What You Need Most: Finale

Following is the final installment of Tracy Hurley's Christmas story, "What You Need Most", which was published in Christmas is a Season! 2009. 

I hope you have enjoyed reading about Marshall, a recent widower, and how his wife influenced his first Christmas without her. Tracy was a very special person in the lives of many people, and it has been a pleasure to honor her this way.

What You Need Most

by Tracy Hurley

On the way home, Marshall pulled into the strip mall near his house to exchange the black boots for more practical Timberlands. He had a lot of yard work to do if he was going to sell the house. The mall was busy, so he had to park several stores down from the shoe store. Before he got of the car, he pulled out the Honey-Do list again and scratched off the last item. He crumpled it up and tossed it in the console, then grabbed the boots.

When he stepped onto the sidewalk, he activated a set of automatic doors. When they slid open, his heart clenched. He'd parked right in front of Pet Station. The last time he'd shopped there, he'd bought Buster's red rubber ball. He tucked his head and hurried up the sidewalk.

Behind him, he heard, "Santa! Santa, wait!"

Marshall remembered he was still dressed in the baggy red pants, holly covered suspenders, white shirt, and candy cane striped vest. He should have changed. He picked up his pace, sure he'd lose control if some nutcase asked to sit on his lap.

Too late. The nutcase tugged on his shirtsleeve. Marshall whirled, his fist clenched, ready to pummel the guy.

"Santa?" The young man wore a green Pet Station polo shirt. "I'm sorry, but when I saw you walk by, I had to ask you."

"Listen, buddy. I can't promise you'll get that tricycle you want. Or anything else."

The man laughed. "No, nothing like that. I'm Jason, the pet store manager. Were in a pickle, and you could really help us out." He steered Marshall back toward the pet store entrance. The door slid open again revealing the worst looking Santa that Marshall had ever seen. Painfully thin and no older than twenty, his cheap Santa costume hung lifelessly from bony shoulders. His cotton-ball beard drooped below his own dark stubble.

"Darryl stepped in when the real Santa cancelled," Jason said. "He's a great kid, but we're doing our Pet Pictures with Santa. It starts in twenty minutes, and the animal shelter people are already here for their annual adoption drive."

He glanced around, and his voice became a pleading whisper. "Kids come to this."

A tow-headed boy, holding a turtle stopped and stared at the awful. A puzzled line deepened between his hazel eyes.

"I'll do it," Marshall said. I will keep the magic alive.

"Great! I'll show you where you can finish dressing. You've saved our event, Mr. . . ."

"Santa Marshall."

"Name your price, Santa Marshall," Jason said, racing toward a woman holding a camera.

Most of the animals were well behaved. Marshall still got smacked, pinched, spit-up on, sneezed on, and peed on. And he was pretty sure that cranky bulldog thought he was "a bid old doo-doo head," but he was okay with that. Marshall smiled through dozens of photos with cats and dogs. He mugged with parakeets, turtles, ferrets, guinea pigs, a snake, and a goldfish in a plastic baggie. He beamed when a kid brought four boxers, one kissing his cheek, just as the flash went off. He was still smiling when he climbed into his car and headed for home. For payment, he'd picked out a puppy for adoption, a mutt with eyes the color of caramel.

After a quick turkey and stuffing sandwich, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He had some packing to do. He took Elaine's gardening Crocs out of his closet and set them in the Goodwill box. Shannon had left. By the time the news came on, the box was full. That's a start, he thought. Maybe more tomorrow. There was no rush.

When he folded his clean Santa pants over a hanger, ready for next weekend, a piece of paper fluttered form one of the pockets onto his bed. He had to hold it at arms' length to read the loopy writing.

Dearest Marshall, I know this gift isn't the one you most desired, but I knew it would be the one you needed most. All my love forever, Elaine.

Marshall kissed the paper lightly and slipped it into his shirt pocket.


 

A Very Merry Christmas to all of you. Thank you for being loyal followers and making our year bright.  Mahala

 

Okay, time for Christmas stuff

cj Sez: Now that I'm fully stuffed with Thanksgiving dinner, it's time to find my Christmas spirit ... not that it's been lost. It's just been in storage. In boxes. In the closets. In the garage. But Saturday, I retrieved the outside lights and hung them up then set the timer for an automatic shut-off six hours after they go on (at dusk). I like to have my outside Christmas lights operating for at least a month if I'm going to go to the up-and-down-the-ladder effort to get them up. Happy to tell you, I couldn't wait until tomorrow to have them come on. Ergo, tonight, my eaves are glittering with color! Yay. Now, I'm in the mood to shop, shop, shop. Scary thought.

Rather than try to create some incentive for all you writers to sit down and write over the holiday season -- especially for those who've just gone through NaNoWriMo (hope you met your goal), I think I'll serialize one of my favorite Christmas short stories. I picked this piece in honor of the memory of my friend, Tracy Hurley, who helped me get the story ready for submission. Thanks, Tracy. I miss you.

"Dancing with Daddy" was published by Adams Media in 2008 in their anthology CHRISTMAS THROUGH A CHILD'S EYES, edited by Helen Szymanski. I wrote this memory under my maiden name, Marilyn Olsein. Here is this week's excerpt of "Dancing with Daddy":


    Living in a small town in Texas during World War II was tough, especially at Christmas. My father, disqualified from the Armed Forces because of his age, was working in an auto factory in Michigan, trying to earn more money than farming paid.
     When I remember my childhood, the phrase "dirt poor" comes to mind, but we--Mama, my brother, my two sisters, and me--always managed a wonderful Christmas. Mama's family came to our house for dinner, and Mama made pans of Swedish cardamom rolls, the sweet smell filling the whole house. Grampa would bring in a couple of chickens for Mama to roast and fry, and we'd have cornbread dressing, white and sweet potatoes, corn, and green beans that Gramma had canned. We ate, laughed, sang, and carried on all day and into the night.
     Not long after that hateful war ended, Mama sat us down on the screened porch and told us we'd spend our next Christmas in Michigan. We were moving to Detroit to be with Daddy.
     I was terrified. We all were--even Mama, I think. Detroit was at least a hundred thousand times bigger than Melvin, Texas.
     "Mama, doesn't it snow up there . . . a lot?" Phyllis asked. At twelve, she was the oldest.
     I was born in Texas, and at the age of seven, I could remember seeing snow only once--the Christmas the Army gave all my uncles holiday leave. Uncle Steve, Mama's youngest brother and my favorite, chased me down a slippery road and washed my face with a handful of cold, melting flakes.
     "It's not like snow in Texas," I said. "Detroit snow is black."
     "Don't tell fibs, Marilyn," Mama scolded. "Snow is white wherever it falls."
     "Maybe it's white when it first comes down in Detroit, but Daddy's letter said coal smoke from the factories makes it black," I insisted. I imagined Detroit as a city without color, all black, gray, and white.
     "You'll find out soon enough," Mama said. "We'll be in Detroit for the first snowfall." She saw my face cloud up. "And crying won't change things."
     I didn't want to spend Christmas in a cold, dirty city with a stranger, for that's what Daddy had become to me.


I think the idea for the anthology was a wonderful one and a lot of older writers responded with their favorite, and wonderfully written, childhood memories. I do believe, however, it'd also be a marvelous exercise for young writers whose memories haven't been clouded by the years between then and now. Do you have a young writer in your family? Bet you'd be surprised at what their favorite memory is.

That's all for this post. I'll finish the story next time. You-all guys keep on keeping on, and I'll try to do the same.

cj

PS: The 'toon is from Facebook.

On to the next round

cj sez:  I did it! Stayed up until the wee hours of the morning and returned the edited manuscript of DEADLY STAR to the publisher. Got an e-mail back about 9 (seven hours later) saying, "I'll let you know if our second reader has any questions."

Great idea, I think, having a second reader, but sigh and double sigh as I learn the ropes of publishing. At least anything else coming down the Pike will be after Christmas. Now I can finish shopping, wrapping, baking, and cleaning before I have company on Christmas Eve.

Thanks to all those nice folks who sent me encouraging notes. That is very much appreciated.

You-all guys keep on keeping on, and I'll try to do the same.  
cj