Category: December Stories

Golden Slippers, Suitable for Mucking Stables and Dancing With Diplomats

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On her eighteenth birthday, her mother presented the princess with golden slippers, shiny, with sensible heels and a square toe, perfect for adventuring. The princess tried them on. They fit perfectly. 

“They always will,” her mother said. “They cost a pretty penny, but they’re worth it.”

Her mother’s last adventure had been to the place where pretty pennies are mined. “We’ll travel. We’ll have such fun. You can’t imagine.”

The princess looked at her mother’s feet, but they were shod in ordinary leather. “Those are your Adventure shoes?”

“They change to suit the occasion. They’re quite useful.”

“I can imagine.”

After Wandering

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They’ve built the Sukkot sukkah to remember wandering for forty years in the desert. Vegetables and fruits cover the grass mat where they will eat supper. 

The sky is quiet now, but the two year old refuses to come out from under her bed where she feels safe. It’s been this way for weeks, months. It’s worse when planes are flying. If Bubbie brings food to her, she can lure the toddler into the open. 

The child comes, but will not eat, as if she could control the planes this way, by waiting for peace before she breaks her fast.

Things My Father Never Said

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Growing up, Christmas decorations consisted of a tree we cut ourselves, tinsel, lights, bulbs, a star. Dad didn’t spring for expensive yard displays, but loved driving around to look at other people’s. The brighter, the merrier; the more Santas, reindeer, elves, and Nativities; the better. So on Christmas Eve we would bundle into the car and gawk at the four or five big neighborhood productions.

The year my parents retired to Florida, we made a Christmas tour. A bigger, wealthier town, there were many huge displays. Dad kept saying, “Look at that.” But he meant, “We earned the American Dream.”

Trees Weeping On a Gray Day

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Swirling specters scatter 
cinnamon maple leaves,
whirling dervishes, they dance in autumn 
snow. Wind breathes
life, then stops.

I would stop but
the dogs pull through
slick pools of layered leaf litter, 
a spill of wet red
color seeps into wine dark puddles left from 
last night’s rain.

Just hours ago,
a gray day 
a hint of sun at ten, and blue.
But now it’s settled into quiet light,
an end of year contemplative light.

A wise light that gives 
the year a voice,
gives the day a meaning,
illuminates falling leaves;
a soft blanket over bright, cold truth.

The Way to the Heart is Through the Tastebuds

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I ate my way across America today. California scones on the plane to Charlotte. They hid out in my bag like hitchhikers on Route 66. At the Charlotte airport, chicken tortilla soup is served at my favorite taqueria and at the 1897 Market. Maybe it’s the same. Airports, the great equalizer.

I had dinner in Sarasota. Lox and cream cheese served by a Peruvian bartender who was adopted by an Italian-Irish couple at the age of six months. Is there a more American story? Or a better way to experience the continental United States?

Sensitive Princess

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“Priscella, the way you fuss, no prince will have you.” Spoiled. The king brought her silk from abroad. The Queen disapproved. “How many times has the royal seamstress made a pretty gown, only to have you give it to the chambermaid?”

“It itches, Mama. So bad.”

“But the ball’s tonight.”

“I have…”

“Not that old thing. The rag barely fits.” 

“I won’t go. The canapés are disgusting.”

“Don’t you start with umami again.” 

“Anyway, I couldn’t sleep last night.”

“Try the dress, Lola, there is not a pea in your mattress.”

“Must be a rock.” 

“Show me a bruise, then.”

Candlelight

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Candlelight warms up dark days and nights, melts hearts hardened by cold wind and colder thoughts. Candles feature in solstice celebrations that have lifted spirits for centuries. The welcoming village, the holiday stories, the light of the fireplace and the smoky smell of it, the wood fire cooking traditional foods. These images burn in collective memory. They carry humanity through conflict and scarcity. Celebrations can jolt us from the amnesia that makes us forget the things we have in common.  Light emanates from churches, temples, campsites, and shelters uniting us to hope that the first flower of spring will arrive.

Pride, Goblins, and Other Monsters

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The Goblin King’s minion had failed. Hershel tricked him and kept the Hanukkah candles burning. 

“The Jew will not win again. No more miraculous nights. Darkness for Donbas.” The goblin exploded into a vortex that sucked up the atmosphere. The synagogue door shattered to splinters. “Behold my power.”

Hershel shook with fear. “I see no one. Light a candle if you’re there.”

The goblin’s pride kept him lighting the candles. He wanted respect.

Hershel led the Goblin King on until the last candle had been lit. Furious, the goblin destroyed the synagogue, but Hershel and the menorah’s light stayed strong.

Inspired by Eric Kimmel’s Hershel and the Hanukkah Goblins, with hope for a miracle in Ukraine. Kimmel credits a Ukrainian folktale for his inspiration. It’s turtles all the way down.

Dancing in Iron Shoes

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The silent Mirror left the Queen to reflect on what she’d done. It refused to speak the truth about her face; lined and aged and dried. Framed in the glass, unchanged was yesterday’s crone who had delivered an apple- a poisoned apple- to her stepdaughter. Once she’d rid herself of her rival, the hate seeped out through her pores.

Perhaps that rivalry was the only thing that had kept her young. 

The Queen sat in the chair by her bed. She propped her feet. She slept. It was a sleep that lasted until Prince Charming kissed Snow White alive again.

Dragon Games

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Drago hated the taste of princesses. So when his friend, Ash, promised to introduce him to one if he promised not to eat her, he agreed.

She smelled like the forest. Quite delicious. But he’d promised.

“The river is a good place to meet,” Drago said. “I mean, in case I burp.”

Ash said, “Drago….” at the same time the princess said, “Don’t you dare!”

“I’ll only fart.”

“Bet you can’t fart as many times as me,” said the princess.

Princess farts are disgusting. Drago held his breath. He flapped his wings, ascending to the heavens. He turned to stars.