Christmas in July 2021 (2 of 4)

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Episode 3: Christmas in July 2 of 4 – Donald Jay Author Podcast

In this episode, I read the second scene of my short story, Christmas Renewal, entitled "The Old Lady at the Church." This is the second in a four-part series featuring Christmas Renewal.

Christmas In July – Gifts and Podcast Timing

Greetings everyone, and welcome to the Donald Jay Author Podcast episode #3, our second episode celebrating Christmas in July. I’m Donald Jay, and I hope everyone had a safe and fun Fourth of July week. I’ll keep the introduction short this week so we can get right to the reading of Christmas Renewal, Scene Two.

I do like to give away gifts before we start. Congratulations to last weekend’s winners Julie E. who won a nice pen, and Pat S. and Dianna K., who each won handcrafted bookmarks. Be sure to check out the bottom of this blog post for the winners of this weekend’s gifts, the choice of a handcrafted bookmark, or a free eBook copy of my novel, May There Always Be Enough.

One final housekeeping item before we start. I’ve received questions about the timing of my blog posts. To clarify, followers who subscribe to the blog on DonaldJay.com receive the posts first, usually on Sunday morning. Later that day, again, usually on Sunday afternoons, I advertise the blog post on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. So, if you want to be the first to hear about upcoming blog posts, subscribe to my blog on DonaldJay.com. If you want to be the first to hear about upcoming podcasts, you can subscribe to the Donald Jay Author podcast on most podcast services like Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, etc.

And now, here is Christmas Renewal, Scene Two: The Old Lady at the Church.

Christmas Renewal – Scene 2: The Old Lady at the Church

CHRISTMAS RENEWAL

By Donald Jay

Scene 2 – The Old Lady at the Church

When we arrived where the carolers had gathered, their leader welcomed everyone to join them in a festive rendition of “Jingle Bells.” As soon as the singing started, DC hopped from Lissa’s basket and pranced off toward the church.

Lissa waved to her mother. Emily Dodson looked every bit the nineteenth-century Christmas reveler, in her flannel bonnet trimmed with bright red ribbon and her crimson woolen cape. I presumed the man sharing a songbook with her, wearing a stovepipe hat trimmed to match Mrs. Dodson’s bonnet, to be Lissa’s father. I turned my head to share my observation with Martha. Disappointed, I remembered she wasn’t with me. I made a mental note to buy her a bonnet like that one before I left the village.

“Great!”

Lissa’s squeal refocused me on the present.

“I see Leah Marley over there. I have a bag of cookies for her.” She motioned to a nearby bench. “Would you mind waiting here a moment? If I catch her now, it’ll save me a trip to her farm.”

“Certainly,” I agreed. I lowered myself onto the bench, using its sturdy, wrought-iron arm as a support. As Lissa scurried off to visit with her friend, the church bell chimed the three-quarter hour. It’s almost eight o’clock. I guess I had better check in and at least let Martha know I’m still alive. I reached for my cell phone, which I must have left at home.

A woman hobbled past at a speed reminiscent of maple syrup in March. One of the most beautiful walking canes I had ever seen was draped on her arm. I leveraged myself to my feet, gentleman that I am, to help her with the heavy wooden door to the sanctuary.

“Thank you, kind sir.” The attractive blonde about my age nodded and smiled.

“May I help you to your seat?” The arthritis in my back, hips, and knees developed so rapidly it was not uncommon for me to offer, out of habit, to do something my degenerating joints found offensive.

“I’m sure I can manage.” She chuckled and then placed her hand around my arm. “But I never miss an opportunity to meet someone new.”

We made our way at her hindered pace to the last pew. While she sidestepped into position, I turned to leave.

“Thank you,” she called after me.

My back caught when I twisted to acknowledge her. I winced.

“Are you okay?” She pivoted in her seat and reached out as if to catch me.

“I’m fine,” I snapped. I raised a hand between us.

She folded her hands in her lap and waited for me to regain control.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I’m working through a slight back problem. Sometimes the pain—”

“You know,” she interrupted. “I mentioned that I never miss an opportunity to meet someone new. My name is Layla. What’s yours?”

“George. George Gandy.”

“Well, George Gandy, why don’t you sit a moment and give your back a chance to rest?” She patted the hard wooden pew beside her.

Unsure if the pain would allow me to walk away, I accepted. “Thank you. I think that’s a good idea, although I don’t mean to impose on your quiet time.”

“Oh, not at all.” She waved off my apology. “I just wanted to step in out of the cold for a moment. My husband is parking the car.”

We were alone in the candle-lit church. I enjoyed the smells of fresh pine and warm candle wax.

She broke the awkward silence. “I assume from your jacket you work on the excursion train that stops here.”

“Yes, ma’am, I do. Or, rather, I did. They retired me last week.”

“They retired you?” she asked. “You didn’t choose to retire? Oh, of course, you didn’t. A young man like you wouldn’t be anywhere near ready for retirement. Why did they ask you to retire?”

“I was a conductor and had to walk a lot for my job. When my back and knees developed arthritis, I couldn’t …” I looked away and inhaled deeply.

“I understand,” she offered.

“Do you?” I squinted at her, hoping she wasn’t just empathizing.

She nodded and sighed. “More than you know. I was a dancer once, a ballerina. I toured Europe professionally. I had my own studio and taught lessons. Then one night, a week before Christmas, I slipped on a patch of ice in front of my studio, fell, and shattered three vertebrae in my back.”

I gasped. “Oh, my.”

She hung her cane on the back of the pew in front of her. “The doctors said I would never walk again, much less dance.”

“How did you handle it?” I asked. “I mean, it sounds like dancing was everything to you.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t handle it; at least not at first. I didn’t know who I was without dance.”

“What did you do, then?” I needed to know.

“What could I do? I couldn’t return to my world, to dance.” She pivoted to face me. “Everything changed in what felt like a split second. I was no longer the woman my husband married. I became a burden to my husband and my children. I couldn’t be the fun grandmother for my grandchildren. The accident had taken everything I loved away from me, and I was angry. I turned into the Wicked Witch of the West.”

“I find that hard to believe.” I scoffed at the suggestion.

She raised both eyebrows, nodded, and continued. “It’s true. I tried to teach dance lessons from my wheelchair, but I was so bitter and frustrated my students left me, one by one. My children stopped bringing my grandchildren to visit their grumpy old grandmother. But the final blow came when my husband told me I had become impossible to live with and asked for a divorce.”

I became livid. “What? Are you kidding me? How dare they? Couldn’t they see what you were going through? Didn’t they love you enough to give you some measure of grace? Wasn’t it their job to support you, to help you regain your life?”

Layla donned a wry smile. “How well I remember saying those same words, over and over.”

I pounded the back of the pew. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

Her answer, barely audible and laced with profound sadness, caught in her throat. “No.”

We sat in silence for quite a while before she spoke again.

“George, they couldn’t do for me what I had to do for myself. Late one night, while I sat up in my wheelchair brooding about my miserable existence, someone knocked on my front door. In a rage, I pinballed off furniture to get to the door. I threw it open, ready to lash out at whoever had disturbed my tragedy in the middle of the night. I found only this cane propped in the doorjamb.”

She lifted the cane from its resting place and handed it to me before continuing.

“I was furious. I snatched up the cane and reared back to chuck it into the yard, but,”—she pointed her finger at me—“I decided to break it first, to teach whoever left it there a lesson. I grabbed it in the middle and torqued it with all my might. Of course, it didn’t budge. I tried and tried again to break that cane until I broke. I broke down and cried. I cried about the wretch I had become, too weak and pitiful to break a stupid piece of wood.”

She took the cane from me and eyed it while she continued. “I sat in that doorway for a long time. When I stopped crying, I got angry again, but not at my husband or my kids or my students. I got angry with me. I said to myself, I am better than this! I am stronger than this! I am strong like this cane is strong, and I will not let a stupid accident define who I am.”

“So, I prayed, asking God for His strength. Then I planted this cane on the floor, leaned on it with every ounce of my strength, and forced myself to stand. I called out to my husband, and by the time he made it downstairs, I had walked across the room to fall into his arms. I begged him for forgiveness and asked him to give me one more chance. I called my family to me, and I promised them all, even if I never walked another step, that I would be the fun grandmother for my grandchildren and the woman my husband married once again.”

“And now?” I asked, hoping for myself that I already knew the answer.

“Grandma!” A voice echoed through the empty church as a young boy darted between the pews and launched himself into her arms. We stood, and I helped her sidestep into the aisle as the rest of her family filed in, and each member, in turn, hugged her.

“George Gandy, this is my husband, Gabriel.” She slid an arm around a good-looking man with a medium build. “Gabriel, this is our new friend, George. George was a conductor on that train we ride to come here some years.”

“A conductor? You must have some pretty amazing stories to tell.” Gabriel reached out his hand. “I’m happy to meet you.”

“You as well.” I joined the handshake.

“As you’ve already discovered, my wife collects friends.”

We chuckled, and he continued. “But I’ve never known her to pick a bum one.”

“Grandma, are you coming with us? We’re going to walk with the carolers and sing Christmas carols.”

“Why certainly, I’ll go with you.” She took her husband’s arm and, surrounded by her family, hobbled toward the church door.

After I waved goodbye, I noticed her cane draped once again on the back of the pew. I called after her, “Layla, you forgot your cane.”

She paused, glanced over her shoulder, and smiled. Then she snuggled her husband’s arm, laid her head on his shoulder, and followed her family through the door.

I sat down in the pew and contemplated what had just happened, my eyes fixed on the cane. A fuzzy mosaic of bright colors behind the cane enticed me to refocus on one of the lighted stained-glass windows that flanked the sanctuary. The image was of the resurrected Christ. If only I could be as strong as Layla. I closed my eyes and bowed my head.

***

Gifts

The gifts and the winners for week two (July 11th) are:

Copper Flower with Green Bookmark: Mary G.

Gold Owl with Purple Bookmark: Laurie H.

Antique Brass Owl with Orange Bookmark: AnnMarie F.

Congratulations, winners! I will send you an email shortly requesting a shipping address so that I may mail your gift to you.