Village Squire, 1979-12, Page 27(1
A White £7iristmas
It was the old man's dream to see a white Christmas
one more time
The last, the last leaf of autumn was
picked up by the bitter wind and sent into
flight. It flew past the houses whose
chimneys showed the signs of a blazing fire
inside; past the sign on the door of
Stofield's Variety which read; Gone for a
week, Merry Christmas, Mr. F. Stofield;
and past the post office whose blinds had
been drawn since lunchtime. The leaf
rested but a minute on the cold bare
sidewalk and was once again lifted by the
tireless wind, this time sending the leaf
whirling around the town cenotaph. It
kissed the lifeless soldier on the head and
then was away again.
Mr. Wester had watched the journey of
the leaf and wondered why the wind
carelessly threw it against the telephone
building, fire hydrants and hydro poles
without giving it a few minutes to rest.
Rest, yes he must rest. He had only been at
the window a few minutes. but they had
taken toll on his weary body.
Slowly, Mr. Wester made his way across
the bare wooden floor to his bed. The
springs creaked like his bones. A sign of
old age.
"We'll hav to be replacin' it soon," Mr.
Wester's housekeeper would say.
"We'll keep it a few more years yet,"
Wester would say, "I'd never be able to
sleep in anything else, Etty."
Mrs. Ester would turn on her heels in
mock disgust and chuckle good naturedly
to herself as she descended the stairs to
A short story
by Lynne Nicolson
start tea. Mrs. Ester had been with Mr.
Wester since he had lost his wife; "that
was twenty years ago," she calculated to
herself, "yes, twenty years today."
"I need someone to cook me a Christmas
dinner," he had said when she replied to
Mr. Wester's advertisement. "That's all."
But she had stayed, despite the old man's
pride. These past few months had been
hard though. in all of her twenty years with
him. Etty began to heat the teapot.
"Old age," the doctor had said, "all I
can suggest is bedrest."
"You mean...you mean it won't be long
until... until..." Mrs. Ester had been
unable to go on, but the doctor had known
what she meant and had slowly nodded his
head. In all his profession, it was these
moments he feared the most and it was
these moments he remembered.
When the doctor had gone, Mrs. Ester
had wept silently into her apron.
Mrs. Ester shook her head and sighed
heavily. She had known, she had known.
Age, she thought and went into the pantry
to get some cookies.
Wester listened to the clock which stood
at the bottom of the stairs. Four o'clock, it
chimed, "tea time", he thought. "Where
was Etty?" The teacups rattled on the tray
as Mrs. Ester came through the bedroom
door.
"Eight more hours," she sang cheerily,
"eight more hours until Christmas morn."
"Hmph, Christmas coming and not a bit
of snow on the ground," he grumbled.
"Now you tell me Etty, what's Christmas
without snow?" -
"Your startin' to sound like Scrooge
himself," she chided, "We haven't had a
green Christmas yet, so just stop your
complainin' an' drink your tea." She
fluffed his pillows and tucked in his
blankets.
"I remember one year". Wester
began, "musta' been October sometime,
we were already knee deep in snow, took
us all our time just to get to the barn. Yup,
those were the days."
"I also remember that was the year you
couldn't move an inch out your door for
fear of bein' buried in snow," Etty added.
"But there was snow, Etty, snow for
Christmas and that was all that mattered."
"Mr. Wester," Etty sighed, "drink your
tea before it gets cold."
Mr. Wester chuckled at Etty's bickering.
"You're not my mother," he chided
good-naturedly and was off into a fit of
laughter which left him choking. His raspy
cough continued until he managed to take a
sip of water from the glass Mrs. Ester
handed him.
The bout of coughing had drawn his
strength and he lay back on his pillows,
exhausted. When Etty asked him if he
wanted his tea, he feebly lifted a hand and
waved her away. Mrs. Ester gathered the
cups and saucers, tears stinging her eyes.
Mr. Wester was getting worse. She
misjudged when she put the milk pitcher
on the tray and upset it on the floor.
December 1979, Village Squire 25