Choosing a better way
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A blizzard. A death. An unexpected inheritance. A new cottage and township. Honest characters. Venal characters. Deception and betrayal. A stressful experience. A mysterious parcel. A touch of magic. A simple Christmas Truth. An unexpected change of heart.
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‘The WORST WHITEOUT IN ALMOST A CENTURY’ the radio stations blared. Most cities, and townships, in a 600 mile radius, were snowbound and commerce had ground to a halt. It was terrifying. People in the north were constrained to remain indoors and survive on what they’d stockpiled. The blizzard shut down air-travel, buried roadways, and had forced the deferment of all postal service and deliveries. It was during this storm my story began.
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The notification of my Aunt Helen’s passing had been delayed in reaching me. As a consequence I was unable to respond or attend her services. The emotional dilemma this caused consumed me, and for days I moped around my flat aimlessly with little appetite. My housekeeper, Mrs. Morrison, was concerned about my mournful mood and threatened several times to call in a physician. Each time though, I managed to assuage her concerns with the idea that it was only a temporary malaise, and I would soon be myself again. Softly, she would ever acquiesce and return to her duties.
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After several weeks the storm began to dissipate. Joy was widespread with the reappearance of sunshine and blue skies, especially in the north. When the roads had reopened, commerce and postal deliveries began anew, and life regained a sense of normalcy. A registered letter arrived one day unexpectedly from my Aunt Helen’s lawyer. It informed me that I was now the sole inheritor of her spacious cottage, and the library her Father’s clan had been amassing for eight decades. The news caused a strange stupefaction in me, and for some time all I could do was gaze out the window. Some days later, Mr. McBain, the estate lawyer, arrived on my doorstep. After we’d sorted through all the minutiae involved in transference, I signed the papers, and then preparations to move to our new home in Culpepper commenced.
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Two months later
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Mrs. Morrison was going to be away several days visiting family. She proposed that while she was gone, I visit the shops and restaurants in Culpepper to find the ones that would meet our needs. Agreeing, I embarked on my adventure the morning she departed. Downtown, along the main thoroughfare, an established eatery - ‘Savory Fare’ - caught my eye. Inside, a warm ambiance moved me. Within moments I was approached and directed to a window table. The waiter was well-mannered and the menu offered the diner a unique variety of delightful cuisines. During the meal a man and a woman approached me.
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“Might we have a moment Mr. MacMillan?” The man smiled.
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Curious to know how they knew me I nodded and motioned towards the chairs. Both introduced themselves as ‘township greeters’. They informed me they’d found out about the change of ownership (of the cottage) from city hall and had been looking forward to meeting me personally. For a while the conversation was cordial. But after several minutes the tone shifted. Postures straightened. Expressions turned serious. Then both began explicating Culpepper’s investment opportunities, politicizing the Mayor’s past achievements in a current context, and offering their ‘expert’ advice on how I could enhance my status in the townships social hierarchy. None of it held any appeal for me. Given my love of quietude, nature, and books, I had no intention of involving myself in Culpepper’s pro-forma administration, nor its dramas. I’d never been one to socialize for advancement and I wasn’t about to change. For several months after that the unexpected visits stopped.
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It was Sunday the 12th of May. Mrs. Morrison was away again visiting family, and I was seated once again at my favorite window table in ‘Savory Fare’. Today I’d chosen the Chef’s special: Port wine Braised Boneless Beef short-ribs, with Crimini Mushroom sauce, Yukon Gold Mashed Potatoes, Creamy Corn, and Key Lime Pie for desert. While I was waiting, the new social director walked in and waved. She captured me at once with her sharp attire, flowing auburn hair, high cheekbones, and piercing hazel eyes. I informed her that I’d already ordered, and asked that if she cared to join me, I would buy her luncheon. Warmly consenting, she sat down and began to engage me in polite causerie. For a while the woman’s genteel nature intrigued me and we flowed together like an easy-stream. When we’d finished eating, and dishes were cleared, she asked me, out-of-the-blue, if I would host the Mayors ‘Pachisi Club’ the third Wednesday of each month. I was floored a bit with the forwardness of the question, and for some moments stared at her quizzically. Fully knowin, if I accepted, that I would be compromising the serenity of my campestral seclusion; I refused, and excused myself. The woman’s eyes flared as I got up to leave, and she told me not to bother paying for her meal. An important part of her nature became quite clear to me in that instant. As it turned out; two days later, mid-morning, a black sedan arrived at my cottage. It was the Mayor. With some trepidation I opened the door.
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“Mayor Tomlinson… what an unexpected surprise.”
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“Indeed Mr. MacMillan. I require some of your time to discuss a matter of great importance; one you are keenly equipped to help me with.”
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The request was blunt, and no effort was made to conceal that she was here to get something from me. Still, despite this, and in an effort to be civil, I invited her in for Tea and Danish. When she’d been seated, Mrs. Morrison caught my eye with a disdainful look. For almost an hour then, between the Mayor’s blunt petitions, and my housekeeper’s rankled expressions, I felt like a loose can on a heaving ship. When she’d at last finished an uneasy silence prevailed in the room for some moments. Finally her expression tightened and she sat erect.
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“Well, Mr. Macmillan; I need an answer. Will you host the Pachisi Club?”
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Mrs. Morrison slid a finger across her throat. She did not like the woman. After excusing myself, and some minutes were spent in heated debate, both of us resolved to give it a try. With as much sang-froid as I could muster I returned and acceded to relinquish my home once a month for the remainder of the year. The Mayor stood with a toplofty expression, shook my hand, and thanked me for making a wise decision. As it turned out; for the next seven months hosting the event was thankfully not at all what we’d expected. Aside from the Mayor’s buttery-politicizing; the guests were all polite, witty, well-mannered, and gracious, and the only drama we ever encountered was when the younger players lost the game.
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Regrettably, in mid-December, a dark cloud appeared. At dinner one evening I overheard another table discussing how urgently the Mayor needed a new bill passed before years end. Evidently the wealthy northern constituency was the only group that could make this happen. In an effort to gain their support, (and realizing as I listened, that I’d never been consulted about it) the Mayor had taken it upon herself to invite this unpopular group to my home for December’s event. Most of the morning, Sunday, we were swamped with calls from the regular guests. Each had read the article in the morning paper and were outraged with what the Mayor had done. Because they wanted nothing to do with the northerners, the entire group refused to attend the Christmas event. It was infuriating. But what could I do? Especially now. I was obligated. I couldn’t back out. The decorations were already up, and the beverages and food had already been delivered.
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The morning of the event...
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The northern coterie stormed my home en-masse. Within minutes all of them began snubbing everything; the Christmas decorations, the furniture, the library, the ‘first editions’, the paintings, the carpets, the woodwork, the curios, the music; everything had something wrong with it. It was appalling. But then it turned into something else entirely. When they’d tired of belittling the cottage, they turned on one another and began competing snobbishly to impress and outdo everything the other was suggesting or doing. Wrapped up in themselves; each began ordering us about, presumptuously flitting and flicking, imbibing and gorging with abandon, being as gourmands and stupid nincompoops, laughing rakishly at one another’s blusters, and all of them incognizant of anything except their own personal needs. It was the worst display of arrogant self-centeredness I’d ever known.
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Around the 5th hour Mrs. Morrison motioned to rendezvous with her in the pantry. The poor woman was outraged and her blistering tone burned my ears. “Assholes; all of ‘um. Not ‘a one of ’um worth a twit. I’m tellin’ ya’ Mr. MacMillan, if somethin’ doesn’t give, I canna be responsible for me actions. I’ve had it!” With all the heart I could muster I exhorted her to stay as detached as possible and to protect her heart at all costs. I swore to her, and crossed my heart, that never again would we be hosting anything for this Mayor. This promise seemed to set her heart at ease, and she returned to her duties with newfound courage.
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Despite what fortitude we’d mustered, we continued being the recipients of more snobbish presumption than we’d ever imagined possible. Nearing the 7th hour Mrs. Morrison’s eyes were glaring. She had clearly reached her limit; that fragile frame-of-mind, where one more ‘snooty-nose’ request was going to entirely extinguish her Christmas spirit. My spirit too was being quashed, and I was in a place now where calling the constable to end this had become a tempting option. It was quite evident that the Mayor had misused our good-natures for the very last time. Never again would we be used in such a way.
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During the 8th hour it ended; the prigs returned to their netherworld; cottage harmony returned, and Mrs. Morrison had retired to her room. I was in the library near a crackling fire, sipping a steaming mug of ‘Canneberge Grenade’, listening to Edvard Grieg’s ‘Peer Gynt Suite’, and debating, as I scanned the bookshelves, whether or not I wanted to take up Charles Dickens ‘A Christmas Carol’ again to bolster my waning Christmas spirit. Ironically, just as I was reaching for the book, a sudden raucous knocking resounded through the house.
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“SPECIAL DELIVERY…” a gruff voice proclaimed.
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At once I hastened to the vestibule. Lying on the carpet was a weatherworn parcel. The return address caught my eye; there was no name, just a number. I recalled at that moment, Mrs. Smatterman’s geography class, where I’d learned that an address, numbered in such a sequence, had to originate somewhere up in the Arctic Circle. With growing curiosity I returned to the library to scrutinize it. The parcel was frayed and smudged. A dozen children’s faces adorned the package; happy faces, funny faces, smiling faces, gentle faces, and, on a large sticker across the bottom; a sad reindeer was sitting on his rump in a leg-cast. Standing next to it was an elf, in elfish-regalia, smiling impishly, with a long curved pipe in his hand. The letter was sealed with wax. Odd really, because no one (as far as I knew) had sealed anything in such a way since the turn of the century. As soon as I’d broken the seal a strong odor of peppermint filled the area. From inside, I pulled out a note, folded in half, with ‘Read First’ written on it. There was also a larger sheet, folded in fours, with ‘Read Next’ on it. When I turned the parcel over two old coins tumbled into my hand. Chuckling; I rubbed them together and then placed them on the tea-table. Not knowing what to expect I picked up ‘Read First’. It read:
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‘I was saddened, Mr. Macmillan, to hear of your Aunt Helen’s passing. A generous woman she was; one I truly admired and loved. A helping hand indeed goes far to help someone in need. We are not here to play sir, to dream, to drift, we have hard work to do and loads to lift. Shun not the struggle; face it. Be strong and remember… much descends on us at times to steal our joy. I regret what you both went through today. I’ve included what was intended for Helen in this. She would have known what to do. Hopefully you will too. Don’t be discouraged. Life passes you know. And so do the trials we endure. Remember what’s important.’
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I felt my spirits lifted with the mystery of how this could be. How could this person know my name? Or that I was living here? And how could they know what we’d just been through, and then given us encouragement the very day it’d happened? With no answers, I laid it with the coins and opened ‘Read Next’. It read: ‘To all the Lads and Lasses Helen loves…
‘I’ve got a problem
A conundrum if you will
The reindeers have been arguing
And mama’s taken ill
I wanted something special
To give to you this year
But no one wants to help me
The world is rife with fear
All the elves are ailing now
A sad affair indeed
I just don’t have the wherewithal
No tricks left up my sleeve
I hope that you will understand
The quandary that we’re in
And ask the Lord for wisdom
And help this year to live
If something doesn’t happen soon
I won’t know what to do
So could you find it in yourself
To help us see this through…’
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I began laughing. This simple ditty had changed my mindset. Eager to share, I knocked on Mrs. Morrison’s door. After I’d read her the content we both began to laugh, and then cry, and then laugh again. Something wonderful was happening. Mrs. Morrison softened and hugged me. It was a part of her I’d never seen.
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“Look here Jonathan,” she pointed after turning over the sheet. “There’s somethin'' written on the back as well. Shall I read it?”
“Please do Molly.” I replied. It read:
‘Now… Give what you can to one another, from the heart, in pureness of spirit, and with no bitterness or resentment. Understanding that it is better to give than receive, and knowing that in the giving, seeds are being planted in the recipient, that will return as a similar harvest in due season. Above all else, dear friends, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life. There is much we must endure in life when we extend goodness to others. Remember: To sacrifice for, or bless another, is the higher calling. I’m sure of it.
Merry Christmas. Love… Kriss.
Richard L. Cederberg
12/2015
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well done, poignant, thought provoking read
In pureness of spirit. Wonderfully Unexpected.
Lady Mary Ann
The poem was, perhaps, the highlight of the whole story and one of the best poems I've ever read. Kudos for that!
Your final message was in the spirit of the season and I try to live up to.
I hope others read and comment. I'm surprised to be the first.
Ron