The Pohutukawa Tree: A Christmas Folktale from New Zealand

“Did you see that shadow by the cave?” Amelia whispered into the wind. “I think it was Mom.” As the wind blew off the ocean on a crisp December evening, she pulled her father’s jacket over her shoulders. The sleeves hung down on the ground. 

“There’s a story that the people around these parts of New Zealand believe,” Mr. Brown said. “I’m not really sure if I believe it, but I’ll tell you anyhow. Maybe it will cheer you up!”

“I think I just saw Mom’s spirit standing outside those caves,” his 12-year-old daughter said. She had been so sad that her mother had passed away that she could think about nothing else. Sometimes, she could not sleep, just wanting her mother to hold her again. 

“If the folklore is true, the shadow might have been the spirit of the warrior Tawhaki,” Mr. Brown said, as he looked out over the coast. The moonlight shone on the water. “He’s an avenger and guardian of justice. Sometimes, grieving people can see him. He might be fighting to bring your mother justice. The car accident wasn’t her fault.”

Amelia teared up and wiped her nose on his jacket sleeve. She had been so afraid after her mother’s death, not knowing what really happened to her. 

“I miss Mom every second,” the girl cried. “Why did she have to go so soon?”

The wind blew hard against the large tree with red flowers that clung to the cliff of Cape Reinga. Then, Amelia noticed her mother’s scarf in her father’s pocket. He carried it with him wherever he went. Once when he wasn’t looking, Amelia saw him pull it out and press it against his face. He closed his eyes, as if he was trying to remember her scent. 

“Let me tell you a version of the ancient Māori legend,” her father said, as he took his daughter’s hand. “Your mother used to love this story. We came to visit this place before you were born. She thought it was magic, and I wasn’t so sure, but it’s said that these caves are where spirits pass as they travel onto heaven.”

“Then, maybe I really did see Mom,” she said. “Let’s go inside. I have to see her. Just once more.”

“It’s such a nice night outside, honey. I’m not sure that we should really go inside the caves,” her father said, as he walked along the cliff with Amelia. He wiped a tear from his cheek. “This red tree was known as the New Zealand Christmas tree, and it seems to guard the entrance to the caves that wrap around the cliff.”

“But what if we can find Mom?” the girl cried. “What if she is waiting for us?”

“I’m not sure about that, but as the rest of the story goes, and not all the versions of it agree, this Pohutukawa tree emerged from here on Christmas Eve many years ago. Its burning red flowers are said to symbolize the blood of a warrior who died attempting to avenge his father’s death. His name was Tawhaki.”

“Oh, I think Mom just waved at us,” Amelia whispered. She watched the shadow outside the caves. “Can we please go inside?”

“It’s so dark in the caves,” he said, as he looked up at the stars. 

“Well, what’s the rest of the story?” his daughter asked. 

“Supposedly the warrior tried to get help in heaven on his mission to avenge his father, and then he fell to earth, causing the red flowers to bloom,” Mr. Brown said. “They say he still roams the earth, trying to avenge his father’s death. He hunts injustice and secretly tries to bring justice to those in need of it. Legend has it that he also guides souls on their journeys from earth to heaven through the caves. Now, I bet you thought it was just a tree?” her father said. “Sometimes, I think it still might just be a tree.”

“I always knew there was something special about the tree,” she told him, as she walked toward the entrance to the caves. “It’s so pretty.”

“I hope the story is true,” the father said. “Either way, everything will be all right.”

“Since Mom died last summer, I’ve seen the same shadow following me sometimes,” Amelia said. “Maybe it’s the warrior. I thought it might be Mom’s shadow. I wasn’t sure where it came from. I was too scared to tell you.”

“Really? Well, I wake up at night, and I think I hear her calling me. Sometimes, I think I’m going crazy,” her father said. “The legend of Tawhaki is really just a lot of folklore . . . and it makes you feel better for a while when you pretend it could be true.”

“Maybe I could talk to Mother one last time,” Amelia cried. “I dreamed I met her in the caves by the tree.”

“I want to believe that’s true, Amelia. I really do,” Mr. Brown said with trembling in his voice. “What if I’m wrong? If Tawhaki exists, he will help your mother. One way or another, justice at the court case regarding her car accident will prevail.”

“The shadow following me could have been Tawhaki,” Amelia said with a worried expression. “I’d rather it was Mom following me though.”

“You have no reason to be afraid,” Mr. Brown said. “If Tawhaki exists, he is probably trying to avenge her death, like the death of his father. According to the myth, he fights to bring justice.”

“Oh, I just saw a shadow again, next to the tree,” Amelia said with a gasp. “Did you see it, Dad?”

“No, I didn’t see it,” Mr. Brown said with a sigh. “If you want to, we could walk through the caves just this one time, but then that’s enough, and only for a few minutes.”

“I would like that,” Amelia said, as she dug in her bag for a flashlight to light their way.

Then, Amelia and her father walked into the heart of the caves. The walls were tight, and they had to squeeze through several spots. 

“Maybe we should turn back, Amelia,” her father suggested. “I don’t want to get stuck in here.”

“No, we’re going to find Mom,” Amelia said, as she felt the clammy walls beside her. Then, she slipped and landed hard. “Ouch! I just know we’ll find her.”

“The air’s getting thinner,” her father murmured in the dark.

“Oh, come on!” Amelia said, as she pulled her father’s hand. “Just a little bit farther.”

“I love you, Amelia,” her father said. He took a deep breath and squeezed through the next tight spot. 

As they descended deeper into the caves, Amelia froze. Light shimmered. Her mother stood before her surrounded by a bright glow. Tears filled Amelia’s eyes. When she looked at her father, he had no reaction, and she realized he was not able to see the spirit of her mother. She didn’t try to convince him. 

“Did you see Mom, Amelia?” her father asked, as Amelia watched the spirit of her mother bend over and kiss her cheek. “I don’t see her anywhere!” he said.

Amelia ignored her father. Her mother’s kiss burned like fire, and Amelia was sure it was real. Then, her mother kissed Amelia’s father, but he must have not felt the fire on his cheek. Amelia’s mother slipped off her diamond wedding ring and pressed it into Amelia’s hand. 

“Keep this for me, Amelia. I love you,” her mother said. Then, she turned and walked toward the inside of the caves. In a moment, she disappeared like she was taken up to heaven. 

“I’ll love you forever,” Amelia whispered. 

“Okay, now, it’s time to go home, Amelia,” her father said. “We can cut some of the red flowers from the tree to represent the spirit of your mother and the warrior we hope is helping her with the court case. We’ll put them by your bedside.”

“At least there is someone looking out for me, so I’m not alone without Mom,” Amelia told her dad.

“I’m looking out for you every day!” Mr. Brown said. “You’re never alone.”

She decided that telling him that she just saw her mother might not help him at all, but it helped her more than she could say. Her mother’s wedding ring hid deep in her pocket, although it was too big to fit on any of her fingers. It felt hard and like it could never break.

“Whatever happened to Mom’s wedding ring?” Amelia asked her father out of curiosity.

“Oh, it was lost in the car accident,” her father said. “We never found it.”

Before they left for evening, Mr. Brown walked over to the tree and left a note. 

“What’s that?” Amelia asked her father. The envelope read: “For my love.”

“A note I wrote your mother,” he said. “In case she finds it.”

Then, the wind blew, and the Pohutukawa tree shook, as a shadow fell from its branches. Amelia watched it follow the Browns back to their house and sit next to her bedside. The shadow looked different than her mother did in the cave, and she knew it must be Tawhaki. 

“If I had picked her up that night, maybe she would still be alive,” Mr. Brown said to Amelia, as she was sure he could not see the shadow. “I’m so sorry. Good night.”

“I love you, Dad. It’s not your fault,” Amelia said. “I know Mom loves you, too.”

When she woke up the next morning, the shadow was gone, but on the day of the court case, Amelia saw the shadow next to the witness stand as the driver who killed her mother testified. She felt courageous when she saw the shadow in the court room. 

“It’s Tawhaki!” Amelia said to herself, as the man gave his testimony. She didn’t feel as intimidated as she might have been otherwise. Still, she wished that she could bring her mother back to earth again. 

“I can’t take it anymore!” the man yelled. “I was drunk, okay? I killed her! What do you want me to say? I’ve been haunted by this shadow for the past week. It’s easier to tell the truth. The whole thing was my fault!”

“I motion to strike those comments!” the defendant’s attorney yelled. 

“At least he told the truth,” Mr. Brown said to Amelia, who secretly held her mother’s wedding ring in her pocket. 

Days later, Amelia watched the judge walk into the court room with the jury ready to announce the verdict. She sat next to her father, her mother’s wedding ring hidden in her pocket. Once again, she saw the shadow linger near the jury box. She wondered if he could sway their hearts. 

“We, the jury, find the defendant guilty . . .” rang through the courtroom.

“Thank you,” Amelia whispered to Tawhaki. Somehow, she knew that he could hear her. She gave her father a hug and hoped the verdict was a comfort to him. 

One day, when she was old enough to wear a wedding ring, Amelia thought she might ask her husband if he could propose to her with it. By then, maybe she could figure out how to explain to her father that her mother had given her the wedding ring the night they had spent together in the caves.

“Justice,” Amelia whispered. 

She stood. Tawhaki’s shadow vanished. 

“Justice.”

 

Editor’s Note: This fictionalized story respectfully draws from Māori legend and acknowledges the cultural significance of the Pōhutukawa tree and Tawhaki at Cape Reinga. It is told with admiration for the spiritual heritage it honors.

 

Copyright 2021, 2025 Jennifer Waters

 

Christmas Stockings: The Story of Golden Dusty Chimneys

If you’re in need of a Christmas stocking, 

Take your cleanest sock from walking,

And stretch it to its farthest limit. 

If it’s too long, be sure trim it!

Try to pick one that’s red or green,

Or whatever you have that’s in-between.

Write your name with a magic marker!

The best kind is bright and darker. 

Then, hang it on the fireplace mantle.

If your feet are cold, wear your sandals.

Wait for Santa to fill your stocking with gifts!

Watch for him on open-eyed shifts. 

Down the golden chimney he’ll jump!

Toys and gifts he likes to dump. 

Now make a stocking for all your friends,

And that’s where this poem ends. 

Christmas is not just a stocking holiday,

But fill mine to the top please anyway!

 

Copyright 2021 Jennifer Waters

A Shiny Nose: Christmas Magic from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

“I wish the world was a brighter place,” said Robert May, working on his latest assignment at Montgomery Ward, a successful Chicago mail order house. 

It was 1939, and many families were poverty stricken and homeless due to the Great Depression. Often, there was not enough food to eat, and people became traveling hobos. 

Robert was a copywriter who crafted advertisements and publicity material for the mail order house. He also liked to write limericks and children’s stories. 

Instead of making the annual coloring book, Robert was trying to draft an original Christmas story about a reindeer. Of course, the tale had to involve Santa Claus and his sleigh. 

“Mr. Avery, I’m writing this story for my daughter Barbara,” Robert said to his boss. “She loves reindeer.”

“Reindeer?” questioned Sewell Avery, CEO of Montgomery Ward. “Are you sure that this is going to work?” 

“It’s not the Great American Novel, but I think I’m onto something with the reindeer,” Robert insisted. “Rollo, or Reginald, or Rudolph? I’m sort of leaning toward Rudolph.” 

“Rudolph,” Mr. Avery said. “I would have never thought of a reindeer named Rudolph.”

Coming home from work that evening, Robert felt sad as he looked at his tiny, unkempt two-bedroom Chicago apartment. He wanted so much more for his family. 

“How are you feeling today, Evelyn?” Robert asked. He kissed his wife on the cheek. She had been bedridden from cancer for the past two years. “I’ve been working on my poem about Rudolph the reindeer all day again . . .” 

“The reindeer with the shiny nose?” his wife said with a cough. “I hope it’s a big hit with the shoppers.” 

“Dad, let me hear the latest version!” asked Barbara, his daughter. She ran to her father and sat on his lap.

“I’ll read it to you before bed tonight,” her father said. He hugged her tightly. “Let’s eat some dinner now.” 

After dinner, Barbara crawled into bed, in tears. She asked her father: “Why is Mom different than other moms?” 

“She’s very sick. She does her best, and she loves you very much, Barbara,” Robert said. He cried as he held his daughter. “Let’s read about Rudolph.” 

As Robert read to her about a reindeer named Rudolph with a very shiny nose, she fell asleep. He wasn’t sure if she heard how the others mocked Rudolph. He knew his daughter was sometimes teased at school. The moral of the story resonated with him, so he hoped it would with her as well. 

After all, reindeer were not supposed to have big shiny red noses, and it embarrassed Rudolph every time he was teased for being different than everyone else.  

As the story went on, even Rudolph’s family ridiculed him for his nose calling him “a red-nosed reindeer.” Since the outcast was the ninth and youngest of Santa’s reindeer, it made the reindeer easy to pick on, like many young children.

“I have to figure out what good can come of Rudolph’s nose,” Robert whispered. He kissed his daughter goodnight. He still didn’t have a complete draft of his story. “Most days, I feel almost like the out-of-place reindeer. I might as well be as awkward as Rudolph . . .”

Later in the week, Mr. Avery, CEO of Montgomery Ward, agreed to consider drawings of Rudolph from Denver Gillan in the company art department. Robert decided to take Denver to the zoo over the upcoming weekend to get visual ideas for the character. 

“Monday morning, show me something that will really work!” Mr. Avery demanded. “Every child has to love Rudolph!” 

“I suggested that Denver study the features of the deer,” Robert said. “I’ll spend the whole weekend at the zoo with Denver, if that’s what we have to do!” 

 

“Come on Barbara, we’re off to the zoo, so Denver can make some drawings of the deer to craft Rudolph,” Robert explained when Saturday morning rolled around. 

“See you later tonight,” his wife said. She wheezed every time she spoke. “Have a great day together. I’ll miss you. Wish I could come.” 

For most of the afternoon, Robert held Barbara on top of his shoulders, as Denver sketched the first Rudolph. 

“Here, Barbara, you can fill in Rudolph’s nose with the color red,” Denver said, as he handed her a red crayon. 

“I feel just like an artist,” Barbara said. She smiled at her father. 

“That’s my girl,” Robert said. He kissed Barbara on her cheek and wished her mother could overcome her sickness. He had no idea what he would do without a mother for his child. 

“Oh, I wish that deer would turn his head,” Denver pleaded. “Look this way!”

“Merry Christmas!” Barbara called to the deer. The reindeer turned and looked right at her. 

The next week, Robert sat at his desk. He wrote notes on pads of paper and threw them into the trash can.  

As he stared out the window, he could not see through a thick fog from Lake Michigan. Due to low visibility, the other side of the lake and the city buildings almost disappeared. 

“I’ve got it!” he concluded. “Rudolph’s nose can shine like a spotlight through the fog on Christmas Eve, so Santa can make his deliveries.” 

When the phone rang, and Robert heard his wife’s mother on the line, he felt sick to his stomach. He knew something bad must have happened. 

“Robert, you need to come to the hospital right away,” his mother-in-law insisted, crying. “Evelyn just died. I can hardly believe it.”

“I’m on my way to the hospital,” he said. He hung up the phone and sobbed. How was he going to tell Barbara that her mother had passed away?

When he laid eyes on his daughter in a hospital waiting room chair, he felt nauseous. How would her life ever be the same? 

“Your mother has gone to be with the angels,” Robert told Barbara, as he held her close. “She’s gone to heaven. She died, honey.”

Then, Barbara cried and cried and collapsed in his arms, kicking and yelling.  

 

After his wife’s funeral at Saint Joseph Cemetery in River Grove of Cook County, Illinois, Mr. Avery suggested that Robert didn’t have to finish the Rudolph poem, if he wasn’t up to it. Thoughtfully, he sent flowers to the apartment.  

“Look, you can take a couple weeks off,” Mr. Avery communicated by phone. “Forget about Rudolph for a while.” 

“Thanks, but I think it’s wiser that I finish the story,” Robert insisted on the telephone. “I need Rudolph.” 

“If you think so,” his boss said. “I know it’s a really hard time for you, and I don’t want you to feel stressed.” 

“It keeps my mind on other things, and Barbara likes the story, I think,” Robert rambled.

After a few more weeks of writing, Robert burst through his apartment door one evening to find Barbara eating dinner with her mother’s parents. 

“How was your day, Barbara?” Robert said, hanging up his coat. “I finished the story about Rudolph.”

He pulled up a chair to the table, and read the draft aloud, which told how Santa Claus would never have made it on his annual trip around the world on Christmas Eve without Rudolph’s very shiny nose on one foggy Christmas Eve. 

As the story explained, all the other reindeer, who used to laugh and call Rudolph names, are now in awe of the youngest reindeer who helps to save Christmas because Rudolph leads the sleigh through the sky.

“That’s great, Dad,” Barbara said. “I wish Rudolph was real, and I could meet him. Mom would be so happy.”

“Thank you, honey,” Robert said. “I know she would love the finished story about Rudolph!”

“How are the pictures of Rudolph coming?” Barbara asked and jumped on his lap

“Denver is working on them,” Robert explained, showing her the latest sketches. “The book should be out for Christmas.” 

“Well, if nobody else likes the story, I like it,” Barbara said. “It’s my favorite Christmas story ever!”

 

By Christmas, 2.4 million copies of the poem were distributed to Montgomery Ward shoppers.

“To think that all the other reindeer used to laugh and call Rudolph names,” Robert said with a chuckle. “That’s not happening anymore!”

By 1947, after Montgomery Ward gave Robert the copyright to his story—which transferred specific permissions to him to create new works based on the story—Maxton Publishers, a small New York publishing company, printed a copy of the Rudolph book, and it was a best seller. 

Robert’s brother-in-law, Johnny Marks, adapted the story into lyrics and music in the song called “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” inspiring animated television specials, postage stamps, stuffed animals, comic books, games, and all kinds of memorabilia.  

“What would Christmas be without Rudolph?” Robert asked himself every year for many decades. “Rudolph is almost as famous as Santa Claus. I think his nose made the world a little brighter after all.” 

In the end, one reindeer’s shiny red nose lit not just the way for Santa, but the hearts of millions.

 

Author’s note: This story is a dramatized retelling of how Robert L. May created Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in 1939 for Montgomery Ward.

Copyright 2025 Jennifer Waters

Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:

“I wish the world was a brighter place,” said Robert May, working on his latest copywriter assignment at Montgomery Ward, a successful Chicago mail order house. 

It was 1939, and many families were still feeling the effects of the Great Depression.

Instead of making the annual coloring book, Robert was trying to draft an original Christmas story about an animal with holiday cheer. 

Of course, the tale had to involve Santa Claus and his sleigh. 

“I think the poem should be about a reindeer,” Robert imagined, thinking about his daughter Barbara’s love for deer. 

“A reindeer?” doubted Sewell Avery, CEO of Montgomery Ward. “Are you sure that this is going to work?” 

“I always wanted to write the Great American Novel. I think I’m onto something with the reindeer,” Robert insisted. 

“Rollo, or Reginald, or Rudolph? I’m sort of leaning toward Rudolph. I think it’s the most original.” 

“Rudolph is definitely an original,” Mr. Avery quipped. “I would have never thought of a reindeer named Rudolph.”

Coming home from work that evening, Robert sighed at the tiny, unkept two-bedroom Chicago apartment.  

“How are you feeling today, Evelyn?” Robert asked, kissing his wife on the cheek. She had been bedridden from cancer for the past two years. “I’ve been working on my poem about Rudolph the reindeer all day again . . .” 

“The reindeer with the shiny nose?” his wife wheezed. “I hope it’s a big hit with the shoppers.” 

“Dad, let me hear the latest version!” Barbara, his daughter proclaimed, running to hug her father.  

“I’ll read it to you before bed tonight,” her father promised, hugging her tightly. “Let’s eat some dinner now.” 

After dinner, Barbara crawled into bed, in tears, wondering: “Why is Mom different than other moms?” 

“She loves you very much, Barbara,” Robert cried softly, holding his daughter. “Let’s read about Rudolph.” 

As Robert read to her about a reindeer named Rudolph with a very shiny nose, she fell asleep. He wasn’t sure if she heard the part about how everyone used to make fun of the creature. After all, reindeers were not supposed to have big shiny red noses, and it embarrassed Rudolph every time he was teased for being different than everyone else.  

As the story went on, even Rudolph’s family ridiculed him for his nose calling him “a red-nosed reindeer.” Since the outcast was the ninth and youngest of Santa’s reindeer, like many children, it made the reindeer easy to pick on.  

“I have to figure out what good can come of Rudolph’s nose,” Robert whispered, kissing his daughter goodnight. “Most days, I feel almost like the out-of-place reindeer. I might as well be as awkward as Rudolph . . .”

Later in the week, Mr. Avery agreed to consider drawings from Denver Gillan from the company art department. 

“Show me something that will really work!” Mr. Avery demanded. “Every child has to love Rudolph!” 

“Yes sir,” Robert agreed. “I’ll spend the whole weekend at the zoo with Denver, if that’s what we have to do!” 

 

“Come on Barbara, we’re off to the zoo, so we can make some drawings of the deer,” Robert explained when Saturday morning rolled around. “We’re making drawings of Rudolph. You can even help color his nose!” 

“See you later tonight,” his wife coughed. “Have a great day together. I’ll miss you. Wish I could come.” 

For most of the afternoon, Robert held Barbara on top of his shoulders, as Denver sketched the first Rudolph. Barbara filled in Rudolph’s nose with a red crayon.

“Oh, I wish that deer would turn his head,” Denver pleaded. “Look this way!”

“Merry Christmas!” Barbara called, as the reindeer looked right at her.

The next week, Robert sat at his desk, scribbling on pads of paper and throwing them in the trash can.  

As he stared out the window, he could not see through a thick fog from Lake Michigan.

“I’ve got it!” he concluded. “Rudolph’s nose can shine like a spotlight through the fog on Christmas Eve, so Santa can make his deliveries.” 

When the phone rang, and Robert heard his wife’s mother on the line, he felt sick to his stomach. 

“Robert, you need to come to the hospital right away,” his mother-n-law insisted, crying. “Evelyn just died. I can hardly believe it.”

“How am I going to tell Barbara that her mother has passed away?” he sobbed. “I’m on my way to the hospital.”

When he laid eyes on his daughter in a hospital waiting room chair, she cried and cried and collapsed in his arms, kicking and yelling.  

“It’s going to be all right,” Robert assured. “Do you want to hear about Rudolph? The story is almost finished.” 

“No, I don’t want to hear about Rudolph,” Barbara blamed him. “He’s not real. He’s just a stupid reindeer.” 

“Well, Rudolph is about as real as I can get right now,” Robert cried with tears, hugging his daughter. “I love you, dear.”

“I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Barbara apologized. “I love you. I love Mom, too.”

 

After his wife’s funeral at Saint Joseph Cemetery in River Grove of Cook County, Illinois, Mr. Avery insisted that Robert didn’t have to finish the Rudolph poem, if he wasn’t up to it. Instead, he sent flowers to the apartment.  

“Look, you can take a couple weeks off,” Mr. Avery communicated by phone. “Forget about Rudolph for a while.” 

“Thanks, but I think it’s wiser that I finish the story,” Robert insisted on the telephone. “I need Rudolph.” 

“If you think so,” his boss stammered. “I know it’s a really hard time for you, and I don’t want you to feel stressed.” 

“It’s fun for me, actually,” Robert rambled. “It keeps my mind on other things, and Barbara likes the story, I think.” 

After a few more weeks of writing, Robert burst through his apartment door one evening to find Barbara eating dinner with her mother’s parents. 

“I finished the story about Rudolph!” Robert exclaimed, hanging up his coat. 

He pulled up a chair to the table, reading the draft aloud, explaining that Santa Claus would have never made it on his annual trip around the world on Christmas Eve without Rudolph’s very shiny nose, due to foggy weather conditions. 

All the other reindeer, like Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixen, who used to laugh and call Rudolph names, are now in awe of their youngest brother who helps to save Christmas because Rudolph leads the sleigh through the sky.

“That’s great, Dad,” Barbara cheered. “I wish Rudolph was real, and I could meet him. Mom would be so happy.”

“You never know how something that was once a great shame can be turned into a miracle,” Robert announced. 

“If you say so, Dad,” Barbara agreed quietly, jumping on his lap. “How are the pictures of Rudolph coming?” 

“We’re working on it,” Robert explained, showing her the latest sketches. “The book should be out for Christmas.” 

“Well, if nobody else likes the story, I like it,” Barbara encouraged him. “It’s my favorite Christmas story ever!”

 

By Christmas, 2.4 million copies of the poem were distributed to Montgomery Ward shoppers to great success. 

“To think that people used to laugh and call Rudolph all kinds of names,” Robert chuckled to himself. “That’s not happening anymore!”

By 1947, after Montgomery Ward gave Robert the rights to his story, Maxton Publishers, a small New York publishing company, printed a copy of the Rudolph book, and it was a best seller. 

Even Robert’s brother-in-law named Johnny Marks adapted the story into a famous song called “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” causing animated television specials, postage stamps, stuffed animals, comic books, games, and all kinds of memorabilia.  

“What would Christmas be without Rudolph?” Robert asked himself every year for many decades. “Rudolph is almost as important as Santa Claus. I think his nose made the world a little brighter after all.” 

 

Copyright 2023 Jennifer Waters 

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/shiny-nose

The Christmas Woodcutter: A Christmas Folktale from France

On a dark Christmas Eve long ago, a little boy knocked on a cottage door in the snowy woods. Looking out the window, Marie thought the boy had lost his way. Since he was so young, a family member must surely be searching for him. Fourcès was a small village in France, and someone must be able to help him find his way home.

“Can I please come inside?” cried the little child freezing in the sharp cold. He peered through the frosted kitchen window of the home of the poor woodcutter. 

“Come sit by the fire,” said Valentine, the woodcutter’s only son, as he opened the cottage door. The flames crackled in the night. “It’s Christmas Eve, and you can’t be alone!”

“Oh, you poor thing!” said Marie, the woodcutter’s younger daughter, gently brushing snow from his cheeks. “You must be freezing!”

His cheeks were rosy, and his lips were bright pink. She looked deep into his eyes as if to catch a bit of his soul. She found the boy curious and brave. 

The wooden floorboards creaked as the little boy entered the cottage. 

Then, the wife of the woodcutter warmed the last of their supper stew for the boy. The scent of thyme and rosemary filled the home. It only had vegetables in it, and the boy could have probably used some meat, but it was the only food that the family had to share. The mother also gave him a warm cup of tea.

Sitting on the wooden side table was a bûche de Noël, set aside for Christmas dinner. Marie watched her mother make the Yule log cake earlier in the day. She was looking forward to eating the special treat filled with chocolate and buttercream. 

Ten-year-old Marie knew that her parents did the best they could to provide for her and her brother. She was always happy when there was extra money for sweets and cakes. At age 12, Valentine was growing up so fast. He grew taller every day.

“Thank you, kind people,” the little boy whispered. He nibbled on day-old bread from their table. Marie wished that she had butter to give him. “I am far from home,” he said. 

“So, what are you doing so far from home?” the mother asked. “Were you visiting your grandparents?”

“I’ve been on a journey. I know where I’m going,” the boy said. “It’s been lonely, but I’ve had angels with me.”

Marie looked at her mother, who didn’t seem to know what to say.

“I like to go on walks through the woods, too,” Marie said. “I would have felt scared if I got lost, but don’t worry. We’ll find your family somehow.”

Then, the woodcutter walked into the kitchen and noticed the young boy with a surprised look. All day, the woodcutter had been working in his workshop attached to the house. Sales were up, so he had been quite busy. He made the best wooden creations in town by hand: everything from tables, chairs, chests, bedframes, candlesticks, and more.

“Aren’t your family missing you, young man?” the woodcutter said with concern. “It’s too late to go looking for them tonight. Maybe they will find you tomorrow.”

“Papa, we saw him through the window, and he looked so cold,” Marie said. 

“He doesn’t seem to know much about where his family is or why he is lost,” the mother said. “He might be too young to understand what we are asking.”

“Well, we must pray for his safe return,” the woodcutter insisted. “Now gather around the table for evening devotions. Usually, we would attend midnight Mass tonight, but it’s too much of an undertaking with our special visitor.”

Marie always looked forward to nighttime prayer, especially during the holidays. She felt warm in her heart when she heard her father pray for their family. 

“Dear Heavenly Father, please bless this young boy, and lead us to his family,” the woodcutter prayed. “We ask for his safe return at Christmas. In Your Name, Amen.”

Then, Marie held hands with her brother and the young boy as her father read the scriptures. She always liked to hear the stories of faith and courage in the Bible. 

“Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy, and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost,” the father read from Isaiah 55 by candlelight.

The mother poured the last of their milk from the icebox for the young boy. Marie hoped the family cows would give more milk in the dawn.

“Let’s join in a round of ‘Silent Night,’” the mother suggested. She quietly sang the first verse of the carol. The rest of the family joined in with harmonies. 

As the family and little child finished the carol, the father cheered: “Christmas Day is tomorrow! Now time for bed.”

Marie knew that her father and mother had saved money all year for the candies and treats the children would find in their stockings over the fireplace in the morning. The woodcutter had also carved each of them special toys. 

“You can sleep in my bed tonight,” Marie said to the little child. “I will sleep on the kitchen bench instead.”

“How very sweet,” the child agreed. “You are so kind.”

“Our father made the bedframes and benches,” Valentine bragged. “He made all the woodwork. It’s so beautiful!”

“Thank you,” the little child said. He crawled into Marie’s bed beneath a soft, hand-stitched quilt, its raised patterns warm against the winter chill.

As the family settled into their beds, Marie tried to sleep on the hard bench with one pillow and a blanket. 

“This definitely isn’t like sleeping in my bed,” Marie said. “I will hardly get any sleep at all . . .”

Unable to fall asleep, she watched the snow out the window with a star shooting into the distant night sky. She finally drifted to sleep. 

Hours later, she was awakened by faint music floating through the walls. 

The cottage felt different—warmer, somehow, as though lit from within by something more than firelight. Not a dream, Marie thought. The bench was so hard that she was sure she was awake. She sat up. 

“Is that singing with harps?” Marie asked. “Who is singing?”

Valentine slipped into the kitchen to peer through the window. The children realized they were visited by angels. Their large wings and halos glistened as they floated in the night sky. 

“Angels! Dressed in silver robes with golden harps and lutes,” Marie whispered to Valentine as her heart leapt. 

While the cherubim and seraphim sang, a group of child-like angels gathered beside them in silver robes. Then, Marie and Valentine turned to see the little child standing next to them in a golden robe and crown. Light glowed all around him.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy,” the little child announced. “I am the Christ Child, the one of whom the angels sing.”

He opened the front door of the poor woodcutter’s home in the breaking dawn to sing and dance with the angels. Amidst the excitement, the woodcutter hurried to the front porch with his rifle. His wife stood beside him in a robe with her hair in a handkerchief.

“What is going on?” the woodcutter yelled, stunned at the gathering in front of his home. 

“They are angels, Papa,” Marie said to her father in awe. “The little boy that we took in is the Christ Child. Don’t be afraid!”

After a moment, the woodcutter and his wife fell to their knees in reverence.

The angels continued to sing and dance with the Christ Child on the early Christmas morning in the French countryside. Marie, Valentine, and their parents joined in the celebration. They made merry music with the angels’ harps and lutes.  

Then, the Christ Child broke a main branch of a nearby fir tree from its trunk. 

“I bless you with the bough of this fir tree. Let this tree be a symbol of eternal life and joy,” the Christ Child declared. He planted the bough in the ground. “It will be the first Christmas tree. May its branches shelter love, and its roots grow deep in faith.” 

The fir branch burst forth into the sky and grew into a full fir tree, decorated with golden apples, silver nuts, and wooden toys. Then, the child who was also God disappeared into the early morning air. 

“Glory to God,” the woodcutter called into the fields. “Who am I that you would choose me, a humble servant?”

Marie knew that her father was the kindest, most honest person in the village. He never cheated anyone from money. Once, someone overpaid him, and he gave them the money back without hesitation. He also always gave to people in need, even when he had very little.

Marie and Valentine took the gifts from the tree and delivered them to the other homes in the town. They kept a few of their favorite gifts for themselves. Marie knew she must always remember the visitation of the Christ Child. What if she had left him outside in the cold?

“We must never forget what just happened, even if no one believes us,” Marie told Valentine on their way home. 

“No one may believe us,” Valentine said, “but that doesn’t make it any less real.”

“I know he is real,” Marie said, as she pinched herself. “I gave him my bed, and the bench was very hard for the night.”

To this day, children everywhere decorate Christmas trees in honor of the little child. They remember the faithfulness of the woodcutter and his family, who welcomed the Christ Child as a stranger and received him as one of their own. 

 

Copyright 2021, 2025 Jennifer Waters

Candy Cane Twist: Christmas Magic from Hoboken, New Jersey

Elvis Drummer had been named after the one and only Elvis Presley, the king of rock ‘n’ roll. So, he had always considered himself a born musician. Even if there was not a musician in his family, his last name fit the persona. 

Some people were meant to be doctors or teachers. He knew he was meant to perform on the stage. This is why he joined the Head of the Class Middle School Choir in his hometown of Hoboken, New Jersey. It wasn’t exactly rock ‘n’ roll, but it was a beginning. Everyone had to start somewhere. He was going to start as a tenor in the choir. 

“This year, we’re combining singing with ballet in the annual Christmas concert,” choirmaster Forte Piper announced at the first chorus practice. “The Hallelujah Chorus meets The Nutcracker. It’s never been done before, and we have to break new ground. I love to go watch the ballet, and I have a million ideas.” 

As Elvis processed what Mr. Piper explained to the class, his stomach twisted in knots. This is not exactly what he was expecting. He knew Mr. Piper loved music and wanted to challenge the students, but this was a bit much. 

Elvis figured that maybe once or twice Elvis Presley had similar dilemmas, so he was willing to do whatever he had to do to take the stage. Although he did wonder what the girls in his class would think of him dancing the ballet. 

Mr. Piper was famous for popping candy canes into the mouths of students if they were caught talking in the middle of choir practice. He kept a handful of candy canes with him at all times, ready for anyone babbling. Elvis made extra sure to keep his mouth shut, except when singing. He needed to win over Mr. Piper if he was going to have a music career. 

In case Mr. Piper needed to pull someone off stage, he was also known to use a shepherd’s crook, which looked like a huge red and white candy cane. Elvis was sure he would never have to use it to pull him from the spotlight, only everyone else.

“Candy canes are the only way to keep you quiet!” Mr. Piper said, as he shoved one into Elvis’ mouth. “Do you notice how the rest of the seventh-grade students are listening? Use your tenor solo voice when asked.”

“But I didn’t say anything!” 12-year-old Elvis blurted out at Mr. Piper with the candy cane under his tongue. Elvis pulled the piece of candy out of his mouth and threw it in the trash. 

“You most certainly did just say something!” Mr. Piper said. Then, he shoved another candy cane in Elvis’ mouth. Elvis threw the second candy cane in the trash again and wondered what he had got himself into. 

“Maybe we could sing ‘Blue Christmas’ as a choir,” Elvis suggested. “Without adding any ballet. It’s a classic!” 

When Elvis had auditioned for the choir, Mr. Piper picked him as a soloist. So, Elvis figured using his beautiful voice was his best defense. Elvis looked at his friend Griff Gig, who was also picked as a soloist, and sat a few seats away from him. Elvis shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. 

His other friends Amanda Sonatina and Vicki Viola sat a few seats over from Griff in the soprano and alto section. Having the most beautiful voices, Amanda and Vicki were also chosen as soloists. Elvis had always had a crush on Amanda. He definitely wanted to make himself look good to her. Mr. Piper better not screw up his reputation. 

“I have no idea how to dance the ballet!” sixth grade lead tenor Griff Gig argued. Mr. Piper promptly popped a candy cane in his mouth, too. “We’re all going to look like fools!”

“I love the ballet!” seventh grade solo soprano Amanda whispered to sixth grade Vicki.

“You can’t dance any better than I can dance!” solo alto Vicki responded. “This is supposed to be choir!”

Both girls got candy canes popped into their mouths before they could say anything else, kind or otherwise. Elvis sat there in silence, thinking that if Amanda liked the ballet, then he was at least going to have to try to like it, too. 

“I even got my own leotard for the rehearsal,” Mr. Piper said, dressed in a red and white striped outfit as a gag. “The boys in the choir will wear leotards, and the girls will wear tutus.”

Elvis sat in stupendous fright at the thought of the entire school seeing them embarrass themselves. There had to be a way for the choir to make it through the performance without humiliating themselves.

“We start our first vocal ballet practice tomorrow!” Mr. Piper said. “Come prepared with your own leotard or tutu.”

Then, the bell rang, ending the most dreadful choir practice that Elvis could imagine.

“We’ve got to come up with a plan,” Elvis told the other choir members on the way out of the door. He covered his mouth with his hand so Mr. Piper could not hear him.

“Yeah, we’re not letting Mr. Piper do this,” Griff agreed. “He’s bored, and he’s a nutcracker.”

“I think we should go along with his practice until the performance night,” Amanda suggested. “Then, we’ll have to figure out what we are actually going to perform instead.”

“He’s going to suspend us if we don’t do what he says,” Vicki warned. “My parents will be so angry.”

“Okay, so the plan is to do what he says until December 14, the night before the performance,” Elvis said. “Then, we take over at show time!”

“The trick is to get him into the closet,” Griff said. “And keep him there! I could go missing, and he comes to look for me, but then we get stuck in the closet.”

Elvis considered the consequences of such actions, like expulsion from school or juvenile court, but at this rate, something drastic had to be done. They just could not get caught. 

“We could just sing the same old songs that we performed last year,” Amanda said. “No one will notice. Well, my mom might notice, but that’s about it.”

“I’m willing to perform one of Elvis Presley’s Christmas songs as a solo,” Elvis suggested. “I know all of them by heart!”

He was secretly hoping to impress Amanda, so that he could ask her to the spring school dance. Something good had to come out of this choir practice that had gone bad. 

“I’d love to hear you sing a solo,” Amanda said to Elvis with a smile. Elvis thought her chances of saying “yes” to his invitation to the spring dance increased by the minute. 

“By the time Mr. Piper gets out of the closet, the night will mostly be over,” Vicki said. “We’ll have saved our reputations.”

The four soloists passed word of their plan to the rest of the chorus members and for the next few weeks endured practice. Elvis made the most of it and tried to learn as much about music as he could. He didn’t know a lot of music theory, so anything he could learn was a plus. His favorite thing to discuss was which key made his voice sound the best. 

Although Elvis didn’t like Mr. Piper’s staging of the ballet, the students seemed to be improving at following his directions. Most of the choir members moved in the correct form, even if some of them got confused at times. Elvis wanted to put his whole heart and soul into singing, not the ballet. It felt like a distraction from the original intention of the choir. 

“Pirouette!” Mr. Piper said to the students. “If I can do it, you can do it, too! On your toes everybody!”

“This is a nightmare!” Griff mumbled to Elvis. “We should’ve signed up for band or orchestra.” 

“Don’t worry,” Elvis whispered to Griff. “We’re about to take over the performance! You can go missing and keep Mr. Piper in the closet. I’ll take the stage and sing!”

When performance night finally arrived, Mr. Piper could not find Griff anywhere. 

“I think Griff is changing his clothes in the closet,” Elvis said to Mr. Piper. 

“Griff! Get out here now!” Mr. Piper called as he ran to the closet in search of him. As he stepped inside the closet, the door accidentally shut on him—with the help of Elvis.  

“Wait! Let me out,” Mr. Piper called, as he banged on the door. “The parents will get me fired! They will act like I was asleep on the job.”

Elvis imagined Mr. Piper slumped down on the floor next to Griff in the dark. He ran to take the stage and shine in front of Amanda. 

“Everybody quick! Change back into your regular clothes,” Elvis said to the choir members. The chorus ran to the bathrooms and shed their leotards and tutus for their formal black performance outfits. Then, the choir took the stage on the rafters, just like last year, and every other year before that. 

Before the pianist started the introduction to Mr. Piper’s first scheduled number, Elvis interrupted him in hopes that he knew how to improvise “Blue Christmas.” 

“Mr. Piper has gone missing with one of our soloists,” Elvis explained to the crowd at the microphone on stage. “We sing on! We’ll start with my rendition of ‘Blue Christmas.’”

The pianist hesitated for a moment, but then flipped through his book of songs and found the proper sheet music. Elvis felt relieved that the pianist went along with his plan. He glanced at Amanda who gazed in his direction. Elvis sang and moved his hips with a twist. 

In front of his parents and peers, Elvis crooned a heart-wrenching version of the classic. His voice sounded like velvet in the face of what would have been a sandpaper type of night. He was sure that he had impressed Amanda. No one else in choir could sing like him.

After his solo, Elvis slipped back into the chorus, and the group performed one holiday standard after another. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the evening, including Elvis’ parents who sat in the second row. Mr. and Mrs. Drummer recorded every second of the evening for home videos. Then, all of a sudden, the lights in the auditorium went out. Everyone was left in the dark, wondering what happened, including Elvis. 

Elvis remembered how the closet had the circuit breaker box for the electricity in it. He couldn’t believe that he had overlooked this piece of information. Mr. Piper must have flipped the switches, and now Elvis had a major predicament. The parents in the audience started to whisper among themselves. Elvis feared they were in a lot of trouble. 

“Maybe I should let Mr. Piper out,” Amanda whispered to Vicki. “Everyone just keep singing until I get him out of the closet.”

“It will be hard for him to do much damage now because the night is almost over,” Vicki said. “Might as well go and get him!”

As Amanda slipped off the stage, with the rest of the choir singing “I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” in the dark, she quickly kissed Elvis on the cheek. He felt warm all over.

Minutes later, in the middle of “Santa Baby,” the lights flashed back on in the auditorium. Elvis figured Amanda turned them back on from the closet. Everyone clapped in the audience.

A few moments later, Mr. Piper took the stage in his leotard in a tizzy. He looked at the choir in silence. Griff stood next to him with a phony smile. Elvis looked at his shoes and thought of how nice it would be to sing Elvis Presley’s standard “Blue Suede Shoes” at the spring concert. 

Seeing Mr. Piper in his leotard, the audience laughed as though it was a joke. And so it was, but it was also the best choral performance in the history of Head of the Class Middle School, and it didn’t involve one bit of ballet dancing for the choir. Elvis thought his class members must have been inspired to perform well in spite of the threat of dancing the ballet.

“We are doing the finale as practiced,” Mr. Piper instructed his students in a firm voice. “There’s no time to change into your leotards and tutus. So, you’ll do the finale with the ballet moves in your regular clothes.”

The entire choir sighed at Mr. Piper’s instructions. Elvis’ body cringed down to his little toes, but he had no choice. The plan had been somewhat successful, but somewhat not. He had to make the best of Mr. Piper’s crazy ideas. 

Along with the other students in the choir, Elvis lived through what felt like an out-of-body experience, performing The Hallelujah Chorus with dance moves from The Nutcracker. He tried not to look at Amanda. He felt so humiliated after his gorgeous solo, and she had even kissed him when no one was looking. Mr. Piper ruining the finale was not in Elvis’ plan.  

When the performance was over, Elvis looked at his parents for some relief. To his surprise, the crowd went wild with cheers. Everyone in the audience stood to their feet with a standing ovation. Elvis was shocked. Of course, he thought that they must have been clapping for his “Blue Christmas” solo and not Mr. Piper’s choreography. 

“Merry Christmas!” Mr. Piper bowed in his leotard. He threw candy canes to the crowd. 

“Next year, we’ll be doing an entire ballet with our singing,” Mr. Piper said to the audience. “You just wait!”

“I’m going out for the basketball team, and so is everyone else,” Griff said.

“Oh, we’ll come up with another plan before then,” Elvis said to Griff. “You can’t quit! I have to do another solo and get my career going.” 

“Maybe we could just take a field trip to the New York City Ballet instead,” Mr. Piper said, as Elvis pulled his teacher off the stage with his own candy cane shepherd’s crook. “I’ll buy the tickets!”

Elvis considered taking Mr. Piper up on the offer. He could sit next to Amanda at the New York City Ballet and hold hands. As long as he didn’t have to dance in a leotard. He just wanted to sing, sing, sing!

Copyright 2021, 2025 Jennifer Waters

Whale Song: The Story of a Humpback

If you’re floating in the ocean, 

And you hear a pretty song,

It might not be a person

Who holds the note so long!

Whales can be composers

Like Beethoven and Bach. 

Sing to speak while swimming

Is the way humpbacks talk. 

If you want to speak to them,

You must respond in chime,

Musicality, and resonance,

But you won’t need a rhyme!

Whistling through the waves

Can be a romantic thought,

Almost like you’re gliding

Through the sea on a yacht!

So if you hear the music, 

As the water breaks the shore,

Sing your own sweet chant, 

And serenade some more!

A chorus in the seaway,

In which you’ve taken part,

Is the beginning of a symphony,

And you’re only at the start!

Crescendo through the meters

Until the end of your phrases.

Legato passages are best. 

The whole world makes praises!

Counterpoint with nature

Is what you will become. 

A melodious theme on earth

With your heart as the drum.

 

Copyright 2021 Jennifer Waters