It was Christmas Eve, and everything was ready. Presents had been purchased with great care months before. Yesterday they had been wrapped in dozens of pretty papers and decorated with beautiful bows. Now they sat like sparkling jewels in a pirate’s treasure chest, under the fragrant boughs of a giant spruce. The farmhouse was filled with tinsel and holly and light. The dining room table was covered with a white tablecloth, and red and green candles stood in silver candle holders waiting to be lit. Golden streams of light poured down from the dining room chandelier onto plates heaped high with frosted cookies in the shapes of snowmen and reindeer and elves. Soon these plates would need to be moved to make way for the huge Christmas Eve feast that was almost ready. From the kitchen came the smells of cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla, and of a golden brown turkey almost too big for the oven. On the stove, every burner was in use. Steam was pouring out from underneath the lids on various pots, fogging up the windows in the farmhouse kitchen. The sink was filled with pots and pans and utensils, and the counters were happily cluttered. As the mother worked, chopping, stirring, and checking the pots, she sang along with the Christmas carols coming from the nearby radio. Suddenly the door to the outside burst open and happy voices filled the air. Having finished their evening chores, the children rushed into the house, each trying to be the first to reach the Christmas cookies in the dining room. Max, thinking himself too old for such childish behavior at twelve, slowly removed his shoes and walked seriously into the kitchen. He called out to his younger sisters, “You leave those cookies alone! You’ll all spoil your appetites for supper!” His mother grinned. “A white Christmas,” she said happily. “It’s been a longtime since we’ve had one of those” “Now you sound like me,” she said. “Before I know it, you’ll be taking over my kitchen and doing the cooking as well.” “Not a chance,” replied Max. “You are the only person in the world who can make dinner smell this good.” He inhaled deeply. “Did you know that it’s starting to snow out there?” he asked. “There’s already almost two inches on the ground.” A broad smile lit his mother’s face and her brown eyes twinkled. “A white Christmas,” she said happily. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had one of those. Have you and your sisters finished your chores?” Max nodded. “Great,” his mom replied, “Now where’s your father?” “He’s still out in the back pasture,” Max answered. “I think he’s…” But before he could finish, the door to the outside once again blew open. Into the kitchen came Max’s dad, his hair wet, his clothes rumpled, and a grim look on his face. “Molly!” he called to Max’s mother. “Call the vet! That cow with the white face is having trouble calving. She’s been trying since early this morning, and I went out just now thinking she’d have a nice calf on the ground. But she’s made no progress since I last saw her. I’m not even sure that the calf’s still alive but we’ve got to do something.” “OK, Frank,” said his wife, “I’ll call the vet and be right out to help.” “Dress warmly” said her husband, “it’s only twenty degrees out there and the temperature’s dropping fast.” As he left the kitchen, his wife called to the children. “Max,” she said, “I’m going out to help your father. I’ll need you to finish dinner and feed the girls. Turning to her younger children she said, “Now, no Christmas cookies until you’re done with dinner. Max is in charge and you’d better listen to him. I want you all in bed early so Santa can come. Understand?” Three little heads nodded agreement. “Yes, Mom,” they said. But as she turned around, Max was already pulling on his boots. “Let me go out instead,” he said. “You’re still getting over your cold, and I’m not really great in the kitchen. Besides, the little kids are way too excited to want to listen to me tonight.” His mother smiled. “You’re right, of course, but dress warmly. You don’t want to get sick either.” As Max struggled into layers of warm clothing, his mother called the vet. Max headed out the door, still shrugging into his coat. Outside, it was bitterly cold. The falling snow swirled around his head. Steam rose from his nose and mouth as he breathed out warmed air into the frigid night. This was not good calving weather. The baby, if it was still alive, was liable to freeze to death before morning. The cow giving birth to him was the worst mother on the farm. She usually abandoned her calves, refusing to take care of them or even let them nurse. Now here she was having her calf in the middle of a blizzard. It was crazy. The sight that greeted them was not a pretty one As Max crossed the front yard, he heard the roar of an engine and looked up to see headlights coming up the driveway, illuminating the falling snow. The vet had made it in record time. Max walked over to meet him, and together they drove out into the back pasture to find his father. The sight that greeted them was not a pretty one. Max’s father held one end of a rope, and the cow was on the other. The center of the rope was wrapped around a tree trunk, and his dad was trying to pull the cow up close so that she couldn’t move around as much. Although she looked exhausted, the cow had the fiery glint of rage in her eyes. Her sides heaved and sweat steamed off of her. She thrashed and kicked and struggled, trying to break free of the rope. “Hey Frank,” said the veterinarian, climbing out
November/December 2007
We’re Moving
“We’re moving.” The words fall with a dead thud on my ears. I can’t believe it’s happening. The possibility has been there for weeks, months even. But I never thought it would happen to me. “Why?” I choke. “You know how long your father has been searching for the right job,” Mom says apologetically. “We prayed that it would be near here, but it didn’t turn out that way.” All I can do is nod numbly. This house has been my home for all of my twelve years. All my friends are here, all the places I love are here, everything I’ve ever known is here. I stare out the window at night and can’t imagine being in a different place. “You’re down in the mouth today, Lucy” my best friend Grace says cheerfully to me at school the next day. “What’s up?” “We’re moving,” I reply in the somewhat deadened voice that has become mine since the announcement. “You’re not serious!” Grace exclaims, but I can tell that when she looks into my eyes, she knows it’s true. * * * The yellow sign goes up in our yard the next week. Every time I walk past it on my way home from school, the bold words, FOR SALE, glare at me mockingly Mom and Dad fill the kitchen table with printouts of house descriptions near this new job of Dad’s. “I’ll write every day,” Grace promises as she helps me pack one afternoon Springfield. We’re moving to Springfield, Illinois, a place I know only vaguely as the capital of its state. It’s just a word on paper to me; how could I soon be living there? Rockville—now that’s home. The new house is soon picked out. Dad has to fly to Springfield for some sort of interview; Mom jumps at the chance to look at the house she wants. I spend the entire plane ride praying that something will be wrong with the house. It’s too fast, I plead silently. This is all happening too fast. Can’t I have a little more time? No such luck, though. The house is perfect. Somewhere inside me, I knew it would be. Mom spent hours gushing over it back at home. My home. Not this strange place that I have to go to. She brings me to see the new place on the last day of our “vacation.” I am surprised to see that the people who own it have a daughter, just my age. An only child, just like me. We look shyly at each other, and I realize that the same daze of moving that I’ve seen in my eyes is in hers as well. Silently, imperceptibly, we make a connection. But we’re both too shy to say a single word. * * * It’s back to Rockville then. For a few blessed weeks, I am able to forget about the whole business of moving. No one is interested in our house, and it takes a while to buy the new one. Grace and I chat and laugh as if things aren’t different. Still, inside, we both know that it’s not the same. I begin boxing up my things that week. The sale on the new house —I still don’t think of it as mine —went through, and the old family has already left. Mom wants to get everything ready for Moving Day, June 15. Now I know it’s real—the awful day has a date. Finally, it has sunk in. We’re moving. “I’ll write every day,” Grace promises as she helps me pack one afternoon. I look at her and nearly laugh at the absurd pledge. Everyone knows you can’t write every single day. Probably not even every single week. “E-mail me instead,” I suggest. She laughs, and for a brief instant, I am happy. * * * It’s the night before. All day it was hot and muggy, and the night is no better. I am on a sleeping bag on the floor of my room—no, my old room. I have a new room now, I remind myself. One of those strange rooms in the Springfield house is mine. Somehow, I thought that taking possession of something in the unfamiliar house would give me something to look forward to. It doesn’t really help. I know that the new room will be just as empty just as forbidding as my room is now. Only worse, because it’s not mine. I clutch the letter in my hands, realizing the ray of hope it has given me We’re back at the airport bright and early the next morning. I have only my backpack, like a brick, slung over one shoulder. Everything else is in the moving vans. They left before I even got up. I always used to love flying in airplanes. Once a year, we would fly to Florida and visit my grandparents. To me, airplanes were fun, exciting, and exotic. But all of a sudden, I hate airplanes. This time, they’re taking me away from home and they’re not going to bring me back. After an agonizing stretch of time in the air, we’re in the Springfield airport. Dad drove the car with the moving vans, so we don’t have a way to get to the house. Mom hails a cab; she doesn’t want a rental car because then she has to worry about driving it back. The cab works out because the drive to our new house isn’t far so the cab driver can’t charge very much. Then I’m standing in the cavernous innards of the new house. I thought it was forbidding when there was furniture inside; now that it’s empty with only electrical outlets glaring at me from the bare walls, it almost scares me. “Why don’t you pick a room, Lucy?” Mom suggests, seeing the look on my face. “We can move your things into it as soon as the moving van gets here.” I nod and head for the second floor. Inside, I
Shepherd of Stonehenge
Harsh, cold wind rippled across the snow that blanketed the farm’s fields. Sighing, Sam led the shivering sheep across the wide plain. Cauliflower, the farm’s sheepdog, ran with Sam, keeping the milk-white sheep in line as best as she could. “Snow Sheep,” muttered Sam, kicking at a withered plant poking its way through the snow. “How stupid can you get?” He had never asked to be herding sheep. He hadn’t even asked to be on Edenary Farm. Edenary Farm. Those words marked a turning point in Sam’s life. Ever since he was born, Sam lived with his father and mother in Salisbury His father, a rich merchant, had made sure the family led a luxurious life. That had all changed two months ago. In the middle of October, 1796, both of Sam’s parents had died from influenza. They had been on a trip in Vienna, which was still getting over an epidemic, and caught the deadly disease. Sam, eleven years old, was put in the care of his uncle, Daniel Edenary, his mother’s brother and the owner of a poor family farm. Sam’s parents had offered Daniel part of their fortune many times in the past, but he had refused out of pride. So Sam’s father’s riches would stay in a local bank until Sam was eighteen and could inherit them. It was now the end of December of the same year, almost Christmas, a time Sam used to look forward to. This year, though, there would be no Christmas tree, no fancy food, no presents. The Edenary family didn’t have any money to spare on things like that. Shocked, Sam called above the blizzard’s roar; ‘Are you all right, sir?” Sam looked all around him. To his right, the way he had come, the wooden buildings of the farm stood out against the cloudy sky. They marked the road to Salisbury, the nearest town. It was the only road out of the white eternity that was Edenary Farm. Everywhere else, there was only snow and the occasional tree. Sam hated it. But not too far away there stood a famous stone structure. Stonehenge. It was one of Sam’s favorite places and one he had visited frequently in the past with his father. These days, Sam would sneak off to Stonehenge whenever he could, to escape the dreary farm life and see again the magnificent blocks of stone. He couldn’t get away very often because he had his uncle to help. Sighing again, Sam called to Cauliflower to help him lead the sheep back home. * * * “Potatoes again?” groaned Jasper, Sam’s eight-year-old cousin. He crossed his arms and sulked, glaring fiercely at his plate. “You know I hate potatoes!” “It’s all we have, dear,” replied Sam’s aunt, Elizabeth. “Last year Daddy’s sheep didn’t make enough wool for us to buy better food.” “Don’t worry, though,” grinned Uncle Daniel cheerfully. “My new Snow Sheep technique will make us the best wool for miles around.” Supposedly, if his uncle’s sheep spent enough time out in the cold, they would make higher quality wool, which would bring in more money. Daniel Edenary was tall and stocky. He had a loud laugh, and even in hard times tried to keep a smile on his face. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was small and anxious. She had a nervous smile, and hated loud noises. Jasper was unlike either of them. In Sam’s eyes, he was incredibly selfish, and liked to complain. “That is,” added Edenary, glancing at Sam, “they’ll make enough wool to last until Sam’s eighteen, and he can inherit his parents’ fortune.” These days, Edenary often talked about the money He had become desperate and decided it was worth more than his pride. Sam sometimes felt his aunt and uncle blamed him for not being old enough to inherit the money right away. In truth, they were probably worried he wouldn’t share it with them. Suddenly, Sam became angry with his uncle. “You and your Snow Sheep,” Sam shouted. “What nonsense! And if it weren’t for the money, you’d probably throw me out. You love my parents’ fortune more than you love me.” Sam’s anger left him as fast as it had come. His aunt and uncle had been nice to him since he had come to stay at the farm. Looking at Jasper, who had become frightened at Sam’s shouting, Sam felt ashamed. “I-I’m sorry,” he mumbled, standing up. “I-I didn’t mean it.” As the family’s eyes followed him, Sam pulled himself up the stairs to his room (the room his aunt and uncle had given him, he reminded himself). “Potatoes again?” groaned Jasper, Sam’s eight-year-old cousin Sam flopped onto his soft bed, thinking about what he had said. He knew his uncle loved him. Of course he planned to share his money with the family. What had made him say such a cruel thing? But Sam also knew that some of his words had been true. Edenary Farm could barely support the family, and might go out of business if his uncle couldn’t make more money from his sheep. Sam also feared that if his uncle kept using his Snow Sheep plan, some of the sheep could even die. There had to be some way to get money for the farm, Sam mused. He decided to go to sleep and think about it again in the morning. * * * For the next few days, Sam did his daily chores without really concentrating. He was distracted by the problem of saving Edenary Farm. Meanwhile, Uncle Daniel didn’t have much to say to Sam. He was still angry with Sam because of his outburst. Christmas and New Year’s Day came and went, like all the holidays at the farm. There was almost nothing to distinguish them from the other days of the year. But two days after New Year’s Day was different. January third was very different. It was early in the morning when Sam went out to
