Publishing News & Links

My story, "The Christmas Helicopter," was featured at Page & Spine Magazine on December 20, 2013:  http://www.pagespineficshowcase.com/the-reading-lamp.html 

The same story appeared in Halcyon Magazine a few days later.  Here's that link:
http://halcyonmagazine.blogspot.ca/p/2013.html

A Show of Hands

Just sharing a fiction piece that is loosely based on my days as a scrapbooking consultant.  This is the final post for 2013.  Happy New Year, Sara

A SHOW OF HANDS by Sara Etgen-Baker

My hands gripped the steering wheel and guided my blue sedan as I meandered my way through miles of tree-lined, suburban back roads.  A March breeze—as tender as my grandmother’s hands—blew through my car’s open windows.   My thoughts traveled upon the soft breeze and recalled what E.E. Cummings once said about spring:  “Spring is like a perhaps hand which comes carefully out of nowhere.”  True.  Spring was a perhaps hand, for winter’s harshness had all but disappeared from the landscape, carefully replaced with a feathery softness.

Now the deep greens of the grass were swaying and dancing ever so slightly to March’s music.   The sunshine—warm and yellow—flickered through the tree line along Chateaux Creek.  Above me was a powdery, baby-blue sky dotted with white cotton candy clouds.    I soon came upon Chateaux Corners, an assisted living center nestled amongst majestic oak trees in a quiet suburban neighborhood. 

I turned into the driveway, parked my car, and turned off the ignition.  I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and wheeled it towards the entrance.   The scent of lavender flowers greeted me as I entered Chateaux Corners where I found the large French doors of the day room flung wide open; the air—light and fresh—gently blew the long, crisp, white curtains to and fro.  When I walked through the open doors, I found a group of women sitting on the verandah. 

A dainty but radiant woman wearing a delicate cream blouse and cameo brooch stood up and approached me.  “Would you like to join us for morning tea and scones?” 

“Uh…uh…sure.”  She pulled out a chair, and I pushed my suitcase off to the side.  “Morning tea sounds refreshing.  I’m a bit weary from my drive.”

 “You’ll find this tea most rejuvenating.”  Her wrinkled but elegant hands picked up an antique Wedgewood teapot and poured me a cup of tea with graceful, deliberate, and precise movements reminiscent of a ballerina en pointe.  “My goodness!  Where are my manners?”  She flashed me a smile.    “My name’s Annie.  Let me introduce you to the others.”  She turned to the other women sitting at the table.  “The red-headed woman to your right is Maxine.  Directly in front of you are Dot and Ruthie.” 

“Good morning, ladies.  Nice to meet you.”  I took a long sip of my tea and nibbled on my scone.  “Thanks for sharing your tea.  This tea is quite scrumptious and oddly a wee bit addictive.”

“Yes, my specially brewed tea is addictive.  That’s why we drink it.”  Dot giggled like a teenage girl then covered her mouth with her hands dressed in sheer, lacey white summer gloves. “It’s Green Tea Tokyo, and it’s good for you.”  She winked at Ruthie then asked me, “Would you like another cup?”

“Sure, I’d love some more.”  I handed Dot my cup.  “If I’m not mistaken, I think I taste a hint of rum in your Green Tea Tokyo.”

“Oh, you’re on to me!”  Dot snickered and returned my filled teacup then adjusted her gloves.  “It’s made with white rum added to green tea with a hint of honey, mint, and sugar syrup.  It’s the perfect morning brew.” 

“I see you have just one suitcase.”  Maxine interrupted.  “Are you a new resident?”  Maxine, a fadingly pretty woman wearing a big red hat, placed her hands on the wheels of her

wheelchair and spun in my direction.  “You don’t look old enough to be a resident.  So, what’s in that suitcase of yours and why are you at Chateaux Corners?” 

“I see Dot’s morning tea has not yet mellowed you, Maxine!  Sometimes you have the manners of a toad!”  Ruthie shifted in her chair, slipped her hands into her pocket, and turned to me.  “You’ll have to forgive Maxine.  Sometimes she speaks before she thinks about the words coming out of her mouth!”

“Not to worry, Ruthie.”  I patted her on the shoulder.  “Maxine’s just curious.”  I glanced at Maxine.  “My suitcase contains my scrapbooking supplies; Chateaux Corners asked me to show some of the ladies how to begin a scrapbook.”

 “Oh, Sweetie, we’re glad you’re here!”  Annie reached across the table and squeezed my hands.    

“We’re the only four ladies who signed up for your class.”  Maxine pulled her wheelchair closer to the table.  “And mind you.  We’ve been sitting out here on the verandah most of the morning just waiting for you.” 

“Maxine!  Remember your manners,” quipped Dot.  “And just what else did you have to do this morning anyway?” 

“I suppose we need to get started.”  I chuckled then pulled my suitcase closer to the table.  “Do you ladies want to finish your tea first?”   

“Oh, no, dearie.  We’re quite ready!” Ruthie pointed to a shoebox underneath her chair.  “I got my pictures together earlier this week just like I was told.” 

 “Before we do anything with your pictures, I was wondering.  Have you ever looked at your hands?”  I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them.  I turned them over, palms up and then palms down.  “I mean,” I looked at Maxine, “have you ever really looked at your hands?”   

“Well, I don’t like looking at them.”  Maxine narrowed her green, cat-like eyes and glared at me.  “So, no, I haven’t ever really looked at them!”

 “Why’s that, Miss Maxine?”  I turned toward her and touched her hands.

 Maxine jerked her hands away from me.  “I once had such smooth, pretty hands, but now they’re wrinkled and ugly!”  She clutched her hands together and hid them in her lap.  “Besides, they remind me that I’m getting old!”

 “Oh, don’t be such a sensitive, fussy ol’ biddy, Maxine!”  Annie sighed then sneered back at Maxine.  “You are old.”  Annie turned to me and said, “Don’t mind Maxine.  She’s always crabby in the morning.  So, please continue.” 

“Maxine, you’re hands are still quite lovely and graceful.”  I stroked her forearm.  “You’re right, though.  Our hands tell our age, but they tell us so much more.”  I held up my own hands.  “Sometimes I stop and think about my hands and how they’ve served me throughout my life.”  I took another sip of my tea.  “My hands tell the untold story of what I’ve done, where I’ve been, how I lived, and how I embraced life.”   

“I thought you’re here to help us make a scrapbook.”  Maxine fidgeted in her wheelchair. “I want to make a scrapbook—not talk about my hands!” 

 “I understand, Miss Maxine.  But humor me for just a bit.”  I looked at the four women sitting at the table.  “Although our words sometimes lie, our hands do not.  And like our lives, each pair is unique.  Because they’ve been with us all the days of our lives, our hands have quite a story to tell.”  I pushed up my glasses.  “So, your scrapbook will tell your hands’ story.”    

I handed each of them a blank scrapbook page and a pen.  “First, I’d like you to trace the outline of your hands in the center of this page.  It will be the title page for your scrapbook.”  I reached in my suitcase and pulled out some self-adhesive letters.  “Afterwards, title the page ‘The Story of My Hands’ and sign your name in the bottom, right-hand corner with today’s date.”  

I continued sipping on my tea while I waited for each of the women to trace their hands and title their first page.  When they finished, I looked at Ruthie.  “Since your shoebox is handy, would you mind showing us what’s in it?” 

Ruthie reached underneath her chair and retrieved a small, dilapidated shoebox; she opened it; closed her eyes; and slowly sniffed its contents.  “Oh my goodness!  It smells dusty like memories waiting to be explored.” 

Ruthie sifted through her pictures. “Well, I lost most of my pictures when I moved into my daughter’s house a few years ago.  So, the shoebox has just a few pictures and some newspaper clippings from World War II.”  She retrieved a picture from her box and laid it in the middle of the table.   “After I completed the nursing program at the University of Pittsburg, I joined the United States Cadet Nurse Corp.” 

“Is that you in this photo, Ruthie?” Maxine asked.  “Weren’t you the cat’s meow in your military uniform!  I didn’t know you served during the war.”

Ruthie stood up, threw back her narrow shoulders; lifted her right forearm at an angle; then she held her right hand flat, palm down with her fingers touching her brow.  “Aye, Aye.  That’s me.  I loved wearing my dress uniform—a gray wool suit with regimental red epaulets, silver insignia buttons and a sleeve patch with a silver Maltese Cross on a red ground.”  Ruthie sat down and reached inside the box.  “Oh!  And look at these.”  She opened the palm of her hand.  “These are the red epaulets and sleeve patch from my uniform!”

 Ruthie grabbed another picture.  “Here’s a picture of me and the other nurses in my squadron the day we left the States for the Philippines.”

“You were a nurse during the war?  That’s amazing!”  Dot widened her eyes.  “What was it like in the Philippines?” 

“Well, when we nurses arrived in the Philippines, it was pouring rain.  We stood outside for what seemed like hours waiting for our transport vehicle to take us to our camp.  While we waited, the rain pounded on our helmets—like rain pounding on a tin roof.”  Ruthie stared at the picture.  “When we arrived at camp, the ground was so saturated that we nurses had to move the cots we slept in to higher ground just to stay dry.  We even kept clothes under our pillows at night just to keep them dry.” 

Ruthie removed several other photos from her box.  “Here’s another picture of my squadron.”  She handed me a picture of a group of weary looking young nurses eating outside from their mess kits.  “I’d forgotten just how primitive the conditions were.  I remember that I wore my beige seersucker duty uniform for a month without being able to wash it.  My helmet was my bathtub, and the latrine was uphill in a dug-out trench with a canvas screen around it, open to the sky and the pilots who flew overhead.” 

Ruthie closed her eyes and sighed.  “When I heard our first convoy of battle patients was coming, I was both nervous and excited.  I could finally do the work I’d come to do.  Many of the battle patients arrived with shrapnel and bullet wounds.”  Her hands quivered.  “Others had injuries from hand grenades—often to the chests, abdomen, and head.” 

Ruthie wrung her hands.  “I had my hands full with all those mutilated bodies.”  She studied her hands then turned them over, palms up and then palms down.  “Now that I really look at my hands, I can tell you that they witnessed the horrors of war.”  “These hands also comforted many an ailing soldier; and when a soldier succumbed to his battlefield wounds, the fingers on these hands closed his eyelids.”    She dug in her pocket for a tissue and wiped tears from her eyes.  “Then, I’d kneel in silence beside him, fold my hands together in prayer, and reverently drape a white sheet over his body.” 

“Oh, Sweetie, you were so young and so brave!”  Annie clapped her hands together and applauded.  “I never served during the war and certainly have never been as courageous as you were.” 

“I wasn’t brave enough either to serve in the war.”  Dot took a bite from her scone and placed it on her plate.  “But when the men in our family were called into service during World War II, my baby sister and I became ranch hands on my family’s ranch just outside Tucson.” 

She handed Ruthie a picture.  “Here’s a picture of the two of us building a feeding trough for the cows.”

Dot leafed through her pictures.  “Here’s another picture; this is me on my horse, Biggles.  Before the men left, I didn’t know the first thing about caring for or riding a horse.  So, my grandfather taught me how to groom and tack; then most days my hands held the reins as I happily rode Biggles across the pasture looking for stray livestock and holes in the fences.” 

“I’ve never even been close to a ranch.”  Maxine wrinkled her nose.  “I just cringe thinking about the sickening smell of horses, cows, and manure.”

“I have to confess.  At first the smell was pretty hard to take.  But my sister and I….well….we had to learn how to be ranch hands and do many unpleasant and difficult tasks.  Before the war, my life had been pretty easy; and I didn’t realize that ranching was such a tough life.”  Dot stared at her hands.  “Back then my fingers and hands were nimble and smooth; now my fingers are gnarled a little like the limbs of an ancient oak tree—twisted and toughened by the trials they’ve faced.  That’s why I wear these gloves.”  She thought for a moment.  “But you’re right.  My hands do have a story to tell.  Their deep lines are like a roadmap of my life.” 

“These hands of mine fed and watered the cows and calves every day.  They branded the cows and gave them their vaccinations.  In the spring they built and mended fences and seeded the pasture.  ” Then her face beamed.  “What I liked the most was helping a cow birth her calf and performing after care.”

Maxine eased her wheelchair away from the table and flinched.  “Oh, that’s just disgusting!  I could never….Why?”

 “Well, you could if you had to….if you want your cow and calf to live.” Dot thought for a moment.  “Besides, the birthing process simply fascinated me.  After the men returned home, that fascination got me my first job at ‘The Stork’s Nest,’ a maternity home just outside of Tucson.”  Dot unrolled a piece of brittle, discolored parchment paper.  “Oh, I thought I’d lost this.  Look!  Here’s my midwife certificate!”  Her fingers stroked the paper as if to touch the memories it ignited.

“Tell me, Sweetie,” interrupted Annie,” what did your hands do as a midwife?”

“When a baby moves down the narrow birth canal, contractions rush through the birth mother’s body like a tidal wave surging towards land.  So, my hands soothed and massaged her neck and shoulders during those contractions.  Then,” Dot cupped her hands,” when the baby exited the birth canal, my hands took the baby, lifted it up, and spanked its tiny bottom bringing life-giving oxygen to the newborn’s lungs.”  Dot placed her hands over her heart.  “Then my hands cleaned the newborn baby, wrapped it in a blanket, and placed it in its mother’s arms.”  Dot thought for a moment.  “I never tired of the experience, for each time a baby was born, these hands witnessed a miracle.” 

“Bravo!”  Maxine clapped her hands and rolled her eyes.  “You were the righteous midwife who went from soothing birthing cows to soothing birthing mothers!  Bravo!” 

 “Maxine!  Your comment was uncalled for.  You shouldn’t be that way.”  Annie pointed her index finger and shook it at Maxine.  “Shame on you!  I don’t understand why you act that way.  Sometimes you’re so cynical and downright smug!  Honestly!”

Maxine flung her shawl over her shoulders and glared at Annie.  “Not everyone’s Fifth Avenue like you.  Not everyone’s had a privileged life!”

 “Ladies, please!”  I intervened.  “Why don’t one of you tell us your hands’ story?  Miss Maxine?  How ‘bout you, Miss Annie?”

“You go ahead, Annie.”  Maxine crossed her arms and pouted.  “I’m not ready.”

“Alright, Maxine.”  Annie peered over her glasses.  “If you’re sure.” 

            Maxine looked down at the table and nodded. 

            “Like Dot, I have a certificate to show you.”  Annie opened a small, manila envelope and unfolded a crisp, well-preserved certificate.  “I grew up in Pine Lake, Georgia, where I attended cosmetology school.  Shortly after I received this certificate, I began styling hair in a local beauty salon.  For two years I worked there and saved my money then opened my own shop on the other side of town. 

            Annie handed me a crumpled, grainy, black and white photo and pointed at a shirtless man standing on the beach wearing only a pair of shorts and sandals.  “I met this man one summer while vacationing at Sea Camp Beach; we married three months later.”  Annie found another photo.  “This is Henry and I on our wedding day.”

 “He looks debonair like Gary Grant!” commented Ruthie.

            “He was.”  Annie blushed.  “Henry was handsome, but he was bad business.  His hands were hard and rough; they were violent and strong—not the strength of a laborer, but the strength of a soldier stuck in the echoes of his past recalling the battlefield and lamenting on the would have’s and should have’s.”  Annie stopped and moaned.  “His hands had a grip that I knew, even without questioning, had taken the lives of others.  We were married just six months when his hands struck me the first time.” 

            Ruthie gasped and pulled Annie into a side hug.  “Dearie, I’m so sorry.  I had no idea.  What did you do?”

            “After another six months, I packed my suitcases and moved into the back of my beauty salon.”

            Maxine stiffened her hands into fists then looked up.  “Weren’t you afraid he’d find you?”

            “Yes, at first.”  Annie rested her chin in her left hand.  “Strange how things worked out.  My beauty salon was next door to a funeral home.  A couple of the morticians noticed I was living in the salon; so, they agreed to watch over my place and protect me, but one night their beautician quit unexpectedly.  They had two bodies to prepare for funerals the next morning.  So, I helped them out.”

            “I would’ve had the heebie jeebies,” Ruthie said as she fiddled with the pictures in her hands, “touching dead people.”

 “I have to admit.  In the beginning, I was terrified.  “Annie took a deep breath then snickered.  “But the morticians cracked me up.  They didn’t want to leave me alone in the basement with the two dead bodies.  So, they wheeled the bodies into the showroom.  Then they told me their names and introduced me to them—like they were alive.”

            “Now, that’s plain ol’ creepy,” Dot said.  “I wonder why they did that?”

            “I suppose they knew I was frightened; I think they thought seeing the deceased as real people would help my fear.  Anyway, they left me alone in the showroom to wash and style their hair.  Since I only had to style the sides and front of the hair, styling didn’t take long.  But,” Annie laughed, “it wasn’t easy.”

            “Whatever do you mean?” I asked.

            “Do you know how hard it is to style hair when someone’s stiff and lying down?”  Everyone chuckled.  “But I wanted to get their hair to look like it did when they were alive and standing up.  After I finished styling the hair, one of the morticians brought me a makeup kit and handed me pictures of the deceased.  ‘Would you be comfortable,’ he asked, ‘applying some makeup to their faces?  Their faces need to look natural for the families to remember their loved ones’.” 

Annie lifted the teapot and warmed her tea.  “So, I applied enough makeup to put natural color back in their cheeks and erase the pale tint in their lips.  When I finished, he told me that I had a knack for transforming the body into a ‘memory picture.’  Since I needed the money and liked working with the morticians, I continued helping on a part-time basis.” 

Ruthie squirmed in her chair.  “I’m afraid of death and would have been squeamish working in a funeral home.” 

            “I was uncomfortable at first and sometimes had nightmares.  But after a while I got used to it.  Sometimes I cried when I saw a dead person, especially a child.   Sometimes, though, families make strange requests.”  Annie scooted back in her chair and laughed.  “We had a dead clown once.  His whole family was clowns, and all his friends were clowns.  So, the family wanted him buried in full clown costume with clown makeup.  On the day of the funeral and at the family’s request, the morticians and staff were clowns, too.”

Annie took off her glasses and chewed on the tip of the ear piece.  “After a while, I developed a sense of calmness to what I did.  My clients always looked so peaceful, and they always seemed like they were in a better place.  So, I closed my beauty salon and became a full-time mortuary beautician.”  

            Dot scooted her chair closer to the table and pressed her palms to her cheeks.  “Why did you do such a thing, Annie?  Why would you rather work with the dead rather than the living?” 

            “Well, dead people don’t complain.  But in a beauty salon people talked constantly and either complained about their lives or gossiped about other people’s lives.”  Annie leaned back in her chair.  “All that mindless chatter was annoying.   I enjoyed being surrounded by the silence and reverence in a funeral home.  Most of the time, I felt creative—like an artist holding paint brushes in my hand.  I liked painting a portrait of the deceased for the family and friends to carry with them in their hearts.” 

Annie pushed her cup of tea toward the center of the table.  “And, like Dot, I never tired of the experience, for each time that I prepared a body, I felt as if I’d witnessed a miracle—the beginning of a new life beyond the physical one.”  Annie pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and cleaned her glasses.  “Now when I look at my hands, I know they’ve learned to embrace and respect death as much as life.”

            A soft cloud of silence drifted over the table.  Then, Maxine reached across the table, patted Annie’s hands, and broke the silence.    

“I don’t have many pictures and don’t have a certificate to show you.”  Maxine fiddled with her bracelet and sighed.  “I…uh…don’t know where to begin.  I guess I’ll begin with my father.  Annie, he was a rough man like your Henry.  He was a grifter and ride jockey who traveled the carnival circuit throughout Texas and Oklahoma.  So, I grew up like a gypsy roaming the country side and living in tents and trailers. 

“Because I lived in Tucson most of my life, I felt secure in the comfort of my family and my roots.”  Dot ran her hands through her hair.  “But a carnival must’ve been an unstable and shady place to grow up, right?” 

“I suppose so.  But the carnival life was the only life I knew, and I thought everyone lived that way.”  Maxine closed her eyes as if to savor her past.  “The air, especially at night, always felt electric; and I imagined that I was living in a magical glitter-filled city.”  

“Did you have friends?”  Ruthie asked.

 “Oh, sure!  My friends were the other kids who traveled with their parents.  While our parents worked the rides, the other kids and I played a game called ‘reading the midway.’ 

Annie placed her elbows on the table and moved forward.  “What kind of children’s game is that?  I’ve never heard of it.” 

“We walked up and down the midway with our heads down looking for lost money that people dropped.  We kids combined the loose change we’d found and bought our meals at one of the concession stands.  What kid doesn’t like growing up eating corn dogs, hot dogs, French fries, and cotton candy?”

 “What ride did your father run?” asked Annie.

“He operated several but usually operated what was called a ‘shake machine’.”

“I’ve never heard of a ‘shake machine.’  Dot tilted her head sideways.  “What kind of ride was it?”   

“Oh, it’s a ride that naturally tends to shake change loose from the riders’ pockets.  But these rides tend to produce plenty of vomit as well.  Anyway, my dad liked the ‘shake machine’ because he could ‘keep his shakes.’  So, after the carnival closed, my father had me crawl under the ride and pick up ‘his shakes’.” 

“Oh my, Maxine!  How revolting!”  Ruthie pulled Maxine into a side hug.  “You got to keep the money, right?”

 “No!  Of course not.”  Maxine squeezed her hands together.  “My father was nothing but a boozehound who used his ‘shakes’ to buy his booze.”  Maxine shifted in her chair then changed the subject.    

“When I was 16, I began working admissions at the carnival taking the tickets and stamping the hands.”  Maxine turned to me and laid her hands on the table.  “My hands touched hand after hand, and I was captivated by the different hands I stamped.  Some hands had long, slender fingers while others were thick and muscular.  Some were smooth and had rings and nail polish while others were calloused and had hangnails and cuts.  There were strong hands and weak hands.  There were cold, clammy hands and warm, affectionate hands.  Some hands were delicate and light while others were scarred and heavy.” 

 “After closing one night, I crawled under my father’s ride and collected his ‘shakes’ but kept them for myself.  When I refused to give him his ‘shakes,’ his face reddened like a raging volcano; he clenched his hands together and locked them into fists.  Before I could shield myself, he drew back and struck my face so hard that I immediately fell to the floor.”

“Oh, sweetie, that’s frightening!”  Dot’s mouth fell open.  “What did you do?”  

“The only thing I could do.”  Maxine pushed up her shirt sleeves.  “I packed my suitcase, took the money I’d earned, and hitched a ride to Dallas where my aunt lived.” 

“Oh, Maxine!”  You were so brave!  The carnival life was no place for a teenage girl.”  Annie took one of Maxine’s hands.  “How did you survive?”

Maxine’s eyes sparkled.  “I turned my fascination for hands into becoming a hand model.”  Then she dumped out a box full of wrinkled, yellowed newspaper clippings and dog-eared, dull-looking magazine advertisements.  “These are the only memories I have; they’re pictures of advertisements and newspaper clippings where my hands held different products.” 

Ruthie rummaged through Maxine’s box.  Oh my!  What a glamorous job!”

“Yes, I suppose being a model of any type is glamorous.  But it’s more than looking pretty.”  Maxine struck a familiar pose with her hands.  “The hardest thing was learning how to hold my hands in a particular position for hours on end.  Even though I’m really proud of the places that my hands have been, neither I nor my hands were ever the star.  Still, I think it’s neat that lots of folks have seen my hands, yet nobody knows it.” 

 Then Maxine buried her head in her hands and wept.  “When I was a little girl, I believed there was a clock in my heart, one with little hands that would tick forever.  I wish someone had told me how easily those hands could be broken, how quickly the clock would stop, and how there is no rewind button.  If I’d known, I would’ve paid more attention to time.  I would’ve paid more attention to the people around me.  I would’ve paid more attention to everything.”  Maxine wiped the tears from her eyes and looked around the table.  “I would’ve done something more significant with my hands.”   

I reached over the table and touched Maxine’s hands.  They were warm and tender to the touch.  And although they were aged and weary from the scars she carried from her life, her hands were translucent, supple, and beautiful.  They’d aged well.  Maxine looked directly at me, smiled, and whispered, “Thank you.” 

The mid-afternoon soon drenched the verandah, and a warm hush settled over the table.  I scanned the table and marveled at the circumstances and hardships these four women had so graciously endured.  While they finished their scrapbooks, my thoughts turned inward.  I looked down at my own hands and thought about their story. 

My hands began as tiny instruments that learned to color and write.  Later, they held wooden pencils, snatched fireflies from the night sky, and waved sparklers on the Fourth of July.  As a teen, they chased dreams on moonbeams and grasped opportunity.  As a graduate student, they waved protest signs and hoped to change the world.  As a bride-to-be, they quivered when they took my husband’s hands and we stepped out on faith not knowing what the future held. 

They slowly matured, held teacher’s chalk, and graded countless essays.  Later, they trembled with sorrow when I dropped the first clump of dirt onto my father’s untimely grave.  They touched out of love, held me while I cried, and wiped away many a tear as I fell asleep.    And through their trials and tribulations, my hands became older, stronger, and wiser. 

For the time being, they are the reflective hands of a writer who understands that aging, like spring, was a perhaps hand which came carefully out of nowhere.  Aging was a perhaps hand, for life’s harshness has all but disappeared from the landscape of my life, carefully replaced with a feathery gentleness.   

 

 

When Santa Claus Came to Town

THE CHRISTMAS HELICOPTER—WHEN SANTA CLAUS CAME TO TOWN

By Sara Etgen-Baker

Inside our home, the Christmas lights twinkled; the tinsel glistened; the ornaments sparkled; and the Christmas tree silently awaited Santa’s arrival. I peered out our living room window and noticed that newly fallen snow had blanketed the neighborhood streets; the barren, frost-covered trees shivered like frail skeletons trembling in the blustery winds; and silent icicles hung from the shimmering housetop roofs.

The mercury had dipped well below freezing, so mother wrapped me in my heaviest coat; forced my hands into last year’s mittens; and covered my ears with my father’s furry ear muffs. When I stepped outside, I watched my warm breath mingle with the crisp, cold air as it stung my cheeks. The gentle snow crunched under my boots as we began the one-mile trek from our house to the downtown plaza where Santa was scheduled to arrive.

As I stood in the plaza with the other children, Christmas waved its magic wand over me. So when I looked up in the sky, I was certain that off in the distance I saw Rudolph, heard Santa’s sleigh bells jingling, and believed that Santa would arrive shortly. Suddenly though, I glanced above me and discovered that I wasn’t hearing sleigh bells at all. Rather, I was hearing the pole-mounted Christmas bells swaying in the wind. I continued to wait, though, in the bone-crunching cold—the kind of cold that wrenches a child’s spirit—until I heard an unfamiliar sound approach the crowd of children.

I heard a steady but rhythmic wop-wop, wop-wop sound; then out of nowhere, a red helicopter emerged from the wintry sky and slowly descended toward us. The propellers beat the cold air into submission until the helicopter gently landed a few feet from me. In disbelief, I watched as Santa turned off the engine, grabbed his bag of toys, disembarked, and headed straight toward me and the other children shouting, “Ho, Ho, Ho! Merry Christmas boys and girls! Hope you’ve been good this year.”

For some reason, Santa’s unconventional arrival both shocked and disturbed me and ignited some fiery questions in my mind. So later when I approached Santa, my burning curiosity took on a life of its own as I blurted out, “Where’s your sleigh, Santa? Why didn’t you ride it into town?”

“Well, little lady…it’s at the North Pole being repaired.”

“What’s wrong with your sleigh?” I continued.

“Just some minor repairs…nothing for a little girl to worry about,” he retorted.

“Who’s fixing it?” I further inquired.

“Well, the magical elves are, of course,” he curtly replied.

Then logic diluted my childhood naivety, and I quickly formulated some more serious questions: “But I thought elves made toys! Will they really be able to fix your sleigh in time? How will you deliver presents all over the world without it….and…and,” I stammered, “What about Rudolph and all the other reindeer?”

My innocent persistence rendered Santa speechless; he nervously cleared his throat and disapprovingly raised his right eyebrow—which was brown rather than white like his beard. In that instant, the Santa Claus illusion was gone forever.

I cried as I climbed off Santa’s lap, and my mother lovingly wrapped me in her arms; wiped away my tears; and said, “You’re gonna be okay, sweetie. You’re so smart, and I’m proud of you for discovering the truth.”

Then, mother got down on her knees, looked me straight in the eyes, and explained, “Santa Claus is a wonderful made up story like the storybooks you read in school. Even though the stories aren’t true, you like them any way, right?”

Reluctantly, I said “Yes,” then sniffled back my tears.

“Well,” she continued, “Sometimes storybook writers make up stories to tell lessons or share something important. The story of Santa Claus is like that; it’s made up to tell children about the spirit of kindness and giving—that’s what’s important. Do you understand, sweetie?”

Her honesty comforted me as I began to acknowledge the nonexistence of Santa Claus. Her forthrightness also allowed me to reconstruct a more mature reality in light of the new evidence I’d witnessed that day. In the end, the day’s events actually prepared me for adulthood, for my mother wisely taught me how to maintain a grip on reality independent of the stories I’d eventually hear and the disillusionments I’d experience as an adult.

 

News from Story Circle Network

Story Circle Network is an organization whose mission is to promote women writers.  It's a multi-faceted organization that has helped and encouraged me along my writing journey.  Here's a link to "Members in Print"--where women who've been published are recognized:
http://www.storycircle.org/MembersInPrint.php

RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME

RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME

North Texas summers are always hot, humid, and quite dry, but in the summer of 1959 North Texas felt like a furnace. The scorching sunlight and intense heat ignited one of the worst droughts on record.  I was only about 9 years old but I remember that the sidewalks sizzled and roasted my bare feet, and the July heat permeated the already parched ground in front of our home, leaving huge cracks and crevices.  The grassy lawns yellow and burnt smelled like bales of hay that had been sitting in the summer fields too long. 

We couldn’t afford air conditioning so Mother always opened the windows wide—even  though the air outside was motionless.  As the day progressed the heat singed the air in our tiny two-bedroom home, making it feel stagnant, oppressive, and suffocating.  I often spent my summer days quietly sitting by the open windows reading a book, and—despite the motionless air—smelling the sweet smell of mother’s honeysuckle vines.

Occasionally, I escaped outdoors riding my Schwinn bike up and down the neighborhood streets pedaling at high speed until I could feel bursts of warm air blowing across my face and shoulders.  When I stopped, I could both feel and see the heat waves rising up around me—baking my bones and roasting the rubber tires. 

 

I thought about riding my bike to the city pool and jumping into the cool, clear water.  I stopped, for I knew better than to go without asking my mother.  So I pedaled home as fast as I could. 

“It’s soooo hot, Mama!  May I go swimming today?”

“No, sweetie, you may not.  It’s too expensive to go swimming.”

“But I want to go swimming - all the other kids are going swimming,”

“No!” Mother peeked over the newspaper she was reading.  “Don’t ask me again!”

I pouted and marched past her.  “Well, fine! I’m running away from home—to Granny’s house.  I bet she’ll take me swimming.”

With that proclamation, I entered my bedroom and slammed the door—huge mistake.  My mother had zero tolerance for back talking and door slamming.  “Granny lived 20 miles away and too far away to pedal on my bike.  What was I thinking?” I thought to myself.

Surprisingly, mother didn’t immediately appear at my door.  She eventually opened my bedroom door brandishing a doll suitcase and a brown paper bag stating, “If you’re going to run away, you’ll need a suitcase.  Let me help you pack a few things.”

With that mother opened my dresser drawers; grabbed a change of clothes and my pajamas; she then gently closed the lid and said, “I’ve called your grandmother, and she’s expecting you.  Oh, here’s a sack lunch with a peanut butter sandwich and bag of potato chips.  Now, give me your wrist.”

Next, mother tied one of her delicate handkerchiefs around my wrist and told me, “Be careful with this.  Inside it is 25 cents so you can stop along the way and get something to drink.”

I stood in front of her speechless and dumbfounded.  She took my hand and escorted me out the front door placing my lunch sack and tiny suitcase in the rear saddlebags of my Schwinn bike.  “Now call me when you get to Granny’s house.”  She hugged me.  “I love you.”

She calmly turned around, went inside, closing the screen door behind her.  Even though my ego was bruised, I had to save face.  I felt that I now had no other option but to hop aboard my bike.  So, I rode my bike to a nearby park, camped under a huge shade tree, cried, and listened to the locusts’ soothing summertime lullaby.  When I awoke, I smelt the handkerchief; it smelled like my mother.  I knew I had to go home. 

As I pedaled home I wondered what I should say and do if mother would, in fact, let me back home.  I parked my bike removing the suitcase and sack lunch then gingerly opened the screen door.  As I entered the living room, mother momentarily looked up from her crossword puzzle and said, “Glad you’re home.”

I returned to my bedroom, unpacked my suitcase, and then ventured back to the living room where I sat next to mother on the couch.  She hugged me in silence, smiled, and kissed me on the forehead.  Thankfully, my mother was not prone to indignation, guilt, or “I told you so.” 

Instead, she lovingly taught me a life lesson without ever saying a word—running away is never a solution for disappointment, frustration, and anger.   

 

An Adventure....

THE GREATEST ADVENTURE OF ALL   by Sara Etgen-Baker

 

            “Bow to your corner; bow to your partner; join hands and circle left.”  Petticoats swished and boots shuffled across the wooden gym floor.  I watched the dancers from the sidelines, feeling once again like an awkward seventh grader at my first junior high dance.   “Allemande left……weave the ring.”  But once the music stopped, dancers dispersed as single men went to one side of the gym and single women to the other. 

       I stood with the other women clutching my empty dance card in my left hand.  As the music for the final dance began, a red-headed, bearded man wearing cowboy boots strolled toward me.  He extended his right hand then reached for mine.  “Would you care to dance the last tip?”  Without saying a word, I placed my hand in his and followed him onto the dance floor. 

After the last tip, he escorted me to the front door.  “May I walk you to your car?” 

I nodded.  “Yes.  That would be lovely.”    

While the flame red harvest moon sank upward, we sat on the hood of my car and talked.  His aura grabbed me like the moon pulling the tide, and the hours passed imperceptibly.  As the harvest moon sank downward, the morning dew formed on my car’s windows. 

“Oh!”  He jumped off the hood.  “We need to get to work!”  He extended his hand and eased me down to the ground.  “May I see you again?”  We exchanged phone numbers and went our separate ways. 

As with most new friendships, getting to know one another was joyous, magical, and transformational.  He gathered the pieces I was and somehow gave them back to me all in order.  Even after marriage, we remained friends and developed an extraordinarily strong, almost holy connection that became life-giving for us both.                                    

We’ve entrusted one another with our imperfections.  We’ve suffered through painful but rewarding trials and tribulations and learned to forgive.  Forgiveness became our friendship’s biggest gift.  Now our friendship serves as a profound reminder that friendship is the greatest adventure of all—full of risks but also full of endless possibilities.