Christmas Quilt Anthology Read online

  “Is it over yet, Mama? Where’s Daddy?” Susanna cradled the child close, shutting her eyes and swallowing hard to keep the tears at bay.

  “Soon, Elizabeth, it will all be over soon.” Elizabeth had been born at the fort, a product of her passion for her husband. Now, she wondered how wise it had been to bring forth a child when their lives were so uncertain. No one could have known the kind of turmoil the country would be thrown into on such short notice.

  “I need those bandages, ma’am.” The sergeant’s voice brought her back to the present.

  Susanna soothed her daughter’s hair back from her forehead, speaking in quiet tones to calm her. “I’ll tell you what. You lie here, very, very quietly like before, and we’ll turn Grandma Becca’s quilt upside-down so you can keep the flowers right next to you. How would that be?”

  She had no trouble getting Elizabeth’s approval, for she had considered the quilt her very own since she was old enough to walk. It had been her favorite place to nap, and Susanna often found her sitting in the middle of the bed, counting the clusters of petals that made up each bouquet. Now she slid back under the covers, still shivering from fright over the noises of war.

  Susanna retrieved her scissors from the table and slowly began snipping the threads that tied the back to the front of the quilt. She would never give up her quilt, but the least she could do was sacrifice the backing. The gunfire seemed more sporadic now, and she could only hope the fighting was coming to an end.

  * * * *

  “Are you ready, Elizabeth?” Her husband, Jacob, called to her from the front of the wagon. Elizabeth gently folded the quilt top and laid it in the wood chest, closing the latch and hoping the dust from the coming journey wouldn’t ruin what was left of Grandmother Rebecca’s quilt.

  “I’m ready,” she whispered, and the wagon rocked as the oxen began to pull them away from the old fort. Elizabeth stayed seated at the rear of the wagon, looking out the open back as memories rushed over her. Her parents had survived the fighting those long years ago, and had continued to live at the fort while Elizabeth grew up. It was only natural that she should fall in love with a military man, but as soon as she married Jacob, her father had resigned his commission and her parents moved back east.

  Now her husband had finished his military service, the fort was closed and the other soldiers—her family all her life—had moved on to other assignments. Jacob had talked some of the families into going west to California, where he had heard they discovered gold. Elizabeth smiled. Jacob was a dreamer, but she loved him dearly and would follow him anywhere. She just hoped they arrived before Christmas, for she didn’t relish spending too much time on the trail. She touched a hand to her stomach. She also wanted their baby—Jacob’s Christmas present—to arrive safely with the help of a doctor in a town.

  It was too late in the year for the Colorado River to be flooding, but an unusual amount of rain had swollen its banks and caused the water to rush through the valley. The men found a crossing more shallow than most and herded the animals across. Then they had put the women and children on the first two wagons and one by one, they were ferried to the other side.

  Now, Elizabeth stood on the far side, watching as they slowly pulled on the rope that would bring her wagon to safety. Suddenly, the rope snapped and the men on this side dropped back on their haunches from the release of tension on the line. Jacob shouted from the other side, but it appeared nothing could be done to save the rapidly tilting wagon.

  Elizabeth cried out in anguish as all her worldly possessions were swept away and disappeared beneath the current of the Colorado River. Jacob used the safety line attached to his waist to get across the river, and Elizabeth rushed into his arms the minute he was pulled up on shore.

  “My darling, Elizabeth, I’m so sorry. We’ve lost everything!” He cradled her as she cried against his wet clothes.

  “Are you all right, Jacob?” Her hands touched his face, his shoulders, assuring herself that he was unharmed.

  “I’m fine, but—”

  “We will still reach California by Christmas, and we will have our child,” Elizabeth whispered softly as she watched the last edge of the wagon disappear under the water. “That means we are truly blessed, for it matters not if I lose everything else I own in the world, as long as you are safe in my arms.”

  * * * *

  Carl continued digging, even though the work was backbreaking. He considered himself fortunate to have been offered this job building the dam, in spite of having to move his family out west. There was little to hold them in Chicago, for the Depression had closed too many factories, and he had seen most of his friends out of work, their families desperate for food.

  Of course, helping build a dam to block the Colorado River wasn’t a millionaire’s dream, but it put food on the table and heat in the little house they lived in.

  His shovel hit rock, or so he thought until he scooped more dirt out of the hole.

  “Hey, Henry, help me pull this up!” Carl shouted at one of the other men working nearby. He had scraped the dirt out from around a wooden box that appeared in remarkably good shape for having been buried.

  Once the box was hauled out of the hole, Carl knelt before it and opened the metal clasp. Lifting the lid, he found the chest full of old-fashioned clothes and bits of material. Lying on top was a folded lump of material, matted together with mud and water from having been beneath the ground.

  “It’s all wet; probably ruined,” he commented, fingering the fabric.

  Henry squatted beside him. “From the looks of things, this has been buried awhile. They say the Colorado River can change course when the rains come. The water gets so high, it washes over all the banks, and when it finally tames itself, it sometimes settles different than it was before. Maybe your trunk here got washed overboard and landed in the river sometime.”

  “It’s not my trunk,” Carl responded.

  “Well, I doubt the company wants some old pieces of material, so I’d say it probably is yours now.” Henry shrugged and went back to digging.

  Carl closed the lid and figured if the company really didn’t want the trunk, or its contents, he’d take it home to his wife, Danielle. Maybe she could cut down the dresses and make the girls clothes for Christmas.

  Days later, Carl came home to find material and clothes hanging from every conceivable spot in the small house. Danielle had been delighted with his gift, and had washed everything, including the trunk itself, and the clothes were now drying.

  “Once I see how the fabric dries, I can decide what to do with it,” Danielle said. “That trunk was a wonderful surprise, especially right before Christmas. It will be nice for the children to have something new to wear for church on Christmas Eve. There were even some tiny gowns in the bottom of the trunk that will just fit their dolls.”

  Danielle seemed content, always able to make do and put the best light on things. Carl only wished he could offer her more than a box of old clothes lost by some pioneer long ago.

  “Look what else I found.” His wife dragged him over to the table, where a rather large section of material lay. “It’s a quilt, though only the top. Someone took a lot of time making this. Look at the tiny stitches that were used. See the way the material is cut into these petal shapes, then sewn together to form flower bouquets?” She tucked under a stray piece of fabric. “It needs mending badly. Perhaps for Christmas, we can spare the money to buy muslin and batting so I can put it back together.”

  “Why would you spend time doing that? It looks rather raggedy and faded to me.” Carl couldn’t understand her enthusiasm.

  “Oh, Carl, someone made this quilt with all the love they possessed. I think they would like it very much if I could find a way to rescue it.” She gently folded the material until it was a neat square. She gave the quilt one last caress, promising herself she would finish it one day. Then she turned to smile at her husband.

  “Who knows what stories it could tell.”


  The Christmas Waltz of Bayberry

  It was the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve, and across town at the house on Bayberry Street, a pitiful sobbing arose that sounded as though a heart were breaking. Throughout the house, every water spigot began to drip, no matter how tightly they had been turned. As had happened for many years past, the inhabitants moved out as soon after Yuletide as possible, saying it was as if the house itself mourned with tears and great moans.

  Then the Claybornes moved in, and Mrs. Clayborne convinced her husband, the captain, that the house was not haunted, but magic. Throughout the year, she read all she could find on the people of Geary County, and soon began to understand the reluctance of the former inhabitants to remain in the house. She, however, having a romantic nature, realized a ball must be held on Christmas Eve to fulfill a destiny.

  Word spread quickly. The curiosity of the entire town was aroused when they heard Captain and Mrs. Charles Clayborne intended to hold a ball at Bayberry on the very night it was said to be haunted. Well, needless to say, their invitations were both nervously anticipated and fearfully accepted.

  What were the good people to do? Stories of the wildest proportions surrounded the house, and most feared for their souls to venture there on this particular night. Yet no one in town would dare turn down such an invitation, and no one would speak out against Mrs. Clayborne, her husband being much revered in the county.

  She assured her guests, as they entered the festively decorated ballroom, that nothing of a mean or vengeful nature would occur therein, and they should relax and enjoy the evening. Still, more than one guest hesitated at the doorway, reluctant to even remove their outerwear, perhaps wishing they had stayed at home by their fire this winter night. But alas, they were here, and could not very well turn away now, could they?

  Before long, all the guests of Captain and Mrs. Clayborne had assembled, waiting in breathless expectation. It was shortly before midnight, and the adults continued chatting nervously. Enough punch, liberally laced with wine, had been consumed by the participants to float a small brigade of fighting ships, or so the maids whispered from below stairs where they huddled in wide-eyed anticipation for what was about to happen.

  Now I must digress for a moment, for as historian of this event, I feel some background is necessary to understand what Mrs. Clayborne hoped to happen this Christmas Eve night.

  During the War Between the States, when battles tore asunder the very fields, which earlier in the year had yielded a bountiful crop, the Bayberry family lived in this very house. As you may know, Geary County was not on the march of any major battles; nonetheless, the Bayberrys felt the force of the fighting since three sons had left to join the army.

  Their daughter, Nichole, remained at home with her mother and tried valiantly to carry on. As the Yuletide season approached, word came that the soldiers would be given a holiday, and Nichole had little trouble convincing her mother to sponsor a Christmas ball in celebration not only of the season, but of the return of their men.

  Nichole had her own reason for wanting this special night. Her secret love had promised to ask for her hand in marriage when he returned from the war. Nichole hoped with all her heart that he remained unharmed and would find his way to Bayberry that Christmas Eve.

  The story is told that the house was soon decorated much as it is tonight, with garlands strung from the windows, ribbons festooning the curve of the banister and each candle of the chandelier. A huge tree stood at one end of the ballroom, lit with a hundred candles placed carefully on its branches. Families arrived to share in the celebration, for many husbands and sons had, indeed, found their way home for the holiday.

  Soon, this very ballroom was full of laughter and merriment. Champagne flowed freely and all except Nichole continued to dance with merry abandonment as the night progressed.

  Ah, I can tell by your face you have a question. Instead of answering it for you, I believe it is time for the past to entwine with the present, as all eventually does. Look yonder.

  The first stroke of the grandfather clock echoed throughout the ballroom. Every sound hushed; every person huddled close to one another, backs against the wall. Wide eyes stared, entranced, as history unfolded.

  A beautiful young woman, gowned in white froth glittering with stars, glided down the stairway and into our midst. Her violet eyes searched the crowd, forehead wrinkling slightly as though she didn’t see the one she wanted most to be there.

  “It is Nichole,” I whispered. “Watch, and you will understand her story.”

  As though time had slowed for this night alone, at the second gong of the clock, ethereal music floated down from the balcony, although no orchestra sat in that alcove. The ghostlike creature flitted toward one young man, taking him by the hand onto the dance floor. With every stroke of the clock, she changed partners, dancing only moments with each, her gaze continually searching the crowd.

  Faster and faster, Nichole danced through the throng, until suddenly, the music stopped and she stood alone in the center of the room. A crystal tear fell; her head hung in heartbreak for the love who had never returned to claim her.

  Not a breath could be heard from any person attending Mrs. Clayborne’s ball, for we all watched, entranced, tears running down our cheeks. Then, like a fairy breeze, the strains of an unfamiliar waltz floated across the ballroom.

  Our wraith lifted her head as through the crowd a soldier came. A terrible limp slowed his stride; his head so bound in bandages, he could scarcely see. Still, he kept a steady course toward his beloved. The music swelled as he gathered her in his arms and awkwardly turned her in time to the music.

  Her smile lit the ballroom. We automatically smiled in return, but she had eyes for no one except her soldier love.

  Before our very eyes, not a doubter now among us, the young lady who had mourned for so many long years was finally united with her beloved. The couple continued dancing to what became known as the Christmas Waltz of Bayberry, though no score has ever been discovered for this particular piece. At last, as the clock chimed its final chord to announce the start of Christmas Day, the smiling couple faded away with the last strains of the mysterious waltz.

  Needless to say, every year since, the Clayborne house bursts at the seams when the Christmas Eve Ball is held. The magic still occurs at the stroke of midnight, and the young people hope to be among the lucky few. For it has been discovered that all the young men chosen by Nichole to dance the Christmas Waltz of Bayberry will find good fortune in the coming year, and all the young ladies look quite favorably upon the young men, knowing they have been touched by an angel.

  A Lighthearted Christmas Greeting

  LUMINAIRE

  lamp

  heavenly body

  light

  akin to Latin “to shine”

  a source of light or illumination

  one of the celestial bodies

  a person brilliantly outstanding in some respect

  You

  To remind you of a memory or two,

  I’ve done this for no other reason.

  These are verses—colorful and bright,

  To light up your holiday season.

  Star light, Star bright,

  —Wishes made

  —Promises whispered

  Fingers crossed in the night.

  Flashing lights

  —Neon

  —Florescent

  Proclaiming opened and closed.

  Street lights

  —on at dusk

  —off at dawn

  Marking the passage of time.

  Christmas lights race along the roof.

  Reflections twinkling in the snow.

  Joyous season, love and peace,

  Blinking ’round the doors and window.

  Red light—STOP.

  Green light—GO.

  Yellow—be careful with your life.

  Red light—danger

  at a railroad track flashing.

  Light
ning—electric

  across the night sky slashing.

  Lighthouse on the rocky coast,

  Warns us if too close we steer.

  Signal lights, ship to shore,

  Dots and dashes, a message clear.

  Light reflected in your eyes—

  mother at a baby’s birth,

  a child with a secret,

  one father’s pride,

  springtime,

  happiness,

  hope,

  love.

  Could we ever speak of Christmas lights,

  Without a mention of Rudolph’s nose?

  That blinked and glowed that wondrous red,

  It could be none other that Santa chose.

  Day light, star light.

  Sunlight, moonlight.

  Lightning bugs.

  Candlelight.

  A candle in the window,

  Leading you home.

  Night lights in the room,

  To keep the monsters away.

  Light Signs of Our Times

  Come on, baby, light my fire...

  By dawn’s early light...

  Forward the Light Brigade...

  Give me a Bud Lite...

  Across the light years...

  Flashbulb, flashlight...

  Light at the end of the tunnel...

  Black light, strobe light...

  Magic of the Light Saber.

  Star light, Star bright,

  Special wishes are in sight.

  Each time you notice a speck of light,

  Are the times you’re thought of, this Christmas night.

  In The Spirit of the Season

  I know not the difference ’tween sixty watts or forty,

  Nor how far light travels in a year.

  But the simple glow of a Christmas luminaire,