Tag Archives: story

A Christmas Short Story

“Hot Chocolate and Marshmallows”

Emily loved this store, especially at Christmas. The Book and Gift store was a mishmash of books (new and used), toys, a Hallmark store, and even a growing used music section. The store seemed more like an antique mall instead of a regular shop. Book and Gift sat in an old J.C. Penny’s building downtown. But all the owners did was take down all the walls. There were columns everywhere and the carpet pathways were blocked with shelving or boxes of books. Each section of merchandise had its core, but bled over at the edges. The checkout was the old customer service desk in the back. There were old park benches throughout the store for people to sit.

It was a magical place on its own, but during the holidays it was a wonderland. The ceiling was lit by strings and strings of lights that wrapped around the columns. Random holiday characters could be found next to the benches or sitting on a shelf. Doug, the owner, always dressed in some 70’s band t-shirt, provided a free hot chocolate station, with little marshmallows, for the last few days before Christmas. Emily held a cup of hot chocolate, with a good helping of marshmallows, as she walked the store looking for a few last minute gifts.

As she stood in front of the Just Arrived book section she noticed a young man pacing in the music section. His blue hoodie was up over his head. Every few seconds, he would pull up his tattered jeans, act like he was looking at a LP, then pace some more. He projected an anxious energy. 

Emily returned to the books, thinking about what Jill, the secretary at the office, would like. The young man in the blue hoodie was walking toward her, she wished her husband was here, but he was down the block at the sporting goods store. The young man walked past and Emily swore she could feel his energy prickle her skin.

“Give him a cup of hot chocolate.” She heard a voice say as a styrofoam cup of hot chocolate, with marshmallows appeared in her other hand. It took all of her control not to yell or squeeze the cup in her hand.

Emily looked around for the voice. “Hello?” she quietly asked.

“Trust me, all you need to do is give him the cup of hot chocolate.”

“Who are you, where are you?” Emily’s heart was racing. Nervously she looked into her own cup of hot chocolate for an answer.

“I’m not in your hot chocolate.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Emily said and laughed a little. “But who are you, what’s going on here?”

“Look up.”

Emily slowly raised her head. On top of the bookshelf sat an elf. But not decked out in red with a plastic smile. A real elf, just like the Christmas shows. A small blue triangle shaped hat. A matching blue shirt, with white and blue striped pants. His shoes were white with blue fuzz around the top. He even had pointed ears.

“I’m Dell, a Christmas elf.”

Emily almost crushed both cups as she stepped back.

“Whoa, it’s alright. Look around, I’m not the only one.”

Emily’s eyes grew wide as she saw at least eight other elves, all in different colors, some were female, long black hair flowing from their hats. Each of them seemed to be following a shopper. Emily turned to Dell with her mouth open.

“I don’t have time to explain, but let’s just say we are where people still believe in the spirit of Christmas.”

Emily could only nod her head.

“I really do need you to give Sam that hot chocolate, please.” And he was gone. Emily looked around the store, all the elves were gone. She turned her head back around to her left and the young man, Sam, was fidgeting with some Christmas ornaments. Emily froze. She thought she saw the handle of a gun when Sam pulled his pants back up.

“Give him the hot chocolate and go sit down. That’s all you need to do.”

Dell’s voice got her feet moving.

“Excuse me, young man, I thought you might like a cup of hot chocolate,” Emily looked down to see the marshmallows floating on top, “with marshmallows.” She held her hand out for him.

Sam had turned slowly around as Emily was speaking, tense, ready to run. He looked at her, then at the cup of hot chocolate, back to Emily, then took the cup without saying anything.

Emily awkwardly nodded at Sam then went to a bench in the book section with Rudolph standing next to it. As she sat down she felt her whole body tremble. She took a few long breaths and sipped her drink. She kept her head down for a few minutes, slowly sipping her hot chocolate.

Sam’s voice made her look up.

“Why did you give me this?”

Emily almost said because an elf told me to, but instead she said, “I thought you would like it. My favorite part is when the marshmallows melt a little, and you get the chocolate and the marshmallow in the same sip.”

Sam thought for a moment, then sat down next to her.

Emily honestly wanted to run. She looked around to see if Dell was there, or any of the elves. She only saw a few shoppers look their way, then back to whatever they had in their hands.

“My dad used to make us hot chocolate. On the stove. He had this old pot, you know, not the shiny kind we have now, but like cast iron?” Sam looked over at her. 

Emily said, “Yeah, like my grandma had.”

“Yeah, he said it used to be his grandmother’s. He would heat up milk, then use these chunks of chocolate, add salt even, and a splash of vanilla, I think.” Sam sat quiet for a second.

“Did you have little marshmallows?” Emily felt the need to keep Sam talking.

Sam laughed a quiet pain filled chuckle. “No, he would drop one big one in our cups. It took forever to even melt a little.” He turned toward Emily, a small smile on his face. She noticed he had soft hazel eyes.

“I bet,” Emily smiled back. She almost asked about his dad, but it seemed too big of a question.

“Anyway, I didn’t say thank you, so thank you.” Sam stood up.

Emily stood up, too. She held back the urge to hug him, instead she held out her hand. Sam took it. “Merry Christmas, Sam,” Emily said.

Sam stood there holding her hand, squeezing it a little at the sound of his name. His eyes wide with the question of how she knew his name, instead he said, “Merry Christmas to you.” 

Emily saw his eyes swell. She squeezed his hand to let him know she saw him. They slowly let go, and Sam lifted his cup to her and turned away taking a sip. Emily noticed his walk was steady.

“Thank you,” she heard Dell say. She looked down into her cup but then smiled and looked up as Dell was fading away with a small wave.

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And Just Like That

The wind almost pushed me back as I took a step around the corner on my walk this evening. Wind gusts were close to 30 miles an hour. Other parts of my walk were nice. The clouds were a mix of puffy white dollops and angry gray streaks. I was enjoying my walk.

And just like that I was crying.

Earlier today I wrote an autobiographical poem for day 16 of the April Poem a Day challenge. It dealt with the time my biological mom moved us to Albuquerque. So, my personal history was on my mind. Then my playlist played “Walk Like a Man” by Tim McGraw (number 85 on my top 100 list).

There’s a lot to this song I connect with, but it wasn’t really about those issues.

Grief is an interesting emotion. The world suddenly shifted in color, as if a filter had been applied behind my eyes. And just like that I knew my biological father was gone. And with that realization came a wave of loss. Sadly not of him, but of what could have been. It has been four months since his passing, but everyday from here on out is a reminder that in part, our story is over. 

But I’m still here dealing with the hurt. 

And just like that the world is different… I’m not sure it is better, though.

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I Have Nothing to Say

According to Radoslav Chakarov, writer for Web Tribunal, as of 2022 there are 600 million blogs, with 6 million posts going live everyday.

There is nothing I can add to that monsoon of writing.

And let’s not forget, I could ask AI to write for me. It would be quicker and produce content at a more constant rate (which I’m not good at). I did write this post by the way.

 But what I mean, honestly, is there is no reason for me to write anything. No logical reason. I don’t make any money, Radoslav Chakarov shares that less than 10% of blogs make any money.

So why am I even doing this? 

For the few people still reading, why?

Yeah, I will go Dead Poets Society on you:

I write because that is who I am. I am a poet, storyteller, blogger… I am a dad, a husband, a person who can get lost in the stars. My spirit is at ease when I write, even if I have nothing to say.

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Why Blueberry Muffins

Traditions.

Why have traditions? 

I received a thoughtful answer from the PBS show, Xavier Riddle and the Secret Museum. The episode was “I Am Rukmini Devi” which shared the story of how Rukmini Devi brought back the Indian classical dance form of Bharatanatyam. Part of the overall story was the importance of traditions, and at one point Rukmini Devi states that traditions are part of a family’s story.

I had never thought of it exactly that way, but it is true. A tradition is not just something you do on a regular basis, it helps tell the story of you. The story of those you share the tradition with. Making blueberry muffins every Sunday has given us milestones to remember our past and to celebrate the present moment. Almost every child has helped make breakfast on Sunday morning, lately my third daughter has cooked the scrambled eggs. I didn’t supervise her this past Sunday. These are small moments but they highlight the change our family goes through as we live life. 

We have stories to tell because of our Sunday morning tradition of blueberry muffins, those stories bond us together. And as my children get older, especially the boys as they are starting their adult lives, they will start their own traditions but will always know the story of our family because of blueberry muffins. I am thankful for that.

Traditions.

Why have them?

It’s one way to tell your story…

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A Sonic Mint and Holden Caulfield

I sometimes consider taking a picture to catalog all the weird things I see on my walks. I’ve found money, seen lost toys, socks, gloves, you name it. Each item gets me wondering about how it found its way to that place on the street. This morning I found a Sonic mint.

I wondered what the story was of the mint. I imagined a car load of teens making a late night food run, not unlike my son and his friends. Easter break started on Thursday. My son and his friends made a McDonald’s and DQ run that night. How do I know? Because the family room where they hangout was littered with McNugget boxes, McDonald’s bags, and DQ cups with red spoons in them. Normal teenage behavior. 

I continued down the street thinking about the Sonic mint. Did they search the bag inside the house wondering where the mint went? I smiled at that thought. I started to think about how crazy life is. Whoever lost the mint had no idea that I discovered it. That I would write a blog post about that mint. 

Then Holden Caulfield came to mind. And I stopped for a minute because my eyes started to tear up.

I had one of those deep moments of understanding brought on when your life experiences connect to a book, or song, or other media. I understood why Holden didn’t want time to move on. Why he didn’t want to grow up. But standing in the middle of a street a few yards away from a Sonic mint I felt the weight of change Salinger was writing about in The Catcher in the Rye

Especially over the last year, I have walked the streets of my neighborhood a lot. During the lockdown last spring, I would walk a few times a day. Sometimes with my kids, sometimes alone. It felt like the world had stopped… but life didn’t. Each day I was different. Today, I felt it. I understood how heavy life’s change is. Simultaneously, I felt joy and sadness. 

Joy because life is an adventure. Each day brings opportunities to grow, to discover new things, to learn, to laugh, and to love. Yes, there are negative things that happen each day, but we can learn from them, too.

The wave of sadness was the strongest, though, standing there. Rationally we all know that time doesn’t stop. My second son will graduate in May. My youngest daughter is seven. I will turn 50 this year!. We all know the truth about time, but what hit me was the reality of all the good things that have ended. This morning there were only 5 Easter baskets, instead of 6. I will never watch my son wear number 15 in a varsity game. I will never be 18 again. I felt all those endings this morning.

I’m not sharing this to paint a picture that life is sad, on the contrary, those endings mean there were beginnings, middles, and stories to tell. But Holden was right. Every day we are different in some small way, even if you see a rainbow, it is sad knowing that rainbows have an end, too.

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Blueberry Muffins and the Summer of Weddings

It is Sunday morning. There are a few blueberry and chocolate chip muffins left in the muffin pans. A pile of muffin cups on the island. The girls are watching The Greatest Showman while my wife is getting ready for church. Yesterday my wife and I attended another wedding of a former student. This summer we were invited to five weddings, two family members and three former students.

At the moment, we are going through one of the roughest times we have ever experienced. I only share this to set up the importance of this blog. There is no “Happily Ever After” for any story, but there are blueberry muffins to be made.

As I have mentioned, I got to see the start of new stories. I saw grooms get teary eyed as the bride walked down the aisle. I heard vows. Watched rings placed on hands. And witnessed the couples kiss for the first time as a married couple. The beginning of a new story for them.

Weddings feel like Happily Ever After.

But every story has a conflict. In fact, the longer the story, the more conflicts there are. Some last only a page, while other conflicts wage on for chapters. Each conflict has its own resolution. Sometimes for the better, other times the resolution leaves the characters changed.

Stories also have literary elements, like symbols, metaphors, and paradoxes. These are the things that make a story worth reading. That make the characters laugh and cry. Feel joy and pain. Our family has a symbol, as many of you know, and that is blueberry muffins. Throughout all of our plot twists we have had Sunday morning breakfasts of blueberry muffins. A morning when we are family, a foundation that has stood for 20 years.

As my wife and I drove home from another beautiful wedding, we talked about the past (how I was a part of the groom’s story in high school) and about how we were going to get through this conflict in our story. This morning as we made muffins, everything was swimming in my head, and I thought: I don’t wish all the new married couples a Happily Ever After, I hope they write a powerful symbol into their story that they can rely on when the conflicts come.

Blueberry Muffin

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Your Story. My Story. Our Story.

Your Story.

On Saturday, I attended the wedding of a former student, Jason. The wedding was centered on the couple’s Love Story. The program shared important dates for them; first road trip, first date, the day he proposed. The ceremony, also, intertwined their Love Story. It was a beautiful moment… in their Life Story.

The wedding party had seven former students; the officiant, the groom, an usher, and four of the groomsmen. Not to mention all the other former students I visited with during the reception. It had been over 10 years since I had seen many of them. Many of the conversations centered on how life had changed for all of us. Trying to tell our Life Stories in 10 minutes. In one way it saddened me. To know, that at one time, our stories were being written together. Now… the stories are separate. In fact, even though Jason and I have kept in touch (mostly through Facebook), the wedding was the first time I met his bride.

Isn’t that Life.

You have your story. I have my story.

But, even in small moments, it is our story. And that is the greatest aspect of life I know. Each of us plays the role of protagonist in our lives. We forget that we are characters in other people’s stories. I was the English teacher, the coach, and for some of my students, something more. Jason and I spent hours playing basketball and talking about life. For each of my former students there was a unique aspect to our relationship. For example, I gave one student a quote every month for a year. I will admit to feeling a sense of pride knowing that those memories were part of their stories. To remember the good times and the rough times because we wrote that part together, just in different perspectives.

Even though our stories are now being written separately, it doesn’t mean that we didn’t play an important part in the past. Because isn’t that what makes a great story? Moments that are worth remembering. Stories that are retold. Being remembered by someone. Yes, you have your story. I have my story. But really this life is our story.

(A little trip back to eighth grade…)

 

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