The False Ducks Blahg

    Yes it’s true, it’s September of 2018 and I haven’t written a blahg since April. This blahg is going to explain what happened to me and what happened to another Mr. Henderson, my Father, George.  I am on holidays this week and I was going to change the picture on the right to one I took at the beach the beginning of this week.  I was going to do that but when I logged in today to write this new blahg, I noticed that someone had changed my picture to a very inappropriate one where a Hitler mustache had been drawn on me and a Nazi swastika emblazoning my forehead and a speech bubble with an offensive word off to the side.  I have changed my password and hope that the bastard who did that is locked out.  To this sick individual I say “there is no place for your type of hatred in this world”. 

     Now onto more important things.  I want to talk about my Father.  In a previous blahg in February of 2015 entitled My Good Life, I wrote about my Father falling in January of 2015 and breaking his right hip.  It took six weeks to get him back on his feet and get him home.  At that time they made a diagnosis that he had functional dementia which simply means he functions well in his home environment.  This makes sense because he had some bad days in the hospital when he didn’t even know who I was.  The team at Belleville General Hospital were prepared to give up on him then and it took me going in every day to encourage him to get up and work with the physiotherapists.  Eventually he got up and got going and went home.  I had that experience of seeing him coming back from the fall and fighting through the dementia and getting mobile.  That’s what drives my current experiences with Belleville General Hospital.  Read on. 

     I am not saying that everything was great over the past three years with my Father at home.  He and my mother would fight and argue but my Father was not violent.  Sure he could be stubborn but I think that’s bred in all us Hendersons…or so my wife tells me.  He got back most of his mobility and walked with the aid of a walker.  He walked all around the house, ate everything put in front of him, and smoked and drank when he could.  He didn’t go out of the house much unless I took him to appointments or took him to his my brother’s cottage.  It was a semblance of a good life.  This year Dad celebrated is 81st birthday and we expected him to continue strong.  The day after his birthday I took him to see his Doctor.  It took me three months to convince him to go and the bribery of two bottles of rye…one for going and one when he got home.  Of course the drinks were measured out over time.  Unfortunately one week after his Doctor’s appointment he slipped in his home and fell and broke his left hip.  That was June 1st.  Things have not gotten better since then and my Father is currently a prisoner in Belleville General Hospital. 

     I want to show you a picture of my Dad on the left from three years ago.  Yes, he was 78 then but you can see that he was healthy if not mobile yet.  As I said, it took 6 weeks and my own stubbornness battling his stubbornness to get him up and moving.  I give credit to the physiotherapists but the discharge planner at that time was saying my Dad would not get better and show go into a long-term care home.  I didn’t buy into that then and won’t now.  Look at the current picture of my Dad on the right.   This was taken about three weeks ago when the weather was nice and I was able to get him outside for a few minutes.  That was the last time I was able to get him out of the hospital because the hospital has not been very cooperative since then. 

     After my Father fell and broke his hip back at the beginning of June, he was admitted to Belleville General Hospital, which I will refer to as BGH hereon.  His surgery occurred within 24 hours and then he was moved to the sixth floor of BGH.  After his surgery, his health began to decline because he came down with pneumonia four times or one long bout of pneumonia that they never got under control.  I was told by the various Doctors that this is common in seniors after this type of surgery.  Sounds like they were aware this might happen but I can tell you he never took an precautionary measures.  He was always in a room with at least one other patient and there was no mask and gown procedures to prevent my Father from being exposed.  They also kept changing rooms and rarely giving him a window view unless I complained.  I don’t like to complain but BGH staff don’t do a lot of thinking when it comes to patient care; in my humble opinion. 

     My Father’s health declined so much on BGH’s watch that he had to have a feeding tube put in.  He lost muscle mass and the ability to control his limbs.  I was called into BGH when the hospital was sure my Dad wasn’t going to make it and I should prepare myself for the worse.  The worse didn’t happen and my Father has continued to beat everything thrown at him.  The major problem is that BGH’s attitude is that they believe my Father will never get any better and that he should go into long-term care.  Where have I heard that before.  They did nothing for his mental or spiritual health either and I found myself arguing with the hospital when I’d find my Father lying flat on his back or parked in a wheelchair between his bed and the wall with his head turned to stare at the wall.  Many is the time I have gone up and found no one engaging with him and him staring at the ceiling or a wall.  Communication broke down and they stopped calling to give me updates.  It was at that point a month ago when I filed a complaint with Patient Experience Specialist. 

     I don’t want to go into a lot of details but my complaints were not just about my Father’s care.  It included the attitude of Doctors and Patient Flow Coordinators who told me I had misplaced optimism and that my Father would never get any better and long-term care was the only option.  They even wanted me to sign papers for long-term care so they could charge us long-term care rates while he waiting in the hospital for a long-term care bed; something that could take more than a year.  At the same time I began working every day with my Father and talking to him, engaging him, and getting him to move his limbs.  BGH staff were content to let him languish in his bed and do nothing.  I knew that even talking with him went a long way towards his mental health and his motivation to get better.  My attitude was I don’t know if my Dad can come back from this but I also don’t know that he can’t come back from this.  That is what I told the staff in the meeting with myself and the Patient Experience Specialist.  I also told them that they made my Father the way he is now and they need to take some responsibility to help him get better.  Unfortunately I believe there’s a collusion of effort on BGH’s behalf to make the hospital look good despite my complaints and the lack of appropriate care for my Father.  They don’t treat him like the George Henderson I know him to be and refuse to work with me on my efforts to being him back to a better quality of life. 

     There was a short period where I had some hope because a couple of Doctors followed up on my suggestions.  They took him off one mood stabilizer that was causing him to be continually drowsy and doped up and put him on one that’s seen him more engaging.  They also provided a prescription for CBD oil that some believes helps patients with their dementia.  I’m still working to get that.  Having Power of Attorney for my Dad doesn’t always mean I get what is needed and when it’s needed.  Unfortunately the Doctor on his floor, now the 4th floor where I didn’t want him to go and a move on which I was not consulted, changes every week.  This past week’s Doctor is Dr. Robertson and one who told me a couple of months ago that my Father would never get any better.  I showed him the progress my Father has made to move his limbs and my Father even showed Dr. Robertson himself but Dr. Robertson dismissed it and said it wasn’t much to show for three months in the hospital.  That was very dismissive to both my Father and I.  Talk about insensitivity! 

     I should also add that I filed another complaint from two weeks ago when I was spoken to in an inappropriate manner but a nurse at BGH.  I had been visiting my Father after work and working with him to move his limbs.  I often joke around with Dad because he likes to laugh and he knows I love him and want him to get better.  I said to him “you’re useless to me lying in the bed because I want you to come home.”  Nothing hurtful was meant by it but all of a sudden a nurse comes into the room saying another staff member had witnessed being abusive to my Father.  They said I said his was useless and generally degrading to my Father.  This never happened but the nurse said they were going to file a report.  I tried to talk with her but they made no effort to want to hear the truth.  So I phoned the Patient Experience Specialist and let her know what happened.  The dressing down I received from the nurse was done in front of other BGH staff and family members of another patient in my Dad’s ward room.  I heard nothing more from the Patient Experience Specialist after she said she would look into it so I don’t expect anything to come of that complaint.  The Patient Experience Specialist also told me she was leaving that position on September 28th.  Can you guess what that means.  If you guessed nothing then you’d be right.  Nothing is in keeping with what is typical of BGH. 

     I have requested my Father be moved from BGH to Providence Care in Kingston.  They have a geriatric rehabilitation center there and I know Dad would get the care and attention he needs there.  Unfortunately BGH has stonewalled me on that.  When I spoke with Dr. Robertson yesterday he said my Father was turned down by Providence Care.  Then he called me later and said he was mistaken and that BGH had not made the referral because they thought my Father didn’t meet the requirements for Providence Care.  Then he phoned me back and said he had been mistaken again.  Frankly I stopped listening to him at that point and told him I think I should get a lawyer involved.  A Doctor that makes two mistakes in one day?  Mistakes or lies?  It certainly doesn’t instill any confidence. 

     So my Dad is in limbo.  I can’t get BGH to provide appropriate care and they are blocking his transfer out of the hospital  I used the word languishing earlier and I will use it again.  My Father is languishing in BGH and they are not working with me to help him get better.  They don’t recognize the improvements Dad has made while I’ve been working with him.  It’s a total lack of respect for my Father.  Again, it boils down to dignity.  The Doctor on his floor changes every week and I’ll just have to wait until Dr. Robertson is gone today.  I’ve contacted Providence Care myself.  I’m waiting for a call back.  I can’t go through BGH because they just won’t listen or help.  It’s up to me to fight for my Dad because no one else is doing it.  I’ll keep you posted.  Three years ago my Father proved them wrong and I have full confidence he can do it again.  If only I could get a competent hospital work with me on this.

      Well, it’s another snow storm here in my neck of the woods; about the fourth in February so far.  I got to go home early from work today, because I have a great boss, and I thought I’d try and write a quick blahg for 2018 about my trials and tribulations in 2017.  My topless photo at right is from one of those trying times last year which I survived.  Hear that 2017?  I survived!  You didn’t get me! 

     Some of you are probably wondering how a year could try and kill someone.  It just can!  It’s like machines, they will rise up and try to exterminate us all one day.  It will start with toasters.  If you don’t like toast then count yourself lucky but keep an eye on your coffee maker or hand mixer.  It’ll happen, mark my words. But not my Instant Pot.  I like my Instant Pot.  Pssst, closer so my Instant Pot doesn’t hear.  It’s going to happen!  That device is the most like a bomb item that I have in my house so don’t make it mad.

     Okay, so I digress.  The appliances haven’t risen up yet and they’ve yet to unionize.  2017 saw me facing a few challenges and it did include motorized equipment but there might have been some human involvement in there somewhere.  I’m trying to think of the earliest incident in 2017.  I think it was last April when a serious thing happened with my 2005 Ford Escape.  One day I was driving it and it starting making a thumping noise.  I checked with construction workers I know and even consulted my mechanic.  They assured me it was a belt in my tire.  I was told I could drop it off at my local garage and my mechanic would look at it the next day.  I didn’t get that far.  Read on. 

     My wife and I had to stay in town after work to meet with our Insurance agent.  I left the truck at my parents’ home and we drove in my wife’s car.  We then went out to dinner and did some shopping.  We picked up my truck later that evening and my wife was following me in my car.  I hadn’t even left town when there was a loud “bang” and the truck lurched to the right.  When I got out, I couldn’t find anything wrong with the truck but it was dark so it wouldn’t have been easy to see anything.  My wife said that just before the truck lurched, she saw something fly off the truck.  I called a tow-truck and 30 minutes later a flat-bed pulled up and tried to hoist my truck.  The right front tire almost fell off.  It was then that the tow-truck driver discovered that all of the lug nuts that hold on the tire were missing.  Probably the thing that my wife saw fly off was the last lug nut holding it on.  The driver managed to secure the tire with nuts borrowed from the other tires and was able to hoist it onto the flatbed and haul it out to my local garage here in Demorestville. 

     You would think that would have been the end of the story but you’d be wrong; much like we’re all wrong about having all of those appliances in our homes…..shhhhhhhhhhhh!  My mechanic looked at the truck the following day and there was no major damage.  It required all new lug nuts and it only cost me $50…plus the $180 tow!  The scary thing that my mechanic had to tell me was that he believed someone had deliberately loosened or removed the lug nuts.  It wasn’t from wear and tear.  I never discovered who did that but it’s scary to think I was targeted. 

     When I got home from work that next day, my truck was in the driveway waiting for me.  That was a Friday so I drove it into our garage and didn’t drive it the whole weekend.  On Sunday, I discovered that the front right tire was completely flat.  I can tell you I lost it.  I was sure that I was being targeted and that someone had gotten into the garage and deliberately flattened the tire.  I was sure that someone was trying to kill me.  The culprit who had tampered with my lug nuts was out to get me!  Again, not so.  It turns out the valve stem had been damaged when the mechanics tightened all the lug nuts on all of the other tires.  It was a quick fix but my nerves were still in need of repair. 

     I’ll jump around a bit.  The next incident with my Ford Escape was in November when my gas cap light came on.  I wasn’t too concerned when I saw that light on the dashboard because it had happened before.  I had dropped and broken the original gas cap so I had to replace it with an after market cap and sometimes if not tightened properly, the light would come on.  Removing and re-tightening it usually fixed the problem.  It didn’t work that time.  Instead, my engine light came on.  My mechanic assured me it was probably just a sensor but he couldn’t get it in to the shop until the following week.  He said it was safe to drive but I swapped it out for my wife’s car and let her drive it the one minute it takes her to get to her school. 

     After letting it rest for the weekend I decided it was paranoia on my part and I could probably drive it to work.  On my commute into town, more lights lit up on the dash and my windshield wipers started to go in slow motion.  I just turned the corner onto the street where I work when everything died and I managed to coast to a stop along the side of the road.  Luckily after the incident with the lug nuts in the spring, I had purchased a CAA membership.  I called a tow truck and was told it would cost me $50 because the tow to my mechanic in Demorestville was outside the 20 kilometer free tow area.  I walked a half block to work and grumbled about it.  I logged onto the CAA website and discovered that tows over longer distances were free with the next membership package up from mine.  That was an upgrade of $40 that I happily made.  Even more lucky, CAA processed the upgrade right away and my tow was free.  It turned out to be the alternator in my truck and not the sensor but I survived once more. 

     I have previously written about two other incidents that happened to me in 2017.  If you check out the blahgs entitled HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME, 2017! and BEING SICK ON CHRISTMAS IS NO FUN…BUT HERE WE GO, then you’ll read about when I had a scooter accident in September and how I was miserably sick at Christmas.  The half naked photo of me above is from when I was in the hospital after wiping out on my daughter’s scooter.  The flu at Christmas was something else.  I was sure it was going to kill me and when it didn’t I was crying for death to come and take me.  I never want to be that sick again. 

     In between the accident in September and the flu at Christmas there was something else that tried to take me down.  For some reason, I began to suffer severe pain in the middle of my back just below my shoulder blades.  It went on for a couple of weeks and I was having difficulty sleeping at night and walking upright during the daylight hours.  Heating rub, heating pads, and medication didn’t help at all.  Finally my wife trotted out one of her old suggestions of going to see a Chiropractor.  Normally I would be opposed because I always thought Chiropractors were quacks but this time I was willing to give it a try.  My only condition was that I wanted a female Chiropractor because the two others I had seen in my lifetime were old white men who did nothing for me. 

     I’d like to say that going to the Chiropractor helped me but I’m not really sure if it did.  I know that after the first visit I was very skeptical because I had been bashed, bruised and twisted until I was in even more pain than before the appointment.  I committed to going a total of three times.  Each time was like the one before and the Chiropractor told me she was having a problem loosening the tightness in the middle of my back.  I was supposed to go back and see her after Boxing Day but then I came down with that miserable flu.  I was so sick with such a pain in my throat and other aches and pains that I completely forgot about my back.  Then I realized that I didn’t feel the pain in my back.  Maybe it had been the work of the Chiropractor or maybe it was the stress at work leading up to the holidays that I forgot about because of the flu.  Either way the pain was gone and I survived until the end of the year and up to today. 

     Well, that’s it.  2017 didn’t get me!  My Tassimo tried to quit on me in 2018 but then it too knew I was a stubborn bastard and was prepared to replace it.  In fact, I did replace it but then my old one started working again.  So I have a back-up Tassimo in my closet.  I know that’s probably not a good idea to threaten my old Tassimo and that more than likely the old and the new will pair up one day or merge into some Super Tassimo Dalek but I’m feeling good with having come home early today and having had a nap.  So I’ll throw caution to the wind and temp the fates and say that 2018 is going to be a great year.  After all, I have a new Instant Pot that’s done some great meals and makes everyone at work jealous.  Until it becomes sentient and decides to Instantly kill me.  Bring it on!

     Well, it’s Christmas Day, December 25th, 2017 and I’m sick.  I woke up yesterday morning with a sore throat that doesn’t allow me to swallow and has basically caused my throat to close. I was up most of the night feeling worse, didn’t even see Santa Claus, I think he slipped in when I was in the bathroom expectorating, and then felt extremely double dog worse than worse this morning.  I had been trying cold medication and lozenges but nothing was working and I was starving and could not swallow to eat or drink.  I gave in to my wife and allowed her to take me to the local hospital.  I was in and out in under an hour; go figure it’s not busy on Christmas Day.  I have a viral infection in my throat and ears that required steroids and Tylenol.  We got home about 10am to open presents with the kids and then I went for a nap.  My wife and kids have gone to my parents for Christmas dinner and I’m writing this blahg.  So much for my Christmas and breaking my 55 year record of never ending up at the hospital on Christmas Day.  It better be a hell of a good New Year! 

     I can’t really talk right now so instead I’m just going to post many photos of the decorations outside and inside my house.  We’ve had about 16 inches of snow and it’s beautiful outside.  I hope this adds to your Christmas enjoyment.

And now after all that snow:

And now for the inside of the house.  Nutcrackers, mantle display, and the nativity.

     Remember to click on the photos for larger images. 

     I managed to dash off a new Christmas story this year as well.  It follows after a fun Christmas song by the late great Stompin’ Tom Connors.  The song sums up my feelings about how tough it is to be sick at Christmas.  The story is just for fun.  MERRY CHRISTMAS!

DOWN ON CHRISTMAS:

JACK’S CHRISTMAS LIST

It was that time again, not Christmas, but the time when Jack’s wife began to nag him about making a Christmas list.

“Honey,” she began, as if qualifying her request with endearment made it sound any less nagging, “I still need you to make your Christmas list.”  There was a tone that implied ‘still’ meant she had asked before and was getting tired of asking.

“Give me peace!” he snapped back.  He hadn’t intended to snap at all but he realized he had been asked before and some guilt and some annoyance all mixed together were leading his tongue.

The look on his wife’s face was now more than annoyance about failure of the list to materialize but now encompassed a further annoyance with Jack and his response.

“I mean World Peace,” he quickly added. “Give me World Peace.  World Peace is always at the top of my wish list.”

“Nice save, Jack,” the endearment had been dropped, “but I still want your list.”

It couldn’t be avoided now.  Every year it was the same thing.  Jack held out as long as he could before giving in to making a list.  And every year his wife had to poke and prod him into the action of sitting down and putting pen to paper.

It wasn’t that Jack didn’t like or even wanted to make a Christmas list.  He just didn’t see the necessity of it all.  He’d ask for something and it would be the wrong item or the wrong colour or the wrong size.  His wife wasn’t much of an online shopper and Jack was sure to get whatever she could find locally and always a poor substitute to what he had put on the list.  So Jack couldn’t really see the point in it.

Jack loved Christmas.  It was his favourite time of the year.  He indulged himself early in the music and movies and the television specials that always brought a lump to his throat and caused him to cough and clear his throat and blame it on whatever he was eating or drinking at the time; even if his hand or mouth was empty.

Jack really enjoyed the giving part and not so much the getting.  He would always look for that perfect gift for his wife or his children.  He would always recall something they had mentioned throughout the year, and if it wasn’t purchased for birthdays or some other reason, he would find it for Christmas.  He was a savvy online shopper, unlike his wife, and he’d order early, intercept the mail, and hide it somewhere until Christmas rolled around and he could wrap it and place it under the tree.

Even getting the tree was an event for Jack.  It had to be a real tree and it became an event to trek out to the Christmas Tree farm and walk and search until the perfect tree was found.  His wife would always choose the first tree she saw that was half decent.  It would always be too fat or too scrawny or not tall enough.  It was the same old argument about the star not having enough clearance from the top of the tree to the ceiling.  Jack always meant to measure his ceiling height and know the exact height required with star clearance.  It was always his thought to carry a measuring tape with him to the farm and produce that tool with a knowing chuckle and a bad pun something along “let’s see dear, how your tree really measures up.”  He never did it because it might have bordered on being hurtful even though he thought it was funny.

Jack also had his outdoor Christmas display.  The house was festooned with Christmas lights and the lawn sported more inflatable holiday characters each year.  The first Saturday in December he’d be outside assembling and plugging and swearing if something failed to inflate or light.  Most of the family left him to it because it was safer that way.  The children used to help but when they got older it seemed to get colder and they’d rather be inside and wait until it was all done.  Jack would gather them together when it was dark and everything could be seen properly.  He took great pride in the display.  It was another part of his Christmas tradition.  Making a Christmas list however just didn’t seem to fit into his annual Christmas plans.

Jack looked over at his wife.  She wasn’t looking back at him now.  She was caught up in her reading and Jack was spared for the moment from her imploring stare.  There was no getting out of it, he’d have to make the list.

Jack got up and made for the garage.  “I’m going to the garage,” he quickly added, so his wife wouldn’t wonder what he was up to.  The garage was where Jack did some of his best thinking.  She wouldn’t normally follow him there.

On his way through to the garage he stopped in the kitchen and snatched up a pen and tore off a couple sheets from his wife’s note pad held by a magnet on the fridge.  It was Christmas themed with an appropriate “Christmas To Do List.”  Jack also snatched up a couple of his wife’s Christmas cookies that she had recently baked and left to cool on the counter.  He didn’t think she’d miss them and besides he needed strength if he was going to make his list.

In the garage, Jack sat at this work bench and looked around for inspiration.  There wasn’t much for inspiration.  He could mostly spy his tools.  He had more than he knew what to do with and Birthdays and Father’s Day and Christmas always brought more.

“Well, I know what’s not going on my list,” he said to himself.  “I should just write NO TOOLS in big capital letters.  Maybe then they’ll get the message.”

Jack stopped to think on what he had just said.  It wasn’t the part about seeming ungrateful and wanting no more tools this Christmas but he really intrigued himself with the thought of putting something on his list that he really didn’t want.  Maybe that would also work for the things that he really did want.  He was amused by this.  If he made it clear what he wanted or didn’t want then there would be no mistake.

Jack stared down at the first note sheet.  It was after all a Christmas To Do List.  And all he had to do was make his list his way.

“First we’ll start with World Peace,” he said aloud to no one in particular.  “I told her that World Peace is always at the top of my list.”  Jack wrote down World Peace.

“Now for the useless presents,” Jack continued.  “Socks and Underwear.  I’ve got just as many of those as I do tools.”  Jack thought about this for a minute and then wrote down ‘Socks and Underwear’.  He added in brackets, ‘the colourful the better because no one ever sees them beneath my shoes and pants.’  He always got socks and underwear for Christmas and this way he was giving in to that.   He didn’t really need any but why not give permission with his own twist.

Next Jack wrote down ‘NO TOOLS’.  He wrote those two words out in big block letters and underlined them.  He couldn’t have been clearer.

Jack grabbed at one of the cookies.  His wife made the best chocolate chip cookies.  It didn’t matter that they weren’t really Christmas cookies.  At Christmas he loved most his wife’s chocolate chip cookies and the obligatory Toblerone bar he found in his stocking.  It was one of Jack’s favourites and his wife and children never forgot to get him one each year.  Unfortunately Toblerone was everyoneelse’s favourite and by the time Jack was finished sharing his, he usually only ended up with one piece.  One piece out of nine didn’t seem fair but Jack never complained.  It was Christmas and he knew that giving was part of the holidays.

Jack saw the inspiration in this and wrote down ‘one piece of Toblerone’.  Again he used brackets afterwards to add ‘share the other pieces among yourselves because I’m lucky only to get one regardless’.

“There, that’s coming along nicely,” he mused.  He gave a chuckle about the Toblerone addition and began to think of more that he could add to his list that would give him pleasure.

Jack read over his list.  He read it again.  He read it a few more times.  He was stuck.  He eyed the other cookie.  It didn’t provide inspiration this time.  He read his list at least five more times.  At this length it certainly was no novel.

“A book,” Jack uttered.  “What about a book?”  What about a book? Jack was an avid reader when he could find something that interested him.  He didn’t like new novels.  He enjoyed the classics or biographies, or history, or how to books.  What could he put on the list that was clear and concise?  He’d been given books before that he hadn’t read but sometimes he’d receive something that would be good.  He had at least a half a shot at getting something readable.

‘A book,’ he wrote.  ‘Nothing in particular.  You know what I like.’  It wasn’t as clear and concise as he hoped it would be but he liked the odds that it might be something decent.  At least he’d be surprised if nothing else.

‘A record,’ he wrote next.  Jack was an avid record collector.  He was a huge Dixieland Jazz fan He always bought up any Dixieland Jazz record he found at yard sales or thrift shops.  They weren’t always good but getting something for Christmas that he would enjoy were the same odds as the book.  He added ‘No Disco’.  He felt he didn’t need to specify the desire for Dixieland Jazz because his family knew his interests when it came to music but like the tools, he believed it necessary to stress No Disco.

Jack snatched the last cookie.  He was proud of himself.  It wasn’t a long list but then he didn’t want it to be a long list.  A long list would suggest that he gave great thought to the list and that he’d taken it seriously.  He didn’t want that.  He really didn’t want anything.  The making of this list was more a rebellion of sorts against the making of a list at all.  The only thing he wanted was to have a nice Christmas with the family.

‘A nice Christmas with my family,’ he added at the end.  That was the only thing he wanted on his list.  Each year Christmas was a good gathering of his wife and his kids with Jack grinning like a fool in his element.  Jack could recall the past Christmases and he liked to look back on them as fond and warm memories.  That was all he really wanted.

Jack grabbed up his list and headed back into the house.  He’d place it on the refrigerator where his wife would find it.  As a last effort, he scrawled ‘JACK’S LIST’ in block letters.  Like the NO TOOLS, he triple underlined the words.

He grabbed up a couple more cookies and headed off to find the family photo albums.  He was feeling a little sentimental and wanted to look back on past Christmases.  He was sure to be grinning in each and every photo.

Christmas came and it was everything Jack had hoped for.  It started with Christmas Eve and Jack lighting off his traditional fireworks.  Jack was like a big kid waiting until it got dark and then setting off a stream of colourful little explosions that always drew gawkers at his neighbours’ windows.  He wife and children liked the fireworks too but truth be told they were glad when it was over so they could go back inside and warm up.  Jack didn’t care.  It made him happy and maybe it brought cheer to his family and his neighbourhood too.

The rest of Christmas Eve was spent watching old Christmas movies or re-running family home videos of past Christmases.  There was always a mini-feast around ten with everyone toasting the Christmas with eggnog or ginger ale.  Jack didn’t allow anything heavier over the holidays.  That wasn’t what Christmas was all about.  Christmas was about these family moments and making new memories.

Christmas morning consisted of a big breakfast before presents.  The menu varied a little each year whether there would be pancakes or waffles or french toast or what fruit everyone wanted.  But everyone agreed on bacon.  There always had to be bacon.

Then came the presents.  Jack had noticed a couple of weeks back that his Christmas list had disappeared from the refrigerator.  Now his fate was in the hands of his wife and children.  It didn’t really matter though because Christmas for him was the fireworks, the bacon, and all the Christmas cheer he could cram in with his family.  There would be new memories and new photos and next year Jack could pull them out and remember it all over again.

Jack and his wife usually waited until the children opened their gifts before starting on their own.  Jack would pile his wife’s gifts beside her on the sofa and she’d lay his on his lap in his chair.  They’d take turns but this year his wife insisted that Jack go last.  Jack wasn’t sure what to think of this but he’d made his list and the rest of the show was going to be determined by his wife.

The children enjoyed their gifts and Jack’s wife found Jack to be more than thoughtful and generous with the presents he had provided for her and the children.  The camera flashed throughout; preserving the moments.

Next up were Jack’s gifts.  His wife insisted that everyone stop and observe Jack opening them.  Again Jack was not sure what to think of all this.

The first Christmas present was large and square.  It was very light and something appeared to be loose inside.  Jack tore away the paper to find a jigsaw puzzle picturing the world.  Inside was one piece.

Jack stared at this wife.

“It’s World Piece,” his wife said.  “Get it?  Well, maybe you will, I mean the rest of the pieces, if you’re a good boy.”

Jack wasn’t grinning yet.  Maybe his list wasn’t as creative as he thought it would be.  In fact, he wondered if it might backfire on him.

Next up were the useless presents.  The socks were two toned.  The upper half were one colour and the bottoms another.

“Don’t worry about it Jack,” his wife quipped, “no one sees the top parts underneath your pants.”

Jack gulped.  He was in for it now.  Opening the next package, he found that the requested underwear were his own.  His wife had taken the four or five pairs of his boxers that had ripped at the seams and had stitched them nicely so you couldn’t tell they’d been torn.  They were also freshly laundered.  She was very considerate.

“I know,” Jack stammered, “no one sees them underneath your pants.”  His wife was taking his list way to literally.

“Reach into your stocking dear,” his wife instructed.

Jack emptied the contents of his stocking onto the floor.  There were more two-toned socks, some lottery tickets, about a dozen of his wife’s best cookies nicely wrapped in Christmas cellophane, some candies, an orange, and the unmistakable Toblerone.  This Toblerone however was lighter than it should be.  Jack grinned.  At least she got this right.  His wife and children had probably taken their pieces and left him the obligatory one piece.  He was partly correct.  Inside were three pieces.  The tradition of the chocolate was that the letters for TOBLERONE were spelled across the nine pieces.  Jack found in the box, three pieces.  It was the last three pieces of the TOBLERONE that spelled ONE.  For once he had come out ahead.  Maybe this Christmas list thing would work out after all.

The next gift was hard and rectangular.  It was a Tool Box.  It was also empty inside

 “The next time you ask for No Tools,” his wife laughed, “you can keep them in your No Tools Tool Box.”

Jack got the joke.  His wife had a better sense of humour than he gave her credit for.

Jack got a book.  Like the Tool Box, there was nothing inside.

“It’s called a Nothing Book,” his wife explained.  “You write down whatever you want inside.  You said Nothing in particular in that is Nothing in particular.  I do know what you like.”

Jack was getting into it now.  He had been too literal and his wife was taking him on his words.

Jack got a record.  It wasn’t exactly Disco and it wasn’t exactly Dixieland.  It was a Discoland Jazz record.  His wife had ordered it over the internet.  She was full of surprises.  Jack would learn on playing it that the record was surprising good.  Later that day and in ensuring years he would play it as the family was sitting down to Christmas dinner.

Jack surveyed his gifts.  His wife had bested him.  He thought he had been smart in the way he had made out his list.  His wife had been smarter and had taught him a lesson.  She had really enjoyed getting everything Jack had on his list.  That was what Jack had forgotten this Christmas.  As much as he enjoyed the Christmas gifts he gave each year, his wife enjoyed giving to him as well.  It didn’t matter if they were the useless gifts or even tools, his wife always got him something.  She knew it wasn’t about the gifts, it was about the time with family.  If getting gifts he didn’t really want made her happy then what she had put him through this year was worth it.

“There’s one more, Jack.”  His wife reached out with another gift.

Jack wasn’t sure what could be left.  He’d received everything on his list.  The only other thing that had been on his list was ‘a nice Christmas with my family’ and he’d already received that.  In fact, he was still receiving it.

Jack found his fingers were trembling slightly as he opened the last gift.  It was a small photo album.  On each page was a picture of Jack grinning like a fool.  They’d been culled from other albums and featured Jack from Birthdays, Father’s Days, Anniversaries, and past Christmases.

Jack felt that lump in his throat like those from watching his Christmas specials.  He coughed to clear his throat and tried to blame it on the Toblerone but he hadn’t even tasted it yet.  He looked up at his family and grinned.

The flash of a camera went off and Jack could hear his wife exclaim, “this one’s going in the book.”

Jacked grinned again.  The grin faded to a smile and the smile didn’t leave his face for the rest of that Christmas day.

THE END

 

      Okay, so this is the second blahg in the past month featuring a topless me.   This wasn’t intentional but if you had read my last blahg, BRIDGE CITY AGAIN, PIRATES, AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO CANADA! , you will recall that I said I suffered an injury during the writing of that blahg.  So therefore, this blahg will be the explanation to that blahg and will also continue with something else that I mentioned last time.  Make sure you’re wearing your helmet because it’s a bumpy ride. 

     In my last blahg I talked about being on holidays.  That’s why last month’s blahg pictured a topless picture of me at the beach.  I was writing last month’s blahg when I decided to take a break and ride my daughter Abbie’s scooter around Big Island which is a couple kilometers from my home.  At left is a picture of what the scooter looked like when it was new.  That’s not a photo of my own but one I found on the Internet.  Somewhere I have a picture of Abbie sitting on it after she won it.  Yes, she won it.  She bought a raffle ticket at a school event and won the scooter about two years ago.  Unfortunately both my son and I have had mishaps on the scooter so it doesn’t look so new anymore. 

     Getting back to the joy-ride and eventual accident, I left last month’s blahg unfinished on Friday September 15th and took that fateful ride.  I’ve ridden the scooter around Big Island many times before and had actually taken the scooter for a ride the day before up another long road looking for a lost hubcap off my wife’s car.  I didn’t find it but I also didn’t wipe out that day.  On the Friday, I drove across the causeway to get on the island and decided to take the long counter-clockwise ride around the island that I have before.  I was whizzing along at around 60 kilometers an hour and slowed down to take a left turn onto a side road to start the loop back.  I was probably only going about 20 or 25 when I wiped out.  All I can figure was that the side road was comprised of loose gravel and that was my undoing. 

     Let me be clear that I was wearing a motorcycle helmet but because it was unseasonably warm, I was also wearing a t-shirt and shorts.  After taking the turn onto the side road, I just remember lying on the road.  I don’t think I was unconscious at any point but I sure was dizzy.  Without the helmet I think I might have had a serious head injury.  As it was, I was dizzy for about 10 minutes and my left elbow really hurt, as did my left lower leg and my right chest.  I knew I was bleeding and after my head was clear I decided I better get moving and seek medical treatment.  It didn’t occur to me then that I could have called an ambulance because I had my cell-phone with me.  But then again, the scooter (and you can see the damage to the left side in the picture above…click for larger) would not have been able to fit in the ambulance. 

     I decided that instead of driving home, I should probably just drive to my wife’s school because my vehicle was in the garage that day and I thought my injuries probably would require more treatment than what I had at home in the medicine cabinet.  My wife’s school, and she’s a teacher if I haven’t mentioned it before, was just across the road from the causeway that I drove over to get onto Big Island.  It wasn’t a very long ride but I was in enough pain with my left leg and elbow that every bump in the road made it that much worse.  I parked the scooter outside the school and went into the office.  I don’t know if the secretary recognized me as my wife’s husband but I quickly explained who I was and that I probably should go to the hospital.  I was thinking my wife could drive me in her car but the secretary quickly called an ambulance and the Principal attempted to clean my wounds.  It was probably about 15 minutes before the ambulance came and by that time my wife had been summoned to the office.  She was a little surprised but she quickly understood I had been riding the scooter and then wasn’t so surprised.  So now I can joke that it’s her fault because she didn’t tell me not to ride the scooter.  The police also showed up to make sure I was alright and that I hadn’t been drinking at that I had been wearing a helmet.  Yes to the helmet and no to the drink.  I don’t drink but at that point I was thinking I could use one to dull the pain. 

     A short ambulance ride later and I was at the hospital in Picton.  It’s a nice hospital in a small town and I quickly received attention from the nurses and the Doctor.  That’s where the half naked picture of me from above was taken.  The picture to the right is of my injured left elbow.  It was a nasty scrape and some gouging that is still healing.  I’ll probably have a nice souvenir scar.  The picture on the left is of my scraped up leg.  They did x-rays on my elbow and chest.  It turned out the chest pain was not cracked or broken ribs but probably pulled chest muscles from having the scooter pull me and ride on top of me for a while.  The x-rays did reveal a slight fracture in my left elbow.  I had to wear a sling for about ten days and then visit the fracture clinic at the Belleville hospital.  I survived to tell the tale and will have that souvenir scar.  That ten days with the sling was a little rough and the first couple of days and nights after the accident were painful but I took nothing more than Advil and put Polysporin on my scraped leg and elbow.  The scooter remained locked up at my wife’s school until she walked it home about a week later.  She doesn’t ride scooters and she certainly wasn’t going to let me near it again for a while. 

     As I said, I had to wear the sling for ten days and of course my 55th Birthday fell during that time.  I’ve had worse Birthday’s but having your arm in a sling and having your wife have to help you dress, doesn’t rank among my favorites.  It was also the first Birthday where none of my children were home to enjoy it with me.  They did video chat with me later and my son even showed me my present…something that will link back to last month’s blahg. 

     Remember last month and all that jazz?  Specifically recall how I detailed about “Pirates, Buccaneers And All That Jazz” by The Pat Riccio Quartet.  I posted a few of the tracks and mentioned another album by the Quartet.  Before talking about that other album I have to mention something else about the Pirates album.  I don’t think that’s the original title and cover.  I came across the same tracks on a different album called “The Basic Sounds Of The Pat Riccio Quartet ” on the Quality label in 1959.  The quartet in 1959 featured the following members:     

• • Baritone Saxophone, Alto Saxophone, Flute – Pat Riccio
  • Bass – Harold Holmes
  • Drums – Billy McCant
  • Piano – Herbie Helbig   

You can get a glimpse of the back of that 1959 album by clicking for a larger view of the picture at the right.  I believe the “Pirates” album is a reissue of the “The Basic Sounds Of The Pat Riccio Quartet”.  Of course, there is that other Quartet album that I mentioned that time and I will now link to my Birthday. 

     In the last blahg, I mentioned that second album, called “The Pat Riccio Quartet Featuring Teddy Wilson” put out by Canadian Talent Library in 1966.  I was able to find a listing for the album as being in stock at a used record store in Toronto.  I emailed my son that it would make a great Birthday present and so he hiked over to the store and picked it up.  What a good son. 

     Here’s one of the tracks from that album, “Just One Of Those Things”:

 

     Yes, I suppose the scooter accident was just one of those things.  So, too is writing a blahg about it.  I want you to have a better look at the back cover of this new album.  Click on the picture on the right for a larger image.  By the way the composition of the quartet is different on this album: 

• • Saxophone – Pat Riccio
  • Bass – Doug Wilson
    
  • Drums – Ed Thigpen
    
  • Piano – Teddy Wilson   

 

     I’ll close with one more track from this great album.  It’s what I wish I had done instead of take that scooter ride.  In hindsight maybe I should have convinced myself to “Take The A Train”.

     Let’s not start off this blahg by lamenting the lack of previous blahgs over the past number of months.   I’m on holidays this week and it’s the last official day of those holidays and I’m going to try and get this blahg written.  Yes, it’s mid-September and I’m taking holidays.  We’ve had gorgeous weather this week and I even went to the beach one day.  The photo to the right of me was a selfie taken September 12th at Sandbanks Provincial Park in lovely Prince Edward County, Ontario, Canada.  Go ahead, be jealous. 

     Now, before we move on, I want to show you another shot of the beach at Sandbanks from my visit the other day.  You know I’m only doing this to make you all jealous.  The beach was great.  The water was beautiful and there was a sea-gull who bonded with me…as long as I fed him sun chips.  The sun chips were french onion and french seemed to be the theme of the day.  There were other people on the beach who seemed to be french-Canadian.  There were a group of bikini clad millennial who frolicked and  ignored my bird friend and I.  There was also a group of french-Canadians who came to the beach and immediately began singing for about twenty minutes.  As my bird friend philosophized, “it takes all kinds.”

     So, at this point you’re probably wondering about the pirates and if they had anything to do with my visit to the beach.  No, the two are totally unconnected but the pirates do connect to something else, if you’ll only allow me to get there in my own time.  First, let me remind you of a blahg I wrote in November of 2013 called “ZOEY, FRANK, JUNE & ALL THAT JAZZ“.  The blahg was mostly about my cats but there was some information on a new LP that I had found by the Bridge City Dixieland Jazz Band.  It was the only album that they put out and I mentioned that they were formed in 1967 in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan here in Canada.  In fact, they were formed for Canada’s Centennial in 1967.  That’s the birthday I want to talk about later.  I know, Canada celebrated its 150th Birthday on July 1st of this year but everything in this blahg will link to Canada’s 100th Birthday in 1967. 

     Back on the 4th of July of this year, and yes I know that would have been a celebration for the USA and not Canada, I received an email with the subject line: “Bridge City Dixieland Jazz Band”.  On opening the email, I read the following: 

I was surprised to say the least.  Someone had not only read my previous blahg but they even had some connection to it.  I quickly wrote back:

At this point, you are probably realizing this is the other blog (or blahg as I like to spell it).  The email dialog continued:

I quickly discovered something when I visited the Facebook page and emailed Tom about it: 

Here’s part of the response: 

 

There were a couple more emails between us and Tom agreed to send me a copy of the CD.  I won’t paste the artwork because it’s the same as the 1967 album cover above.  The LP had ten tracks but the current CD contains 21 tracks.  Here’s the track lists for comparison: 

 

LP:

1.    Indiana
2.    Ookpik Ramble
3.    The Birth of The Blues
4.    Muskrat Ramble
5.    Cab Driver
6.    Lonesome Road
7.    Basin Street Blues
8.    American Patrol
9.    Down By The Riverside
10.    Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans?

CD:

1.    Muskrat Ramble
2.    At The Jazz Band Ball
3.    Up A Lazy River
4.    Indiana
5.    South Rampart Street Parade
6.    Ookpik Ramble
7.    I Will Wait For You
8.    Lonesome Road
9.    American Patrol
10.    Basin Street Blues
11.    Down By The Riverside
12.    Bridge City Blues
13.    Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans?
14.    Washington & Lee Swing
15.    The Birth of The Blues
16.    Ja-Da
17.    Hindustan
18.    Mahogany Hall Stomp
19.    St. Louis Blues
20.    Look What They’ve Done To My Song
21.    Royal Garden Blues

If you compare the two track lists carefully, you will notice that the song “Cab Driver” (made famous by The Mills Brothers) is not on the CD.  I’m not sure why but it’s got a nice vocal so I’m going to post it here: 

 

Before moving off the topic of Bridge City Dixieland Jazz Band, although I’m not quite finished with it, I’m going to post a couple more great tracks from the CD: 

I WILL WAIT FOR YOU:

SOUTH RAMPART STREET PARADE:

 

     Now, what about those Pirates, you may well ask.  Well, the Pirates reference is to an LP I picked up this summer called “Pirates, Buccaneers And All That Jazz” by The Pat Riccio Quartet.  Before I get into more about the contents of the LP, I want to talk about the experience behind purchasing this LP.  When I saw it in a thrift shop in Belleville, I immediately recognized the cover but could not remember where I knew it from.  It took some research through my collection at home before I recognized that I had seen the cover for this album on the back cover of the Bridge City Dixieland Jazz Band LP.  Click on the cover to the right and you will see a small image of “Pirates, Buccaneers And All That Jazz” down at the bottom.  That’s my connection between Pirates and Bridge City.  By the way, “Pirates, Buccaneers And All That Jazz” is a fabulous album.  Give a listen to one of their pirate themed songs:

PIRATE’S COVE:

See, I told you the sound was fabulous.  Here’s another track from that LP with a tune that is usually more associated with a Dixieland band: 

WHEN THE SAINTS GO MARCHING IN:

 

     As far as I can tell, there have only been a couple of LPs put out by The Pat Riccio Quartet.  There has been “Pirates, Buccaneers And All That Jazz” on the Ringside label (later reissued as “The Basic Sounds Of The Pat Riccio Quartet” on the Quality label) and “The Pat Riccio Quartet Featuring Teddy Wilson” put out by Canadian Talent Library.  I’m going to try and track that one down and post about it when and if I find it.  If you want more from this Quartet then you’ll have to track down the albums yourself or enjoy this video I found of the Pat Riccio Quartet performing on television in the 1960s: 

Okay, before I move off of the music, I’m going to tie everything to Canada’s Birthday.  I mentioned earlier that the “Bridge City Dixieland Jazz Band” was formed in 1967 for Canada’s Centennial.  I think the albums from Bridge City and Pat Riccio came out around 1967 on the Ringside label.  If you look at the back cover of the Pirates LP to the left, you will see small images of other albums put out around the same time on the Ringside label.  The second in from the left on the top row of images is an album called “It’s A Sign Of The Time” by Pete Schofield and the Canadians.  Lo and behold, I had that in my collection as well.  It was purchased at the same thrift store in Belleville where I purchased the albums by Pat Riccio and the Bridge City Dixieland Jazz Band. 

     The album by Pete Schofield and the Canadians is a celebration of Canada that came out in 1967 and even has Canadian themed tracks such as “Canadian Sunset”, “Canada (A Centennial Song)” and “Canadiana”.  Bonus marks go this band for their picture being taken in front of the new City Hall in Toronto that opened in 1965.  I won’t go on about this band but I’m going to post a couple of songs in honor of Canada’s Birthday both in 1967 and 2017.  What a great country that produced great musical talent like those I’ve mentioned in this blahg.  Enjoy “Canada (A Centennial Song)” and “Canadiana”: 

CANADA (A CENTENNIAL SONG)

CANADIANA

‎

     I think I’ll end this blahg here.  I suffered an injury during the writing of this blahg but that’s another story all together.  I hope you enjoyed the Canadian music.  Again, I want to wish Canada a very Happy Birthday.  True North Strong And Free.  We Stand On Guard For Thee!

 

     Well, it’s New Year’s Day 2017.  Where did the last six months go?  I write a blahg about Superman in the middle of June in 2016 and then it’s more than half a year before I get to a new one.  In that last blahg, I included a poem called “if you’d be a superman”.  The title is appropriate because I’m certainly not the man of steel.  Let’s hope I get this blahg done today.  I started it several times in December and hoped to have it done by the end of 2016.  Now I’m aiming for January 1st, 2017.  Here goes nothing. 

     This blahg has a certain theme to it but there is also going to be a mishmash of sorts.  The main point I want to talk about is two class act bands that I had the opportunity to interact with, of a sort, in December and prove that sometimes the smaller the band, the bigger the heart.  I know that’s like schmaltz but I haven’t written in a while so you get what you get. 

     Let me first start off by talking about The Weepies.  I have talked about The Weepies before and if you have read previous blahgs you should know by now that The Weepies are an American indie pop-folk duo of married singer-songwriters Deb Talan and Steve Tannen.  There are other musicians that have performed with them but I want to focus on just Deb and Steve.  The reason for this is that they recently did an acoustic tour in the USA and Canada.  Okay, there were only two cities included in Canada, Toronto and Montreal, but Toronto was enough for me. 

     I am not a big fan of Facebook.  Don’t ask, that’s another blahg altogether.  The only Facebook page I follow with any regularity is The Weepies’ page.  In November they announced they were going to do an acoustic tour in their mini-van with just Deb and Steve, their children, and their guitars.  I was excited but there were no Canadians dates announced.  There was one date on December 1st in Buffalo, NY, and I thought I might be able to make that event because it’s only four hours from where I live.  Luckily, my daughter Emily was monitoring a concert posting website for Toronto when The Weepies announced that they were going to give a show at the Drake Hotel in Toronto on December 2nd.  You can well imagine, and it was true, that I bought my two tickets right away. 

     I won’t go into a lot of other details about the show except to say the venue was interesting.  My wife and I had to walk thirty minutes from our hotel to get there and then stand in a room with about a hundred people throughout the entire concert.  I stood on some stairs so I could see a partially unobstructed view of Steve and Deb.  My legs were tired at the end of the night but it was a wonderful concert.  I found these images online from the concert in Toronto so you can see what I mostly saw:

     I wanted to take some video of the concert but I couldn’t shut off the bright light on my cell phone.  I decided to record part of the concert from my pocket but I only managed to record part of the song “Jolene” sung by Steve and part of his next song about a Jig.  Here they are:

 

     I did manage to find the following video online that someone posted from that concert in Toronto.  This is The Weepies performing “Ever Said Goodbye”: 

 

 

     Just one last wrap up on this fantastic concert.  Deb Talen will be releasing a solo album this coming Spring.  She sang a couple of her new songs when she was in Toronto but I could only find the following video of one of those new songs, “Butterfly”, from her Detroit, Ohio concert two nights prior to the Toronto concert.  It’s a fantastic song and I can’t wait for the new album.  It’s going to be great! 

     Now on to another class act and the one that inspired this blahg.  My daughter and I are fans of the currently airing TV Show “The Goldbergs”.  This is not to be confused with “The Goldbergs” TV Show that aired in the 1950s of which I’m the only fan in my household…but I digress.  The current show, “The Goldbergs” has a very interesting theme song sung by a group called “I Fight Dragons”.  The song is called “Rewind” and has never been officially released so give it a listen: 

     As a result of liking the theme song,  my daughter Abbie, has become a huge fan of “I Fight Dragons.”  The only problem is that she didn’t own any of their music and had to stream it from the internet.  We all know the varying ranges of quality that can produce.  So, for her Birthday, which was December 16th, she asked for some “I Fight Dragons” CDs.  The only problem was that online retailers in Canada pegged individual CDs at over $200 a piece because they were limited runs.  I tried other sources and didn’t fare much better.  I then turned to the “I Fight Dragons” website and their online store but everything seemed to be out of stock when I tried to order from there.  I told Abbie about the problem and she gave up all hopes of owning their music officially. 

     It would probably be at that point that most people would give up.  Not me.  I decided to email the administrator of the I Fight Dragons website to see if something could be done.  The following represent the email exchanges:

 

December 5th, 2016

Hello,

I hope you can help me.  My 17 year old daughter, who will be 18 on December 16th, is a huge fan of I Fight Dragons and really wants some of your CDs.  Unfortunately we live in Canada and can’t find them up here.  I’ve also tried ordering from your online store but it keeps telling me items are out of stock.  Is there any other venues for me to purchase the CDs in time for Christmas?

Thanks,

Scott Henderson

———————–

 

All I Want For Christmas Is…

It was getting on to Christmas; at least that’s what the stores would have one think.  It was early in December and holiday adornment and advertising was fair game.

                Ms. Harper locked up her classroom for the day and trundled her way down the hall weighted down with book bag, computer bag, lunch bag, and a loose bundle of theme papers to be graded over the weekend.  “All I want for Christmas is” would make for one afternoon’s fascinating reading.  No doubt she’d be apprised of all of the hot ticket items for this yuletide season.  Nine year olds never asked for World Peace.

Ms. Harper stifled a laugh.  World Peace had always been a little joke between Ms. Harper and her Mother.  Her Mother had once chided her about not asking for World Peace whenever she was questioned about what she wanted for her Birthday or Christmas.  Her Mother would always say it should be the top of the list because everything else comes second.  Ms. Harper never failed to offer up World Peace after that whenever she had a Birthday wish or made out her Christmas list.  She never got it but it never hurt to ask.

Thoughts of her Mother filled her mind most of the time.  On Friday afternoons she always went to see her Mother.  The drive out to Friendship Manor, how she hated that name, was her ritual before officially starting her weekend.  It had been almost two years since her Mother had been moved into the Manor.  It had been a rough few years for Ms. Harper and her Mother.

It started four years ago with the passing of her Father.  He’d been a strong man but a little distant.  He had raised her the best he had known how but there had always been something missing in their relationship.  Maybe he had wanted a boy.  Ms. Harper had always wondered about that.  He was never big on displays of affection with her or her Mother but he had always been there for them.  Then he was gone.  It had been a heart attack; nothing long and drawn out.  It was quick.  And then he was gone.  Ms. Harper had loved her Father but they had been more like acquaintances in the later years.  He was more formal and only casually interested in her life and career.  Now he was gone.

Her Mother had taken everything in stride.  She had weathered her husband’s death and had moved on.  She had been well provided for when he was alive and after his passing.  The house had been paid for and insurance and pensions had left her in a good position.  Then came the accident.  She had fallen getting out of her car.  She had slipped on a patch of ice one January and went down hard; fracturing her hip.  She needed to be hospitalized for eight weeks following her surgery.

While she was in the hospital, Ms. Harper’s Mother had been diagnosed with dementia.  She began to decline in the hospital.  The Doctor had explained that it was a form of functional dementia.  In her own environment, namely her home, she had done well but now in the hospital the dementia began to be a little more aggressive.  The dementia had probably been there for some time.  Ms. Harper had noticed little things.  Her Mother had become more forgetful.  Sometimes she had struggled for a certain word or had a hard time recalling a memory.  In the hospital, her physiotherapy was slowed by her mood.  Some days she would struggle to work with the aid of walker and a therapist.  Other days she refused to get out of bed.  There was one bad day when she didn’t recognize Ms. Harper at all.  There were some good days when her memory was good and Ms. Harper could talk with her Mother but those came infrequently.

Ms. Harper had visited her Mother every day throughout those eight weeks.  It was hard to see her Mother like that.  She had her good days and her bad days but at least she regained some of her memories of her daughter.  She didn’t talk as much and some visits at the hospital just consisted of Ms. Harper holding her Mother’s hand and reading to her.

Now her Mother was in Friendship Manor.  How she hated that name.  At least the Manor lived up to its name.  It had become obvious that her Mother could not return to her home after her hospital stay.  Ms. Harper had made all the arrangements and had taken care of selling the house and car.  Her Mother was still being provided for but in the hands of strangers.  Her Mother had been at the Manor now for two years.  She still didn’t speak much and she rarely recognized Ms. Harper as her daughter.  She was this nice lady who came every Friday and read to her.

Ms. Harper looked at the bundle of theme papers clutched in her hand.  These would be good to read to her Mother.  It would help Ms. Harper get through them quicker.  Then she would have the rest of the weekend to herself.

Ms. Harper lived alone.  There was no one else.  She had no siblings and she had never married.  She had no children.  There were twenty-five of them each year for ten months that she could call her own.  She was a good teacher but she wasn’t a parent.  The children all had parents of their own.  They didn’t need Ms. Harper to act the part.  The faces changed every year but that was fine by her.  She was good with that kind of detachment.

Maybe it had been the way she had been raised.  Her Father had been detached and she became accustomed to that.  Her Mother had been a different story.  Her Mother was always quick with emotions.  She had doted on her daughter despite her husband chastising that she was spoiling the child.  Still, it could not be denied there was a special bond between the Mother and the daughter.  Now it was all but gone.

Ms. Harper recalled her youth.  She’d been happy.  Her Mother was mainly the reason for that happiness.  Her Mother had always been there for her.  Her Mother had not worked outside of the home and when her daughter was at home, she was always spending time with her.  She always loved to brush her daughter’s hair or snatch her up in her arms and hug her.  Ms. Harper recalled those hugs.  Her Mother’s arms had always been so warm.  It had been a long time since Ms. Harper had felt that warmth.  Now, it was Ms. Harper who initiated the hugs with her Mother.  The warmth wasn’t there now.  It was like hugging a stranger.

Glancing at the theme papers again, Ms. Harper remembered her own Christmases.  There had always been a tree; a real tree.  Despite, his detachment, Christmas was something her Father seemed to enjoy.  Maybe that was from his youth.  Ms. Harper didn’t know but there had always been a real tree.  And there had been ornaments.  Many of these had been homemade.  Ms. Harper and her Mother had made most of these themselves.  There had been many years when her Mother and she had sat down to an evening of ornament making.  Clay angels or Santas or trees or reindeers had been baked in the oven and hand painted.  There had been wood ornaments her Father had cut out and Mother and daughter had adorned with paint and glitter.  There had been store bought ornaments, too.  Each had been specially selected on shopping outings.  Christmas had been the one good time she could look forward to each year and the one good memory she could still hold onto.

Ms. Harper still had most of the ornaments in boxes.  Most everything else had been sold at the same time the house had gone.  She always got herself a little tree every year from a lot near her home.  She pulled out her favorite ornaments from the boxes.  She would watch some old Christmas movie on television and then go to bed.  On Christmas morning she would go out and see her Mother.  The Manor always put up a Christmas brunch and the place was overflowing with residents, family members, and friends as well as the staff.  It was the only time Ms. Harper would visit her Mother when she knew there would be a crowd.

On Fridays, after school, she would drive out to the Manor and spend a couple of hours with her Mother.  It wasn’t so busy then.  She had tried going once or twice on a Saturday or Sunday but there were too many others visiting their relatives.  Ms. Harper didn’t want to have to engage with others.  Her time with her Mother was her private time and she didn’t like to share it.  She didn’t like to share much of anything about her Mother.  It didn’t really matter because there really wasn’t anyone else to share with.

“Heading out, Lee?”

Ms. Harper turned in the direction of the voice.  It was Mr. Clarke.  He taught sixth grade.  He too was weighted down with bags and papers.

“Oh hello, Mr. Clarke… John,” she quickly corrected herself. It was a reflex action to refer to another teacher by their surname when in the school.  She wasn’t close with most of the teachers and using their first names did not come easy to her.  It wasn’t often she heard others use her first name either.  “Yes, another week done.”

“Not many left now until the Christmas break,” Mr. Clarke replied.  He was a handsome man about Ms. Harper’s age.  His looks were pleasing and certainly not lost on Ms. Harper.  He was single, like her, but there had been a Mrs. Clarke once.  School gossip always abounded.

“No, not many now.”  Ms. Harper looked down at the papers in her hand.  She couldn’t look directly at him for long.  She couldn’t deny there was something there.  She just didn’t know how to handle it.  She was accustomed to distance.  There had been few men in her life and she hadn’t been really close with any of them.  Certainly there had been her Father and now he was gone.  There had been boyfriends or male friends but not many.  She couldn’t see herself in a long relationship and most of them just moved on after a time.  She always reminded herself it was her and not them.  She was accustomed to distance.

“Say, Lee, you wouldn’t want to go for coffee or a bite to eat, would you?”  There was a faint smile from Mr. Clarke’s handsome face.

Ms. Harper looked up at him.  There was something there but the timing was wrong.  She had to go see her Mother.  The timing was always wrong.  It made her feel awkward.  He was a handsome man who wanted to go out with her.  But the thought of coffee or a meal might lead to more coffee or more meals.  She wasn’t ready for that.

“I can’t, Mr. Clarke, John,” she stammered.  “I have to be somewhere.”  That was true but the thought was that right now she wanted to be somewhere other than here.  She was good with distance.  It was the closeness with which she had a hard time.

“That’s okay,” Mr. Clarke replied.  “I have some math tests to grade.”  The smile didn’t fade.  “Maybe another time, then?”  There was some hopefulness in his voice.

“Another time,” Ms. Harper answered matter-of-factually, and looked away.  Maybe another time she thought.  Maybe there was a time when she would have answered differently.  Maybe there would be another time in the future when she would answer differently.  It was the closeness.  It always got in the way.

Ms. Harper held on close to her burdens and hurried to her car.  The closeness of the inside of her small car was something she could handle.  She felt safe.  It was just her and her thoughts.  All of those thoughts of Mr. Clarke, John, and all those other relationships; even if there hadn’t been many.  She thought of her Father and her Mother.  Recalling her Mother, she started the car and started for the Manor.

Her Mother was in her room.  It wasn’t often that she found her Mother in the hall or in one of the common rooms.  If she did, she would quickly escort her Mother back to the closeness of her room.

“Hello, Mama,” Ms. Harper began, on seeing her Mother.  “It’s Lee.”  As if reminding her Mother of her own daughter’s name would help bring her back to her.  She hugged her Mother instinctively but there was nothing between them.  There was no warmth in this hug.

Her Mother looked good.  Someone had brushed her hair.  Her Mother had always had such beautiful long hair.  Ms. Harper kept her own hair long like her Mother.  It was the only thing they now shared in common.

Ms. Harper looked about the room.  It was a nice room.  It was clean and bright.  The late afternoon sun streamed in the window.  Its light illuminated the small personal items on her Mother’s dresser and night table.  Personal items salvaged from her home before the sale.  Many of them with a significance now lost to time.  There were a couple of photos of her Father.  There was one of her parents on some long ago beach.  There were some photos of Ms. Harper in younger days; nothing current.  She looked like her Mother.  At least the long hair was the same.

“I’ve brought some theme papers, Mama.”  Why did she call her Mama?  It was always what she’d called her; never Mom or Mommy.  It had always been Mama as far back as Ms. Harper could recall.  “I thought I would read some of them to you.  Won’t that be nice?”

Her Mother looked at her but said nothing.  Did she recognize her own daughter?  Was there a memory that was trying to work its way to the front?

“You look good, Mama.  I like your hair.”  Ms. Harper didn’t like the silence between them.  Even hearing her own voice was better than nothing.

Ms. Harper reached out and grabbed her Mother’s hands and brought them to her lips and kissed them.  Her Mother’s hands were warm but it didn’t mean the old warmth was there.  Her Mother snatched back her hands and folded them in her lap.  Ms. Harper was not startled by the gesture.  It happened every week.

“Mr. Clarke asked me out to coffee, Mama.  You remember me mentioning, Mr. Clarke, John?”  Of course she didn’t.  She didn’t even remember her own daughter.  What need was there in Ms. Harper that she would want to share this information about Mr. Clarke with her Mother?  Maybe just saying it aloud would help her accept the fact that someone else was interested in her.  Ms. Harper looked away from her Mother and decided to let it drop.

“All I want for Christmas is,” Ms. Harper began again; moving on to a safer topic, “World Peace.  Do you remember that, Mama?  You always told me it should be at the top of the list because everything else comes second.”  Ms. Harper looked into her Mother’s eyes but there was no acknowledgement or recognition there.

Ms. Harper picked up the first of the theme papers and began to read to her Mother.  There were the normal requests there.  Someone wanted the latest video game.  Someone wanted some figure skates.  There were action figures, games, electronics, music CDs, and the list went on.

“All I want for Christmas is,” she began again on another paper.  She was interrupted by her Mother beginning to hum.  Ms. Harper looked at her Mother.  It had been a long time since her Mother had hummed or even sung; certainly not since living in the Manor.

Startled, Ms. Harper looked intently at her Mother.  “What’s that you’re humming Mama?”  She didn’t want her Mother to stop.  It was a touching moment.  The humming stopped however as quickly as it began.  Ms. Harper was upset with herself for interrupting her Mother.  It was a touching moment and now it was gone.

“Miss Annabelle, Lee.  All I want for Christmas is Miss Annabelle, Lee.”  Ms. Harper’s Mother stared straight ahead and repeated the last part again.  “All I want for Christmas is Miss Annabelle, Lee.”

Ms. Harper was taken aback.  Her Mother rarely spoke and now she had addressed her daughter by her name.

She snatched up her Mother’s hands again.  “Yes, it’s me Mama.  It’s Lee.”  Tears began to form and cascade down Ms. Harper’s cheeks.  Her Mother was still in there.

“Who’s wonderful, who’s marvellous?” her Mother continued.

Ms. Harper held tightly to her Mother’s hands.  What was this?  What memory was this?  Those words and that little tune her Mother had hummed were familiar.  If only Ms. Harper could recall the memory.

“What is that from Mama?”

“Miss Annabelle, Lee.  All I want for Christmas is Miss Annabelle, Lee.”  Her Mother continued to stare straight ahead.  If she had been addressing her daughter, it wasn’t direct.

 “Mama, what is it?  Who is Miss Annabelle?” The tears continued to stain Ms. Harper’s face.

Her Mother was now silent.  Whatever the thought or the memory, it was gone now but Ms. Harper couldn’t let it go.  Her Mother had recognized her; the memory of her daughter caught up in some other memory.  Who was Miss Annabelle?

“Mama, it’s me.  It’s Lee.  You remember.  You were telling me about Miss Annabelle.”  Ms. Harper didn’t want to let it go.  She didn’t want to let her Mother go.  She had to come back.

Her Mother withdrew her hands from Ms. Harper.  She was silent and her gaze did not fall upon her daughter.  Ms. Harper felt cold.  Her Mother’s hands hand been warm and her Mother’s words had been warmer still.  For one shining moment that distance that had been between them for the past two years had closed and her Mother had come back to her.  Now the warmth and her Mother were gone again.

Who was wonderful?  Who was marvellous?  Who was Miss Annabelle?  All of these questions swept over Ms. Harper.  She needed answers.  She needed to bring her Mother back to her.  Maybe if she could solve the mystery of those questions, she could again bridge that distance between her Mother and herself.

Ms. Harper wiped away the remaining tears.  Yes, she had been moved to tears and that hadn’t happened in a long time.  She had shed tears when her Father had died and again, for the last time, when she left her Mother that first day here at the Manor.  But these tears were different.  These were tears for something that she had lost but had regained; if only momentarily.  Ms. Harper felt embarrassed for the tears.  They had served no purpose now.  If her Mother had seen them, she had not acknowledged them.  Whatever had passed between them just now had not been shared by her Mother.

Ms. Harper suddenly felt awkward with the closeness of her Mother’s room.  Like earlier, with the awkwardness between her and Mr. Clarke, Ms. Harper felt the need to be somewhere other than here.

“It’s getting late, Mama,” she began.  “You must be tired.  I’ll leave you now.”  She thought to grasp her Mother’s hands again but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.  These past few moments had been too much for her and not enough.  She leaned in and kissed her Mother’s cheek.  “I’ll be back again soon Mama.”  She wanted to add that she hoped her Mother would be back soon, too.

Ms. Harper awkwardly grabbed up the theme papers and left her Mother.  On the way to her car, she quietly cursed the theme papers and what they had brought to her Mother in the closeness of her room and what they had as quickly taken away.

Ms. Harper sat up late that night.  She could not sleep.  She tried to tell herself that what happened that day did not bother her.  She tried to convince herself that distance was the answer.  If she could only put distance between herself and what had happened then she would be fine.  She was good with distance.

It was no use.  Ms. Harper could not distance herself from it all.  It had really happened.  Her Mother had come back and had tried to share something with her.  What was it?  Who was Miss Annabelle?

It had been a long day.  The children in her class had been excited for the weekend.  Fridays were always that way and she had to try and instill discipline but more often than not just tried to ride out the remainder of the day.

Then there had been that awkwardness with Mr. Clarke, John.  She should have accepted his offer for coffee or something to eat.  How many more offers would there really be?  She tried to think he would ask again.  Would her answer be different next time?  It was that closeness again.  Why did she have such a hard time with it?  Why was distance so much easier to handle?

Who was Miss Annabelle?  That question and that moment with her Mother kept flooding back.  She’d tried to think of other things, school, Mr. Clarke, but what happened with her Mother kept riding roughshod over everything else.

Who’s wonderful?  Who’s marvellous?  Her Mother had asked these questions as well.  Did her Mother even know the answers herself?  And the humming, what was that?

“Miss Annabelle, wonderful, marvellous.”  Ms. Harper found herself wondering aloud.  “All I want for Christmas is you, Mama.”

Ms. Harper eventually gave in and went to bed.  Her dreams were full of her Mother.  In them, Ms. Harper was a little girl again.  Her mother was singing something.  Little Ms. Harper could not make it out but when her Mother stopped and scooped her up in those arms, it was warm.  Her Mother’s arms were so warm.

Ms. Harper went back to the Manor the next day.  This was unusual for her.  She didn’t like seeing all of the other families.  It was something she was willing to endure, however,  if she could connect again with her Mother.

She found her Mother in her room.  She was not alone.

Ms. Harper’s Mother was with one of the staff.  She was having her hair brushed.  The staff member was speaking softly to her.

“It’s alright Mrs. Harper.  No harm was done.  You didn’t hurt anyone.  You didn’t mean to scare that little girl.”

Ms. Harper cleared her throat so she could make her presence known.

“Oh,” the staff member began, a little startled, “look, Mrs. Harper, it’s your daughter.”  Mrs. Harper didn’t look up.

“Hello, Mama,” Ms. Harper began, as if by rote.  “It’s Lee.”  She hardly ever altered her awkward opening line to her Mother.  She felt even more awkward with the presence of the staff member.

“Mrs. Harper,” the staff member continued. “I’m going to have a little chat with your daughter and then I’ll come back a little later to check in on you.”  She placed the brush on the dresser and gestured for Ms. Harper to follow her into the hall.  Ms. Harper’s Mother still did not look up.

“We didn’t expect to see you today.  You usually don’t come in on Saturdays.”  The staff member was just being observant.  She wasn’t chastising Ms. Harper in any way.

“Yes, I usually come on Fridays but something happened yesterday during my visit.  I just had to come back again to see my Mother again.”

“Something happened today, too.”  The staff member was trying to get down to it.

“Something happened with my Mother?  Is that what you were speaking to her about?”  Ms. Harper felt uneasy.  She had hoped for another moment alone again with her Mother.  She wanted to understand better what had happened yesterday.  Now something had happened again today with her Mother.

“Oh nothing to be alarmed about,” the staff member said, trying to put Ms. Harper at ease.  “She just got a little agitated was all.”

Ms. Harper stared intently at the staff member.  Her name-tag said, Julie.  She was a young woman but that didn’t mean anything.  It took a certain type of person to work with old people.  Ms. Harper knew that full well.  It also took a certain type of person to work with young people.  But this wasn’t about her.  Ms. Harper tried to focus on what this Julie was telling her.

“Your Mother was in the dining room,” Julie continued, “when a family came in with their young granddaughter.  It is actually our Mrs. Kennedy’s great-granddaughter.  We get all types of family members on weekends.  Well, this young girl had a doll.”

“A doll?” Ms. Harper interrupted.  What was this all about?  Why had her Mother become agitated?

“Yes, an old fashioned sort of doll”, Julie continued.  “Mrs. Kennedy had given that doll to her daughter and it had been passed down to her granddaughter and then to her great-granddaughter.”

“What does this great-granddaughter have to do with my Mother becoming agitated?”  Ms. Harper was getting a little agitated herself.

“It wasn’t the little girl that had your Mother so upset, it was the doll.  As soon as your Mother saw that doll, she wanted to have it.  She kept gesturing to the little girl and put her arms out for that doll.  I’ve never seen your Mother get so worked up.”

“Over a doll?”  Ms. Harper couldn’t believe it.  Her Mother never got ‘worked up’ as this Julie called it.  Until yesterday, her Mother had hardly even spoken in the last year.

                “I don’t know what it was about that doll but your Mother really wanted it.  She even called out to the doll.  She kept saying a name over and over again.  It frightened the little girl so I had to bring your Mother back to her room.  I think she enjoys it when I brush her hair so I started doing that and it calmed her down.  I think she’ll be okay now.”

                “A name?  You said my Mother kept saying a name?”  Ms. Harper tried to grasp onto something Julie had said.  She was sure she knew where this was leading but she had to hear it from this Julie to be sure.

                “That’s right,” Julie began again.  “I didn’t understand her right off but I think it was Miss Annabelle or something like that.  There might have been more to it but I was focusing on getting her out of the dining room and back to her room.  I’ve never seen your Mother get so worked up.”

                There it was again, Miss Annabelle.  Who was Miss Annabelle?  Was she a doll?  Ms. Harper only had pieces of the puzzle.  What did it all mean?

                “It’s alright now,” Julie continued.  “I don’t know what it was all about but your Mother seems fine now.  I’ll be back in a little bit to check on her.”  Julie turned and walked away.

                “Thank you,” Ms. Harper thought to say.  She wasn’t sure what she was thanking this Julie for.  She had just added more to the mystery.

                Ms. Harper entered her Mother’s room again.  Her Mother hadn’t moved.  She was looking down at her hands which were folded in her lap.

                “I’m back, Mama,” Ms. Harper said.  She looked at her Mother and then looked around the room.   She saw the brush on the dresser.  She thought to pick up the brush and continue what that Julie had started.  It brought back memories of how her Mother would brush her daughter’s hair when she was younger.  Recalling that memory was still painful for Ms. Harper.  She let go of the thought of brushing her Mother’s hair now.

                Ms. Harper pulled up another chair and sat in front of her Mother.  She thought also of grasping her Mother’s hands but remembered how her Mother had withdrawn them yesterday.  How could she connect with her Mother?  How could she begin to understand what had been stirred up in her Mother and herself?

                “Mama, I heard about the doll.  I heard about Miss Annabelle.”  Ms. Harper watched her Mother for a reaction.  It came quickly.

                “My Miss Annabelle, Lee,” her Mother said without looking up.

                “Yes, your Miss Annabelle, Mama,” Ms. Harper replied.  “Who is your Miss Annabelle?”

                “All I want for Christmas is my Miss Annabelle, Lee.”  Her Mother continued to stare at her hands.

                Ms. Harper thought again of grasping her Mother’s hands and this time acted upon it.  She gently grasped her Mother’s hands and raised them to her own face.  Her Mother’s gaze followed her hands and she was looking directly in her daughter’s direction.

                “It’s me, Mama.  It’s your Lee.  You can see me, can’t you Mama?”  Ms. Harper wasn’t sure if her Mother was looking at her hands upon her daughter’s face or if she was looking and seeing her daughter behind those hands.

                “Who’s wonderful?  Who’s marvellous?”  Her Mother began to hum that little tune again.  It was too much for Ms. Harper.  She began to softly weep.

                “Who’s wonderful?  Who’s marvellous, Mama?  Is it Miss Annabelle?  Is she a doll?”  Ms. Harper asked through her tears.  She was trying to piece it all together.

                “My Miss Annabelle, Lee,” her Mother said again.

                “Yes, Mama, your Miss Annabelle.  Who is she?”

                Ms. Harper’s Mother withdrew her hands and her gaze once again fell on them resting in her lap.

                “Mama, please,” Ms. Harper said through her sobs.  It was no use, her Mother had withdrawn again.  Ms. Harper tried several times again to ask about Miss Annabelle but her Mother would not respond.  Whatever had passed between them was locked away again inside her Mother.

Ms. Harper stood, turned and left.  She did not even say goodbye to her Mother.  She tried to hide her face from others as she passed through the building and out to her car.  She did not want anyone to see how she had been moved to tears.  She felt foolish.  She also felt very alone.

The remainder of the day was a blur for Ms. Harper.  She barley recalled driving home and being in tears all the way.

She turned to her marking as a distraction.  The theme papers were no distraction by any means.  Every, “All I want for Christmas is” paper reminded her of her Mother and the mystery of Miss Annabelle.  Somehow she managed to get through the papers and the tears subsided along the way.

The rest of the day and the weekend were also a vague series of moments.  She went through her hours preoccupied and numb.  She could not shake it off.  She slept.  She ate.  Still, the memories of Miss Annabelle haunted her; haunted by a wisp of a thing she knew nothing about.

The beginning of a new week brought some release.  The distraction of school and children helped to push away thoughts of her Mother.  She could focus on other things during the day but the nights were the worse.  She sat alone or lay awake long.  Her dreams were little girls and dolls and her Mother brushing her hair, and her Mother’s arms.  Her Mother’s arms had been so warm.

Ms. Harper still worked on the puzzle.  She went through old family albums for any clue.  There were faces she didn’t recognize.  Could one of these be Miss Annabelle?

She saw pictures of her young parents.  They looked happy.  There were even pictures of a young Ms. Harper.  She was happy, too.  Where had that little girl gone?  Where was that sense of happiness?  When had she changed?  The closeness of family and friends were gone.  Now she was alone.  Now she was alone with her thoughts and all that she had lost and everything she couldn’t find.

Miss Annabelle.  Who was Miss Annabelle?

Sparked by one of the images in a family album, Ms. Harper eventually reached out to the only other person who might be of some help.  It had been a while and certainly she wasn’t sure if any help would be offered.  They were not close.

Her Mother had only one sibling, a sister.  Ms. Harper had not known her well.  She lived somewhere out west.  She travelled around a great deal.  Even her Mother had not seen her in a few years.  Not since her Father’s funeral, four years ago, had Ms. Harper even seen her.  She had flown in for the funeral and was gone just as quickly.  A few words had passed between her Mother and her Aunt and then she had gone.  Ms. Harper had reached out to her Aunt when her Mother had gone into the Manor but there had been no response.  Now she needed her Aunt’s help; if she had any to offer.

The contact information for her Aunt wasn’t much.  There was a post office box on the back of a faded postcard.  There might have been a phone number once upon a time but she did not find it among her Mother’s things.  Perhaps it was another thing locked away in her Mother’s mind.

Ms. Harper wrote a detailed letter.  It wasn’t the first time.  She had written her Aunt when her Mother had fallen and had been hospitalized.  She had written again when her Mother had to be moved to Friendship Manor.  On both occasions, she had not heard back from her Aunt.

Her letter now to her Aunt had a sense of desperation.  Ms. Harper put it all down on paper.  She talked about how difficult it had been for her Mother and how she had declined since entering the Manor.  There were details of the incident with her Mother and the doll.  There was mention of the tune.  Mostly, there were questions.  Who was Miss Annabelle?  Who was marvellous?  Who was wonderful?  Had there been a doll?  Who was Miss Annabelle?  She found herself posing that question to her Aunt more than once.  Would her Aunt have the answer?  Would her Aunt even respond?

It was surprising, how little she knew of her Aunt.  Her Mother had not spoken much of her over the years.  The visits from her Aunt were few and far between and brief as well.    All she really knew was that her Aunt was older than her Mother and seemed to be in good health; certainly better health than her sister.  She also travelled a great deal.  Her Aunt had always travelled extensively.  That was one thing Ms. Harper’s Mother had shared with her daughter.  There had been a collection of postcards from exotic locales and some not so exotic.  A box of the postcards had been found among her Mother’s things.  At some point, the cards, like the visits, had stopped.  What had happened between her Mother and her Aunt?  More memories and answers locked away from Ms. Harper.

The days ran on down to Christmas.  It was the same, each time she visited her Mother.  There would be few words between them but if Miss Annabelle’s name came from her Mother’s lips it taunted Ms. Harper.  Sometimes her Mother would hum snatches of that mystery tune.  Other times, her Mother was silent.  It was more than Ms. Harper could bear.

School came to an end and signalled a beginning of the Christmas break.  Ms. Harper’s students had been generous to her this year.  There were many Christmas cards with little gift cards for coffee shops and book stores.  There were mugs with candies and assorted boxes of chocolates.  There was even a scarf and a small bottle of perfume.  Ms. Harper wondered each year if the tokens were a sign that she was a good Teacher.

There hadn’t been another invitation for coffee from Mr. Clarke.  In fact, there had been few pleasantries shared between them since his first offer.  The last week before the Christmas vacation had been so busy that the staff had not had time to organize an annual Christmas party.  Hastily, in the remaining days before the break, someone organized a luncheon on the day before Christmas and someone else organized the drawing of names for a Secret Santa exchange.  They would all gather at a local restaurant and exchange gifts.

Ms. Harper was reluctant to attend the luncheon.  It was no secret to the other Teachers that she had been preoccupied with some personal and private issue.  She was either the last to leave or the first one out the door at the end of the day.  It helped her to avoid interacting socially with the other Teachers.  It was that closeness again.  It was compounded even further by the time of year and the issue with her Mother.

Ms. Harper had found herself seated next to Mr. Clarke at the luncheon.  It was awkward but certainly not unwelcoming.  The conversation between them was more one sided with him sharing more about himself.  Ms. Harper only mentioned her Mother in passing in noting she resided at Friendship Manor and that Ms. Harper visited her regularly.  She did not share the mystery of Miss Annabelle.

For his part, Mr. Clarke talked about being divorced and having a daughter that lived with his ex-wife.  He acknowledged how lonely it was not having a wife and only seeing his daughter on weekends.  His daughter would spend half of Christmas day with him.  Ms. Harper took it all in and was a good listener and tried to be good company as well.  There was no denying she felt an attraction to Mr. Clarke.

When the gift exchange came, Ms. Harper found herself the recipient of yet another coffee shop gift card.  It was a very generous amount and she felt it probably exceeded the limit they had put on the gifts.  For her part, Ms. Harper had purchased a nice bottle of wine for the kindergarten teacher.

Ms. Harper was glad that the decision had been made to have the luncheon on the day before Christmas.  It had helped to fill out her day.  Christmas Eve would be lonely enough as she spent it by herself.  She would drive out to see her Mother the next day and try to put on a brave face.  There had been no word from her Aunt.  If her Mother really expected Miss Annabelle for Christmas, it would be beyond Ms. Harper to make it happen.  She still did not know who or what Miss Annabelle was.

There was one last awkward moment after the luncheon when she had to speak to all of the other staff and wish them a Merry Christmas.  Mr. Clarke pulled her aside and disclosed that he had been Ms. Harper’s Secret Santa.  He had drawn someoneelse’s name but had asked around until he had found who had drawn Ms. Harper’s name.  He had switched with one of the grade two teachers.

The gesture was not lost on Ms. Harper.  She now realized the significance of the generous amount of the coffee shop gift card.  Now there would be no excuse for her to say no to his offer of coffee.  Mr. Clarke wrote out his telephone number for Ms. Harper and wished her a Merry Christmas and hoped that they could have that coffee sometime over the Christmas vacation.  Ms. Harper did not know what to say in response and quietly nodded her head to the thought.  She wasn’t saying no at least but it was all she could offer at this time.

Christmas Eve held no significance for Ms. Harper.  There were no traditions left for her.  She had purchased the annual small tree from a lot near her home.  The man who ran the lot always saved one for her.  It was not very big but when she had decorated it with some few lights and some of the old ornaments, it was all she needed.  In previous years she had been sure the sight of the lights dancing on the tree was all she needed.  Now, she was not so sure.

There were a few presents beneath the tree but these were for her Mother.  There was a sweater and some candies.  There was even a new hair brush.  Seeing that one of the staff took good care of keeping her Mother’s hair brushed, she thought it would be nice for there to be a new brush.  The memory of her Mother brushing young Ms. Harper’s hair was still a special memory.  There was also a large box of chocolates and a card for the staff at the Manor.  Ms. Harper had no traditions for herself but this was one thing she insisted on doing every year.

There were no gifts for Ms. Harper.  She had spread some of the gifts from her students beneath the tree but there was nothing else there for her.  These few things beneath the tree and the twinkling lights should have been enough.  Still, Ms. Harper felt an emptiness and a loneliness that she had not felt in other years.

It would be an early night with a light dinner, something half-heartedly viewed on the television, and a restless sleep.  She hated how she felt but she was not looking forward to Christmas and the brunch at the Manor with her Mother.

Ms. Harper was just beginning to think about preparing something for dinner when there was a knock on her door.  It startled her.  She rarely had visitors and certainly was not expecting anyone this evening.

On opening the door, she was taken aback.  At first, she thought it was her Mother but this woman was slightly older and smaller in frame.  This woman seemed to present the air of a well-seasoned traveller; someone who had seen it all and was prepared to tell you the same.

“Well girl, don’t leave me standing out here all night.  Don’t you have any Christmas cheer for your own Aunt?”

Ms. Harper could not believe it.  There had been no word from her Aunt.  She had given up any hope of hearing from her and yet, there she stood.

“Yes, of course, come in,” Ms. Harper stammered.  Those were the few words she could think to say.  She had a thousand questions but those would wait.

“Didn’t expect to see me, I’ll bet,” her Aunt began.  “Got your letter.  A friend of mine has been forwarding on my mail.  I was in India.  Always wanted to go and so I said, this is the year.  Wonderful place and terrible at the same time.  Don’t’ get me started.  Where do I put my things?”  She had a suitcase and a long package.  These weren’t many things but it looked like she meant to stay for a while.

“Here, let me,” Ms. Harper began but was quickly interrupted by her Aunt.

“Not necessary.  I can carry them myself.  After all, I’ve travelled the world with suitcase in hand for many years.  What’s a few more feet?”

Ms. Harper gestured down a small hall and to a spare bedroom.  It was a small house.  There were just the two bedrooms but it was all Ms. Harper had needed.

“Here, take this,” her Aunt gestured with the long package.  “It’s for you anyways or it might as well be.  You’ll soon find out.”

Ms. Harper’s Aunt deposited her suitcase in the spare bedroom and quickly returned.

“How about a drink?” her Aunt began again.  “I think we’re both going to need one before the night’s out.”

Ms. Harper had been at a loss for words but then her Aunt had not given her time or opportunity in which to edge a response.  Her Aunt had descended upon her unexpectedly without explanation, looked  to staying a while, and now she wanted a drink.  Ms. Harper thought on that last one.  There probably wasn’t anything in the house.  She only drank socially and there was no need to have anything in her home in case weary world travellers happened to stop in on Christmas Eve.  That just never happened.  Not to her, it didn’t.

“You do have something to drink?” her Aunt continued.  “I didn’t pack anything and there’s probably nothing open at this hour.  I’d take a coffee but I was hoping for something a little more cheering.”

Ms. Harper remained silent but it quickly came to her.  There was something in the house.  Stashed beneath the tree was a bottle of wine from one of her students.  There was always that one awkward gift from a parent who had forgotten to buy their child’s teacher a gift.  Once, she had received a small ham and there was that time she’d received a book of inspirational thoughts with a candy-cane taped to the cover.  This year it had been a bottle of wine.

“Will this do?” Ms. Harper asked as she arose from beneath the tree and pulled the bottle from a brightly festive gift bag.

“That’s the spirit,” her Aunt replied and laughed a little at her own joke.

How different her Aunt was from her Mother.  Here was this healthy woman, slightly older than her Mother, who would jaunt off to India on a whim or descend upon her niece without a moment’s notice.  How was it that this could be her Mother’s sister?  They may have looked alike but her Mother and her Aunt were dissimilar in so many other ways.

Ms. Harper removed two glasses from a kitchen cupboard.  They were not fancy glasses but they would suffice.  She poured herself a small glass of wine but was more generous with her Aunt’s offering.  Ms. Harper could tell it would be well approved.

Ms. Harper offered the glass to her Aunt and motioned to an armchair.

“I needed this,” her Aunt said, flopping down in the chair.  She looked tired.  “Am I, tired.  You don’t know how much I’ve travelled in the past few days.  I received your letter at my hotel, caught a flight out of India the next day, home for a couple of days to take care of some business, grabbed that package out of storage, and then I’m on a flight to here.”

“What,” Ms. Harper began before being interrupted by her Aunt again.

“What am I doing here?”  Her Aunt had asked precisely the question that Ms. Harper would have asked if her Aunt had given her the chance.

“Yes,” Ms. Harper replied.

“I came to be with my only family for Christmas.  Here’s to you.”  Her Aunt raised her glass high before taking a generous sip.

“But my Mother’s not here.  I wrote to you about that.  She’s in Friendship Manor.  I thought you said you received my letter?”  Ms. Harper was confused.

“I did receive it, and read it too,” her Aunt jokingly snapped back.  “You’re my family too girl.  I came to spend it with you.  I hope to see your Mother as well but first thing’s first.  Where’s that package I handed you?”

The package lay on a side table where Ms. Harper had placed it when looking for the wine beneath the tree.  It was long and narrow and was wrapped in brown parcel paper.  It wasn’t very festive if it was to be a Christmas package.  Ms. Harper stole a glance at the items beneath her tree.  They were better wrapped than this parcel and certainly more in keeping with the season.

She grasped the package and held it out to her Aunt.

“No, you open it,” her Aunt said, waving off the package in Ms. Harper’s hands.  “I said it was for you.”

Ms. Harper looked at the package.  She suddenly felt guilty.  She had nothing for her Aunt.  Maybe something re-gifted from beneath the tree might suffice.  She would have to re-wrap something or change the card.

“Go ahead girl, get on with it.  I haven’t flown all this way and worn myself dog-tired just to sit here and watch you stare at the thing.”

Ms. Harper sat down and began to take away the wrapping.  The box beneath was not taped and the top of the box was easily removed by pulling upward.  Inside, wrapped in old newspapers, was a doll.

Ms. Harper stared at her Aunt.  Could it be?  Could this be…

“I give you, Miss Annabelle, Lee.”  Her Aunt was getting good at interrupting her niece’s thoughts and speech.  It seemed there was a streak of impatience in her Aunt.

“I don’t understand,” was all Ms. Harper could bring herself to say.

“Of course you don’t, girl, I haven’t explained it all yet.  There’s more to it than that doll.  There’s a whole family history that’s been kept from you; and from your Mother for that matter.  Better have your drink ready.  Like I said, you may need it.”  Her aunt took another long pull at her own drink.  It would soon have to be replenished.

Ms. Harper glanced at her own glass.  She hadn’t even started on it.  Obligingly she started in on her own wine.  It wasn’t bad for a parent purchased effort.  It was warming and Ms. Harper felt it might just help brace her for whatever her Aunt had to offer.

“That doll has been the source of trouble in our family,” her Aunt began anew.  “You’d never know from looking at her she held such secrets that it could divide a whole family.  Go ahead, take her out.”

Ms. Harper had been balancing the box on her lap.  Now, she removed the doll and placed the box gently on the floor.  The doll was old.  It was mainly plastic and that showed signs of wear.  Ms. Harper wasn’t sure what she had expected of Miss Annabelle.  She hadn’t much to go on.  Her Mother certainly hadn’t provided any description.  Ms. Harper hadn’t been completely certain, until this moment, that the Miss Annabelle was a doll.

The doll represented a young girl.  Her clothes were well maintained and clean.  Her dress was green and her hair was auburn.  Ms. Harper suddenly felt a kinship to this doll.  She remembered a similar dress of her own from her youth and Miss Annabelle’s hair colour was very like her own.  She shared that trait with her Mother.

“Look familiar?” her Aunt asked.  “It should.  That’s your Mother.  It could be you, too.  You look just like your Mother.”

Ms. Harper could see it now.  Was that the secret of Miss Annabelle?  Had she been fashioned to look like her Mother?  Who had given this doll to her Mother?

“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”  Ms. Harper finally found some words.

“That she is,” her Aunt replied.  “It says ‘Mama’ when you tilt her a certain way.

Ms. Harper looked hard at the doll.  She held her over backwards and sure enough the doll said ‘Mama’.  The doll looked like her and it looked like her Mother and it said ‘Mama’.  Was this why she called her Mother, Mama?  There were more questions than answers.

“You’re Mother loved that doll.  It near broke her heart when that doll went missing.  Your Mother always blamed me for that.  She never would believe that I had nothing to do with her disappearance.  It’s one of the reasons why we haven’t been close all these years.”

“One of the reasons?” Ms. Harper found herself asking aloud.  What secrets was her Aunt holding back?

“Good for you, girl.  You picked up on that did you?  Well, you might as well know the rest.”  Her Aunt took another drink of her wine as if to steel herself for what she had to say.  The contents of the glass were almost gone but she didn’t prod Ms. Harper for a refill.

“I never took away Miss Annabelle, Lee,” her Aunt continued.  “It had something to do with my Father.  He never liked that doll.  It was probably because he resented the person who had given that doll to your Mother.”

“Who?” Ms. Harper asked.  She found herself leaning forward in her chair.  What was this all about?

Her Aunt drained her glass and stared long at Ms. Harper.  For once, her Aunt seemed to be at a loss for words.

To fill the awkward silence, Ms. Harper rose and poured more wine into her Aunt’s glass.  While pouring the wine, she had leaned in and placed a hand gently on her Aunt’s arm.  It was something she had offered enough times over the years to console a child at school.  The gesture was not lost on her Aunt.

“Thank you, girl.  I like to think I’m a tough old bird but I’m finding this a little hard.”  Ms. Harper noticed that there was a mistiness to her Aunt’s eyes.  It was clear she was trying to hold back her emotions.  Tough old bird or not, it was clear this was difficult for her Aunt.

Her Aunt started in on the newly refilled glass of wine before letting out with a gentle sigh and beginning again with her story.

“That doll was given to your Mother by her Father.”

“But I thought you said he hated that doll?” Ms. Harper asked with a note of confusion.

“No, I said my Father hated that doll.  My Father was not my sister’s father.  There it is.”

Ms. Harper didn’t understand.  What did this mean?  How could her Mother and her Aunt not have the same Father?

“Your Mother’s not adopted, if that’s what you’re thinking,” her Aunt continued.  It wasn’t what Ms. Harper had been thinking but it would have explained a great deal.

“But,” Ms. Harper began to say before being interrupted once again by her Aunt.  She was taking no offence.

“Listen,” her Aunt continued on, “let me get this all out.  There will be time enough for questions when I’m done.  I only found out the whole story myself after my Father had died.”

Her Aunt stopped to take another long drink of the wine before continuing.

“You have to understand it was a different time.  I was only two when World War 2 broke out and my Father was called up.  My parents had been my whole world up until then.  I didn’t have any siblings and my parents probably spoiled me, truth be told.  I think they were happy but then I was young.  I only know what came after.”

“Well, the War came along and off my Father went.  He was off at some training camp before shipping out but he came home a couple of times before being posted overseas.  My Mother was alone with a small child and you can probably guess what happened next.  She met another man and they became involved.  It’s probably not a unique story.  I learned later that it happened more than you think.  Anyways, my Mother became pregnant with your Mother.”

Ms. Harper was hanging on every word that her Aunt said.  This last part was a little too much for her.  She leaned back in her chair and quickly set into her own glass of wine.

“Steady now girl, there’s more to it,” her Aunt said upon noticing the reaction from her niece.

“Well, this other man got his call and he too soon shipped out.  There was my Mother alone with me and pregnant with another man’s child.  She didn’t know what to do but she packed me up and off we went to my grandparents.  It was what you did back then if you wanted to keep your secrets from your neighbours.  Eventually she wrote to my Father and this other man and told them she was going to have a baby.  She didn’t hear back from my Father until he was injured in battle and was shipped home.  Carried shrapnel in his leg for the rest of his life and walked with a cane.  But that’s not important”

“When my father came home, he didn’t come to see my Mother right away.  I think he must have taken his time to think on what he was going to do.  I don’t think he really thought there was much he could do.  People stayed together back then.  Divorce wasn’t as commonplace as it is today.  I also think he felt he had some obligation to me.  After all, I was his child.”

“That other fellow never wrote my Mother at all.  Probably thought he’d had his fun and didn’t want to have to be saddled with any obligations after he got home from the war.  After a while, my Mother believed he might just have been killed in the war.  It was probably an easier thing to think than to believe he’d just used her.”

“Eventually my Father met with my Mother.  He said he’d stay with her but she could never have any contact with that other man.  He agreed to even raise the new child as his own.  By this time, your Mother was almost a year old.  Like I said, it was a different time and a different world back then.  It wasn’t easy but somehow they made it work.  It hardened him, though.  Some thought it was the war but those who knew the secret knew better.  I didn’t know myself.  All I knew was that I had a new baby sister and my Father was home.  But it was never the same after that.”

Ms. Harper’s Aunt stared off as if trying to peer back through the years.  Ms. Harper was not surprised to see that her Aunt had shed some tears while reciting her narrative.

“I’ll get to the part about the doll,” her Aunt began again, “but let me tell you what it was like growing up with your Mother.  I loved your Mother.  I didn’t know she was only my half-sister and we had some good times.  But there was always something hanging over us that I couldn’t explain.  It started with my Father.  He wasn’t as fun loving with me as he was before the war.  He tried and I think he even tried harder with your Mother because he didn’t want to hold anything against her.  It wasn’t her fault.  Still, he wasn’t the same.  He was distant somehow.  It was if he couldn’t handle closeness anymore.”

Ms. Harper couldn’t believe it.  It was the same way with her.  She was good with distance.  It was the closeness that made her uncomfortable.  But it couldn’t be an inherited trait.  Her Aunt had just finished telling her that her grandfather wasn’t really her grandfather; not by blood at least.

“It was the same with my Mother after a time.”  Her Aunt just kept on pushing through.  She had not noticed how Ms. Harper had taken the last part of the story to heart.

“My Mother was very close with your Mother and me but it didn’t show with my Father.  They were a couple but we never saw much affection between them.  I’m the same way.  I couldn’t bear it after a while and I had to get out.  I took the first job that came along.  I moved around a lot and kept on travelling.  A different country or a different man was my answer.  I couldn’t handle the closeness either.  It was the way I was brought up.  I saw that in your Mother, too.  I think she chose your Father because he wasn’t a man quick with his emotions.  I’m not speaking ill of your Father at all.  He was your Mother’s choice.  You get brought up a certain way and you continue on the same way.  I think it’s probably the same way with you.  I see it.  There was something in your letter that I sensed right off.  I thought maybe it was time someone set you straight on the way things have been and how they might continue on if things don’t change.”

Her Aunt cut Ms. Harper to the core.  It was true.  She was more product of all that family history than anything else.  Her Father had not been easy to be close to when he was alive.  Now, she was the same way.  A history of family members better with distance than closeness had come all down to her.  Her Aunt, however, had chosen a different path.  Yes, she had not been close to anyone but she had lived and loved and travelled and her life was hers to answer to.  At that moment, her head spun with this new family history and the revelations.  She thought of her own relationships.  There hadn’t been many and her relationship with her Mother was now a ghost of something she was trying to hold onto.

“I’m sorry to lay that all on you, girl but there’s no cushioning the truth.”  It was true.  Her Aunt wasn’t trying to hurt her but it was painful to hear nonetheless.

“What about the doll?” was all Ms. Harper could think to ask.  It was more the truth of things than the wine that was making her lightheaded.

“Oh yes, Miss Annabelle, Lee.  Well, it seemed your Mother’s real Father had not died during the war.  He returned home and married someone else.  My Mother never did find out who it was.  She said she didn’t want to know.  She had made a promise to her husband she was determined to keep.  Still, one Christmas that doll showed up for your Mother.  My Mother knew who it was from but she never told my Father.  There had been a note but my Mother put it where she thought no one would ever find it.  She was wrong.  A few years later, my Father found the note and my Mother told him the truth.  It was after that when the doll went missing.  My Mother told me about it later in life.  She knew how upset my Father had been about the doll being from your Mother’s real Father so she hid it away.  Your Mother blamed me for it.  I thought it had been my Father.”

“Who named the doll?” Ms. Harper asked.  “Was it given to her by my Mother’s real Father?”

“No, that came from your Mother.  There used to be this song that our Mother used to love singing to us.”  Her Aunt stopped and began to hum the tune that Ms. Harper’s Mother had mysteriously hummed that first day she mentioned Miss Annabelle.

“A song?” Ms. Harper asked.  She was sure she knew part of the answer.

Her Aunt began to recite the words to the song.  “Who’s wonderful?  Who’s marvellous?  Miss Annabelle, Lee.”

“That’s what my Mother was trying to tell me!”  Ms. Harper exclaimed.

“Yes, your Mother loved that song and she loved that doll.  She even named you after the doll.”

Ms. Harper stared incredulously at her Aunt.  Her Aunt was mistaken.  “You’re mistaken, I’m named after my Father’s favourite author, Harper Lee, who wrote ‘To Kill A Mockingbird.’  It’s backwards, I know, with my first name being Lee and my last name being Harper but that’s the what my Father wanted to name me.  My Mother never called me Annabelle.”

“Oh, this was in the beginning, when you were born.  She wanted to call you Annabelle Lee after her doll and that song.  Your Father didn’t like it much so they kept the ‘Lee’ and the ‘Annabelle’ part was lost to you until now.

Now it all dawned on Ms. Harper.  Her Mother and her Aunt had been saying ‘Miss Annabelle Lee’ all this time.  She had thought they had just been saying ‘Miss Annabelle’ and then addressing her by her first name, ‘Lee.”

Her aunt saw the truth dawning across her niece’s face.

“After my Father had died, my Mother told me all about her wartime affair and the doll.  She said she had hidden away the doll but she couldn’t bring herself to tell your Mother the truth about the doll or her real Father.  She said she never heard from your Mother’s Father again after receiving the doll.  I found Miss Annabelle Lee among my Mother’s things when I settled her estate.  I thought I should have returned it to your Mother but that would have raised all kinds of questions I wasn’t prepared to answer at the time.  I guess it doesn’t matter now.  You do what you wish with her.  That’s it.  Now you know everything and I feel like I’ve been on another round the world trip.”  She leaned back in her chair and started in on her wine again.

After that there wasn’t much to say between them.  The truth of everything had been laid bare.  Ms. Harper had no questions for her Aunt.  She felt she knew all there was to know and that was enough.  In one evening she’d found the truth about her family and found an extended family in her Aunt who had stopped her travelling long enough to bring truth, enlightenment, and hope to Annabelle Lee Harper.

After a light dinner, and a little more wine, her Aunt retired early.  Ms. Harper re-wrapped some chocolates from beneath her tree and switched the name on the sweater that she had intended to give her Mother.  The candies and the hairbrush and the Miss Annabelle Lee doll would be more than enough for her Mother this Christmas.

Ms. Annabelle Lee Harper lay awake that night and thought long on all she had been told by her Aunt.  A family history of awkwardness with being close to someone brought on by a family secret.  Could she really break away from that?  She thought about Mr. Clarke, John.  She would call him up tomorrow and wish him a Merry Christmas.  That would be a start.

In the morning Ms. Annabelle Lee Harper and her Aunt drove out to Friendship Manor to have brunch with her Mother.  She was very nervous about seeing her Mother.  How would she react to seeing Miss Annabelle Lee?  How would she react to seeing her sister?

They found her Mother in her room.  The staff had not yet come to collect her for the Christmas brunch.

Ms. Harper held back nervously in the doorway.  She felt a gentle push from her Aunt.

“You go in, girl.  I’ll be in after a bit.  This is your moment.  Go ahead.”

Before entering, Ms. Annabelle Lee Harper removed the doll from the box and held it out so her Mother would see it right away.

“Hello Mama, it’s me, Lee.  Merry Christmas Mama.  I’ve brought something for you.  Look who it is.  It’s Miss Annabelle Lee.”

Her Mother looked up in surprise and instinctively put out her arms.

Ms. Annabelle Lee Harper offered her Mother the doll but her Mother brushed away the doll and grabbed her daughter’s arm and pulled her in close to her.

“My Miss Annabelle Lee,” she said, pulling her daughter closer.

Ms. Annabelle Lee Harper understood.  It hadn’t been about the doll.  It was about her.  All her Mother wanted for Christmas was her own Miss Annabelle Lee; Miss Annabelle Lee Harper.  Her Aunt had helped her to realize that.  She had changed so much since she was a little girl but after last night she understood all those years of distance had made her almost unrecognizable to even her own Mother.

Would her Mother continue to know her or was this recognition fleeting?  Ms. Annabelle Lee Harper did not know.  All she knew at this moment was her Mother’s arms and her Mother’s arms were so warm.