To The North

By Randall McNair

Prologue
Everyone in Gila only wanted two things for Christmas, and the second thing was, for Arty Gibbon's to change his socks.
As for the first, other than the small spot of snow belonging to Hode Hoggins, Gila Arizona hadn’t had a white Christmas in the history of Cellophane. Of course, nobody in Gila had really cared about their brown Christmas until the year Hode Hoggins' father purchased a snow making machine as a present for his son. But, from its first fake flake, everyone had gone snow crazy. The people of Gila had tried everything to transform the brown town into a winter wonderland. Packing peanuts, popcorn, shaved ice cubes, coconut, even shredded encyclopedias. One year there was such a commotion over the Hoggins' lawn that the City mayor ordered 100 semi loads of snow direct from the Swiss Alps. Unfortunately, all the trucks had arrived empty, the entire load stolen by snow thieves. The next year the mayor ordered 200 semi loads and sent the town’s police force to ensure its safe arrival. Somehow the snow thieves got to it again, and Gila had to endure yet another brown Christmas.
Coincidentally, our plastically preserved leftover's history also happened to be exactly the same span of time it had been since Arty Gibbons had changed his socks: or at least it seemed that way. At first no one in Gila had really cared about Arty's sock habits. Years one and two weren't so bad, not so good, but not so bad. Arty was after all wearing a pair of wool name brand stockings; that helped everyone feel more comfortable with the situation. That said, people could only turn a stuffed nostril for so long. Before three years Arty found himself never having to wait for a turn on the swing set, frequently at the head of the lunch line, and the only student present on wear your sandals to school day. Prejudice grew gradually along with the smell until Arty's tainted soles could find no welcome mat. By the end of five years Arty spent his days alone, completely surrounded, at a distance, by strangers who had once been his friends.
Naturally, Arty Gibbons and his socks happened to live directly across the street from Hode Hoggins and his snow. Day after day, year after year, the inconsolable dread of socks and unquenchable desire for snow escalated until people couldn't decide which of the two they felt most passionately, so intimately was their yearning and fear intertwined.
Despite everyone's bother, neither Arty, nor the weather cared about what people thought, and neither showed any sign of blessing Gila with what it desired. Caught in a cosmic twister, with no relief in sight, pressure mounted, one stinky brown Christmas after another, until one effectual warm winter afternoon on the 23rd of November.

To The North (Chapters 0-5)

Chapter 0

The medium crowd of brave boys and girls stretched down the street from the Hoggins' front yard. Arty with messy hair watched from a small window in the garage above his bed excitedly counting old pennies into a newly emptied mason jar.
Every year at Christmas the Hoggins decorated their snow patch, transforming it into a holiday wonderland. Every year, from across the street, the Gibbons enjoyed the Hoggins, giant Christmas lawn balloons, life-size robot Santa Claus, and animatronic reindeer. So did the rest of the citizens of Gila who every year came to experience their little corner of the north, gas mask in hand, should by some terrible stroke of fortune they happen to also experience Arty.
The line of thrill seekers started at the top of a hippopotamus sized bump in the Hoggins' lawn. Each of them held a handful of change gripped tightly in one hand, a mask, or can of deodorizing spray in the other. They waited, pacing nervously, with frequent apprehensive looks across the street towards Arty's home. The weather was warm enough that most wore shorts and t shirts. Water sprayed from the hose connected to the front of the snow machine. Hode Hoggins stood near the front next to a paper sign collecting change into an economy size tomato soup can. On the sign, in large crayon print read:
SLED RIDES: 50 CENTS.
ROCKET SLED RIDES: 180 DOLLARS.
SNOWBALLS: 10 CENTS, OR 3 FOR A QUARTER.
“Thirteen, fourteen” his pennies clinked as Arty dropped them into the jar one by one. He glanced at the mess of cardboard near the foot of his bed, on top of the mess gleamed his creation, like a phoenix risen from the ashes, the greatest sled ever fashioned from a banana box. It wasn't as good as Hode's laser stabilized, tri thruster, rocket wonder sled with three different horn tunes including La Cucaracha and The Girl From Ipanema. But no one could afford to ride that anyway. Hode only put it on the sign so that he could brag and gloat about his superior snow power should anyone glean any glory from a 10ft sled run.
Arty counted out fifty pennies. Then, climbing down from his perch, he gently opened a old box of his father's winter clothes. Leather mittens, a giant down parka with fur trim on the hood, in the bottom a giant pair of rubber army boots: everything clean, folded, and carefully preserved. All except for the wool stockings. Arty's feet swam freely in each boot, the mittens were as big as his head, and the coat reached his knees. Inside the parka still smelled like his father.
There was a soft knock at the outside door as a tray with a bowl of macaroni and cheese slid through the pet slot. “Hew's some suppew fow you Awty.” Arty ignored his little sister. “Mama says if you change youw socks you can come eat pizza with the west of us!”
Arty paused and stared at his feet; oh how her words made him ache to join them. He fought the temptation with clenched teeth.
“Thanks Abbie but I'm kinda busy right now.”
This was no time to let his family's cruelty sully his focus. Besides, If they wanted him, they could accept him as he was.
Shoving the pennies in his pocket Arty zipped up and hit the garage door opener with his fisted mitten.
Across the street every head turned to watch as Arty emerged from behind the rising garage door. All stopped what they were doing and stood poised ready to flee. No one said a word, even Hode's snow maker seemed to hush out of fear for this new champion. His cardboard sled gripped tightly in both hands Arty began to run. He ran with the confidence of a man impenetrable to the elements letting each leap ripple through his body. The crowd stood their ground, even at 15 feet they made no sign of flight. They didn't recognize him! This was it! Sweat began pouring down his legs, Arty's father had been a pilot in Alaska before, well, just before that's all. This was not your every day snow gear. Even the few strides from his garage left Arty drenched in a sauna of his own making. The heat was unbearable, but Arty didn't care. His disguise was complete. Ten feet, and still no mass panic! Five feet, the line parted leaving a clear path to the head of the hill. Arty sailed on. In one fluid movement he reached into his jacket, flung the pennies in Hode's direction, leapt into the man made blizzard, and tucked his legs up into his sled. The sled touched down at the peak of the hill and slid gracefully over the fresh powdery snow. 5 feet, 10 feet, 15 feet! Twice as long as any of the other marks made that morning. 20 feet, 25 feet, 30 feet!!! Finally Arty stopped a good 34 feet from where he'd begun. The snow machine sputtered to a halt, all was quiet.

Chapter 1/2
Arty turned to see gaping mouths on disbelieving faces. He stood. A cheer erupted from the crowd. It echoed all around reverberating up and down the street. No one could believe it. No one had ever gone 34 feet! Who was this masked man. As one group the mass of children moved forward to touch the tracks for themselves. Closer, closer “Wait for it,” thought Arty to himself, “give them a few more feet...closer....Now.” Arty stretched casually, and let the parkas giant hood fall gracefully around his shoulders, his wild hair afire in the light of the setting sun. Everyone froze in their tracks, the stragglers in back face planted into the people at the front. Braver children tested the air drawing in quick short breaths through their noses. “Oh c'mon you guys!” Arty groaned. Still nobody moved, most barely dared breathe. “Look I'll even let you try my sled.”
“Maybe you should go back home before you ruin it for everyone Stinky.” Hode called from the hill. In the silence the weight of fate teetered on a hairpin. Arty took a step, his boot crunched in the snow. “You think this is something? Here, watch me! I'll do it again even further!”
Grabbing the sled Arty ran. He would show them all the champion and then they would have to like him! Again in slow motion the champion circled to the start of the line. The crowd was silent, the only sounds were Arty's footsteps and the pounding of his own heart. Approaching the launch point he pulled the sled tight to his chest and leapt into the void. But this time, as he left the ground his leg tangled in the sled’s rope. Arty stumbled kicking frantically to keep his balance, his left boot went flying into the crowd just before his face hit the snow. “Screams, desperate appeals for mercy, and sheer terror erupted all at once as the smell enveloped the entire block. A few of the boys, not ever having experienced the Terror of Arty Gibbons lost more than their change as the fled. The weaker, slower children, those not lucky enough to faint lay gasping on the ground unable to flee so powerful was the stench coming from Arty's socks. Arty pulled himself up, wiping ice from his eyes. By the time he could see again all the children strong enough to flee were gone, a horrible trail of misery left in their wake. “Wait! Wait! Come back!! Come back I'll won't trip this time! Called Arty. But his ears only met the echo of his own voice and the quiet whimpering of the fallen. Defeated, Arty threw the ejected boot into the back of his sled and trudged back to his garage.

Chapter 1
From safe behind his window Arty watched as parents picked their zombie like children from the snow and stumble home. He watched as Hode, with his gas mask, greedily picked coins from the snow; a fortunes worth of hard begged, abandoned allowance money. Tomorrow they would ask their parents for more. Fresh quarters and dimes would be squandered on a thrill ride, a snatch at glory, all for a chance to hold immortality in their hands until their sled record was broken, or their mothers called them home for dinner. Tomorrow, their rightful champion would sit alone in his garage prison, friendless and forgotten, unheralded, and unsung. It wasn't right! It wasn't fair!!
A gust of wind shot down the street picking up the snow on the Hoggin's lawn it swirled up and around their Christmas lawn decorations. The giant Frosty the Snowman snowman balloon bent in the wind pulling hard on its ropes. It was pulling hard enough, Arty thought, it might just take the entire lawn away with it. The words echoed in his brain: Lawn away with it, lawn away with it, lawn away with it. THAT WAS IT! Arty trembled at the terrible wonderful thought precipitating in his noodle. In his noodle, in his noodle, his noodle. It would take planning, supplies, fuel, warm clothes, time. The idea shook his whole body with terrible excitement. Grabbing a pencil and paper Arty sketched a diagram of a little boy in a giant hot air balloon flying over snow covered peaks. Looking once more out the window at Frosty he grinned terribly. Nobody liked him, Fine! No one wanted to give him a chance? Great! Five years of rejection was about to have its consequences. Hode would pay for the way Arty had been treated. They would all pay, and they wouldn't like it.


One month later...
Chapter 2
In half a second the rope was cut, sending the giant Frosty balloon into the air.
It was a simple plan really. Arty checked the knots that tied his mother’s laundry basket to Hode Hoggins’ balloon. Then he checked the knots that tied his father’s weed eater to his mother’s laundry basket. Satisfied that all was secure, he gave a yank on the starter rope, the weed eater roared to life propelling the balloon forward. As he tested his new flying machine, Arty couldn’t help but take pride in his handy-work.
“Ha!” He laughed, delighted by his own genius. Why had it taken him so long to think of such a brilliant scheme? Arty laughed at the look he’d seen on Hode’s face as Hode had watched his snowman balloon disappear into the cool December night.
Things couldn’t have gone smoother. Hode had come tearing around the side of his house just as Arty had cut the final rope, releasing the over-inflated Snowman. “Get away from my balloooo” was all Hode had been able to say before the smell hit him. Arty’s socks had never worked in his favor before, but this once he watched with glee as Hode stumbled backward, overpowered, unable to endure, flat on his back in the fresh snow.
“Like you’ll ever miss it anyway!!” Arty yelled over his shoulder, “It’s not like you’re parents won’t buy you another balloon TOMORROW. ANOTHER FIVE BALLOONS TOMORROW!!!”
Gila was just a spot on the horizon now, the warm whirring sound of Hode’s snow making machine had faded into the darkness.

Chapter 3
Opening his compass Arty checked his bearing; the needle pointed steadily northward. Hode Hoggins was spoiled, spoiled, and mean, and rotten, and maybe Arty would have felt bad about stealing his Frosty balloon if Hode had ever been nice to him, but he hadn’t. He’d been just like all the other kids. The kids who made him stand in the far corner of the field at recess, who yelled mean things like- “Hey Arty! Why don’t you change your socks so that you can come and play with us.” Or like Mrs. Magfrey who wouldn’t let him come inside after recess, but had a special desk for him outside, just out of the rain. “Now Arty,” she would say holding her nose as she slipped his math and spelling assignments through the cracked window, “when you learn to change your stockings you’re welcome to come sit with the other boys and girls.” Everyone was just mean to him! Babies cried, dogs ran away in terror, and little birds were always dropping out of the sky dead at his feet.
An angry tear rolled down Arty’s cheek. The air was bitter this far up. Letting go of his make-shift rudder, Arty put on his father's warm winter coat, hood, and gloves. Hungrily he looked down at his supply of candy bars. Knowing that they were all the food he had for the trip, Arty told his stomach it would have to wait until morning.
As the balloon rose, it caught a northbound jet stream. Now he was flying! Below him glimmered white mountain tops. The lights of the passing cities huddled here and there, surrounded by never ending stretches of empty wilderness. The lights seemed as cold as Arty felt: cold, alone and rejected! Arty couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a friend. Even his own parents seemed to hate him. They made him sleep in the garage. They slid his dinner through the pet door on a tray. They tied him to the roof of the car on family trips. But the worst, the ever-lovin’ double clutching cherry on top of it all happened every 25th of December, on Christmas morning.
Every year for as long as he could remember it had been the same; on Christmas Eve Arty would lie wide awake in his bed, watching the minutes flip on his alarm clock. Quietly he would listen for the glee-filled cries of his brother’s and sister’s morning rush for the Christmas gold field. First came the bumping thump sounds as everyone jumped out of bed. Then all would charge down the stairs together, bursting into the living room like a herd of elephants. Shouting and throwing ribbons and wrappings, they would tear into brightly packaged water pistols, blocks, baby dolls, and robots. Eager to share in the fun, Arty would burst in from the garage yelling “Merry Christmas!” only to see joy turn to panic as everyone raced for an exit: a giant pandemonic mass bent on reaching fresh air. There, every year under the tree would be the same, small, soft, neatly wrapped package with the same sappy happy card written in green ink that read: “Change your socks Arty. Love, Santa.” It was the same stupid present he’d received for the last 5 years!
Why couldn't they understand!? Why did they all reject him? Couldn't Santa read!Arty had only asked for one thing every year. ONE SIMPLE thing and it wasn't socks, he already had the pair he wanted to wear! Just thinking about it made him want to scream!!! So he did. He screamed and screamed; but, then he stopped because a 747 passed by and Arty figured that there might be some people looking out of their windows, and he didn’t want to look stupid. Soon the plane was gone leaving only the whirring of the balloon’s weed eater engine. Arty checked his course again, tied the rudder, and smiled an evil smile. This year would be different! The plan was simple: fly to the North Pole, steal Santa’s bag, and keep it all for HIMSELF. If he couldn't have what HE WANTED for Christmas then neither could anyone else! It was the first pleasing thought Arty had authored in a long time, and as he let its seductive tentacles wind around his vengeful heart, Arty’s eyes began to droop, and soon he was fast asleep.

Chapter 4
A blast of ice and snow hit the balloon sending it reeling. Arty’s basket rocked wildly, throwing him side to side like a bb in a tin can. The bitter ice tore Arty from his sleep, freezing his eyelashes together. Desperately he grabbed with one hand for his rudder, and rubbed his face with the other, until he was able to open his eyes. It was still dark; but, even if there had been sun, the fog and ice was so thick it wouldn’t have made any difference. Wind and snow burned Arty’s cheeks, thunder crashed all around him. Doing his best to shield his frozen face, Arty looked at his watch, he’d been asleep for 10 hours! Where was the sun? Had he flown into outer space? No, that was silly. Sometime during the night the weed eater had died. Arty yanked the start cord, and the little engine roared to life. He pulled up hard on the handle hoping to get above the storm, but which way was up? The balloon was rocking so hard he couldn’t get his bearings. The fog was so thick he could barely see his own feet. To his relief, a patch of stars appeared above his head, then another. In another minute he was above the storm. Looking down he could see the lightning dance its way through the storm clouds. The air was still bitter cold, but at least he was out of the worst. Where was he? Where was the Sun? Arty took his compass from his pocket. It only swam around the dial in circles. Panicked Arty searched below, hoping to find some trace civilization, anything to help him find his bearings. Then he saw it. Above him Arty noticed that the sky was on fire with green and gold light. Streams of purple and the occasional red rippled through an immense green curtain swaying back and forth against the stars. He’d heard of the northern lights before, but never in his life had he imagined it to be something so… so wonderful.
Arty’s stomach growled. Obligingly, he reached into his food stash and pulled out the biggest chocolate, peanut, nougat, caramel, cookie-crunch-wonder he could find. Carefully he chewed on his breakfast, watching the light show accompanied by the occasional roll of thunder from below. The Aurora was the all around him now, its long golden arms twisting and bending, pulling him along: almost as if he was caught in a river of green light.
The candy bar crunched over the soft purrr of the balloons propeller.
This was heaven. Arty was a little worried still about not knowing where he was, but right now he really didn’t care. It was all so beautiful.
Suddenly a sputter from the little engine, jerked Arty back to reality.
“Cough, sputter, vrooommm, cough, cough, put put put.” Arty yanked and yanked on the cord, but it was no use: the gas tank was empty.
To his horror, the balloon started to descend.
The approaching storm growled at him. Arty wondered if he would end up like the candy bar in his stomach. Working quickly, he picked up the anchor rope and tied it around his waist, then braced himself as low as possible in the basket. Whatever ride he was in for he hoped with all his body there would be a gas station with clean restrooms at the end of it. The clouds began closing around him. Now he could barely see the Aurora, now only a few stars. Thunder roared as lighting flashed all around. Another gust of wind sent the balloon tumbling, nearly throwing Arty clean out of the basket. Enveloped in the heart of the blizzard, he could only cling helplessly to his fragile life raft and watch as his food and supplies were tossed into the foggy abyss.

Chapter 5
With each gust of wind Arty winced. His face and hands were numb with cold. The rope tied to keep Arty in the basket had turned his lower torso into one big bruise. Arty’s candy bar had long since ejected itself, preferring its chances in the wide world to Frosty Balloon’s wild ride. Arty groaned he promised that if he ever got out alive he would change his ways and never put grasshoppers into the paint shaker again. As if in answer, there was a loud tearing sound and The balloon jerked. The rope around Arty’s stomach tightened shooting electric pain from his belly button out the ends of his finger tips. Instantly all steadied itself. The wind still howled, the snow and ice still blew, but the basket only swayed softly side to side.
Arty was shaking all over, slowly he pulled himself to his knees. “I must be dead,” he thought “that must be what it sounds like.” “Guess I can shake all the hoppers I want now.”

“RRRRIIIIIIIIPPP!!!” said the darkness. The basket jerked again. “Alright alright! I'm sorry about the grasshoppers!” He shouted. There was no reply except the dying wind; “Do dead people always feel this cold?” Above him Arty could see patches of green dancing light. The clouds cleared, leaving him alone with the frigid northern sky. What a strange place he had come to. The terrain was covered by jagged hills of wind-worn ice. Everywhere he looked Arty saw giant brass poles sticking up out of the snow; they looked like tall metal trees without branches. Aurora danced and shimmered jumping from pole to pole, or sticking to several poles at once. Not just twenty-three or fifty-seven, there were hundreds and hundreds of poles glimmering in the strange green light. All of them identical to the pole his torn balloon was hanging from…

To The North (Chapters 6-10)

Chapter 6
It took approximately 3.7 seconds from the time Arty noticed his personal pole, to the time his balloon gave it’s final tear and plummeted to the ground.
With a soft “poof” Arty disappeared into the snow drift at the poles base. Something about how the powdery snow bit at his bare face told him that he was not dead after all. When the air cleared Arty found himself buried up to his waist. Three tiny figures appeared from around a bend. They were Santa’s Elves! They must be! Either that or a polar expedition made up entirely of midgets. They were dressed just like Arty was in giant quilted parkas, hoods, and thick leather mittens. All were so short that their coats completely covered their bodies so that except for the visible very tips of their rubber boots, the elves looked as if they were gliding over the frozen landscape. Thinking quickly, Arty pulled his cap down over his ears and burrowed his legs as deep into the snow as possible. As they approached he did his best to look elfish, busily examining his tattered balloon. Scrunching his voice so that it would sound nice and squeaky he waved at the other three. “Oh hey guys! Looks like just another stray weather balloon heh heh.”
The first elf walked up to Arty and leaned in close. “Your throat OK? He boomed in a deep baritone “What’s wrong with your voice?” Arty straitened his neck and tried not to look embarrassed. The other two elves began examining the torn balloon. Thankfully, the basket was still buried in the snow along with Arty’s legs.
“Must have been full of helium” bellowed the second elf. “Doesn’t look like there’s been any damage to the pole.” The third elf walked slowly around the pole checking it carefully from all sides. He motioned to Arty, “Here, grab that end, I’m sure Santa will want this balloon for his collection.”
The first elf was eying him suspiciously.
“uh,uh,”Arty stammered, “Here you three take care of this one I’m going to see if there might be any others, big storm you know.” The three elves looked at each other, the first elf shrugged picking up his end of the balloon.
“Thanks guys, I’ll see you back there at the uh, at the Elf hut, place, uh thing.” It wasn’t until they began to walk off that Arty remembered the anchor rope tied around his waist. Frantically he fumbled for it with numb hands. “Wait guys!! Stop!! My um, my foot itches” The elves paid no attention. “Hey wait!” Arty bounced up and down trying to loosen the knot but it was no use, the rope went taught pulling him face first, again, into the snow.
The next thing Arty felt was a small powerful hand lifting him clean out of the the bank by his collar. “Well I’ll be a rabbit’s uncle. Look what I’ve got boys!” the elf boomed waving Arty over his head. In spite of the elf’s lack of altitude Arty’s legs still dangled above the ground. Pulling Arty close the elf examined him closely. His sweet peppermint breath melted the ice on the boy's face. “I’m sure the big man will want to have a look at you.”

Chapter7
The realization hit him like a snowball to the face. He was going to see Santa. “I’m going to see Santa!!” Thought Arty “I’m going to SEE Santa!!!!” He was here, he had made it! He was at the NORT POLE!! His mind was racing. What would Santa be like? Was he really a big fatso? What would his house look like? Did he have a real beard? Would the hot cocoa taste as good as they said it did in all the movies? He would finally be warm again! Would Santa let him touch a reindeer? Would he get to ride in Santa’s sleigh? Did Santa have to brush his teeth just like everybody else? Then suddenly Arty’s excitement twisted. What was he thinking, he couldn’t see Santa,, not like this. What was he going to say? What would he tell him? “Oh hi Santa. I came to steal your sled and ruin Christmas. Oh yes I'd love some more chocolate thank you.”
He couldn’t tell the truth, they would put him in jail! He couldn’t lie; everybody knew that Santa can tell if you’re lying. Nobody really knew how everybody knew, but they knew and that was all that mattered. What a terrible wretched spot he was in! How many times had he dreamed of this, to be here with the elves with the toy factories and the magical wintry wonderland everything! Now he was living the dream of every child indoctrinated by network television and it all was about to turn into the biggest nightmare of his life. Arty could feel his forehead start to sweat, then it froze giving him a weird icicle that hung from his face. Would they punish him? A vision of spending the rest of his childhood locked away in some candy cane cage with nothing but gingerbread and water to keep him alive; without even a blanket to keep warm. They would keep him there, barely alive until he was too old to believe in Santa Clause anymore, or too old to care. Then they would strap him to an iceberg, hand him his last piece of gingerbread, and leave him to his fate on the open sea. Anger began its slow steady drip inside Arty's chest. That was dumb. Santa wouldn't feed him. Santa didn't even care enough to read his letters, why would he bother to waste the gingerbread on a naughty kid. The stars shone cold above him, the Aurora was waving goodbye. How long it would be before he saw stars again.
The group walked on, over one hill of ice, around another, with nothing but hundreds and hundreds of brass poles jutting up out of the snow. Something was wrong. There were no buildings. Where were the buildings? Where were the toy factories? Fear gripped Arty's already frozen heart. Maybe he wasn't at the North Pole after all.
Collecting his courage Arty directed his questions to the head elf.
All the elves laughed. “The buildings?” laughed the head elf. “Can you imagine the heating bill for a building at the North Pole? It’s all under-ice kid. Besides, what would I even want a window for when it’s dark 6 months out of the year.”
“It’d be kinda nice for the summer though.” Said another elf.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right Chuck, still, the heating bill would be outrageous.” He shook his head. “Don't they teach you anything in school kid?” With a large frown the elf stared at the icicle hanging from Arty's forehead. Picking up a handful of snow, he rubbed it in Arty's face. “And keep your head clean of face-cicles when someone's talking to you!” Arty yelped but the elf held him firmly by the neck until the ice on Arty's forehead had been removed. The other two elves shook there heads and muttered to each other.
Finally they stopped near what appeared to the base of a small cliff. In the side of the cliff, burrowed into the ice was a large thick wooden door with giant iron hinges and a round knocker. The first elf reached up with his mitted hand and banged the knocker loudly, then stepped back. He looked at Arty and half smiled. “Good luck kid!”
Slowly the door opened, Arty gasped. There, in the doorway, stood the plumpest, happiest, friendliest, jolliest looking woman Arty had ever seen.

Chapter 8
“A boy! A boy here! Well I never, oh my! How did you ever-? Are you alive? Is he Alive? Are you alive?” Mrs. Clause pinched his cheek as if she was making sure Arty was real. “OH! Cold! You must be so col- I know just the thing. Well don’t just stand there come sit next to the fire. Thank you very much all of you, I’ll see he’s taken care of. Thank you.”
She had grabbed him by the collar, before Arty could blink he had been stripped of his, coat, boots, and mittens, and pressed down into the largest, softest, leather easy chair he’d ever experienced. The fire was warm, something for which Arty was extremely grateful. His socks were completely frozen and his toes had long since gone numb with cold. A second later Mrs. Claus returned with a mug of hot cocoa big as a goldfish bowl and set it on his lap.
Oh it was delicious! Like a nice warm hug on a frosty morning. Arty hadn’t felt that welcome, warm and wonderful in a very long time. For a good minute he sat there completely content watching the ice crystals melt off his socks and form a puddle on the floor.
Mrs. Claus who was now digging in the cupboard for her marshmallows, stopped and began sniffing the air. Sniff, sniff “What is tha-, Oh my what a curious-.” She stared at Arty and her eyes carefully examined him, finally locking on his socks. Clutching his chocolate Arty braced himself for what was about to come next. Bustling over to a corner of the room Mrs. Clause hefted a giant clay pot filled with dirt. She was going to squish him! Arty squnched his eyes tight. He could hear her heavy footsteps as she came closer and then with a “WHUMP” placed the pot before him. “I never have been able to get anything to grow in here.” she almost giggled as she said it. “Maybe you’ll be the first hmmm?” Just then, from outside the door came the sound of sleigh bells and reindeer hooves. Mrs. Clause worked quickly. The door burst open and in tromped Santa. “Ho, Ho, H-” He stumbled backward. “What is that smell?” Cold air poured in from the open doorway. Santa glanced at his wife, then at Arty who was now standing with both of his legs buried in the large pot, and he began to laugh. It was an incredible laugh.
“Well boy, looks like you’ve found yourself a nice pot by the fire!” It was like the sound of pure delight being poured out of a bottle; Arty almost felt sad when it stopped.
“Sarah, do you think he’ll grow?” there it was again, “You always do keep them watered, but I’m just not sure about this one, he looks a little ragged.” Santa spoke with a bit of a twang, like you might expect from a rancher or a wheat grower, but his laughter was Christmas bouillabaisse, the essence of everything worth anything embodied in a single perfect sound, just like the ice from his socks and Arty couldn't keep the anger inside him from melting away. How could he ever steal from this man? Mrs. Claus walked over to her husband and whispered softly in his ear. The old elf’s brow furrowed and he took a long list out of his pocket. Now he was in for it! Arty sipped his cocoa as fast as he could, sure that it would be the last warm thing he drank for a very long time?
“Hmmmmm.” Said Santa. With his large calloused fingers he adjusted his glasses. Santa paused at Arty's name. There was a short breath, then a very long. “Oh dear.” Arty licked the bottom of the mug, savoring even the crusty chocolate linings. Stuffing the list back into his pocket Santa looked up at his new potted friend. Almost instantly all of the joy in the room dissapated. Santa was soft, serious, almost sad. “Well Arty, what brings you to my home?”
This was the end, burried up to his knees Arty was completely immobilized.
“Well, sir, um Santa,” Arty let go a deep sigh, he stared longingly at the open front door, unable to even hop. There was only one thing to do. “You see I uh, I came sir um.” What Arty saw next made his eyes bug three feet out of his head, there was a boy outside climbing into Santa's sled! It was not just any boy, it was- “Hode Hoggins!!!? How in the world?“
“What?” Said Santa cupping his hand to his confused ear. Hode hopped behind the reigns of Santa's eight famous reindeer and waved with an evil look of triumph.
Arty pointed to the open door. “Hode Hoggins!! Santa he’s here! He’s here and he’s stealing your sleigh!”
Santa spun as fast as one can spin a bowl full of jelly, but it was too late! The sleigh was gone. Somehow Hode Hoggins had flown to the North Pole stolen Santa’s bag of toys, and hijacked his sleigh. But that was impossible, and yet...
Circling round before he disappeared out of sight Hode waved down at the dumbfounded trio. “You can keep the ballon!” he shouted “And merry Christmas to MEEEEeeeeee!”

Chapter 9
Those fleeting words faded quickly into the winter night forever etched into Arty's soul. Santa turned to Arty, his voice was low. “Get your boots.” Then he was gone.
Mrs. Clause had Arty dressed and out the door in less than 30 seconds. “You come back and see us again any time you like.” She had said as she handed him a thermos filled with fresh hot chocolate. The thermos was warm in his hands. It reminded him of how he had felt sitting by the fire. Mrs. Clause had said nothing critical about his socks. Even though she knew they were stinky all she had said was “come back.” It was wonderful, and yet when Arty thought about what he had planned to do, what Hode had done, everything wonderful felt terrible inside. A tear rolled down Arty’s cheek. In fact a whole lake full of tears were pushing their way up, and might have caused several large ugly face-cicles if it weren’t for what Arty saw next. There in a snow bank lay Hode’s rocket sled. That’s how he’d done it. Arty picked up the sled. Every boy worth his testosterone in Gila had drooled puddles the day Hode first unveiled it at show and tell. Its engines were still warm from their north-bound flight. It was inconceivable. How could something so beautiful be used for something so awful?
Suddenly Santa came shooting past in another sleigh. He didn’t even slow down; grabbing Arty by the scruff, rocket sled and all, Santa hoisted him shotgun into the sleigh.
“You know this boy?” Yelled Santa.
“Yes sir.” They were traveling at a blinding speed, Arty pulled his cap down tight over his ears.
“Then where are we headed?”
“Don’t you know?” Arty was taken back by the question. “ I thought you knew everything?”
Santa’s eyes shot back at Arty. There wasn’t a hint of sugarplum goodness in them.
“Where do you live boy, I don’t have time to look at my list. It’s Christmas eve and my bag is on that sleigh, with my best reindeer. Now where do you live?”
“Gila”
“Where?”
“1837 Strawberry Lane, Gila Arizona.” Arty replied as loud and as polite as possible.
Santa Grunted and cracked his reigns, “Lets hope that’s where he’s headed.”
Arty could feel his eyes starting to leak again. Christmas was about to be ruined. Little boys and Girls all over the world would wake up tomorrow with empty stockings and no presents under their tree, except maybe a few from Grandma and Grandpa, and Mom and Dad, and Aunt Wendy. Uncle Stew might send a card and a few dollars, but that would be it. No stockings would be filled by the chimney, no presents would be there with that much awaited, “TO:(name here), LOVE: Santa.” Instead Hode Hoggins would have every single one, and it was Arty’s fault. “What have I done?” he groaned. “I’ve ruined Christmas!”
“It won’t do him any good.” Said Santa.
“What?”
“That bag’s not full of toys. It never is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everybody thinks I run a toy shop Arty. I don’t know where they think I’d find the elf power for something like that, let alone be able to afford shipping on all the materials I’d need. I guess the idea makes for pretty books with pictures of elves paint’n wood rocking horses.” He paused. “I’m a farmer Arty. You saw it when your balloon got hung up on one of my poles.” Arty could still picture the Aurora and the thousands of tall brass poles jutting from the ice. “I’m a dream farmer. I collect the stuff dreams are made of, I store it up, then I put it in that giant velvet bag for one night every year.”
Not a toy shop? Arty looked at him incredulously, “What about this?” he held up Hode’s rocket sled. Arty knew for a fact that Hode had received it for Christmas the year before.
Santa spit over the side of the sleigh. “I didn’t make that piece a junk. What, you think I want to put all the good little boys and girls in the hospital?” He looked at the sled in disgust, then back at the horizon. After a few minutes he spoke again.
“I reach my hand into that bag of dreams and if you’ve been good, really good, I pull out that gift you remember all your life. The one you keep tucked away safe. The one you miss forever if you loose it.” Arty didn’t say anything. He couldn’t ever remember getting anything but socks for Christmas. Extra socks weren't exactly his Christmas dream. Santa looked at him reading his thoughts.
“And if you’ve been bad, I pull out what you NEED to help you change and be good.”
Arty shifted uncomfortably in his seat and stared down at his feet, a rusty cog inside his brain was beginning to turn.
“I never given out coal before, ‘cept to those kids who were maybe freezin’ to death.” Santa chuckled.
They rode in silence a long time. All Arty could do was stare at his boots and think about all the pairs of unopened socks stacked in his closet. He thought again about the way the kids had gathered round when he'd broken sled distance record on Hode's lawn. How they'd cheered him on even when they knew it was him. Arty thought about a lot of things. Most of all he thought about his socks, the socks he was wearing, the socks packed away with all his winter clothes the night his father said goodbye for the last time.
It took Santa a long time to put together what he needed to say next. “Arty.” Arty didn't respond. “Arty I read every letter you send me...”
“What?” This time Arty looked up. “There’s Gila!” Arty shouted, pointing to a little patch of light in on the horizon.

Chapter 10
The sky was crisp. A full moon lit the landscape below. As they drew close Arty could make out certain streets and buildings. “THERE HE IS!”
“I see him, hold on!” Santa Called out to his reindeer and instantly the sleigh dove for Hode’s position. Arty could see Hode whipping the reigns as he stared back over his shoulder in both surprise and horror. Hode’s sleigh shot forward and the chase was on.
“If you read them, why don't you answer them!!!”
“What?”
“IF YOU READ THEM-”
“OFCOURSE I READ THEM ARTY!!”
“THEN WHY DON'T YOU ANSWER!
“WHY DON'T YOU BRING HIM BACK!!!”
Santa zeroed in behind and quickly closed the gap, his leather mitted hand stretched out ready to grab as soon as the bag was in range.
“CAN WE TALK ABOUT THIS IN A MINUTE?”
“WHY?!!!!”
Closer. Closer! Almost in reach!! "ARTY YOUR FATHER-" Santa swallowed hard and looked at Arty. “ARTY THERE ARE THINGS-, THERE ARE THINGS EVEN GOD WANTS...” Arty stared, the fate of everything he needed most hanging on the moment. Santa's eyes filled with perfect sympathy Arty understood and had to look away.
Suddenly there was a tremendous groan as a bolt sheared off one of Santa’s runners and the sled veered to the left. The vibrating steel sent the sleigh reeling like a wild bull. It shimmied and shook violently from side to side. Unable to keep control Santa was forced to pull back.
Arty took a deep breath, this was his chance! He grabbed the rocket sled firmly with both hands. “This is my fault!” He shouted over the wind. “I have to make things right.” Santa stared back. Arty crouched on the seat “I'm sorry.” Before Santa could stop him Arty leaped from the sleigh. Grasping the controls he slammed his thumb into the big red ignition button and pulled back on the throttle. Almost instantly the rockets fired, propelling him forward at deafening speed. He kicked off his boots. In the distance Hode was flying low over the town, the tall steeple of the local church approaching quickly in front of him. There was no turning back now. Carefully, so as not to rock the sled, Arty reached down and took off first one sock, then the other. His body was shaking. A rush of frigid air tingled his bare toes. In eight seconds he’d be in range. Four seconds. Ready, ready, NOW! Both socks landed perfectly on the seat next to Hode. The smell was so rank Hode was forced to let go of the reins and cover his nose to keep from throwing up.
With a quick turn Arty circled back around behind again. With a loud buzz, the sled's fuel light began flashing. He had less than a minute now. Arty's arm trembled as it reached out ready to hook Santa's bag. He could see Hode desperately kicking at the socks next to him in the cockpit. Hode looked up at the last second to see Arty as he swooped down, grabbed the bag with one arm, pulled back on sled and rocketed up and away. Helpless, Hode could only look on defeated.
At 6 Gs the sled shot up like a Saturn missile. Arty cheered; he'd done it! He hadn't ruined Christmas after all!!! Jumping up and down on his seat Santa let out the biggest “WAHOOOO!!! and GOODNIGHT!!!” you ever heard. The world was right again; but, the bottom of the velvet bag hanging now from Arty's sled caught, just barely, on the tip of the church steeple. A sound of tearing velvet split the night. Without even enough time to look back Arty, Hode, and Santa were enveloped by a nuclear blast of white cotton, in the biggest explosion of stockings the world had ever seen.
Christmas had been ruined.



Chapter 11
Ever so softly socks fell all around. They fell, and fell, and kept falling, and fell some more, and even fell a little bit longer. After that more socks fell on top of the first socks, and a few more socks came after that, followed by socks, more socks, a burst of falling socks, socks, fresh socks, and a flurry of lint. Socks fell from the sky for hours.
At the sound of the explosion parents and children alike came rushing from their beds faces to the sky, tongues outstretched, giddy as if they were seeing Christmas for the first time. The bright bubbly laughter of families playing together sparkled all over the city. With magic filling the holiday air no one heard the muffled crumple of both of Santa's sleighs as they plummeted to the ground. No one paid any attention to the 32 pairs of reindeer legs poking up out of the white landscape. No one noticed their desperate attempts to extricate themselves from the piles of socks that had cushioned their crash landings.
High above it it all, Arty clung to the rope of Santa's torn sack, his bare feet dangling as he struggled to gain a footing on the tall church steeple. Below he could see the outlines of Hode and Santa, lying next to each other, half buried in cotton. Both lay still for a long time. Their bare faces staring blankly up to the sky. With great effort, Santa managed to work a giant mitted hand free from the debris only to cover his face with it while he cried. High up on the roof of the church, Arty watched for a moment, then turned his head away, and sobbed.

Chapter 12
No one in Gila went to bed that night. Christmas magic filled the air thick as cottonwood seeds. When children got to tired to play anymore their parents made sure they were well covered in socks, then lay down beside them to sleep or sit and talk about things they hadn't felt or thought in a long time. As soon as the morning sun broke over the horizon the town was alive again. Old men climbed into dusty attics to retrieve childhood sleds. Women scoured their pantries for extra large cookie sheets, anything that could be used as a sleigh was put in service. All day long there were sock forts and sock men to build, sock ball fights and sock angels to be made, not to mention sock jumps at the end of sock slaloms. Every mountain, hill and bump in the road became a playground for anyone with a smooth object to sit on and a little homemade know how. For everyone in Gila, a Christmas dream had come true!

For everyone else, Christmas didn't come at all.

That morning children sprang from their beds only to find empty spaces under their Christmas trees, and warm milk near the chimney. The littlest ones didn’t understand, they sat staring at empty fireplaces, munching cookies, with empty stockings draped across tear-stained knees, or clutched to disbelieving faces. No one had heard reindeer hooves clipping on the rooftops that night. No ones dreams of sugarplums and candy canes had come true. Santa hadn't come. Santa hadn't come and he never would. Not this year.
Somehow, during the night, Arty had found his way down from the church's steeple. He found his way to Santa who was busy foraging pieces of his broken sleighs. One of the sleds he'd been able to wire back together enough to limp home, the other was just a pile of twisted metal, splinters and screws piled in the back of the first.
When everything had been gathered up the old elf leaned into his seat and picked up the reigns. The sleigh creaked and slumped to one side. Handing Santa the empty torn bag Arty tried to look up, but he couldn't.
“I’m sorry.” Arty sobbed.
Then it all came out. Arty told Santa about his plan to ruin Christmas, and the balloon, and why Hode Hoggins had followed, and how it never would have happened if Arty hadn't in the first place. And the time he flushed a washcloth, and if he'd just changed his socks... his blubered words mixing with tears leaving a puddle of wet confession on the ground. “I ruined Christmas!!!”
Santa dropped the reins, picked up the shattered little boy and set him on his knee. “There now.” He said holding him close. “Shhhhh now that's not something we can do anything about anymore.” Arty felt Santa's rough thumb as it wiped the tears from his cheeks. Behind the thumb he met a pair of soft understanding eyes. “Arty remember, you also tried to save it.”
“I miss my dad.”
Santa stroked the boys stubborn hair. “I know you do.” Neither spoke for a long time, then a warm chuckle came rolling from deep in the old elf's belly. He gestured at the white cotton wonderland surrounding them. “You must have needed this real bad.”
Through his tears Arty looked down at the millions of stockings gleaming in the morning sun. “Do you smell that?”
“Smell what?”
“Exactly.” Arty replied and smiled.
Arty climbed down from the sleigh, Santa picked up the reigns of his 16 reindeer. “On Prancer, On Dancer, On Filo, and Fredderic...” He called. The sleigh rose with a shudder and circled once over head. Arty waved, Santa did his best to wave as well, but the wicked shimmy his sled was making demanded most of his immediate attention. Slowly the sleigh hobbled along until it disappeared out of sight.
There was a rustle of socks; Hode emerged from a nearby pile holding his head. “Ouuug what happened? I feel like I've been run over by a truck. Where did- What hap- How-?” Arty helped Hode to his feet.
Supporting him on his shoulder the two boys limped quietly home. Hode paused at his porch. “Thats weird.”
“What's weird?”
Hode rubbed his forehead. “My frosty balloon is gone. Someone stole my frosty balloon.”
“Well, uh, you see Hode-” Arty didn't exactly know how to begin.
Just then Mr. Higgins opened the door. “Hode! Where have you been we've been worried sick?!”
Arty handed Hode to his father. “We had a bit of a sledding accident.”
“It was that rocket sled wasn't it?” Mr. Higgins didn't wait for an answer only carried his son inside. “ I knew giving you that death trap for Christmas was a bad idea. Your mother said it wouldn't matter because we never get any snow but I told her...”
The door closed. Arty looked across the street to his own yard. His family was building a 15 foot sock man in the front yard. Everyone was so enthralled with the project they didn't even notice Arty as he approached, barefoot and smiling from ear to ear.
“Merry Christmas Everyone!” All turned at once, seeing Arty they fled as fast as their legs could carry them leaving Arty alone again. That wasn't exactly the welcome he'd expected. Arty slumped against the giant sockman. Reaching down he picked up a fresh pair of socks turning them over in his hands. Carefully he slipped one first onto his left foot, then onto his right. The new cotton felt dry and warm around his toes. Inspite of himself he couldn't help but smile. They fit perfectly.
Suddenly a rolled up sock fell from above and hit him on the head. Then another and he heard a squeaky giggle trickle down from above. “Awty! Awty...”
It was his littlest sister. “Help me Awty I can't reach.”
Arty climbed the ladder next to Abbie. “Hello Abbie.”
“Mewy Chwistmas” Abbie replied.
Gently Arty carried her down from the sockman's shoulder. “Awty you don't smell bad.” she kissed him on the cheek. Arty looked at her, letting the moment sink in. A bright and glorious future had dawned! “Well, I mean youw feet don't smell bad, but when was the last time you changed youw undoweaw?”


THE END

Yellow Snow Cone

Once there was a yellow snow cone.

It sat alone all afternoon in a tray watching the other snow cones go away one by one.

“Ha Ha! No one wants you Lemon!” All the snow cones laughed as they left in the eager hands of happy smiling children.

“Nobody wants a yellow snow cone!”

The yellow snow cone tried to ignore them.

He stood his yellow snow tall in his cone cup and tried to look delicious.

He knew that someday he would grow up to be a beautiful swan.

But when the sun finally set, the yellow snow cone still remained.

The next day it snowed, so little yellow was thrown onto the sidewalk.

That aftert noon, when the sun came out the little snow cone melted into a yellow puddle.

If the snow cone had possessed eyes, it would have cried bitter tears of disappointment.

A little while later a giant beautiful swan came waddling up out of the pond.

Reaching down with its beautiful long neck the swan lapped up the yellow lemon puddle.

Waddling back to his lake the swan stopped for a moment under a honeysuckle tree.

Once there was some yellow snow.

A Tree Lot in Brookview

Making sure to dampen the soil just enough. Tammy's mother watered each seedling individually. Light poured around her through the window panes. Tammy watched the dust caught in each sun beam as it swirled around the little seedlings in window box. They were the third batch this year. Soon they would be big enough to join the others.

...

The ground crumbled at the edges of the shovel as it wedged a crack in the ground. Tammy gently pulled one of the new trees from her satchel and placed it in the fresh hole. Making sure it stood straight Tammy and her father pressed the earth firmly around the roots. One by one each tree was given its own spot, watered and left to be nourished by the good earth. As they worked they hummed softly a tune with words long since forgotten.
The field ended and they stopped. Tammy looked out at the long rows of pine trees below. They stretched from smallest to tallest down a bowl shaped hillside with the largest trees nearest the cabin. Each generation of trees had its own little sign with the year it was planted. There were hundreds and hundreds. Tammy's father leaned on his shovel smiling as he gazed at his forest. He looked down at Tammy. “This is the year half pint. I planted those first trees the same year you were born. Come November I'll hire your uncles to help me take them down to Brookview.”
“Oh but not Clarence!” Tammy tugged at her fathers sleeve.
“No, not Clarence, we'll leave him and a few others to keep the cabin looking nice.”
“Pa, they're going to be the most beautiful Christmas trees anyone ever saw!”
He laughed and kissed her. She was right; the little mountain bowl was perfect pasture for trees, never too cold, never too dry, plenty of sunlight. Each tree was full, healthy, nearly perfect.

...

Tammy dropped her pine cones onto the large quilt laid over the soft pine needles. Her baby sister sat next to the pile grabbing at the cones, knocking them together. Tammy sat next to her Mother who was quietly separating the seeds into a bowl. There was a rustle in brush and her father appeared with a large basket full to bursting with cones. He moved quickly with a spark in his step.
“What are you up to Joseph?”
Tammy's father winked and his eyes twinkled “ I don't know why you're mother is always so suspicious.”
Tammy sat up trying to peek around the hidden side of her Father's basket.
“Shhh. Put out your hands Mae. ... Well close your eyes!”
Her mother chuckle and squirmed at what it might be.
“Elderberries!”
“And another bunch for you. There's three bushes of them yonder, we'll have to gather them later for jam!”
“Trying to fatten me up for winter?”
Joseph laughed. “More likely hoping to fatten myself on your fresh bread and preserves!” He paused and sighed. “Beautiful berries for my three beautiful women. How are the seeds coming?”
Her cheeks stuffed with berries Tammy picked up the large ceramic bowl filled with seeds and handed it to her father.

...

“TIIIIIMMMMMMBBBBBBEEEEERRRRR!” Tammy watched her father and uncles from a rubbed pane in the otherwise frost covered window.
“Thank you again Charley. You have once again saved us from being crushed to death by an 8 foot tree.”
Chop
Chop
Charlie laughed. “Somebody's got to keep to protocol.”
Chop
Chop
“ Who knows what awful things might happen if we just went around cutting trees with out AAAaaaiii!!”
The other two laughed as their youngest brother disappeared under a pile of branches. Jacob took in a breath that carried the scent of fresh pine. “Anyone who could choose one of those artificial jobs over a tree like this...”
Joseph smiled watching Charles extricate himself from the soft snow. “Smells like heaven doesn't it?- Wait not that one Jacob!” Unwrapping his scarf Joseph laid it across the branches. “Clarence is Tammy's, he gets to stay.”
One by one they stacked the new trees into the bed of the Red International, and fastened them to the wooden railings for their ride down the mountain. It didn't take long for the truck's large engine to soften the frost on the windshields after roaring to life. Charley honked the horn and waved, as the wipers clicked back and forth and the two brothers rumbled away.
“Thank you for the delicious supper! And the Jam: Incredible!”
“Pa you're not going with them?” Tammy's father had his arm around her shoulder.
“Not tonight half pint. Well all pile in the tank tomorrow.”
“We all get to go?”
“Well I promised your Grandmother she'd get to see you before Christmas. And I expect it will take a few weeks, not to mention a few more truckloads before we're done this year.

...

The streets of Brookview were covered in Christmas, giant tinsel candy canes hung on lamp posts, everywhere lights twinkled from snow covered trees and rooftops. As they entered the center of town Tammy's father pointed to an empty lot next to a brightly lit shoe store. “That's where our lot will be. Tomorrow we'll put up the sign, and hang a few Christmas lights. The manager next door is even letting us plug into his outlet.” The little family drove on out of town until they came to a lonely farmhouse. A large red barn outlined in strands of little white lights glowed against the night sky. The truck pulled into the driveway and sputtered to a stop. Tammy had barely opened the passenger door when Uncle Charlie came running from the front door. “They're here Ma!” He called over his shoulder. Doors clicked open, then slammed shut as road weary feet pressed down the fresh scrunchy snow. Reaching into the back of the truck Charley slung every sack and picked every bag he could handle then turned to follow his brother's family inside. An older woman with smile wrinkles met them with hugs and kisses at the doorway. Everyone wanted to know how the drive was, and if anybody was hungry for toast with cinnamon; if the house was warm enough or if warm milk was needed to warm up travel weary bones. “Look how big you've grown!” Glowed Tammy's grandmother “Oh Joseph you have such a beautiful family. And you're staying for Christmas, of course you are. Oh wonderful wonderful!”
Long after Tammy had been put to bed in the little closet room she listened to the grown ups talk excitedly about good times, and old times, and their plans for the best tree lot Brookview had ever seen.

...

The next morning Tammy's father left early with both of her uncles. She woke to the sound of the old International clattering out of the barn and down the road. Rubbing her eyes she wandered into the kitchen where she found her mother nursing the baby while her grandmother washed the breakfast dishes. “Ooooo good morning! And how's my sweet little granddaughter” sang Grandmother. “There's some breakfast on the table, come and eat. Your father's off to set up his tree lot. Oh we're going to have so much fun I'm so excited!”
Tammy hugged her grandmother and smiled as she looked toward the kitchen table to see pancakes and a tall glass of fresh orange juice! She eagerly climbed up into the chair and reached for the butter. “We have to bring the decorations down from the attic and arrange the furniture. Later we're all going into town to take the boys something warm to drink and pick out a tree for the living room. Here, let me pour you some syrup."

...

It was getting on past noon before Grandma's Chrysler pulled to a stop in front of the tree lot. As fast as she could unfasten her seatbelt Tammy was out of the car. Behind a makeshift fence decorated with large colorful Christmas bulbs stood her trees. Each one freshly fitted at its base with a pine cross for a stand. Closing her eyes she took in the sweet freshness: the smell of home. Towards the gate on one side of the lot stood her uncles warming their hands over a burn barrel, one whose job was to keep both the people and the trees warm. In a pile at the back under a large heavy tarp more trees waited their turn to be shored up with pine and put on display. Tammy's father appeared with his arms full of fire wood to feed the barrel. The anticipation of a dream turned reality filled the air with electricity like fresh bread out of the oven. Tammy's mother brushed her husbands scruffy cheek and then calmly kissed it. “It's wonderful Joseph.”
Tammy's father smiled “Turned out! We've got adds in the paper and the radio. Jacob's posted fliers on every bulletin board for 50 miles. Now all we need are people.”
“We're here for a tree!” Bounced Tammy.
“Well then, looks like we've got our first customer!”
Amidst cheers Charlie took a tag and a marker out of his pocket. “So we don't accidentally give your tree to someone else. What was your name then little girl?”

...

“The white ones the prettiest. It think she's going to have longer fur than the others.” Wrapped in her father's work coat Tammy sat in the fresh straw of the barn. Two kittens wrestled in her lap, and she giggled as a third climbed down her back to burrow through one of the coats baggy sleeves. “I like him best.” She pointed to a tough marmalade attacking Uncle Charlie's shoelaces.
The big door opened a crack as Tammy's father slid in from the cold. Even though Tammy was on the other side of the barn behind the empty truck she could feel the cold night air.
“Oh Charlie” Joseph frowned. “what have you done.” The little white kitten popped its head out of the coat sleeve and mewed.
“Can I keep one Papa? Can I have one for Christmas?”
“That's what I was afraid you were going to say.”
“But they're so cute and soft and and”
“And fuzzy, and stinky, and poop-”
“Please oh please! I'll never ask for anything again I promise!”
Joseph picked up the marmalade, gently holding it to his face. It mewed and pawed the air indignantly.
“Your grandmother is finished hanging the lights on the tree, she sent me to fetch you both.”

...

Decorated with white lights the dark green pine glowed in the center of the living room window. An old quilt had been spread around the base of the trunk to catch falling needles.
Charlie let out a low whistle. “It's 100 times better than the Johnson's tree. They just bought a new plastic tree from ChinaMart, it has lights on it permanently and everything. Mrs. Johnson even keeps a bucket of Pine sol under it to keep it smelling fresh.
“Maybe we they would like one of ours.” offered Tammy. “We've got lots of trees.”
Charlie shook his head. “Even if we gave it too them they wouldn't take it. Her daughters haven't spoken to me since they found out we were opening the lot.”
“Oh that reminds me,” Tammy's Grandmother carefully placed a hand blown star on one of the stronger branches. “I have a bag of cans for you to take along next time they asked to borrow the truck for a trip to the recycle center.”
Decorations were carefully taken from their tissue stuffed places inside old Christmas candy boxes older than anyone could remember. Some glass, others homemade paper with pasted glitter, or bright painted plastic. Each ornament a memory preserved in tissue.
“What ever happened to that little play dough Santa we made Mom?” Joseph asked winking at his mother. “You mean the one Charlie licked and licked until he grew mold on his beard?” Charlie twisted his nose and grunted. Jacob nudged his younger brother. “Remember that Christmas you found the box of tampons under the bathroom sink and hung them all over the tree?”
Everyone laughed. Even Charlie couldn't help smile.“They had perfect little strings for hanging, and shiny cellophane wrappers. How was I supposed to know what they were.” Tammy didn't understand why everyone always thought that joke was so funny. But at the moment she didn't care, inside one of the boxes she'd found an ornament of a perfect little orange kitten with a Santa hat on one ear. “Mama look it's just like the little cat out in the barn; the one I want for Christmas!”
Tammy's mother stopped laughing. “You want what for Christmas?”

...

Every day Tammy and her mother drove down to the tree lot to see the lights and the shoppers bustling about town. They would stay to drink hot chocolate and sing carols around the burn barrel. Every evening the trees stood gracefully in their rows. Shoppers would wander the temporary forest to press the sweet needles to their noses. Neighbors and old friends stopped to chat and warm their hands over the fire. Only every now and again did Charlie have to pull a tag from his pocket. Every morning the same trees remained from the day before. Day after day the orphan trees stood in their perfect rows waiting for loving home. And every night was another night closer to Christmas!

...

With just a crack of light reaching through, Tammy listened to her parents talking in the kitchen, long after everyone else had gone to bed.
“They're just not selling Mae! We've got 2 weeks till Christmas and we've only sold 27 trees. People pet them and poke them and rub them to their cheeks like they were children, but no one buys!”
There was no reply. Tammy could hear the table groan as her father leaned forward, his head in his arms. “We even had the Johnson girls show up today to protest. You'd think we'd stolen trees from the rain forest. And all day long I see cars driving by with the big fake tree boxes tied to their roof or poking out of their trunks as if plastic is going out of style. And here we were going to have money to fix up the cabin, and food and clothes.”
“And presents.”
“And presents.” Her father let out a long low groan.
“Well if nothing else we can give her that little orange kitten she wants so badly.” Laughed her mother. Tammy's heart jumped! She heard both of her parents chuckling, letting their laughter relieve the pressure of a very long day. Tammy heard a chair, then another, then the rustle of clothes and her mother's soft voice.
“It's going to be fine. Somehow things will be fine. I love you Joseph, my good sweet Joseph.”

...

“You know Joe, you're wasting a lot of heat with this barrel. Not to mention all the work chopping wood. If you'd like, I've got a propane heater in my garage that'll put out ten times the heat of this thing for half the money.”
“That's very kind of you Ty” Joseph smiled, though there wasn't much hope left in it. “I like the fire, and unless something changes quick we're going to have plenty of free wood to spare.”
Tyson looked down at the red half price sign stuck to the fence. “You know I'd buy one if the wife hadn't insisted on the artificial kind this year. She says she's tired of always having to vacuum up needles till spring.” He paused and took a deep breath” It does smell good here though. Somehow those smelly candles just don't measure up. Even your smoke reminds me of Christmas as a kid.” Tyson's eyes brightened. “Say you wouldn't be willing to sell me just a few branches?” Joseph turned eyes wide. "What did you say?"

...

As the Chrysler pulled up to the tree lot that evening something had changed. Next to the old tree sign was a new sign that said, Wreaths, Boughs, and Yule logs cut fresh. WACK WACK WACK went Charlie's hatchet as he feverishly stripped each tree, separating limb from trunk while Jacob wove them together with a ball of steel wire. At the end of a long line of shoppers Tammy's father sat taking orders as fast as he could make change.
“Mae! I'm so glad you're here, we can hardly keep up.” Joseph had a grin from ear to ear through his fresh beard. Without a word Tammy's mother sat alongside Jacob and began weaving wreaths and binding boughs. Tammy walked over to the burn barrel where a small crowd stood silently staring at their shoes and watches. Teenage boys kept finding scraps of bark and wood to add to the fire. The flames were so hot Tammy could hardly warm herself. WACK WACK WACK went the hatchet. Putting her hands in her armpits she started to sing “Jingle bells Jingle bells...” Everyone smiled and stared, when she was finished, some clapped politely before resuming the close examination of the ground around their feet. Tammy looked down as well. WACK WACK WACK. Shifting side to side, and up and down she felt the cold seeping into her toes.

...

“Here's a knife for the frosting.” Grandma handed Tammy a large spreading tool. With business booming at the tree lot, Tammy now spent the evenings with her grandmother so she wouldn't be bored or in the way. She picked up a sugar cookie shaped like a bell and began spreading homemade frosting over the top. Hearing a truck she looked at the clock, no one would be home for another two hours. Suddenly the door opened and her father walked in.
“Papa!” He warmed put his cold hands on her cheeks and gave her a hug. “Looks like you and Grandma are having fun!” Picking up a small angel cookie he bit off its frosted head. “Mmmmmmm, Delicious mother! We're running low on trees. I came back to pick up the ones left in the barn.”
Tammy dropped her cookie. “Don't leave the doors open too long or Tiger's kittens will be cold!” Her father stopped at the back door and turned. “Don't worry half pint, I'm sure they'll be just fine with all that straw to hide in.”
“But!”
“Here Sweetheart, your father knows what he's doing. Help me put these cookies on plates and we'll take some over to the Whiting family.”

...

With only a few days till Christmas the signs were down, the lot empty. the trees gone. Dreams of what each would do with their new found wealth danced like sugarplums in every ones heads. Any leftover logs had been piled into the back of the old truck for the cabins wood burning stove, but their wasn't much; the tree lot had been a booming success! Tammy stood in the driveway with her family saying their goodbyes. Charlie and Jacob walked through the door with a suitcase on each side and slid them into the bed next to the small pile of yule logs and a large box full of wrapped packages. The air was stiff, and the snow icy crisp on top, was powder underneath.
“Thank you Mother.” Joseph smiled with a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. “It's been wonderful.”
“Are you sure you won't change your mind and stay for Christmas?”
There was a bitter touch to her tone.
“Can we please Papa? It's only two days more.”
“You've been kind enough to let us stay as long as we have. I think we've been away too long already.”
Tammy's grandmother frowned, then turned and hugged her granddaughter as hard as she could. “I'm so glad you came to visit me.” Tammy squose back and buried her cheek into her grandmother's soft wool coat. “Oh my darling.”
More hugs and goodbyes were given and taken and it wasn't long before Tammy found herself watching her uncles and grandmother shrink in the rear view mirror to nothing but a long white horizon.
“Wait we have to go back!”
The truck screeched to a halt. “What is it? What's wrong? Gasped Joseph
“We forgot to bring the little orange kitten!”
Her father grunted and restarted the truck. Her mother patted her knee. “Now don't you worry about that kitten, it's going to be just fine.”
“But-.”
Then Tammy noticed a small cardboard box down near her mother's feet. "Shhh now her mother cooed, we've got a long drive home."

...

Tammy counted each second 5 times as she waited for the 6 o clock alarm to ring. Tick Tick Tick. Christmas would never come at this rate! Why was the night so long! Tick tick tick. Her eyes drooped unable to hold themselves up any longer- BRRRRIIIIIINNNNNGG! The bells of Christmas morning pealed again! All was right with the world!! Tammy threw on her slippers and raced to her parent's bed. With the light on the baby started to cry. Tammy couldn't wait another second. She tore to the tree. There were packages of all shapes and colors, but the little box, the one from the truck, Where was it!? There! On the table, She ran to it and tore off the top. There it was inside! Perfect, beautiful orange marmalade preserves: home made.
“Did we forget to feed you or something?” morbled Tammy's father as he rubbed crusties from his eyes.
“I, I thought.” Tammy didn't know what to- she ran back to the tree and frantically searched through the boxes one more time.
“I, thought I mean I...”
Tammy's Mother grinned as she pulled a large package from behind the couch.
“This one was too big to fit under the tree. It says its for you Tammy.”
Hands shaking, heart pumping, Tammy carefully, o so carefully pulled the pink ribbon, peeled back the paper and opened the box. Inside was a beautiful stuffed kitten with orange stripes. Not a real kitten, but one that wouldn't poop, or smell, or destroy the furniture or get into the trash. Pulling her prize from the box Tammy hugged the little kitten to her spinning in circles around the room. “Thank you Thank you Thank you!
“We'll even let that one sleep in your bed with you at night.” Chuckled her father.
Taking a small comb from the coffee table Tammy sat contentedly on the floor near the fireplace and began to brush.
“What are going to name it?” asked her father.
Tammy didn't have to think, she would name it the same as what Uncle Charlie had named the little kitten from the barn. Tammy looked up at her parents with a smile.
In the hearth fresh pine logs were just beginning to pop and crackle. The synthetic cat fur brushed down nicely, parting from side to side as Tammy groomed Little Hellion. Outside hundreds of young Christmas trees slept, covered in snow, dreaming of Christmases yet to come and their trip one day down to the tree lot in Brookview.

The Littlest Mine Shaft

Once there was a little mine shaft.

He was just barely a hole in the ground,

but he had a heart of gold.

Sometimes he dreamt of being a giant mine shaft like the coal and copper mines.

A shaft big enough for big trucks with big tires to drive up and down his tunnels,

big enough for hundreds of men to come and go, and come and go as they dug deep into the earth with their yellow lantern hats and shovels.

But, hard as he tried, the little mine shaft was never able to produce enough ore too justify more than just one little bearded man, and a donkey.

No one payed much attention too the little mine,

No one except the old man, and the donkey on a smart day,

And no one ever would have paid attention but for one fateful day, when a family of panda bears escaped from the zoo!

Tired of living in a climate controlled artificial 4 acre bamboo forest, the desperate bear family fled the confines of their prison and sought refuge in the far off hills.

Every Policeman, Zoo keeper, Helicopter pilot and Dog catcher scoured the land for days in search of the bear fugitives.

Brother bear ran near Father bears shoulders, while Mother bear coddled Baby bear in one arm.

Surrounded, and exhausted Mother and Father bear knew that unless they found way home to China, it wouldn't be long before they were tranquilized, captured, and returned to confinement.

As they stumbled over a ridge Father bear saw a big black coal mine. He was the biggest of all the mines.

Giant yellow dump trucks ran back and forth twenty four hours a day in and out of the giant shaft

dumping their loads of coal into coal cars of a big black train that waited down below.

Suddenly Father bear had an idea!

“Coal Mine! Mr. Coal mine!” Called Father bear. “Help us please! If you would open your mouth and let us fall through the earth to China.”

The Coal mine laughed a deep crusty laugh. “Ha! A tunnel to China! Can you imagine the shovels that would take? It would be Pandemonium! Silly old bear! Like I have time to waste helping your family. Millions of people depend on my coal for their power, to heat their homes, and to filter their water! Help you? Preposterous!

“Come dear” said Mother bear softly “There are other mines on the next hillside, maybe they will help.”

It wasn't long before the bear family came across a beautiful Silver mine. Gleaming piles of silver guilt rock piled around her mouth waiting to be sent to the Stamler to be crushed.

“Dear Silver Mine” plead Mother bear “We are far from our home in China and need your help, if you would open your mouth-”

“Don't make another sound!” Bellowed the Silver mine. “Pander to your needs? Do you really expect me to let the filthy likes of you into my tunnels, a mine refined and precious as myself? Off with you, before I have you all made into rugs!”

“Why won't anyone help us?” wondered Brother bear.

“I'm hungry!” Cried Sister bear

“Hush” said Mother bear “it won't be long now.”

Without another word the little family moved on.

Finally they came to a warm green hill with a little stream. Up at the top sank the Littlest mine shaft covered in wildflowers.

“Please little mine shaft! Please, we need to get home to China.” pled all the bears at once “We've asked the silver mine, and we've asked the big coal mine, and no one will help us. Can you open your mouth wide and let us fall through to China!”

The littlest mine shaft was silent, he didn't know if he could open his mouth that wide.

He was just a little mine shaft, not nearly as big and powerful as the coal mine, nor as elegant, deep as the silver mine shaft.

But there in the fading sunlight stood a young family in desperate need, and every ounce of his golden heart longed to save them.

Opening his mouth he spoke softly.

“I'm just a little mine, and I barely have any depth to my shafts, but I will try. Stand at the mouth of my tunnel, and when I say go jump in as quick as you can.”

As he spoke a helicopter came over the hillside and spotted the bear family.

“O hurry hurry!” Cried Mother bear.

“I can do it if I try hard enough!” said the mine shaft to himself.

He stretched and he yawned and as he did the ground shook.

“I think I can! I think I can! I think I can!” said the littlest mine shaft.

As he spoke his tunnels reached deeper and deeper and-

“I think I can, I THINK I Can, I think I CAN!”

Deeper and deeper, further and further!

“He's doing it!” cried baby bear.

Sixty men with tranquilizer rifles and bear nets circled around the bear family and began closing in. Rifles cracked, darts whizzed inches from the bears huddled haunches.

“I THINK I CAN, I THINK I CAN! I THI-”

Four darts stuck deep into Papa bears rump “ITS NOW OR NEVER!” he shouted and jumped into the abyss, his family right behind.

...

Maybe if the coal mine had tried, or if the silver mine had cared, the bears would have made it home that day.

but this was just a little gold mine. The littlest actually, didn't you read the title?

It was completely ludicrous to expect a mine so small and shallow to reach all the way to China.

In the littlest mine's defense, he did gain a few extra feet for his efforts.

Luckily for the bear family, the shaft was small enough that Father bear wedged within the first few feet and kept all the others from falling to their death.

Mother bear and the children were bagged up and shipped back to the zoo within the hour.

Papa was wedged fast, and sleeping soundly.

It took four days of careful excavation, a crane, and three million in tax dollars, before Papa bear was able to rejoin his family at the zoo.

He was given a warm soapy bath, fed fresh bamboo and left to wander his artificial forest, for millions of tourists who came every year to take pictures from their bus windows so that they would have something to show when they got back home,

to their friends and families

in China.


.

When Pigs Fly

It was the kind of cloud that puts spring in your fiddle bow.

Jacob stared hungrily into the sky.

Thick, dark and rich as the soil, it came thundering over the plain.

Pouring life into the sun beaten wheat.

It was all Jacob could do to keep from crying as he ran towards his little log house.

The new mud felt warm on his bare feet, soft enough to smoosh, but not wet enough to squish between the toes.

It wouldn't take long for that though with this rain.

Dove was near the open door, her shoulders back, her face to the sky, letting the warm wet soak her through.

Drops ran over her perfect chin and down the neck of her calico dress.

As he drew near, Jacob's heart jumped: she was so beautiful.

Clasping Dove in his arms Jacob smothered her laughing face with kisses.

“Well you were right, and I was wrong,” sang Dove “Thank heaven you were right.”

Jacob squeezed his wife and rubbed his beard to her cheek.

“Right as rain!” He turned to look at their fields. “Sooner see pigs fly than a drop of rain in July eh?”

She smiled back at him.

They stood together watching the storm.

“Not often your wrong about anythin'- HOT DOG!... hotdog.”

Jacob stared deep into storm overhead, his voice drifted away on the wind. “Not often your wrong...”

He sniffed at the air.

“Jacob what is it?” Dove could see furrows on Jacobs forehead.

“It can't be.”

The way he said it tied Dove's insides up.

“Come on into the house!” He grabbed her hand. Now she was scared.

“Jacob what-”

“Shhhh” Quickly he moved to the corner were he kept his rifle, broke the stock and loaded 5 rounds.

Taking one step from the door so as to be free from obstruction Jacob braced the rifle to his shoulder, pressed it to his cheek, and drew a steady bead.

Nothing else moved, nothing made a sound,

except the rain.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

The rain stopped.

Then Jacob was back inside and moving. “GET TO THE CELLAR!!!!” he bellowed slamming the door behind him.

Dove jerked open the trap door and jumped in rolling to one side.

Jacob landed right behind her, the cellar door came too with a bang over their heads.

He covered her, protecting her with his wet body. She could feel his heart pounding, his chest heaving with excitement.

They waited, just a moment longer.

“Jacob what is-”

Suddenly both of them were thrown into the air, the ground began to buck and kick, shaking the marrow from their bones.

Boards and beams crashed. Carrots and potatoes fell down on all sides. The air thick with dust, both fought to keep from being buried alive.

And then it stopped,

Everything was quiet again.

Light poured down through craters in what was left of their roof, and floor.

Shingles toppled down as the pile of rubble continued to settle.

Jacob stood, shook the dust from his long brown hair. He helped Dove to her feet.

He couldn't stop smiling. She fought back the tears not knowing what to think.

Her house was in ruins and her husband was giddy as a crawdad.

Jacob took her by the hand.

“No no don't cr-, shhhhh, Just wait! Close your eyes and don't peek!”

Dove wasn't exactly in the moo-

“No don't cry. You were right you silly goose, you beautiful silly goose!”

“What's going on Jacob!” Tears cut channels through the dirt on her face, but Jacob's excitement was so big she found herself laughing and crying at the same time.

Taking a breath she covered her eyes. “No peeking, I promise.”

Jacob Crawled up through a hole, lifted Dove up next to him then led her through the rubble.

Out into the sunlight gently he reached from behind and pulled her hands away. “Now.”

Dove Opened her eyes and gasped!

In awe filled silence they gawked at the sheer majesty of the scene laid before them.

Jacob let out a long low whistle.

There, like a mountain stretching across the near corner of the field, not 15 feet from the cabin lay a 600 foot long aardvark with white feathered wings.

“Well, hot beets! I guess you were wrong after all.”

Dove looked down at her wet yellowing dress. “I guess we both were.”

Jacob sighed. “I was hoping for bacon and eggs tomorrow.”

Dove smiled. Sliding her arm around her husbands waist she put her head gently on his shoulder.

“It crushed the chicken coop anyway.”

Jacob looked down at his wife, then back at the wheat stretching in the summer sun. It was going to make it.

“Those wings are going to make a fine down comforter come winter.” said Dove softly.

“That rib cage should make a good roof.” Jacob replied.

It was going to be a plentiful year.

a good year.

One filled by the windows of heaven.

That thought, and something about the idea of hundreds of barrels of salted aardvark,

made them both smile.

.