Pen Jen's Inkwell: 2014

Monday, December 29, 2014

The Christmas Tree That Lives Forever: Christmas Magic from the Tree Farm

Early Christmas Eve morning, 12-year-old Annabelle sprang from bed and ran into the living room. She dug through the box of Christmas tree ornaments, ready to hang the C7 Bubble Lights, Shiny Brite glass balls, glass ornaments, silver tinsel, and the electric star topper.

Now, she needed an evergreen to decorate! After all, Annabelle lived in Wintergreen, Virginia, and there were more than enough trees for sale.

She figured that her father was going to join in the fun, even if he didn’t want to help her. He always gave her a hard time but relented after a bit of prodding.

“Dad, it’s time to get a Christmas tree!” she said at the top of her lungs. She hung her stocking by the fireplace. Her grandmother hand-knitted the stocking with her name.

“When I was your age, we never had a Christmas tree. No tree, no gifts, no celebration,” her dad said with a moan. “It just feels like nonsense to me.”

“Yes, we do need a Christmas tree!” his daughter said. “All the families in the neighborhood have them.”

Her mother had been baking since morning and would be in the kitchen all day. Last Christmas, Annabelle watched her hand-pick the turquoise fridge, metal ice cube trays, and chrome percolator. Her mom loved Tupperware almost as much as her Jell-O molds.

“Christmas is only one day,” her father said, as he drank eggnog in his armchair. “I already arranged my Santa Clauses on the living room shelf. That’s enough decorating.”

Mr. Cunningham’s obsession with Santa had started years ago. He owned short and tall Santas with big tummies, small tummies, red coats, green coats, sacks, and sleighs.

“Dad! Please, I really want a big Christmas tree this year!” Annabelle said.

“Why do we have to go to all this trouble for a tree?” he argued.

“You won’t have to do much work!” Annabelle said. “I’ll be in charge of it.”

“Fine, fine, but the Christmas tree is coming down the day after Christmas–lights and all,” her father said. “I have other things to do than worry about a tree in the house.”

“Try to remember that your father never had Christmas growing up,” Annabelle’s mother whispered to her. “He doesn’t know how to celebrate it. Now just go get a Christmas tree and try to be kind to him.”

Annabelle threw on her winter jacket, wool hat, and boots. Her father tucked her scarf around her neck, and then she headed to the family’s rusty cherry-red pickup truck. He really needed to clean it when he had a chance. As she waited for her father in the front seat, she admired her mother’s red and green holly bushes.

Then, Annabelle shivered and remembered hanging a wreath on the front door and stringing garland on the porch earlier in the week. Her father took his time getting to the truck. Wearing his brown winter jacket, he slammed the door shut and started the engine.

“We are off on an adventure,” her father said, as he pulled out of the driveway.

“Thanks, Dad!” Annabelle said. “I’m so excited.”

As the truck drove down the road, it slipped on ice. Her father steered to control the vehicle. Annabelle braced for her father’s temper.

“Oh! Now what? Hold on!” her father yelled.

When the car regained control, Annabelle just tried to enjoy the rest of the ride without saying much. She hummed “O Christmas Tree” to herself, ignoring her father’s humbug.

“That’s my tree!” Annabelle said. She jumped from the truck as her father pulled up to the Christmas tree farm. She pointed to the largest Christmas tree in the lot and ran to its side in knee-high snow. Her father shook his head as he got out of the truck.

“How much is this going to cost me?” her father asked the lot manager.

“Ten dollars, sir,” the manager said, wrapped in a scarf and wool jacket.

“We need a medium-sized tree that will fit in the living room, Annabelle,” her father said, as he pointed to a smaller five-dollar tree.

“Okay, Dad, it has to fit inside the house for sure,” she said, eyeing the smaller choice. Her father held her elbow to make sure she didn’t slip on the ice.

“How did I let you talk me into this?” her father said. He swung an axe over his shoulder and kicked the snow with his feet as he walked toward the medium-sized tree. “Timber!” her father yelled as he swung at the base of the plump evergreen tree.

"Hooray!" Annabelle cheered. She felt full of the Christmas spirit.

“Let me help you with that!” said the manager of the Christmas tree farm, wearing thick work gloves. Her father grabbed the heavier end of the tree.

He lifted the trunk, placed it on a sled, and pulled it all the way to the pickup truck. Annabelle walked beside the tree and hoped it would fit in her father’s truck.

“I can’t believe you made me cut down a Christmas tree!” Annabelle’s father said, as he handed the manager five dollars. The manager threw the Christmas tree on the back of the pickup truck and tied it down with ropes.

As Annabelle jumped up and down with excitement, her father moaned.

“Scrooge was visited by three ghosts because he had no Christmas spirit,” she said to her dad as he climbed in the front seat. “You better be careful!”

Annabelle hummed “O Christmas Tree” all the way back to her house. She was sure her father was going to have nightmares on Christmas Eve like when Scrooge was visited by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Her teacher read their class Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, and Annabelle listened to every word of it.

When Mr. Cunningham stopped in the driveway, Annabelle swung open her door and ran to the evergreen. Even though it was Christmas, she felt like it was her birthday.

“I’m going out back to chop wood for the wood stove,” her father said.

“This will be the Christmas tree that lives forever!” Annabelle called to him, climbing on the back of the truck. “My beautiful evergreen Christmas tree is not going to burn in your stupid wood stove in the basement!” she said.

“Oh, let me help you with that, honey,” Annabelle’s mother said, walking out the front door with her gardening gloves. Annabelle and her mom pulled the tree into the living room and propped it up on its side until they attached a tree stand.

Then, Annabelle watered the tree stand and carefully arranged the red tree skirt at the base of the evergreen. As she strung caramel popcorn and cranberries through a needle to make another garland, she listened to Gene Autry sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” on her RCA tabletop tube radio.

“I feel like I’m saving Christmas in this house,” Annabelle said. She ate more popcorn than she strung.

By dinnertime, Annabelle had decorated her Christmas tree with every type of ornament imaginable. She hung Santas, reindeer, bells, snowmen, birds, houses, and icicles. She thought the tree was so professional that it should be featured in Look Magazine.

After all the fuss, the Christmas tree stood proud and tall through Christmas Day without losing any needles. It hovered over unwrapped and re-wrapped presents to give away to someone else. Of course, Annabelle would never give a Christmas gift away, but Mr. Cunningham was another story.

Since he was too stingy to buy Christmas gifts in the first place, he re-wrapped presents given to him to give away, like socks and a snow shovel. Annabelle tried to remember what her mother said about being kind to her father. One year, Mr. Cunningham re-wrapped the gift that Annabelle gave him the previous year to give back to her—a singing reindeer head.

She felt sad that her dad didn’t keep the gift. Since the singing reindeer head could be programmed to say anything, Annabelle had it greet her neighborhood friends. Similar to not wanting the Christmas tree, her father thought the reindeer was too much trouble. When turned on, the reindeer made noise, so he frequently took out its battery.

“I’m throwing the Christmas tree in the wood stove first thing tomorrow morning,” her father said. He turned off its lights. “It already looks almost dead.”

“Dad! You are not burning my Christmas tree to a pulp!” Annabelle said. She threw up her hands.

Then, he grabbed his axe and went out back to chop wood until his hands were covered in blisters. Her mother went into the kitchen to bake pecan pies and snickerdoodle cookies for the neighbors.

“I’m going to save Christmas once and for all,” Annabelle whispered to herself after her parents left the room. “Almost like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer!”

Early the next morning, before her father woke up, Annabelle carried the tree into the front yard. She dug a hole with a shovel and planted the Christmas tree with all its decorations right in front of the house for everyone to see.

Then, she ran an extension cord from the garage to plug in the shining Christmas lights.

“Snow will water you until it rains,” Annabelle said to the Christmas tree. She watched the neighbors gather round with pride.

“Are you kidding me?” Mr. Cunningham said, as he walked out the front door with his axe. Annabelle knew she was in trouble, but she had to save her Christmas tree.

“Put the axe away!” the neighbors said to Mr. Cunningham. “It’s only the day after Christmas.”

“The electric bill to light this tree is going to be enormous!” Mr. Cunningham said.

“It’s going to be Christmas all year long, and that’s the only way it’s going to be!” Annabelle said.

“Well, I suppose the tree doesn’t look too bad out here,” he muttered. He paused for a moment to enjoy the shining lights. Annabelle noticed his change of heart.

Then, her father sighed, looked at her and the neighbors in utter disbelief, and went back inside the house. With Annabelle’s care and determination, the tree would certainly live forever.

After the tree took root, Annabelle decorated her evergreen as the seasons changed throughout the year. She hung glass hearts at Valentine’s Day, four-leaf clovers at St. Patrick’s Day, Easter eggs at springtime, American flags at the Fourth of July, Jack-O-Lanterns at Halloween, and turkeys at Thanksgiving. Annabelle kept her tree alive, and so did her father, even if he didn’t like it.

Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:

Early Christmas Eve morning, 12-year-old Annabelle Cunningham sprang from bed and ran into the living room.

“Dad, it’s time to get a Christmas tree!” she said at the top of her lungs, hanging her stocking by the fireplace.

Her mother had been in the kitchen baking all morning and would be there all day.

“I don’t want to spend the money. We don’t need a Christmas tree,” her father said, drinking eggnog in his armchair. “Christmas is only one day. I already arranged my Santa Clauses on the living room shelf. That’s enough decorating.”

Her father’s obsession with Santa had started years ago, and he owned every Santa in the county. He had short and tall Santa’s with big tummies, small tummies, red coats, green coats, sacks, and sleighs.

“Yes, we will get a Christmas tree and decorate it, whether you want to or not!” Annabelle said.

“Fine, fine, but the Christmas tree is coming down the day after Christmas–lights and all,” her father said.

Annabelle threw on her winter jacket, wool hat, and boots, and headed to her father’s green pick-up truck. As she waited for her father in the front seat, she admired her mother’s red and green holly bushes.

Earlier in the week, Annabelle had hung a wreath on the front door and strung garland on the porch. Her father meandered to the truck with his brown jacket, slammed the door shut, and started the engine.

“The truck probably won’t make it to the Christmas tree farm,” her father said, pulling out of the driveway. “The roads are slippery. I spent all morning shoveling the snow from the driveway, and you never know when you’ll hit ice.”

Annabelle hummed “O Christmas Tree” to herself on the car ride, ignoring her father’s humbug. “That’s my tree!” Annabelle said, jumping from the truck as her father pulled up to the Christmas tree farm. She pointed to the largest Christmas tree in the lot and ran to its side in knee-high snow.

“How did I let you talk me into this?” her father said, shaking his head as he got out of the truck. He swung an axe over his shoulder and kicked the snow with his feet as he walked toward Annabelle.

“Timber!” her father yelled as he swung at the base of the tall, plump evergreen tree.

“Let me help you with that!” said the manager of the Christmas tree farm. He wore heavy work gloves.

As the tree fell on its side, he grabbed the trunk and pulled it all the way to the pick-up truck on a sled.

“I can’t believe you made me cut down a Christmas tree!” Annabelle’s father said, handing the manager a wad of cash. The manager threw the Christmas tree on the back of the pickup truck and tied it down with ropes.

“Scrooge was visited by three ghosts because he was so stingy,” she said to her dad, climbing in the front seat. Annabelle hummed “O Christmas Tree” all the way back to her house, remembering Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.”

When Mr. Cunningham stopped in the driveway, Annabelle swung open her door and ran to the evergreen.

“I’m going out back to chop wood for the wood stove. Two days from now I’ll be chopping your tree,” her father said.

Then Annabelle watered the tree stand and carefully arranged the red tree skirt at the base of the evergreen. As she strung caramel popcorn and cranberries through a needle, she watched “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” on TV.

“Sam the Snowman saves Christmas!” she said, singing along to “A Holly Jolly Christmas” and “Silver and Gold.”

“I feel like I’m saving Christmas,” Annabelle said, eating a few more popcorn than she strung on the string.

By dinnertime, Annabelle had perfected her Christmas tree with every type of decoration imaginable. She hung toy soldiers, Christmas balls, snowflakes, tinsel, angels, white and colored lights, and a star on top.

The Christmas tree stood proud and tall all Christmas Eve day and Christmas Day without losing a limb. It hovered over presents as they were wrapped and unwrapped and re-wrapped to give away to someone else. Of course, Annabelle would never give a Christmas gift away, but Mr. Cunningham was another story.

Since he was too stingy to buy Christmas gifts in the first place, he re-wrapped presents given to him to give away. One year, Mr. Cunningham re-wrapped the gift that Annabelle gave him to give back to her—a singing reindeer head.

She felt sad that her dad didn’t keep the gift and hid it under her bed for the annual holiday season. Since the singing reindeer head could be programmed to say anything, Annabelle had it greet her neighborhood friends. Similar to the Christmas tree, her father thought the reindeer made too much noise and frequently took out its battery.

“I’m throwing the Christmas tree in the wood stove first thing tomorrow morning,” her father said, turning off its lights.

“You are not burning my Christmas tree to a pulp!” Annabelle said, throwing up her hands. Then her father moaned, grabbed his axe, and went in the back yard to chop wood until his hands bled. Her mother went into the kitchen to bake another pie or cake or cookies for the neighbors.

“I’m going to save Christmas once and for all,” Annabelle whispered to herself after her parents left the room.

Early the next morning, before her father woke up, Annabelle carried the tree into the front yard. She planted the Christmas tree with all its decorations right in front of the house for everyone to see.

Then she ran an extension cord from the garage to plug in the shining Christmas lights.

“Snow will water you until it rains,” Annabelle said to the Christmas tree, watching the neighbors gather round.

“Are you kidding me?” Mr. Cunningham said, walking out the front door with his axe.

“Put the axe away!” the neighbors said to Mr. Cunningham. “It’s only the day after Christmas.”

“The electric bill to light this tree is going to be enormous!” Mr. Cunningham said, slamming the door.

“It’s going to be Christmas all year long, and that’s the only way it’s going to be!” Annabelle said. Her father sighed, looked at her and the neighbors in utter disbelief, and went back inside the house.

From then on, Annabelle decorated her evergreen as the seasons changed throughout the year. She hung glass hearts at Valentine’s Day, four-leaf clovers at St. Patrick’s Day, Easter eggs at springtime, American flags at the Fourth of July, Jack-O-Lanterns at Halloween, and Turkeys at Thanksgiving. Annabelle celebrated Christmas all year long, and so did her Scroogey father, even if he didn’t like it.

Dedicated to my dad, John Waters, who likes to drink eggnog, read Dickens, collect Santa Clauses, plant Christmas trees in the front yard, and re-gift singing reindeer heads.

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/the-christmas-tree-that-lives-forever-spoken-word-narrated-by-jen-waters

Monday, December 8, 2014

Lewis the Christmas Bear: A Christmas Folktale from Oxford

There once was a brown bear named Lewis who was sewn together by Mrs. Santa Claus. Of course, this was a very special bear, and Mrs. Claus only had time to make one bear like him a year. Upon finishing his fluffy body, Mrs. Claus felt excited at her new creation.

She waved her magic wand over him, and he came to life with the ability to speak and move like a person. He almost walked and talked like a little boy.

“Merry Christmas!” Lewis said to his mother.

“Lewis, you’ll find the child who needs you most, and you’ll know her when you see her,” Mrs. Claus said to the bear.

Not since the wooden puppet Pinocchio made by a poor man named Geppetto had anyone met someone like Lewis.

“Love is sewn in every stitch of your fabric,” Mrs. Claus said to Lewis, patting his tummy with a chuckle. She handed him a candy cane, and he ate it with joy.

No one but Mrs. Claus, not even her husband, knew that she had sewn magic healing power into Lewis’s nose. Mrs. Claus had so many duties she could hardly rest. She kept the toy factory running and prepared for Christmas with candy making, baking, and wrapping presents. She cleaned up after the elves that left projects half-finished and unpainted.

She hardly had a moment for tea or a Christmas cookie. However, she knew that the world needed at least one magic Christmas teddy a year to spread healing.

Any child who had sickness would only have to hug Lewis and be well. If Lewis rubbed his nose on a child’s cheek, magic healing tingles would go from the child’s head to toes, and the child would be healed by morning, good as a new bouncing ball.

On Christmas Eve, Mrs. Claus placed Lewis into her husband’s big, crimson toy sack.

“There is a special someone waiting for you,” Mrs. Claus whispered to Lewis.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Mr. Claus said, as he hugged his wife.

She winked at Lewis as she tightened his bow tie and brushed his fabric one last time. Then, Mr. Claus grabbed his sack and swung it over his shoulder on the way to his sleigh.

“Ho, ho, ho! I can’t keep my reindeer waiting any longer,” Mr. Claus said, kissing Mrs. Claus on the cheek. She waved as her husband flew off into the night sky on his sleigh.

Wondering what Lewis’s destiny would hold, she said a silent prayer for him.

As the sleigh took off into the crisp, snowy air, Lewis gazed at the shining stars. Peeking a little longer than he should have, Lewis almost fell from the sleigh into the night sky. He grabbed the tassel on the red bag and pulled himself back into the sack, only to be crunched by a toy soldier.

“Ouch!” Lewis said. “I’m only a teddy bear. Please be gentle with my fluffy body.”

One house after another, Mr. Claus jumped down the chimney, and Lewis remained stuffed in the bag. Mr. Claus took brightly colored wrapped boxes out of his sack, probably a train, puzzle, doll, or even a picture book, for the children in each of the homes.

When Mr. Claus grabbed Lewis, he looked at him and said: “Ho, ho, ho! We forgot to wrap you! Merry Christmas!”

Despite Lewis’s soft cotton skin, Mr. Claus shoved him back into his large red sack. Lewis sat at the bottom of the sack, afraid he might have to wait another year to meet a child. He rubbed his tummy and longed to be with a child that needed him.

When Mr. Claus landed on the last roof of the night in Oxford, England, Lewis spied from a hole in the sack. It appeared to be a large building with many rooms. Lewis thought many precious children must live in the home.

As Mr. Claus crawled from the fireplace with Lewis in his bag, he realized it was a hospital ward. In the corner bed, Lewis saw a little girl crying and knew at once she was the very child Mrs. Claus had foretold. All of a sudden, Mr. Claus pulled Lewis up the side of the red bag an inch at a time until he finally reached the top.

Then, the teddy bear jumped from the sack, tiptoed over to her bed, and crawled into her tiny arms. As starlight shone through the window, her tears covered his body, but he knew she would start to feel better with his soft fur on her face.

“So, this is why my wife made you,” Santa whispered to himself and chuckled, as he watched the girl hug the brown bear. He kissed her forehead.

Other children in the hospital ward watched as Bernice hugged the bear.

“My name is Lewis,” the teddy bear whispered to the girl as he rubbed his velvet nose on her cheek. He watched as her body tingled from head to toe, and she became warm all over, like a big cup of cinnamon apple cider. “You’re going to feel a lot better in the morning,” Lewis said to her. He wrapped his arms around her.

“My name is Bernice. I'm 10 years old,” she said to him. “I already feel better, much better than I have in days.”

By the time Mr. Claus finished passing out the toys to the children in the ward, Bernice was fast asleep. Mr. Claus climbed up the chimney and returned home to Mrs. Claus with an empty pack and tired reindeer. In the morning, doctors and nurses gathered at Bernice’s bedside with raised eyebrows.

“Santa Claus brought Lewis the Christmas Bear to me last night. Lewis told me I would be well," Bernice said. “I’m going to share Lewis with all the children in the hospital ward, so they can feel better, too.”

Lewis watched in silence as no one knew what to say, especially Bernice’s parents who cried tears of joy at her complete healing. The bear knew Mrs. Claus would be proud.

By Christmas evening, Lewis had rubbed his magic nose on every child’s cheek in the hospital ward. Bernice had made sure that all the children were well.

The day after Christmas, she went home with Lewis tucked in her knapsack and promised to feed him rice pudding.

“I’ve heard about other bears that like to eat honey, porridge, and marmalade sandwiches,” Bernice said. “Do you have a sweet tooth? My mom makes the best cinnamon rice pudding. It doesn’t take long to make.”

"Thank you very much indeed. I would like to have a tummy full of pudding," Lewis said, patting his stomach. He was certain the pudding would find a cozy spot inside him somehow.

And every Christmas Eve after that, Lewis could still feel Mrs. Claus’s stitches glow with love, reminding him that magic was meant to be shared.

Bernice often brought Lewis back to the hospital, where he rubbed his velvet nose on children’s cheeks and gave warm hugs to every child who needed him.

He was so glad to be her teddy and for her to be his girl; he would love her forever.

Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:

There once was a brown bear named Lewis who was sewn together by Mrs. Santa Claus. Of course, this was a very special bear, and Mrs. Claus only had time to make one bear like him a year.

“Love is sewn in every stitch of your fabric,” Mrs. Claus said to Lewis, patting his tummy. “Now go find the children who need you the most on Christmas Eve,” she said with a chuckle.

No one but Mrs. Claus, not even her husband, knew that she had sewn magic healing power into his nose. If Mr. Claus knew that she had done this, he would insist that she do nothing but make healing teddies. Mrs. Claus had a laundry list of essential duties to keep the toy factory running and prepare for Christmas. She even had to clean up after the elves that tended to leave projects half-finished and unpainted.

Between the hustle and bustle, she hardly had a moment to have a cup of tea or a Christmas cookie. However, she knew that the world needed at least one magic Christmas teddy a year to spread healing.

Any child who had sickness or loneliness would only have to hug Lewis and be well. If Lewis rubbed his nose on a child’s cheek, magic healing tingles would go from the child’s head to toes, and the child would be healed by morning, good as a new bouncing ball.

On Christmas Eve, Mrs. Claus snuck Lewis into her husband’s big, crimson toy sack.

“There is a special someone waiting for you,” Mrs. Claus whispered to Lewis.

She winked at him as she tightened his bow tie and brushed his fabric one last time. Then Mr. Claus grabbed his sack and swung it over his shoulder on the way to his sleigh.

“Ho, ho, ho! I can’t keep Rudolph waiting any longer,” Mr. Claus said, kissing Mrs. Claus on the cheek.

As the sleigh took off into the crisp, snowy air, Lewis peeked at Rudolph’s shining nose. Peeking a little longer than he should have, Lewis almost fell from the sleigh into the night sky. He grabbed the tassel on the red bag and pulled himself back into the sack, only to be crunched by a soldier.

“Ouch!” Lewis said. “I’m only a teddy bear. Please be gentle with my fluffy body.”

One house after another, Mr. Claus jumped down the chimney, and Lewis remained stuffed in the bag. Mr. Claus picked a train, puzzle, doll, or even a picture book for the children in each of the homes.

When Mr. Claus grabbed Lewis, he looked at him and said: “Ho, ho, ho! Aren’t you last year’s model? How did you get in here anyway? I can’t give you out again this year. Merry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!”

Despite Lewis’ tender cotton skin, Mr. Claus shoved him back into his large red sack. Lewis sat on the bottom of the sack, wondering if he would have to wait until next year to meet any children. Rubbing his tummy, he felt like he had failed Mrs. Claus, who had carefully crafted him. When Mr. Claus landed on the last roof of the night, it appeared to be a large building with many rooms.

As Mr. Claus crawled from the fireplace, Lewis spied from a hole in the sack, realizing it was a hospital ward. From the corner bed, Lewis heard a girl crying and praying: "God, please send your angels to heal me. My family is so sad that I am sick at Christmas, and they don’t know what to do. Please help me feel better.”

Lewis didn’t wait for Mr. Claus to take him from the sack and give him to the pale-sickly girl. He pulled himself up the side of the red bag an inch at a time until he finally reached the top. The teddy bear jumped from the sack, tiptoed over to her bed, and crawled into her tiny arms. As starlight shone through the window, her tears covered his body, but slowly she started to feel better.

“My name is Lewis,” the teddy bear whispered to the girl as he rubbed his velvet nose on her cheek. “My nose is full of Christmas magic that makes all children feel better,” he said to his girl. Her body tingled from head-to-toe, and she became warm all over, like a big cup of cinnamon apple cider. “You’re going to feel a lot better in the morning,” Lewis said to her, wrapping his arms around her.

“My name is Bernice. I'm 10 years old,” she said to him. “I already feel better, much better than I have in days.”

“Mr. Claus brought Lewis the Christmas Bear to me last night. Lewis told me I would be well," Bernice said. No one knew what to say, especially Bernice’s parents who cried tears of joy at her complete healing. “I’m going to share Lewis with all the children in the hospital ward, so they can feel better, too,” she whispered to herself.

By Christmas evening, Lewis had rubbed his magic nose on every child’s cheek in the hospital ward. Bernice had made sure that all the children were well and kept the Christmas magic in his nose a secret from the grown-ups.

The day after Christmas, she went home with Lewis tucked in her knapsack, promising to feed him rice pudding. “Do you have a sweet tooth? My mom makes the best cinnamon rice pudding. It doesn’t take long to make.”

"Thank you very much indeed. I would like to have a tummy full of pudding," Lewis said, patting his stomach.

Every month after that, Bernice visited the hospital ward with Lewis, rubbing his nose on children’s cheeks. She was so glad to be his girl and for him to be her teddy; she would love him forever.

Dedicated to author C.S. Lewis for his baptized imagination. Inspired by Lewis' "The Horse and His Boy" and his love for rice pudding.

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/lewis-the-christmas-bear-spoken-word-narrated-by-jen-waters

Monday, December 1, 2014

The Turtle Who Became a Princess: The Story of Starfish that Fell Straight from Heaven

Once there was a turtle that had a very heavy shell. She wore the shell on her back everywhere she went. It was there since the first day she was born. Everyone told her that she needed it to protect herself. More than anything, she wished she could get rid of it. Then one day the turtle met a mermaid on the beach.

“I was once a turtle, but lost my shell on the ocean floor,” the mermaid said. “Some days, I wish I had it back. It’s easy to hide in a shell.”

“I would give anything to lose mine,” the turtle said.

“Well, if that’s the case, swim to the bottom of the ocean,” the mermaid said. “Any turtle can change if he or she wants to change . . . Eat as many starfish as you can, and you’ll surely lose your shell.”

“Why starfish?” the turtle asked, wondering what made them special.

“Long, long ago, starfish fell straight from heaven in a meteorite shower,” the mermaid said. “Since they were once shooting stars, they hold great and mighty magic . . . but you must be warned, there are sharks in the ocean who want their magic, too, for evil reasons.”

“It can’t be that hard. How many starfish does a turtle have to eat?” the turtle asked.

“I wanted to become a princess, but gave up,” she said, flopping her mermaid tail on the ground. “At least I tried, but I wasn’t determined enough and only ate enough starfish to become a mermaid. Being a mermaid is better than being a turtle, but if I had legs . . . then I’d be able to run and climb. Instead, I’ve been stuck in the ocean my entire life, never to walk on the sand.”

“Then I’ll eat as many starfish as I can, and I’ll never give up!” the turtle said.

So, the turtle dove into the raging ocean waves, remembering the mermaid’s fate. Despite the fierce ocean, the turtle swam to the sea floor in search of the pointy fishes. She ate one sparkling starfish after another, even when she wasn’t hungry. When the sharks came swooping past to eat the starfish first, the turtle hid in its shell.

After the turtle ate every starfish in sight, she paused, wondering why she still had her shell. Then she saw one last starfish from the corner of her eye and dove to catch it.

As she caught it in her mouth, a shark chomped on one of its many pointy legs. Scared of being eaten by the shark, the turtle wanted to swim away and forget her dream. Looking at its great white teeth, the turtle remembered its promise to the mermaid to never give up.

With all her strength, the turtle wrestled with the shark and wished to shed her shell once and for all. The last thing the turtle wanted to do was die in the mouth of an evil shark.

Then a sudden gush of water sent the turtle spinning across the ocean floor with the starfish in its mouth. The wave sent the shark spinning in the other direction, giving the turtle enough time to eat the starfish. She swallowed the starfish, and then stared in the direction of the shark. As she looked the shark straight in the face, a light rose from her back, blinding the shark.

The light was so strong that it broke off her shell, and she grew a human body with long arms and legs. She used those arms and legs to swim as fast as she could to the top of the sea. When she got to the shore, she stood up straight and tall, running to the mermaid.

“I’m free of my shell! I never gave up. I ate every starfish on the ocean floor!” she said. Her long blond hair blew in the wind, and she breathed deeply.

“I’m sure I’m a princess. Now I must find my prince,” she said, sighing.

“Or maybe he’ll find you,” the mermaid said, nodding to an admiring sailor docking his boat. “Tell him your name is Princess Yeruti and that it means turtledove. Your shell became almost like wings—to free you to soar for your dreams.”

“Beautiful lady, would you like to ride the waves with me?” the gentleman called.

“Yes, I would like that very much,” the princess said to the suitor.

“I will never forget you,” the princess whispered to the mermaid. “Thank you so much.”

Princess Yeruti and the handsome sailor set off into the sunset, hand in hand. She tried to tell him that she was once a turtle, but he never believed her for a second.

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/the-turtle-who-became-a-princess-the-story-of-starfish-that-fell-straight-from-heaven-narrated-by-jen-waters

Friday, November 21, 2014

Angel Food Cake Ice Cream Truck: Christmas Magic from the Angels

On a sunny December day, John Peterson leaned against the door of his rainbow-painted Ice Cream Truck. It sat in the driveway, dripping with melted ice cream.

“Oh no! The ice cream melted!” said John, the father of 11-year-old Celeste Peterson. “It’s the week before Christmas, and I can’t have any problems!”

The wiring in the freezer had frizzled and left him with nothing but a river of cream and sugar. Celeste sat on the step of the truck and felt so disappointed. It was always fun to sell the ice cream with red and green sprinkles at Christmas. Even if it was cold outside in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, customers always lined up for her father’s ice cream. Neighborhood children gathered at his truck whenever they heard its jingle.

“I’m supposed to be the Ice Cream Truck Man, but the ice cream melted!” he said. He adjusted his red-striped hat. Celeste shrugged her shoulders. She wished for popsicles, but didn’t know when she would taste one again.

“Things will get better somehow, Dad,” Celeste said. She hoped what she said was true. At least the sun still shined on cold, winter days and reflected off the fallen snow on the ground.

“Now I have nothing to sell to the children,” Mr. Peterson said to Celeste. “It’s already harder to sell ice cream in the winter. It’s going to cost me a bundle to fix the freezer. There will be no money left for Christmas gifts.”

The thought of there being no money for gifts at Christmas made Celeste so upset that she wanted to cancel the entire holiday. She would have to fix this situation somehow, so the broken ice cream truck didn’t ruin Christmas.

“Well, Dad, I have an idea. The next best thing to ice cream is angel food cake,” Celeste said. “Angels eat angel food cake. I think there might even be angels in the cake . . .”

“Angels in the cake? What are you talking about, Celeste?” her dad said, as he mopped up the truck.

“I’m going to make you angel food cakes, so you can sell them and pay to fix the freezer!” she said. “We’ll still have money left for Christmas gifts. Maybe we’ll meet some angels if we fill the truck with cakes.”

Celeste ran into her father’s kitchen and pulled the mixer from the lower cabinet. She mixed into the bowl the main ingredients: sugar, flour, egg whites, vanilla, and salt. Then, she sent the mixer arms spinning and whipped the batter into a thick mixture.

“Umm! Yummy!” she said. Celeste stuck her nose into the mixer’s bowl. “No wonder the angels like to eat angel food cake. It’s so good that I feel like an angel.”

She scraped the mixture into baking tins and placed them in the warm oven. When the angel food cake finished baking, she made sure that her father ate the first slice.

“Dad, come have a piece of cake!” Celeste called to him from the window. He had spent most of the evening fiddling with the broken freezer in the ice cream truck to see if he could get it working. From what Celeste could tell, he didn’t seem to be having much luck at fixing it.

“Your angel food cake is wonderful!” Mr. Peterson said. He sat next to Celeste at the kitchen table eating a large slice of cake. She was already on her second helping.

“This weekend, we’ll sell enough angel food cake to buy a new freezer,” Celeste said. “Then, we can go shopping on Christmas Eve for gifts.”

“Who’s going to buy angel food cake from an ice cream truck in December?” her dad said in a weary voice. “I’m not sure about your plan.”

“Mom would say that the angels are going to buy it. It’s angel food,” Celeste said. “Since she’s with the angels, she’ll send angels to buy the cakes,” the child said.

Mrs. Peterson had passed away last Christmas. Celeste knew that he was heartbroken and never showed his big smile anymore. He always stopped to touch the picture of her mom on the fireplace mantle and looked as if he would cry. At least Celeste’s cakes might cheer him up!

“Your mom would like the angel food cake,” he said, glancing at Mrs. Peterson’s photo as he finished his dessert.

“Dad, I never overdo anything, but I might have to take the rest of the week off from school to bake the cakes,” Celeste said. “It’s already Wednesday. We’ll be on Christmas break soon anyway. A couple of days won’t matter if I’m baking a miracle.”

“What are you talking about?” he said. “Your teacher will think that is ridiculous.”

“She might agree, because I’m baking my own miracle for the angels to come!” she said. “If I bake enough angel food cake, angels will come to help us from every part of heaven.”

“Oh, I guess it’s almost Christmas!” he said. “A lot of people are going on vacation.”

Mr. Peterson looked around the kitchen at the mess that Celeste had already made and picked up the phone to make a quick call to her school. Celeste figured her tenacity had worn him down.

“Mrs. Rogers, this is John Peterson, Celeste has a stomachache and can’t come to school for the rest of the week,” her dad said. “She overdid it on angel food cake — sugar headache! She’ll be fine. Merry Christmas!”

When Mr. Peterson hung up the phone, Celeste thought her father realized it was better not to argue with her, because she would do what she wanted to do anyhow.

The next day, Mrs. Rogers, Celeste’s sixth-grade teacher, called to inquire about Mr. Peterson’s phone call. Celeste walked through the house singing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” with her fingers in her ears. She didn’t want to hear one word that Mrs. Rogers said.

“Mr. Peterson, what’s that daughter of yours up to now?” Mrs. Rogers said. “She always has some sort of magical idea in her head!”

“Celeste has just been so excited about Christmas that she ate one too many angel food cakes,” he said. “It sort of went to her head if you know what I mean. But don’t you worry about her. Merry Christmas! We’ll see you in the New Year!”

Before Mrs. Rogers could argue with him, Mr. Peterson hung up the phone. Celeste watched him pull the phone cord from the wall. She assumed her dad was out of patience.

Celeste stared at the angel on top of their Christmas tree and hoped Mrs. Rogers would not show up at her front door. Worst case scenario, she would just give her an angel food cake for Christmas. She planned on baking some extra cakes for gifts.

All day, Celeste set about making enough angel food cakes to fill the entire ice cream truck. She made so many cakes that she had to store the extra ones in the kitchen pantry. The refrigerator, freezer, and counters were also full of the cakes.

Later that evening, Mrs. Rogers appeared unannounced. She pressed her nose against the kitchen window. Her glasses fogged up as she scowled through the window.

“If you don’t let me inside, I’ll write a note to Santa about your behavior! Not to mention the principal and the school board!” Mrs. Rogers said. “We have a big math test coming up after Christmas break! Do you want extra math homework for Christmas?”

“Merry Christmas! I’m baking angel food cakes for the angels,” Celeste called to Mrs. Rogers through the window. “I’ll take the math test after the holidays!”

As a gift, Celeste wrapped a cake in aluminum foil for Mrs. Rogers.

She thought the dessert might make her teacher calm down. She left the chain on the door and opened it to hand the cake to her.

Mrs. Rogers took the cake from Celeste and unwrapped the foil. She tasted a bit and murmured as she walked off: “I’m calling your father as soon as I get home!”

“Too bad! He pulled the phone cord from the wall,” Celeste said, then, singing “Angels We Have Heard On High.”

Despite Mrs. Rogers’ protest, the next morning, Celeste got back to work. Christmas fell on Monday this year, and Celeste was running out of time.

One cake after another, she added red and green food coloring and icing to the cakes. She even added white whipped cream, red strawberries, and green mint leaves to the desserts.

Then, she carefully stacked the finished cakes one by one on top of each other in the truck. Every now and then, a cake toppled over, and Celeste had to toss it out.

Later Friday night, Celeste helped her dad repaint the ice cream truck. Its rainbow colors gleamed in the winter starlight.

“If the truck’s going to sell cake, it ought to shine like Christmas,” her father said.

“Shine! Shine! Shine!” Celeste agreed, as a splash of paint covered her nose.

Then, Mrs. Rogers surprised them both in the driveway.

Mr. Peterson grabbed an old paper grocery bag, put it on his head, and ducked inside the ice cream truck. He hid beneath the counter next to the broken freezer.

Celeste thought that Mrs. Rogers would surely see her father anyhow. She would have to handle the matter in a straightforward manner.

“I’m making food for the angels,” Celeste said, as she handed her teacher another cake. “Don’t you believe in angels, Mrs. Rogers?”

“Child, what in the heavens have you been doing?” Mrs. Rogers said. “Where is your father?”

Celeste hoped that her teacher’s heart would soften toward her cake baking adventure.

“Make sure you come back tomorrow morning, Mrs. Rogers, when the angels come to buy cakes!” Celeste said. “Merry Christmas!”

“I’ll be here, but unless you plan to grow angel wings, you better pass your upcoming math exam!” Mrs. Rogers said. “I worked hard to teach you mathematics, and you need to appreciate it.”

“Did you try my cake, Mrs. Rogers?” Celeste asked.

Her teacher begrudgingly unwrapped the cake and tasted a piece. She said, “It’s delicious,” then walked away, shaking her head with a smile.

When Saturday morning finally came, it turned out to be a beautiful December day with an inch of snow. Celeste thought this was a sign that the angels were on their way to buy cakes.

The first to arrive was a caroler with a red scarf and frosted eyelashes. He handed Celeste a dollar, winked, and said, “Best cake I’ve ever had.” Celeste knew he must be an angel.

So many strangers stopped at the truck for cakes that Celeste knew they were other worldly. She watched as her father looked speechless with disbelief at the success of Celeste’s cakes. Celeste knew he only tolerated her efforts, hopeful a few people might buy them — but he never expected this success.

Soon, customers from all over came to buy angel food cakes for their families, friends, and neighbors. Even Mrs. Rogers bought an angel food cake for her husband to enjoy for dessert that evening.

“Celeste, get your derrière in my classroom first thing after Christmas break!” Mrs. Rogers said with a smile. “You really are a clever girl. Are you ready for your math test?”

“Yes, Mrs. Rogers,” Celeste said. “I’ll spend extra time on Christmas break studying.”

Her father made so much money from the cakes that he was able to put a down payment on a new truck. Celeste thought it seemed like a better use of the money, instead of just buying a new freezer.

“I’m naming this the Angel Food Cake Ice Cream Truck,” Mr. Peterson said. He pulled a picture of Celeste’s mom from his bag and displayed it on the dashboard of the truck.

“I told you the next best thing to ice cream is angel food cake,” Celeste said, eating the cake with ice cream.

On Christmas morning, there were enough presents beneath Celeste’s tree for lots of holiday cheer, including the doll that she had wanted and new paints for her art.

From then on, Celeste and Mr. Peterson sold angel food cake with ice cream year-round and never lacked a thing.

Celeste told everyone her mother sent her angels from heaven — who had their cake and ate it, too. She even hung a sign on the new truck that said: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:

“Oh no! The ice cream melted!” said the father of 11-year-old Celeste Peterson.

On the warm December day, John Peterson leaned against the door of his rainbow-painted Ice Cream Truck. It sat in the driveway of his brown brick home, dripping with desserts. The wiring in the freezer had frizzled and left him with nothing but a river of cream and sugar.

“I’m the Ice Cream Truck Man! My ice cream can’t melt away,” he said, adjusting his red-striped hat. Celeste shrugged her shoulders, licking two melting popsicles at once.

“Now I have nothing to sell to the children today,” Mr. Peterson said to Celeste.

“It’s already harder to sell ice cream in the winter. It’s usually so cold outside!” he said, enjoying the winter sunshine. “It’s going to cost me a bundle to pay to fix the freezer. There will be no money left for Christmas gifts.”

Every Saturday afternoon, neighborhood children gathered at his truck when they heard its jingle.

“Well, Dad, the next best thing to ice cream is angel food cake,” Celeste said. “Angels eat angel food cake. I think there might even be angels in the cake . . .”

“Angels in the cake? What are you talking about, Celeste?” her dad said, mopping up the truck.

Celeste ran into her father’s kitchen and pulled the mixer from the lower cabinet. She mixed into the bowl the main ingredients: sugar, flour, egg whites, vanilla, and salt. Then she sent the mixer arms spinning, whipping the batter into a thick mixture. She took her rubber spatula and tasted a mouthful of the batter.

“Umm! Yummy!” she said, sticking her nose into the mixer’s bowl. “No wonder the angels like to eat angel food cake. It’s so good that I feel like becoming an angel.”

She scraped the mixture into baking tins and placed them in the warm oven. When the angel food cake finished baking, she made sure that her father ate the first slice.

“Dad, come have a piece of cake!” Celeste called to him from the window. He had spent most of the day fiddling with the broken freezer in the ice cream truck.

“It’s wonderful!” Mr. Peterson said, sitting at the kitchen table eating a large slice of cake.

“Next weekend, we’ll sell enough angel food cake to buy a new freezer,” Celeste said.

“Who’s going to buy angel food cake from an ice cream truck in December?” her dad said in a weary voice.

“Mom would say that the angels are going to buy it. It’s angel food,” Celeste said. “Since she’s with the angels, she’ll send angels to buy the cakes,” the child said, thinking of her mom in heaven.

Mrs. Peterson had passed away last Christmas, and Mr. Peterson had been heartbroken ever since. “I’m still going to try to fix the freezer, Celeste,” Mr. Peterson said, finishing his dessert. “Your mom would like the angel food cake; just try not to overdo it,” he said, looking at Mrs. Peterson’s picture.

“Dad, I never overdo anything, but I might have to take the week off from school,” Celeste said.

“Your teacher will never agree to you taking the week off from school . . . will she?” he said.

“She might, because I’m baking my own miracle for the angels to come!” she said. “If I bake enough angel food cake, angels will come to help us from every part of heaven.”

Just in case Celeste was right, Mr. Peterson grabbed a pad of paper from the side desk and scratched out a quick note.

“Mrs. Rogers, Celeste has a stomachache and can’t come to school this week,” her dad wrote. Then he scribbled: “She ate too much sugar. I’m sure you understand. Yours, Mr. Peterson.”

He knew it was better not to argue with Celeste, because she would do what she wanted to do anyhow. Mr. Peterson put a stamp on his letter, popped the letter in the post, and kept tinkering with his truck.

The next day, Mrs. Rogers, Celeste’s sixth-grade teacher, called to inquire about Mr. Peterson’s letter.

“Mr. Peterson, why did you write me a letter in the mail? Most people in this century use the telephone! What’s that daughter of yours up to now? She always has some sort of magical idea in her head!” Mrs. Rogers said.

Before Mrs. Rogers could argue with him, Mr. Peterson hung up the phone and pulled the cord from the wall.

He stared at the angel on top of their Christmas tree, hoping Mrs. Rogers would not show up at his front door. During the next week, Celeste set about making enough angel food cakes to fill the entire ice cream truck. Mid-way through the week, Mrs. Rogers appeared unannounced, pressing her nose against the kitchen window.

“What are you doing in there, Celeste?” Mrs. Rogers said. “I don’t believe for one minute that you’re sick!”

“Of course, I’m sick!” Celeste said, putting the blender on high and turning up the Christmas carols on the radio.

“If this behavior continues, you’ll be expelled from school!” Mrs. Rogers said. “Or you’ll at least be suspended.”

“Good! Then, I can stay home and make angel food cakes,” Celeste called to Mrs. Rogers through the window.

As a peace offering, Celeste slipped an angel food cake through the kitchen’s pet door, wrapped in aluminum foil.

Mrs. Rogers grabbed the cake and stomped off in disgust: “I’m calling your father as soon as I get home!”

“Too bad! He pulled the phone cord from the wall,” Celeste said, singing “Angels We Have Heard On High.”

Despite Mrs. Rogers’ protest, Celeste added red and green food coloring and icing to the cakes. She even added Christmas colors of white whipped cream, red strawberries, and green mint leaves to the desserts.

Then she carefully stacked the finished cakes one by one on top of each other in the truck. Every now and then, the cakes toppled over, and Celeste had to dust them off and restack them. On Friday night, while Celeste restacked the cakes with her dad, Mrs. Rogers came up behind her in the driveway.

Mr. Peterson put a bag on his head and hid in the ice cream truck, ducking beneath the counter next to the broken freezer.

“Child, what in the heavens have you been doing?” Mrs. Rogers said. “Home economics doesn’t start until seventh grade, and then you start with something small like garlic rolls or chocolate chip cookies. Where is your father?”

“I’m making food for the angels,” Celeste said. “Don’t you believe in angels, Mrs. Rogers?”

“I believe we have to start home economics class in the sixth grade,” Mrs. Rogers said, taking a cake from the stack.

“Make sure you come back tomorrow morning, Mrs. Rogers, when the angels come to buy cakes!” Celeste said.

“I’ll be here, but unless you plan to grow angel wings, you better pass your math exam next week!” Mrs. Rogers said.

When Saturday morning finally came, it turned out to be a beautiful December day with an inch of snow.

So many strangers, including Christmas carolers, visited the truck that Celeste knew they were angels. Customers from everywhere bought angel food cakes for their families, friends, and neighbors. Even Mrs. Rogers bought an angel food cake for her husband to enjoy for dessert that evening.

“Celeste, get your derrière in my classroom bright and early on Monday morning!” Mrs. Rogers said.

“Yes, Mrs. Rogers, thank you for your business,” Celeste said, as she counted every nickel in the cash drawer.

Her father made so much money from the cakes that he bought a new truck instead of fixing the broken freezer.

“I’m naming this the Angel Food Cake Ice Cream Truck,” Mr. Peterson said, displaying a picture of Celeste’s mom.

“I told you the next best thing to ice cream is angel food cake,” Celeste said, eating the cake with ice cream.

On Christmas morning, there were enough presents beneath Celeste’s tree for everyone in the neighborhood. From then on, Celeste and Mr. Peterson sold angel food cake with ice cream and never lacked a thing.

Celeste told everyone it was because her mother sent the angels from heaven—who had their cake, and ate it, too. She even hung a sign on the new truck that said: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

Dedicated to my grandmother, Dorothy Moyer, for her love of angel food cakes.

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/angel-food-cake-ice-cream-truck-spoken-word-narrated-by-jen-waters