition. It is mine to give, to offer, to bestow. It does not have to be acknowledged, reciprocated, returned, received nor even accepted. I love some who do not even know that I exist and some who wish that I did not, exist---or…love them. Still, the gift is my own; I cherish its value and my extremely personal decision of when to proclaim it.
     Subtlety is the detail which makes all life great and pleasurable. The nuance of a “trace” or the purity of “love” or the mystery of the “Trinity”, these are the adventurous events of our lives.
     Trinity Trace Publishing presents: Christmas Perpetual!  Because, “I love you!” Enjoy!
 
Merry Christmas!
 
 
 
 Plus:
 
 
 
 
 
3   Morning Chores
 
 
     A sharp, cold sting nipped at his nose as he headed across the lot to the barn, pulling his warn parka hood tight and fastening it securely with the drawstring. The wind was light but the ten degree temperature served a harsh reminder that Christmas was only two days off. Snow still lay on the frozen earth from an earlier storm. Looking out across the pasture he thought the tundra imitated a pinto horse coat with mottled brown and white blotches where the winds had scraped away the snow in patches. He found it beautiful but did not allow its seductive pleasantness to the eye to slow his pace toward the shelter offered by the sturdy wooden building.
     Once inside with Goldie, he pulled the door tight and secured it with an interior hook. It was just a tad bit warmer in the quiet interior and the barn smells caressed his senses evoking myriad memories of his days on the farm; his passion for the land and animals and life fired within him and the cold of the winter season seemed to dissolve and pass from notice. He smiled.
     Speaking a pleasant “Good morning” to the horses, he made his way to the steep, narrow stairwell leading to the hayloft; behind it, with a door leading from the hallway was housed a corncrib constructed of one-by fours spaced an inch apart to allow for air circulation to dry kernels still on the cob. Modern harvesting methods shelled corn from the cob when it was picked from the field, but the old man kept a one row picker which took the whole ear from the stalk. He preferred to feed such to the cattle; the animals ate the entire ear, shuck, kernel and cob. The old ways were good ways. Whitetail preferred the ears, too, as did the squirrels he pampered at the bird feeder in the side yard. Both the wild animals and their domesticated cousins seemed to prefer the bygone methods and tasty results. Anyway, Bapa felt it was worth the added effort.
     Baled alfalfa assaulted his nostrils as he climbed into the storage bay above the stalls. The cattle were gathered under the lean-to overhang on the south side of the barn. He forked hay to the waiting herd with his well-used pitch fork as he sliced baling twine with a corn knife kept in the loft for just such purpose. A feeder trough-manger along the wall of the barn on the lower level served to catch the fodder and the cows jockeyed and jostled for their favorite breakfast position. Bapa shook his head at the critters impossible impatience.
     “You bunch of knot-heads,” he said to none in particular, “the hay is all the same, no matter where you stand.” As an afterthought, he wondered if he should have called them a “herd” of knot-heads instead of a “bunch”; he shouldn’t have worried the thought; they seemed oblivious.
So? Why should he care? Finally, Bapa shook his head at his own inane thoughts.
     He threw down half rations to the horses in their mangers; they were in for a long ride and he did not want to over feed them before the effort ahead. A good way to cause a belly ache, or colic, in horses was to give them too much food before having them exert themselves; cold water in abundance could give the same results. Big and powerful as the equine animal was, such a thing as a severe stomach ache could easily mean its ultimate demise. Cattle had two stomachs which aided digestion, so those critters very seldom suffered from severe colic.
     However, when he climbed down the ladder from the loft, he gave each horse half of a three pound coffee can of pressed grain pellets mixed with some shelled whole corn kernels. This would provide warmth and additional stamina for the long trail ride. It was over seven miles through the valley up the mountain to Ole Sam’s cabin, uphill all the way. With an accumulation of snow already on the ground, and likely to be deeper in the higher elevations, the trip would be better than three hours, one way. Along with Ole Sam’s provisions, he would take some of the grain pellets and corn to feed the animals when they arrived at the old man’s cabin while they rested before the return trip. And, he knew from sorry experience, Ole Sam would keep him talking for at least an hour or two, bringing him up-to-date on everything in the mountains.
     Grabbing the hand ax near the side door, he exited the comfortable confines of the wood barn and headed for the lake. There, he chopped three holes in the six inch thick ice, each about three feet long and two feet wide to accommodate the cattle herd which would come for water after finishing the alfalfa hay. The horses he would lightly water about an hour before beginning the long trek. After returning the ax to the barn, he headed for the chicken house, stopping to put alfalfa in the sheep manger along the way.
     Goldie, ever present at his side, did take leave to visit the horses and to say “Hello!” to all the other critters; that they enjoyed a sense of “animal only” primal communication was obvious.
     As Bapa tended the animals, his eyes inspected each for any sign of injury or disease. Should he detect anything untoward, he would doctor it as best he knew or call the vet, if necessary. Such attention was second nature to farm-folk, a natural matter of course. Life was good!
     Because of the severe cold, he had decided to gather the eggs, himself, to spare the girls any discomfort from the weather; it was a frigid morning to be out. He shivered, involuntarily.
     While feeding the chickens, he paid special attention to old Gertie, a hen which had hatched a brood of eleven chicks just two weeks earlier. It was the wrong time of year, but, such are the anomalies of nature. It was an irregularity, to be sure, but one did not look a gift horse in the mouth. Gertie was an attentive mother hen and the chicks had all survived and were doing just great. He spread a little extra scratch feed near her and her fluffy, cheeping brood.
     Collecting the eggs from the nesting boxes, he chuckled several times as he recalled the theatrical antics of his dear Anna Marie. What she did not think of on her own, Lauren and Lexi did, and then would enlist Annie to perpetrate the assignment; she always volunteered and never disappointed. She was a caution; the three of them together were indomitable; he loved it.
     Bapa took the gathered egg bounty to the house in a large, old, woven willow basket. The women-folk were just finishing the dishes when he came in. Nanny took the offering from her husband and asked the girls to carry them to the basement, instructing them to inspect each one, wipe them with a damp cloth and place them in a cardboard crate for storage.
     Bapa nodded, warming his hands at the kitchen cook stove oven, still radiating warmth.
     “How are Gertie and her chicks?” Nanny inquired.
     The three girls’ attention immediately focused on Bapa. He hesitated before answering.
     “Oh! Bapa!” Annie exclaimed. “She’s alright, isn’t she?”
     “And, her chicks, too?” added Lauren.
     “Yeah. They’re all okay?” pleaded Lexi, hopefully.
     Bapa said, “Of course. They are doing just fine.”
“Good!” came a relieved chorus in satisfied unison.
     “Uh,” Bapa continued, a hint of warning in his voice. “She said to tell a certain little girl to be extra careful with her eggs when she tries to play a trick on her dear old Bapa.” He laughed, then continued. “She said they are really very hard to lay. Gertie said to: Just ask Bapa!”
     They all laughed. Annie shook her head and wagged a finger at her grandfather, then ran to him with a loving hug. Quickly, the other two little girls joined in the happy melee.
 

No comments:

Post a Comment