A Cozy Country Christmas Anthology

Published by

Melange Books, LLC

White Bear Lake, MN 55110

www.melange-books.com

A Cozy Country Christmas Anthology,
Copyright 2014 Christine Arness

ISBN: 978-1-61235-981-6

Names, characters, and incidents
depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of
this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.

Published in the United States of
America.

Cover Design
by
Becca Barnes

Table of
Contents

The Memory Tree

At Christmas, a young mother mourning the
loss of their possessions in a fire learns from her children an
invaluable lesson on how to start again.

The Most Important Ingredient

Anita is grieving over the fact that her
broken wrist won’t allow her to continue her favorite holiday
tradition of baking cookies for friends and family. Then Anita’s
two small daughters assure her that she doesn’t have only one
hand—she has five.

If Wishes Were Horses

When a horse galloped up and stopped at the
barn door, eight year old Kim knew her prayers for a horse for
Christmas had been answered. But her thoughts go in a very
different direction after her mom shares a life changing
memory.

Live as in Lively

This live outdoor Nativity turns out a lot
“livelier” than the director anticipated.

Let It Snow

An overstressed mother remembers a past when
her own mom made every holiday full of fun and joy. At the last
moment, she realizes what is truly important and changes directions
for the family Christmas Eve party.

One Midnight Clear

While studying a Christmas store window
scene, a homesick man is shocked to find himself handcuffed to the
woman at his side. As he looks at her small son’s guilty face, Tim
realizes his life is about to take an unexpected turn.

Star of Bethlehem

A small girl’s desire for a Christmas tree is
granted by a loving community, bringing hope to her family.

In For a Penny

A couple who believes their marriage is
irrevocably broken finds healing, life lessons, and hope during a
visit to an eccentric relative.

Breath of God

A Minnesota farm girl in the early 1900’s has
been forced into a woman’s responsibilities. Betsy’s struggles to
come to terms with her deceased mother’s plans for her bring her in
conflict with both family and community expectations. Memories of
the love between her parents help Betsy make the decisions she
needs to face her future.

Piano Christmas

A schoolgirl’s sacrifice of a gift from her
cherished teacher gives hope to a classmate and also shows her that
giving can bless the giver as well.

Pocketful of Love

A grandmother learns that love is never lost
when you reach out to others.

About the Author

Previews

This book of Christmas stories is
dedicated to my aunt, Dorothy, always a cheerleader for me, my
family and my writing. I am blessed.

The Memory
Tree

“Mom,” asked thirteen-year-old Lynda,
clutching a child-sized rocking chair, “What happened to the big
box of ornaments?”

We were gathered in the family room to clear
a space for the Christmas tree, and my heart ached at the answer I
had to give to the four children staring at me expectantly.

“It went in the attic after Dad took the tree
down,” I explained, trying to control my own emotions.

“You mean it got burned up?” Six-year-old
John’s eyes widened. “Just like my rocking horse and bug
collection?”

Krista, our three-year-old, burst into
tears.

“Hush, sweetie,” I soothed. “It’s okay.
Mommy’s here.”

The ravenous fire that consumed our farmhouse
six months earlier had also charred the edges of the children’s
security. They grieved again at each fresh reminder of a lost toy
or treasured token of childhood.

“We’re safe,” I reminded them. “All we lost
in the fire were things. Things can be replaced. People can’t.”

“So we’re just gonna have a bare tree this
year?” nine-year-old David said with a frown. “Won’t it look kinda
funny?”

“The tree won’t be bare, silly!” Despite his
confident tone, Jon turned to me for reassurance. “Will it,
Mom?”

“No,” I vowed. “I thought maybe we could take
a trip to town on Saturday and buy some new ornaments.”

“Buy them?” Lynda cried. “We can’t just go to
a store and replace that box! What about other reindeer Grandpa
carved when he was a boy? Or the snowflake Grandma helped me
crochet when I was little? And that tiny green sled David painted
when he was in second grade? We can’t buy stuff like that!”

I rubbed the spot above my heart, trying to
massage away the ache. Those ornaments had told the story of our
family—how quickly they’d been reduced to ashes and soot.

“Now you made Mom cry!” Jon accused his big
sister.

“I’m sorry,” Lynda apologized, chastened.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. That box was filled
with precious memories, but we can’t dwell on what we don’t have.
Let’s be glad we’ll be together to celebrate Jesus’s birthday. Now,
no more blubbering, all right?”

We worked until bedtime. When I tucked in the
children, I got some extra big hugs.

“We have wonderful kids,” I told my husband
the next morning as we sipped our coffee. “Just call me
blessed.”

“If you can say so even though I was finally
getting used to calling you Peggy.” Doug dodged the piece of toast
I tossed in his direction. He squeezed my hand as he headed outside
to tackle the morning chores. “I know this is going to be a tough
Christmas, honey,” he said. “But we’ll get through it.”

“Together we can do anything.” I squeezed his
hand back. The ache in my chest was still there, however.

Soon, it was the weekend. To my surprise,
none of the children wanted to come on the Saturday shopping trip
I’d promised. “We’ve got something more important to do,” Lynda
informed me.

“A project!” Krista announced. She adored
projects.

That afternoon as I walked in the front door,
arms loaded with grocery bags—I couldn’t help picturing the twin
milk cans from my grandfather’s farm. They had flanked the entrance
hall in our old house. During the holiday season, they were always
filled with evergreen branches, a woodsy scent greeting each
visitor. I paused, missing them fiercely.

I blinked back tears. Then, to my surprise, I
heard laughter in the family room. I followed the giggles and
discovered Doug and the children immersed in a sea of paper,
ribbon, cloth, modeling clay and sequins.

“We’re making memories!” Jon exclaimed,
holding up a paper plate splashed with bright colors. “This is a
picture of my birthday picnic in a pasture last summer. See, here’s
Uncle Matt and the bonfire...”

Krista tugged at my sleeve. “I drew a picture
of my kitty. Daddy’s gonna hang it on the tree with a silver
ribbon.”

“No store-bought ornaments for us, Mom. We’re
going to have a memory tree!” Lynda smiled radiantly. “Daddy helped
us cut one from the woods, and we’re making things to hang on
it—things that remind us of happy times.”

A proud evergreen stood in the corner, its
branches already decked with a few misshapen ornaments. One of them
was a crocheted snowflake.

Lynda noticed me gazing at it. “I made some
mistakes,” she whispered, “Just like on the one Grandma and I
crocheted together.”

I hugged each of our children, then got down
on the floor to make a few ornaments of my own. The ache in my
heart was gone and in its place, I felt a warm glow of peace.

Homemade memories, like cookies, truly are
the sweetest!

THE END

The Most
Important Ingredient

“What’s wrong, Mommy? You’ve got a big
wrinkle on your forehead.”

I stopped scowling at the cast covering my
hand and forced a smile for four-year-old Becky’s benefit. “Mommy’s
okay, dear,” I assured her.

As okay as any busy farm wife and mother with
a broken hand, I muttered mentally. Just three days ago, a cow had
pinned my wrist between her hard skull and a concrete wall.

I was still adjusting to the cast. Already,
however, I knew it would put a crimp in my holiday baking
plans.

Usually, I baked for a solid week each
December. Then I presented cellophane-wrapped, bow-topped dishes of
delights to neighbors and friends.

Fragile Swedish lace cookies, rich toffee
diamonds, paper-thin butterscotch crisps and round brown sugar
drops were among my treasured family recipes.

This year, I wouldn’t hear my husband’s
admiring whistle and customary compliment: “Anyone seeing these
creations, darling, can tell you’ve got an artist’s soul!” One toss
of a Jersey cow’s head had spoiled my most favorite holiday
tradition.

Ed had been practical about the accident. “So
we don’t give cookies this year. Folks will survive,” he’d said.
With a sigh, he added, “But I will miss your help in the barn...not
to mention those lemon wafers of yours melting in my mouth.”

Seven-year-old Amy burst into the kitchen
clutching a handful of envelopes. “Mr. Anders just brought the
mail! He said he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into your
cookies.”

She frowned. “I told him you hadn’t started
baking yet. Christmas is in two weeks, Mom. When are you going to
make cookies?”

“I’m afraid Mr. Anders won’t be getting
cookies this year, sweetheart.”

“No cookies!” Army stared at me in
disbelief.

I held up my cast. “How can I mix batter with
this on my hand? I’m sorry, girls, we won’t be making any cookie
deliveries this year.”

Amy flopped down on a kitchen chair and
turned a woeful face in my direction. “But I told my Sunday school
teacher I’d bring cookies next week!”

“No cookies?” Becky tugged on my sleeve. “No
cookies for Pop-pop?”

“Grandpa will understand. So will everyone
else,” I declared. “I can’t be expected to shape dough into wreaths
with only one hand.”

After a moment of disappointed silence, Amy
brightened. “You haven’t got one hand, Mom.” She jumped to her
feet. “You’ve got five!” Grinning, she held up both hands.

Becky—not quite comprehending—caught some of
her sister’s enthusiasm and held up her tiny palms. “I have five
hands, too!” she chirped.

“Girls, girls, calm down,” I insisted. “You
have to understand—cookie baking isn’t easy. It’s grown-up
work—”

I broke off. Suddenly, I’d remembered
long-ago hours spent in Grandma Ella’s kitchen, one of her flowered
aprons tied around my little-girl waist. Her voice echoed in my
mind. “What is the most important ingredient in a good cook’s
kitchen?”

I glanced at the earthenware canisters that
were arranged along the table. “Sugar? Flour?”

She gave me a grin and a shake of her head.
“No, child. It’s love. Love makes every dish taste special.”

My two girls never had the privilege of
knowing Grandma Ella. Now, her earthenware canisters lined my
kitchen counters—a reminder of a legacy of love.

I laughed and bent down to kiss each sweet,
pleading face. “Amy, get out the mixing bowls. Becky, please find
the measuring cups and spoons. We’ve got some serious cookie makin’
to do.”

When Ed came in from his evening chores, the
kitchen was a disaster area. The girls and I were dusted with flour
and sticky fingerprints decorated the refrigerator and cupboards.
Bowls, baking sheets and cooling racks covered every available
surface.

A smile chased tiredness from his face as he
took an appreciative sniff. “Mmmm! My nose tells me my girls must
have inherited their mom’s magic touch with cookies.”