GLADYS NIGHT AND THE KINGS

“Slow down, Gladys,” Millie begged. “Give me a chance to let the caboose catch up.” Millie referred to her own large square-shaped-back-side.

“Well, hurry it along. This steam engine is ready to roll.” Gladys teased and she pretended to pull the chain that would make a train whistle blow, “Woot-woot!”

The daring duo had escaped the confines of the nursing home to enjoy the annual Christmas tree lighting at the court house. The entire community participated in this festive occasion.

“Do you see what I see?” Gladys exclaimed pointing upward.

“What?” Millie squinted, “I can’t see anything since that cataract surgery flopped.”

“A star,” Gladys urged Millie to look again. “That star looks like it’s dancing in the night. See, with a tail as big as a kite?”

“Hrmph, I can’t see anything.” Millie’s pessimistic attitude shone brighter than any star.

Millie stopped to catch her breath. She had balked at the idea of leaving the comfort of the home when she could see the tree lighting clearly from her spot by the window. Since Gladys’ granddaughter would be singing, she ventured out.

“We must get closer,” Gladys urged as she finagled through the crowd.

With one hand, Millie clutched her cane and firmly grasped Gladys’s hand in her other. “Oh, do you hear what I hear?” Millie stood straighter than she had in years, tilting her head just right.

“No, I can’t hear very well, remember?”

“I hear Melinda singing. The music is floating high above the trees. I know her voice anywhere. It’s as clear and big as the sea.”

Gladys popped out of the crowd with Millie in tow like someone spitting watermelon seeds in July. Gladys’ toothless grin greeted Melinda as she filled the air with her jazzy rendition of Winter Wonderland.

“Excuse me, Miss Night,” a young boy pulled at Gladys’s sleeve. “Have you seen the mayor? I have a message for him.”

Gladys pointed towards the courthouse doors where the mayor always sat at the ceremony, ready to pull the switch that would light the tree.

“Who’s that?” Millie peered around Gladys.

“Oh, that’s the Shepherd boy, Gabe. You know his daddy, Jacob Shepherd?”

***

The boy ran up the stairs and entered the warmth of the grand courthouse.

“Excuse me, Mayor,” Gabe approached with polite respect. “Mr. King. Do you know what I know? I need to tell you something important.”

Mayor King held his finger up to indicate that he would get to the young boy in just a moment. “As soon as Santa arrives on the fire truck, I’ll pull this breaker and be right with you, Gabriel.”

“But sir, that’s what I need to tell you. Santa isn’t coming.” Gabe twisted his hat in his hands and continued, “Just outside of town, a child was born in this shivery cold. They couldn’t get through the crowds on the street so they had to pull over.”

“Is it Marigold and Joey’s baby?”

“Yes, so Santa rushed to be there.” Gabe relaxed now that he knew the mayor understood. “It was quite the sight to see Santa running and jingling his silver and gold bells as he shouted to everyone, I’m a grandpa…I’m a grandpa.”

Mayor King rushed out to the microphone, “Listen everyone, listen to what I say.”

Everywhere the crowd grew silent, except for Millie, “This is highly unusual. This isn’t how the Christmas tree lighting goes.”

“Listen to what I say, people, we need to pray,” Mayor King announced. “A child was born tonight amidst our celebration. This is a good thing. Marigold and Joseph have welcomed on this glorious night their son. He is sleeping safe in Mari’s arms. Tonight we celebrate the goodness of this wonderful birth.”

Mayor King stopped here and motioned to Gabe. He ran inside the courthouse and resumed the mayor’s post.

“I’m proud to announce the birth of my grandson, Joshua Christian King.” Mayor King pointed towards the tree. “Gabriel Shepherd, pull the switch!”

Just as the tree lights came on, the fire truck siren announced the entrance of Santa. Instead of carrying a bag of gifts, he had in his arms, wrapped in a warm towel, baby Joshua. He brought the baby and handed him to the paternal grandfather.

Joseph walked up to hug his father. The newspaper the next day had a picture of Santa, the Mayor holding baby Joshua, and Joseph beaming with pride. The headlines read: Santa and the Three Kings celebrate Christmas.

DUST MOTE BALLET

My dusty art studio. How many months have slipped by since I’ve entered this room? Dust motes dance in the sunlight through the dirty window. The tiny particles of nothingness perform a silent ballet.

My eyes follow the beam of light out the window. The fall colors astound me; bright and brilliant, a gift to the eyes, indeed. I inhale deeply and exhale, turning my gaze away from the sunlit scenery. My focus lands on the neglected canvas. Black, grey, and deep blue paint strokes, carelessly thrown together in a weak representation of the view from this very room.

I remember that grey day of bluck, the morning after that day of dread.

***

“You have too much cerebrospinal fluid in your brain. The pressure from the fluid is what causes the constant headaches.” The doctor looked at me over his half-glasses.

Blah-blah-blah.

“There isn’t a cure and treatment is experimental at best. We could try a shunt.”

Roaring fire rushes through my head.

“You could also lose your eyesight.”

My what? Like blind?

“Intracranial Hypertension.”

BAM.

Before I knew it, the gavel hit the sound block. Judgment had been passed. An incurable disease with little hope would now be my life sentence. I left the doctor’s office, weighted down by invisible shackles on my hands and feet.

***

The roar in my ears causes such intense agony. An awful whooshing sound, I need to sit. I wish someone would remove the invisible knife that mysteriously jabs behind my left eye.

Scripture passages taunt me. Jesus laid hands on the sick and they were healed. Peter prayed for Tabitha and she was raised from the dead. James said to call forth the elders and pray the prayer of faith that the sick may be healed. The effective, fervent prayer of the righteous is supposed to avail much.

Do I not have enough faith? Am I not righteous enough? Does God not see me as worthy of His miracles? Am I destined, like Paul, to have a thorn in my flesh?

The doctors say I could lose my eyesight. An artist that can’t see. Not that I’m making any money with my painting, but I’m just now starting to get somewhere with my work, selling at art shows and giving lessons.

The whooshing sound in my ears crescendos to an unbearable fortissimo that needs to be tempered. I hit the play button on the CD player next to me. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata instantly soothes the raging monster in my brain. Beautiful music yet, void of color. A moon-filled night. Dark yet, light.

I need to paint. I need to think. I need to process.

The large strokes on the canvas lay a foundation in which to build upon and prepare me: physically, mentally, spiritually, and above all, emotionally. Beethoven continues to set my pace and reduce the roar in my head.

Music history lectures from years gone by come to me in bits and pieces. Augmented chords, perfect fifth, I love the minor seventh. Haunting yet soothing at the same time.

Beethoven hated the fact that he was losing his hearing, a musician who cannot hear. I’m sure he felt his worth diminish. He wrote his Heiligenstadt Testament in an attempt to come to grips with his loss of hearing. He resolved to continue to live for and through his art form, his gift of music.

With my brush, I stream the moonlight beams down the dark backdrop and hear the doctor’s words: You could also lose your eyesight. Could. Not will. I’m not blind now. I let months slip away in a blind state of mind. What a waste.

My body moves in time with the symphonic sounds. I close my eyes to feel the music, and to my surprise, I see it. It isn’t void of color. I can hear the hues in Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and let my brush seek where to kiss the moonlit scene with touches of pink, purple, blue, and gold.

Oh, Father, please forgive my unbelief. My life is Yours. Use me as You will.

My eyes drift to the sunbeam that has shifted towards me with the passage of time. The dust motes mingle in the lazy orangeish-yellow shaft of light. Their dance for the day is about to come to an end.

Ah, but tonight is a full moon and the sky is clear. The dust mote ballet will continue when the moonbeam slips into my studio.

And I’m not blind.

 TINY TOES

Sharon traced his tiny toes. Hot tears soaked her gown. Her chest ached, her body worn out from the induced labor. Medication flowed through the IV into her arm and her head began to feel floaty. Soon they would come to get Jeremiah, but she wanted to be awake and alert when they did.

Brian scooted onto the narrow hospital bed and wrapped his arms around her. He stroked the face of their son with his finger and wept.

***

Liz stood behind the curtain to compose herself to take the infant. She loved her job but she considered this part a ministry. She whispered a brief prayer and slid the curtain aside.

The tender scene of man and wife huddled over their small son grabbed at her chest. Liz stifled a sob of her own. Not yet, Liz. She berated herself. Push through with grace and mercy now, you can fall apart later.

“I’ll take good care of him,” Liz offered in sincerity.

Carefully she lifted the under-formed infant and cuddled him to her chest with one hand as she repositioned the curtain around the occupied hospital bed with the other. Liz stole a glance at the parents and immediately shut her eyes. She regretted the last glimpse. Now this scene would be emblazoned in her memory to reappear at unexpected times.

With careful and precise expertise, Liz placed the infant’s ink dipped foot onto the paper. “Such perfect little feet you have, Jeremiah.” She whispered as she wiped them clean. “Let’s give your mommy and daddy something special to remember you.”

***

Sharon stared at the paper with her son’s footprints as they wheeled her towards the hospital exit; her arms empty, womb vacant. Soon I’ll wake up, right? This has to be a dream… a nightmare.

Everyone on staff gazed at them with pity. Sharon didn’t want to make eye contact. Instead, her eyes remained fixed on the paper-clip sized footprints of her son, the only physical evidence that he ever existed.

***
Liz jotted information on the large wipe-off calendar at the nurses’ station. She knew today marked the one year anniversary of one of the stillbirths she had handled. On her break, she thumbed through her journal. “Jeremiah. I remember you.” She closed her eyes and envisioned the couple cuddled together with their tiny infant son.

She read through her thoughts from that day and let the tears spill onto the pages. Written words were Liz’s form of grief therapy. She remembered the couple ministered in a small mountain town near her favorite hiking get-away.

They wouldn’t recognize me. Liz reasoned as a plan formed in her mind.

***

The past week had been an emotional rollercoaster. Brian had planned several activities to commemorate the birthday of Jeremiah. The final experience surprised Sharon the most. One they talked about but she never imagined they would actually follow through on it.

Sharon untangled herself out of Brian’s sleepy embrace. Today would be a tough one. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying. This is the day they would face the reaction of their church family.

Brian looked sharp in his short sleeved dress shirt and tie. No suit jacket on this summer Sunday. Sharon checked her reflection in the mirror, flounced her flowy skirt, and smiled.

***

Liz slipped into the sanctuary unobserved. Gathered in small huddles, the congregation seemed to be abuzz about something.

Sharon stepped up to the pulpit and opened her Bible to begin the worship service.

“This week we celebrated the birthday of our son, Jeremiah. I have been reminded of this verse over and over again every time we sing this song. Job 1:21 says: Then Job arose, tore his robe, and shaved his head; and he fell to the ground and worshiped. And he said: Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return there. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

The pianist began the familiar chords. Pastor Brian raised his hands in enthusiastic praise while Sharon stepped away from the pulpit to join the worship team.

That’s when Liz noticed the apparent cause that stirred up this conservative congregation. Boldly on Brian’s forearm and Sharon’s ankle were paper-clip sized perfect baby footprints.

No one could possibly understand the reason for Liz’s tears as she admired the tattooed tiny toes she had carefully stamped on paper one year ago.


Editor’s note: Scripture quoted from NKJV

 TUCK-N-ROLL

“I’m gonna go play on the hill, Mom.” I hopped down the back steps and popped my umbrella open. “A spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down…” I sang and skipped my way to the hill that separated our yard from the Thompson’s. It’s a gynormous hill with a steep drop.

I love the hill.


The Thompson’s have two boys. Me and my big brothers play with them all the time. We meet at the hill and decide how to pass a lazy Saturday.

We love to play with our Tonka trucks in the dirt and pretend we’ve created a new community. Pinecones, rocks, sticks and whatever else we find, become houses, factories, schools, and stuff.

Pinecones are often gathered and stockpiled for war. I don’t like to play war. I get too many welts. The only one I can out throw is Matty, he’s the baby of us. Tony’s the oldest, then my brothers, Bobby and Cody. I’m the only girl.

Sometimes we play for hours on the rope swing. Bobby can do the best Tarzan yell. Mrs. Thompson is afraid one of us will break a leg or something. She gave us an old mattress to plop on when we make our jungle cries and let go mid-air.

We have two half-built tree houses in the big firs on the hill. We strung fishing line between soup cans and talk on our “phones” twenty-five feet apart.

We also have spitting contests. We take turns standing on the big rock and work up a big ol’ lugie. We huck it as far as possible and someone runs and marks it with a stick. You don’t want to stand out there and wait for the lugie ‘cuz none of us have real good aim. I’m a pretty good spitter, though. I even out-spit Tony once.

We play for hours under the huge trees. We never get bored at the hill.


I watched Mary Poppins today and had this awesome idea to see if the umbrella could let me gently glide down off the top of the hill. I didn’t take very long to decide where to jump from. I hit the ground half-way down and did a perfect tuck-n-roll to the bottom. It sort of hurt.

I figured that I didn’t jump from high enough and hadn’t allowed time for the wind to catch under the umbrella. I brushed myself off and climbed up for another go at it. This time I went to the tallest part of the hill and waited for a breeze to kick up.

I felt like the Wright brothers with their flying machine. In an instant I knew it wouldn’t work. Too bad that instant was after my feet left the ground. I tuck-n-rolled down the hill and scraped my arm up. Drew blood, too.

I think the trees were blocking the way for the wind to give me full lift off. I spit-cleaned the injury and headed for Dad’s shop to find his hard hat from work. I found his knee pads for when he has to do a chore on his boney knees. I decided they could come in handy. I also commandeered his safety goggles. Why? I do not know. It had been my legs and arms that got banged up, but I’m sure the goggles looked cool.

I got grease on my hands and wiped them on my pants. I couldn’t let my grip slip on my umbrella handle. That could be disastrous. I headed back towards the hill and stopped short at the sight of the ladder leaned against the roof of Dad’s shop. We leave it up ‘cuz we always have to adjust the T.V. antenna. Dad’s shop is right up against the house.

I looked at the ladder, and up to the eight-foot-high flat roof. I’ve been up there lots of times. We throw our parachute guys from there and Cody has jumped off the roof a million times. Bobby says he’s stupid.

I climbed the ladder and stared at the ground. Sure looked higher than eight feet when you’re thinking of jumping.

I held my umbrella high and just like Cody does I hollered, “Geronimo!”

Thud

Ouch, that hurt. I’m not sure what part I didn’t do right, the tuck or the roll, but I sure didn’t float like Mary Poppins.

Mom wasn’t too happy when she saw the broken umbrella and the grease on my pants. Bobby called me stupid.

YESTERDAY

 I stand firm, a sentry who guards over the little cottage at the edge of the meadow. My last stubborn leaves cling to me, reluctant to admit their time is past. It seems like yesterday I bathed in the warmth of the sun.

Wasn’t it yesterday the small white-haired being that abides in the cottage slipped out to sit under me? She loves to gaze up through my maze of branches and admire the beauty of the rays as they shine through my golden-bronze leaves.

Ah, but alas, yesterday has past. Many yesterdays for that matter, and today there is a distinct chill in the air. The sky is forever grey and the wind hits my north side with an angry vengeance. Some of my less significant branches have broken loose and fallen to the ground.

I hadn’t noticed until the small white-haired being scampered around under me and gathered my lost limbs into her arms. I don’t mind. I will help keep her warm in the winter just like my shade keeps her cool in the summer.

***

Last night a horrific storm encroached on the valley. The wind whipped through me with brutal command. For a brief moment I thought I might topple. Rain and sleet pelted me with their fierce horizontal force.

I noticed the lights in the tiny cottage were reduced to the flicker of a single candle. The small white-haired being loves storms. She stood in front of the window and sipped hot liquid from a mug and smiled. I saw her jump when a bright flash illuminated the entire area. Her eyes danced in anticipation of the next strike.

I didn’t enjoy the storm like she did. I found it abusive and I cowered in fear of the next bolt of lightening. The moss that hangs from my appendages is thoroughly soaked. My branches creak something horrible. Large parts of me were ripped loose and left to dangle until the next tempest passes through to finish the dastardly deed.

I noticed after the storm a large doe came to the meadow and grazed. She is beautiful. The white-haired being saw her too and watched in silence.

***

I felt a flurry of snow today. It tickled. The little being burst out of her cottage and stood with her face towards the sky and stuck her tongue out. I enjoyed her laughter with each captured snowflake. Later, I saw her hang twinkle lights around her window. They are a sweet sight on a cold snowy night.

The snow continued off and on but didn’t accumulate much. Chickadees scampered about my gnarly roots in search of a meal. I wanted to tell them that the being inside the cottage hadn’t thrown any seed out for them yet. Creatures of habit, they are.

I’m pretty sure it will continue to snow overnight. The sky is solid grey. We’re in the heart of the coldest season now.

***

More snow overnight? It didn’t quit snowing for a week straight. The white-haired being faithfully used a broom to create a path from her door to me. She scattered seeds for the chickadees and some bread for the crows. They annoy me. I wish she would forget the bread.

On her way back to the cottage the being dropped to her seat, lay on her back in the snow, and made a snow angel. She giggled like a school-girl and the chickadees chirped along. The two sounds combined created a remarkable harmony.

***

Silence fills the air. Smoke curls from the chimney of the cottage. The valley is clothed in her winter coat and the mountains glimmer in their icy-white splendor.

I am winter-weary. We wait. All of nature waits. Even the little white-haired being inside the cottage waits. Creatures move about only when they must. Everyday seems the same. The newness of snow has passed and we are embittered from the cold.

No longer do I refer to the warmth of the sun upon us like yesterday. Too many days have passed to say that. Today I begin to hope for tomorrow.

All of nature anticipates the day when the sun will perform its magic over the valley. Bluebells will soon blanket the meadow with a burst of spring color.

It may not happen tomorrow, but maybe the next tomorrow I will once again bathe in the warmth of the sun and winter will be yesterday.