Davida's Thanksgiving

Davida's Thanksgiving

Outside, the thick quilt of snow has muted the world. Each time Davida looks out the bay window, it’s snowing harder than it was before, and she can’t shake the feeling that she’s trapped in a giant snow globe. She shivers and turns up the baseboard heat. 

When her son Fred told her that he wasn’t coming home for Thanksgiving because he’d been invited to Ohio to meet his fiancé’s parents, Davida hadn’t batted an eye. She’d figured that she and Wallace would invite Kendra and Jeff over. She’d imagined that the four of them would enjoy a lively Thanksgiving afternoon playing cards. That had been back in August and it feels like a lifetime ago. No, it feels like it happened to another person.  

Davida turns back to the window with a sigh and lowers the shades. Dusk will fall soon and she can’t bear to look at the snow anymore. She needs to distract herself, she decides, and wanders into the dining room where a half completed jigsaw puzzle sits on the table. There’s also a paper plate with a slice of homemade pecan pie, vanilla ice cream melted in a puddle at its base. Davida sits down, shuffles a few puzzle pieces, then takes a bite of pie. The crust is soggy and she grimaces. Why did she even bother baking it? It was Wallace’s favorite, not hers.

Wallace left her three weeks ago. After thirty-two years of marriage, he’d told her he wanted a divorce in the same voice he used to schedule dentist appointments over the phone.  He’d called twice since, still polite. The first call was from Italy, the second from Spain. He and Kendra planned to be in Paris at Christmas he said, and gave Davida a mailing address there so she could forward his mail.

Davida taps a puzzle piece on the table. She feels restless and vaguely guilty, like she’s shirking her duties. She’s always enjoyed the hustle and bustle of Thanksgiving; always enjoyed getting up early to cook and clean. Maybe she would feel better if she cooked herself an early dinner. She taps the puzzle piece against the wooden table again, then sets it down and pushes her chair back. As she rises to her feet the overhead light flickers, dims, and then goes dark. The electricity has gone out.

Two hours later, the power hasn’t come back on and the hushed chill of the outdoors has begun to creep inside. Davida tried working her jigsaw puzzle by candle light, but there are too many shadows. The house is full of quivering shadows and so is she. Now, Davida huddles on the couch, the hood of her parka pulled up over her head and an afghan across her knees. She wonders what she should do if the power doesn’t come back on before bedtime. The snow has stopped and the clouds have begun to clear.

Even through the muffling of her hood, Davida hears laughter from outside. She pushes the window shade aside and peers out. Flashlight beams dance beside the snow banks and she sees that a group has gathered in the street. One flashlight breaks off from the group and bobs towards her neighbor’s yard where it illuminates a snowman under construction. As she watches, the darkness of the night seems to retreat just a bit. With the starlight reflecting off snow, Davida can make out the familiar forms of several of her neighbors. Her doorbell rings and she drops the window shade with a startled squeak.

Seven year old Liza Whitmore is at her door, bundled up in a puffy purple snow suit and wearing a matching hat, scarf, and mitten set. “Mama says to come on over for hot chocolate,” Liza says. The child reaches for Davida’s hand with her mittened one, and tugs. In her slippers and parka, Davida allows herself to be led outside and over to the group where Mrs. Whitmore hands each of them a mug of steaming cocoa, complete with marshmallows on top.

“Kevin wanted to build a snowman so he and Joshua decided to invite all the kids in the neighborhood,” Mrs. Whitmore laughs. “We had a big pot of hot water on the woodstove. Liza and I decided we should make cocoa and turn the evening into a party. After all, it’s Thanksgiving!” Mrs. Whitmore laughs again and ladles another mug full of cocoa from the big stainless steel pot sitting at her feet. She hands this mug to Sig Carstensen who thanks her and then introduces his family from Chicago to Davida. The names slide out of her head before she has the chance to memorize them, but she’s smiling, which feels good, even though her cheeks are stiff and sore as though she hasn’t smiled in years.

Liza finishes her drink and drops Davida’s hand to go make snow angels with Lakshmi Kalawat. The two girls shriek with laughter as they fall backwards into the snow over, and over again. Davida lets the conversation among the adults wash over her. They talk about football, politics, family recipes, and of course how long the power will be out. Davida tilts her head back and gazes up at the stars.

Myrtle Davis sidles up to Davida and lays a hand on her arm. “I’ve been wondering how you’re holding up,” she says in her soft voice. “I heard about Wallace leaving. I’m so sorry.” Myrtle is divorced, Davida remembers.

Soon, the hot chocolate runs low and the Whitmore’s yard is filled with a whole family of snow people. The Whitmore’s urge everyone to come warm up beside their wood stove. Davida’s toes are numb and she is happy to accept the invitation. Twenty people crowd into the Whitmore’s living room and before she can object, one of the older children urges her into a rocking chair by the fire, while a young teenager brings her a guitar and begs her to play. He remembers her playing guitar at his fourth birthday party, he says, and he asks so nicely and so insistently that Davida can’t help but succumb to his pleas.

At first her fingering is a little slow and her voice is rusty, but someone hands her another mug of cocoa, this one with a bit of brandy in it, and it loosens her up just enough to push her past feeling awkward about being out of practice. Two songs later, her fingers are as nimble as ever and both children and adults are crowded around her, singing along. She can hear her blood humming in her veins, her heart thumping along to the rhythm of the music. The fire and the music are waking her up from the nightmare of the past three weeks. Waking her up and heating her up, too. The ice is melting, making her eyes drip, drip, drip, like she’s having a spring thaw. She can feel the air in her lungs again, and takes deep breaths, even between songs.

Nobody notices exactly when the electricity comes back on, they’re too busy singing and clapping with the music. Then, during a brief lull, Mrs. Whitmore disappears to the kitchen and when she comes back, grinning and holding a tray of turkey sandwiches, she flips on the living room lights with a dramatic flourish that makes most of the guests laugh. Davida strums the opening chords of The Light Came On and serenades the small crowd with her son’s favorite childhood song about a little boy fascinated by electricity.

The party runs late into the evening and when Davida awakes late the next day, her throat is sore from singing and the fingertips of her left hand are raw and painful from pressing against the steel guitar strings. She’ll have to grow some calluses, she decides as she climbs into the attic and pulls down her dusty guitar case. She’ll have to grow some calluses, but at least she can feel the raw spots.

Homecoming

The inspiration for today’s story is this gorgeous illustration on 11”x14" paper by Dianna Weikel Hasson. This is an original, one-of-a-kind pencil sketch and is available from the artist for $150 plus $9.50 for shipping (with tracking and insurance). If you’re interested in this, or any of Dianna’s art, please contact her via Facebook, or at norwayphq@outlook.com.

Dianna is an artist, proud mom, and animal lover living in Bozeman, Montana. She’s also the very first person to have ever purchased one of my books. Dianna is an amazing supporter of my writing and a wonderful friend, so I’m excited to share this bald eagle illustration with all of you, and honored that she agreed to let me use it as the cover photo for this blog post. 

Homecoming

I roll my window down as I drive up the gangplank, and the moist, sweet smell of home bypasses my nose and goes straight to my brain. What is it that comes over me? Is it a memory? The memory of emotion, I decide, as I pull into the parking lot at the Juneau ferry terminal to catch my breath and wipe away a few tears. There are no images to go with the memory, just the sensation of love. Of loving, and of being loved. The brisk scents of saltwater and spruce remind me of Grandpa, who raised me on his own until I was ten and my momma finally came home after too much time spent bouncing between flophouses, jail, and rehab wore her out.

I dry my eyes and get on the road, only to be hit by another wave of emotion and memory as a bald eagle leaves its perch in a nearby tree and flies parallel with my car. I try to keep an eye on the road but I can’t stop glancing out the side window. Somehow, I’d forgotten how big eagles are. The bird is massive and I decide its wingspan must be at least six feet. Grandpa loved eagles. Dumpster chickens, he called them. “They aren’t the smartest bird in the nest, Naomi,” he liked to say to me, “but they sure are the most regal”. The eagle keeps pace with my car until the road takes a turn and the bird veers in the other direction.

The speed limit is fifty, but I’m barely going forty as I take in the scenery and try not to miss my turn. The day is overcast and drizzly, but the trees are such a vibrant green, they seem almost to be lit from within. The forest on either side of the road is dense and lush, and it reminds me that southeast Alaska is rain forest territory.

Mid-morning on a weekday and there’s so little traffic that only one car passes me between the ferry terminal and Grandpa’s house. It’s my house, now. That’s what Erna told me on the phone. She’s been managing the property and sending my mom money every month and Mom never let on. I thought she sold the house when Grandpa died, but she didn’t, and now the place is mine. Home.

I was twelve when Grandpa died and we left Alaska, Mom and I. That was over half my lifetime ago. I’ve been gone longer than I was here and you’d think that after all these years and living in eight different cities, this place would seem unfamiliar, but it doesn’t. I find Grandpa’s driveway as easily as if I’d been here last week. I leave the boxes in my car, just grab my backpack and head down the steep, covered staircase to the beachfront property. I use the key Erna mailed me to let myself in. The house is smaller than I remember. Isn’t that how things always are when we return to childhood places? Then again, maybe that’s not always how they are. I walk to the wide living room window and gaze out. I’m looking at Lynn Canal, the deepest fjord in North America. The snow-capped mountains in the distance, the steely-grey water, the towering trees; it all seems immense and I suddenly feel myself to be a tiny, inconsequential mote in the midst of a vast wilderness. I hope this was the right thing to do, coming back here after all these years. Feeling small and lonely isn’t what I was aiming for. Mom was the last bit of family I had and even though we weren’t close, being an orphan feels like someone stabbed me in the chest with a pointed stick.

The blow of a humpback whale just off shore pulls me back from my morose reverie, and as I watch for the whale to surface again, an eagle flies low over the garden, banks hard, and then swoops in to land on a tall stump not twenty feet away. I draw my breath in surprise as the bird turns to look at me with its pale yellow eyes. Their brow ridges and curved beaks give these birds a stern look, but looks can be deceiving. Turning its head back and forth slightly, this eagle is clearly checking me out. It opens and closes its beak several times, mantles and resettles, then turns away from me to look out over the garden, beach, and water. I let my breath out in a sigh. I think I've passed inspection.

The door rattles behind me and Erna comes into the house, beaming. She’s so much older than I remember her. Her silken black curtain of hair has been replaced with short, salt and pepper curls, and her mocha skin has grown seamed and folded. Her warm chuckle is unchanged, though, as is the strength in her arms as she envelopes me in a bear hug. I lean in and hug her back with a catch in my breath. It’s been too long since I’ve been hugged.

“You’ve grown so tall, Naomi,” she says into my shoulder, “and I’ve missed you so much, chickadee.” My already burning eyes overflow at the old nickname. I sniffle and Erna gives me an extra squeeze and then steps away.

“I’ve missed you, too,” I say before blowing my nose. “I can’t believe I’m back. I’ve missed this place so much for so long and now that I’m here, I’m not sure I feel like I’ve even been gone. Isn’t that odd?”

Erna reaches up and pats my cheek with a soft hand. “You’ve been gone from your land, but your land has not been gone from you, it’s always been part of you. You were never separated from each other. You were never alone.”

Before I can parse out what she’s said, Erna changes the subject. “Do you still want to do this right now?”

I reach for my backpack. “I do. I’m just heart-sick that it wasn’t done long ago. It should’ve been.” Together, we step out the door and make our way down a narrow wooden pathway, too small to be a boardwalk, then onto the beach. We walk together in silence, though Erna reaches for my hand and holds it in hers as we make our way through the rocks and knee-high weeds just above the tide line. We reach a steep promontory and turn to walk into the trees where we follow a rough trail for a few minutes before Erna changes course and leads me into a thicker mass of vegetation. “I don’t come here as often as I used to,” she tells me over her shoulder as we duck low branches and carefully side-step thorny clumps of devil’s club. “It’s grown over a bit, which I don’t mind as that keeps folks from finding it”. I just nod, too busy stepping over root wads and trying to keep up with the elderly woman ahead of me to make any sensible reply. In the years since I was last here, I’ve grown city feet. As a kid, I used to be able to make it from Grandpa’s garden to The Tree in less than five minutes, and at a run. These days, my feet only know how to run on flat, paved surfaces.

Erna stops abruptly and I look up to see that we’ve reached our destination. My eyes follow the broad trunk up, up, up, and up. Far up in the canopy, I make out the nest. “Was it always that big?” I ask, awed.

“Oh no. It’s grown. Every year they make it bigger, weave more branches in. We’ve had a new pair using it these past five, maybe six years and I think they’ve turned into a hotel. Those chicks are living in luxury up there.”

As if on cue, I hear the shrill, staccato whistle of an eagle. “Just in a circle around the base of the trunk, you think?” I ask Erna. “Yes,” she answers simply.

I shrug out of my worn backpack, unzip the main compartment, and remove a sealed plastic bag. Then, I reach back into my pack, pull out my childhood sheath knife and swing it open one-handed. Careful not to spill the contents of the bag, I slit open the top, and proceed to the huge tree. For a moment I feel dizzy. I reach out, press my palm against the rough bark, and take a deep breath. Steadied, I muster a smile, upend the plastic bag, and begin pouring.

“Welcome home, Grandpa,” I say as I pour his ashes around the base of his favorite tree. When the bag is empty, I look up at the enormous eagle’s nest and will myself not to shed more tears.

“Welcome home, Billy,” Erna says. “I’ve missed you old friend, and I’ve missed your granddaughter.  Welcome home chickadee.”

Erna wraps me in another hug and I feel my body shudder and then relax. I’m home. At last, I’m home.    

 

Stormy Day

Stormy Day

It was a gloriously stormy day. The rain had given up falling in sheets and was conglomerating in billowy masses the size of small buildings. Blown into visible, liquid clouds that raced past, the watery gusts buffeted Lydia as she strode against the current and towards her destination. Lydia’s teeth chattered and she relaxed, deliberately  letting go of the tension in her shoulders, her neck, and her clenched jaw. The trick to this kind of wet cold was not to fight it, but to relax into it while maintaining forward momentum. Lydia was soaked to the skin and mildly hypothermic, but she knew she wasn’t really in danger. Her destination was only a brisk ten-minute walk away and shivering was painful and undignified. She didn’t need to shiver, and so she suppressed it like an inopportune yawn. Lydia relaxed, leaned into the wind, and imagined she was a storybook hero prevailing against great challenges.

At work, Lydia’s boss scowled and muttered a nasty comment about her bedraggled appearance. Lydia just smiled and continued to imagine she was a hero. Her boss, she decided, was an evil sorcerer. The trick was to not fight the sorcerer’s spells, but to relax into them while maintaining forward momentum.

Thank you so much for visiting and I hope you have a marvelous week! 

The New Phone

The New Phone

Not even two minutes after activation, Tirza’s new cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey Babe, is Carlo there?”

Tirza frowned. “You have the wrong number.”

“Like Hell, I do. You tell Carlo that Stinky called, ya hear?”

Tirza hung up and then jumped when the phone immediately rang again.

“Hello?”

“What? Oh! I’m glad I finally got through. Somethin’ wrong with your phone the last couple a days. Can I talk to Carlo?”

“Actually, I just got this phone number today, so Carlo must have a new phone number.”

“Really? This ain’t Carlo’s number?”

“Really. It’s my new number.”

Tirza hung up again and set the cell phone down. She hoped there wouldn’t be many more calls for Carlo. A moment later, the phone rang again. Tirza stuffed the phone under the burgundy pillow on the couch, grabbed her wallet, and hurried out the door. Without her new cell phone.

When she returned, two hours later, there were thirty-five voice messages on her phone. She listened to three messages for Carlo before deciding to delete the entire collection without listening to any of the others. Then, the phone rang.

“Hi, this is Tirza.”

“Hi, I’m Elizabeth West with Stoddard Inc. and I’m calling for Carlos Young about a business opportunity.”

“I’m sorry, he’s not at this number anymore.”

“Could you tell me how to reach Mr. Young, please?”

“Um, no. I don’t know him. This is my new number.”

“Could I leave a message with you for Mr. Young?”

“Nooo.” Tirza rolled her eyes. “I just got this number today. It must’ve belonged to Carlos before, but now it belongs to me.”

“I see.” There was a pause and Tirza could hear a keyboard clicking on the other end of the phone. “Could you tell me what your phone number is, then?”

“Pardon me?”

“What number have I reached, please?” Elizabeth West with Stoddard Inc. sounded exasperated.

“No, I’m not giving you my phone number. You called me, remember?” Tirza didn’t wait for Elizabeth West’s response. She hung up. Of course, a few seconds later, the phone rang again.

“Hello.”

“Hi, I’m Elizabeth West with Stoddard Inc. and I’m calling for Carlos Young about a business opportunity.”

“Nice try, Elizabeth West, but this is still the wrong number!”

Tirza pressed the red “end” button and flung the cell phone onto her couch with enough force to make it bounce. It rang again. Tirza pressed “talk”, waited for a heartbeat, and then pressed “end” again. Carefully, as though to make up for her previous rough handling, Tirza set the phone on her coffee table and went to make herself a cup of hot chocolate. She needed to get a grip on herself, she decided. Nothing helped with getting a grip better than hot chocolate.

A few minutes later, Tirza returned, cradling a steaming mug. The phone rang, but she ignored it, instead pulling her legs up and snuggling into the corner of the couch. For a time, Tirza sipped her drink and gazed into the chocolaty depths of her mug. The phone rang intermittently, but Tirza made no move to answer it.

Then, in the same way that the sun can unexpectedly emerge from behind grey and oppressive clouds to dazzle the world below, an expression of delight formed on Tirza’s face. Her eyes twinkled and her lips curved upward. With a low chuckle, she set down her mug and reached for the ringing phone.

“No, Carlo’s not here. I’m so sorry, but haven’t you heard? He had to testify at the trial and now he’s in the witness protection program.”

“Well, you know, it started when he visited that Buddhist temple on his vacation to Hawaii. He converted about two weeks ago and just this morning left on a flight for Tibet. No, I don’t think he’s coming back. He decided to become a monk and plans to take a vow of silence.”

“NASA recruited him last month to be their xenobiologist on that trip to Mars that they’re planning. Oh, yes, he’s always had a passion for biology, but it wasn’t something he talked about, you know?”

“Have you heard of that new commune in British Columbia? The last time I saw him, he was carrying a backpack full of pot seeds and talking about wind-powered grow lights.”

“You know, he should never have traveled in the Amazon jungle without a guide. The rumor is; it was a python that got him. Can you imagine? What a gruesome way to go.”

“He was the only one in the submersible, and they just lost radio contact. The Marianna Trench is so deep; I doubt they’ll ever recover the remains.”

“He’s always loved modern Japanese culture. You know, anime, street fashion, all that, and he just finally decided to move there and become part of the scene.”

“He said he wanted to get out of the rat race so he bought a dog team and headed north. He was planning to winter in Chicken, Alaska and start his homestead next spring.”

For hours, Tirza answered the insistent ringing and passed along the news that Carlo Young was no longer reachable by phone. Close to midnight, the calls began to taper off. Tirza figured the news was getting around. These weren’t the kind of stories people would keep to themselves.

The next day, there were only ten phone calls and the day after that, only one. It came mid-morning and Tirza set aside the newspaper to answer. It was Carlo Young.  

As always, if you like the flash fiction here on my blog, I invite you to read my collection of flash fiction, A Flash of Genies, my series of Alaskan fantasy novels, and/or my short memoir Head Buckets & Hashtags.  
Thank you so much for visiting and I hope you have a marvelous week!