Birdwatch

Berry Christmas!

For the cedar waxwing, holiday indulgence means feasting on holly berries, and other native fruits

By Susan Campbell

The cold weather is here and just in time for the holidays, with red berries everywhere. The abundant moisture last spring has spurred our local trees and shrubs to produce a bumper crop of fruit. Hollies in particular are covered with plump, ripe morsels. Any time now large flocks of cedar waxwings will be appearing to take advantage of nature’s bounty. 

Waxwings are sleek, brown birds that sport a black mask, yellowish belly and distinctive tail with a splash of yellow on its tip. Although both males and females have a crest of tan feathers, it is rarely raised during the nonbreeding season. These birds get their name from the bright red, waxy spots on their wing feathers. The waxwing’s high-pitched whistle is also singular. The Bohemian waxwing, a close relative, is a larger, grayer bird much farther to the north and west in North America. So far, no individual of this species has been documented in our state.

During the warmer months, cedar waxwings can be found in northerly latitudes during breeding season throughout a variety of moist habitats. A pair will seek out a sizeable conifer and the female will build a nest of soft material in which to lay her eggs. Three to five young are normal and, not long after they fledge, the family will join with other waxwings even before fall migration begins. The species is very social most of the year and in winter it is not unusual for flocks to number in the hundreds.

Cedar waxwings are unusual in that they can subsist for months at a time on berries. Although they do feed on insects in the summertime, they have no trouble consuming only fruit when the weather gets cold. They swallow whatever small berries they can find: seeds and all. This can be problematic in late winter when the sweet morsels ferment to the point that they intoxicate birds. Bingeing waxwings are at risk of being picked off by predators or being injured if they hit a window.

These handsome birds surprise people when they show up at birdbaths. If you are fortunate enough to experience cedar waxwings descending en masse, it is quite a spectacle.  Of course, they can drain a water source in no time if they have been feeding heavily nearby. Also, it is important to be aware that when waxwings come close to buildings to eat or drink, they may make a fatal error by flying into the reflection of the sky on windows. To prevent this, break up window reflection with sun catchers, stickers, hanging plants and the like. The best approach is to hang things on the outside of the window — but this is not always practical.

If you want to attract cedar waxwings to your yard, add more native fruiting trees and shrubs for them and an abundant source of water. You could consider any one of a variety of hollies, or try adding cedar, juniper, serviceberry or wax myrtle. Do not forget that, like all of our wintering birds, waxwings need thick cover while they are here. Many of the berry-producing species are valuable for cover as well while Southern magnolia (many in the bay family in fact), Leyland cypress or even red tips may prove beneficial.

Important note: To those who have nandina bushes in your yards: Remove the berries immediately — or better yet, replace the plants entirely. Nandina is now recognized as being highly toxic (containing significant amounts of cyanide) and is responsible for killing dozens of waxwings at a time in recent years here in the southeastern United States.  PS

Susan would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photos at susan@ncaves.com.

CrossRoads

The Dread, Stage Left

Taking a leap into the great unknown

By Joyce Reehling

It was night number 210, a long run for most shows, and there she stood just off the stage waiting for the curtain to go up.

June Talley was used to this moment, a moment just off to the side when her second reality would kick in — she would spend the next two hours going through a piece of a life that must, at the same time, seem unknown and yet highly rehearsed. A life in the theater was both the real and the staged real.

But this night she was feeling that awful sense of doom, frozen in doubt and fear. The Dread was upon her.

Why now? Why, when I know this woman, this play, better than I know myself? This was not the first time that June tried to untie this knot.

She once feared that the desire to run from this fright, run from the theater and hide in some dark spot, belonged only to her. She talked about it with Danny Stone, her stage husband, only to discover it had happened to him — and to all of the actors she knew. She was not alone.

She laughed one night at dinner after the theater while gathered around a table at Joe Allen’s — the longtime theater bar and home-away-from-home for many actors. They all shared stories of this fright and wondered what would happen if one night, at about 7:59 p.m., The Dread hit each and every actor at the same time. What if they all turned and gave in to the fear and walked away? Thousands of people sitting in dark theaters expecting actors to live out the play but when the curtain went up no one, not a single person, could walk on stage?

Samuel Beckett would love it. The producers would sue and Law & Order would have a new case trying to puzzle out if this was breach of contract or a mystical moment of The Dread claiming all of them, making them all powerless to go on.

The laughter at the table that night was the comrade-in-arms, all-in-the-same-foxhole-together kind of laugh — a sound that was playful but bordered on real fright. Everyone knew what The Dread felt like and how you could sense yourself almost turning to walk away, but then the lights went brighter and the pull of honor kept you there. You somehow went into the awful unknown.

But June did not scare easily, and this Dread had visited her before.

It’s that dark thing that tells you that so far you have been lucky, no one had figured out that you can’t act, that you might forget not one line but ALL your lines. The Dread whispers “fraud” and “imposter” as you speak every line.

The Dread grabbed hold of Sir Laurence Olivier so tightly that for years the poor man performed not because he wanted to but because had he not done so it would have tanked his beloved National Theatre. He could not, would not, make eye contact with any actor, and he had the stage manager tell each new member of the cast that they “must never, at any point, speak directly to him. They must look to one side or the other and never make eye contact.” It may have abated over the years, or maybe it never really left the lord of the theater. He was handsome, famous and lauded and still The Dread found him, so why not June in this slight but funny comedy?

“Five minutes to curtain” is the call to arms for actors, and so it was that June began her walk down the steel stairs from her solo dressing room to the stage level. The prop master, Jim, handed her the book she carried on stage.

“So how’s Tom?” he asked. Tom was her real husband, the one at home.

“Oh, you know, still hates the Yankees and loves the Cubs — what can I say?”

Jim laughed and shook his head; he was a Mets guy.

June glided to her spot, where she waited to enter. She was fine right up to the book and the question from Jim, and then The Dread appeared just to her left. He began to whisper, “You can’t do this. You never could and everyone knows it. You are a fool to go out and fail in front of 750 people. Before you are even home the Times will have it splashed all over tomorrow’s paper: ‘June Talley crashes and burns in front of packed Saturday night crowd — never to work again.’”

A laugh froze in her throat, and she thought, for one split second, that it was all funny, but a chill went up her right side and straight to her heart and worse still, into her brain. The demon was a dark and deepening shadow she felt more than she could see. She silently shouted: “Get out of my head and my theater. Leave me alone.” She meant it, but The Dread paid no heed.

“Places for Act I, ladies and gentleman, places.”

The murmur in the house began to die down as the lights shifted and the curtain began a slow pull up to reveal the lovely drawing room of the play, the sound of a dog barking off in the distance, and the light on the set told us all that it was late spring with a touch of summer in the air. The lovely room was filled with fresh cut flowers and had the promise of a comedic evening.

She walked to the window, set the book on the ledge as she had done for 210 other nights, gently pulled up the window, breathing in the evening air.

She turned and said, “If tonight does not get them to fall in love, nothing will.” And then came the split second when she could not, for the life of her, remember what came next. She could see Danny just off stage and she looked at him with panic in her eyes.

“Whatever am I doing here? What should I be doing to make this go well?” she ad-libbed while looking into the wings. Danny knew what was happening, so on he came, making up a few lines to help get her on track, then off they went — as rehearsed — as they had done for 210 other shows.

“Good God,” she said at the intermission as she and Danny bolted up the stairs to change for Act II, “do you think anyone noticed?”

“Darling, this poor comedy is hung together so loosely that no one would notice if an elephant took to the stage . . . thank God for genius comedic skill or this thing would have closed weeks ago.” They both laughed at how untrue that was. It was a fine comedy and they both were very good in it, but it was lovely of him to obscure the scary feeling of not remembering.

The curtain came down that night to a standing ovation, as it did nightly, whether they deserved it or not — such is the Broadway audience.

June began reading the script nightly before “five minutes” was called, even though she knew every word. The Dread had found its way into the theater and the only defense was preparedness and laughter. Thank God for Danny, thank God for the rest of the cast and crew who made light of it and then lived in fear that they would be next.

As The Dread headed for another theater he paused to tip his hat because she had not broken down and because Danny had been a brick.

The next night someone in Phantom of the Opera forgot the first verse to “Music of the Night” and everyone in June’s show knew he had moved on. The cast laughed at the telling of the ad-libbed lyrics that night as actors gathered at Joe Allen’s bar after all the shows let out. The guy who played The Count told the story with everyone falling about at his impersonation and joking about it all.

No one knows better than an actor how a good laugh can dispel fear and nerves. Should you be in the theater on a night someone seems to be a bit off, or starts stumbling over lines, look just off stage, at the edge of the curtain. You may see a shadow looming, then turning to leave because his work there is done.  PS

Joyce Reehling is a 45-year veteran of the New York stage both on and off Broadway. She is a proud member of Actors Equity and Screen Actors Guild-American Federation of Radio and Television Artists. She now resides in Pinehurst. She does not miss The Dread.

Food for Thought

Christmas, Sweet and Savory

The spirit of the holidays begins in the kitchen. Cheese biscuits, gingerbread and garnet-hued poached pears are three simple yet festive ways to celebrate

By  Jane Lear

“The harried modern person looks to the winter holidays like someone slumped across a railroad track contemplating an oncoming train,” mused food writer Laurie Colwin more than 25 years ago. Her words resonate today amid the ever-increasing hype, and I, for one, refuse to get caught up in the fray. When it comes to feeding people, for instance, I tend to rely on a small repertoire of things I can pull together without too much fuss and which will make folks feel cherished.

Cheese biscuits are at the top of my list. I’m using the word biscuits here in the British sense to mean crisp wafers, and it’s still fairly common parlance in Colonial cities. In fact, you’ll see a recipe for these cayenne-spiced nibblies (often in the form of cheese straws) in every community and Junior League cookbook published south of the Mason-Dixon Line. They’re standard fare at drinks parties, wedding receptions, and almost every other social occasion you can think of.

I’m very fond of how my mother served them, with soups and stews. Perhaps this was because the store-bought bread available at the time wasn’t particularly flavorful (a basic baguette or sourdough loaf was unattainable), or perhaps she wanted a change from baking powder biscuits or cornbread; I don’t know. But cheese biscuits are a great way to add a little savory richness, some finesse, to an everyday meal. One — just one, mind you — is also a civilized way to end an evening, along with a nightcap, or what some of us call a baby-doll.

And cheese biscuits make a fabulous present. Even though it’s possible to buy every imaginable delicacy online these days, I think people are especially thrilled to open a gift that is homemade and almost profound in its plainness. And that is not something sweet.

Southerners appreciate cheese biscuits because they know one can never have too big a stash. For expat Northerners, there is an element of surprise, and, once tasted, delight. “Where have these been all my life?” the recipients exclaim, reaching into the tin for another. And cheese biscuits have legs — that is, real staying power. Not only are they good keepers, but you don’t get sick to death of looking at them, the way you do Christmas cookies. Face it: By early January, those cookies are so last year.

Cheese biscuits are so simple to make that anyone, even a person who suffers from an extreme case of F.O.F. (Fear of Flour), can throw them together without thinking about it. The secret is to buy the sharpest cheddar you can find, and add a little Parmigiano, “for sass,” as the cookbook author Damon Lee Fowler likes to say.

Gingerbread is another standby in my holiday kitchen because it is easy to make and a hit with young and old alike. It can be enjoyed absolutely plain or dressed up with a glaze made from lemon juice and confectioners sugar, or with billows of whipped cream flavored with a little bourbon. It’s the sort of thing you can serve guests at a fancy dinner party, and they will immediately feel like they’re part of the family.

Whenever I make gingerbread, I am reminded of my Aunt Eloise — actually, a longtime friend of my mother’s — who often visited us during the holidays. She would arrive in an immaculately maintained Buick and insist on carrying her own suitcase into our hall, setting it down with a little sigh. (“Always travel light, dear,” she counseled, years before I ever went anywhere. “You may have to move fast.”)

My brother and I couldn’t wait to present ourselves before Aunt Eloise because we knew exactly what would happen. She would shake her head in amazement at how much we had grown, and hug us thoroughly before rummaging through a capacious handbag for two chocolate bars, wrapped in thin gold foil and glossy paper.

We had to open them very carefully, because Aunt Eloise wanted the foil back. Like my parents, she had grown up during the Great Depression, and never wasted a thing. She would smooth the sheets and tuck them away with a smile.

The days before Christmas were filled with tree-cutting and decoration, setting up the crèche, which had an expanded cast (my father trolled thrift shops and pawn shops looking, in particular, for the Baby Jesus — he couldn’t bear the thought of one being adrift), and frantic gift wrapping.

And then, of course, there was the gingerbread. Dark, moist, and spicy, it was Aunt E.’s specialty. One year, she turned to face my brother and me in the kitchen. “I have always made gingerbread for you,” she said, removing her apron and hitching it up, neat and workmanlike, around me. “Now, it’s your turn.” She switched on the oven and then got comfortable at the kitchen table. Mom made cups of tea for them both and buttered the pan.

My brother stirred the flour, baking soda and spices together. I plugged in the Sunbeam and managed to cream the butter and dark brown sugar, then beat in the eggs and cane syrup — preferred by all in our house to molasses. I stopped, startled, when the mixture looked curdled, but Aunt Eloise peered into the bowl and said, “Oh, it’s fine! Just keep going and see what happens.”

After beating in the flour mixture and a little hot water, everything miraculously came together. After my mother helped me pour the batter into the pan, she put it into the hot oven.

By the time the dishes were done, so was the gingerbread. Aunt Eloise patted several pockets — she had a magician’s knack for misdirection — before unerringly settling on the right one, then fished out an envelope full of small gold stars, cut out of foil. They smelled very faintly of chocolate as we pressed them into the warm cake.

Now, when it comes to holiday food that is both easy and spectacular, things get a bit trickier. It pays to keep a file of these recipes, and if they happen to be gluten and/or dairy free, or not terribly bad for you, then so much the better. My go-to favorite is a recipe for scarlet poached pears developed by my former Gourmet colleague Paul Grimes, a brilliant food stylist with a painter’s eye.

Because poached pears rarely look as good as they taste, Paul took a cue from a dessert at Le Chateaubriand, in Paris, which uses a beet to intensify the pears’ hue. If you or yours don’t happen to like beets, no worries: You can’t taste the beet in the least, and the fresher and juicier it is, the deeper in color the fruit will become.

Beets have long been used as a dye for textiles and food, by the way. Before the advent of artificial colorants, they put the “red” in red velvet cake, for instance, and they turn Easter eggs a delicate mauve. The vegetable’s saturated color, like that of bougainvillea, amaranth and the flowers of some cacti, comes from pigments called betalains (from Beta vulgaris, the Latin name of the common beet).

Poaching is among the gentlest of cooking techniques. Although it isn’t complicated, you do want to be mindful of the heat. You don’t want the liquid to vigorously boil — otherwise, whatever it is you’re cooking will either break apart or toughen. A lower flame allows you greater control and precision. The end result — whether you are poaching chicken, say, or eggs or fruit — should possess the quality of moelleux (mwall-YEW) — a soft, velvety mouthfeel that is completely, captivatingly French.

If you are at all resistant to the idea of poached pears, you’ve likely been traumatized by one that threatened to skid across the table when pierced with a fork. This usually happens during a first date or dinner with the boss. But understanding moelleux — the pears should be so tender they practically melt in your mouth — is a gamechanger. The key to success is very basic: You must cook the pears until they are done. Since the pears may be of slightly different sizes or at different stages of ripeness, be sure to test them all. When you insert a small skewer or paring knife, it should glide in but the flesh should still feel solid, not mushy.

Cheese biscuits, gingerbread and gorgeous poached pears have become three of my favorite traditions of the season, and here’s hoping they find a place at your table as well. Happy holidays!

Gingerbread

I don’t have Aunt Eloise’s recipe, but this is a close approximation. It’s based on the Tropical Gingerbread (minus the canned coconut) in Charleston Receipts — a standard reference for both Aunt E. and my mother — and the Old-Fashioned Gingerbread in the big yellow Gourmet Cookbook. When it comes to the cane syrup, you should know that this syrup made from ribbon cane is lighter and sweeter than molasses. Not only is it a versatile baking ingredient, it makes the ultimate condiment for pancakes, waffles, and hot biscuits. Cane syrup is available at supermarkets in the South; one of my favorite mail-order brands is Steen’s (steenssyrup.com), from Louisiana.

1 stick unsalted butter, room temperature, plus extra to butter pan

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 1/2 teaspoons ground ginger

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon ground allspice or cloves

1/2 teaspoon salt

3/4 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar

2 large eggs

1/2 cup pure ribbon cane syrup

2/3 cup hot water

1. Preheat the oven to 350° and butter an 8- or 9-inch square baking pan. In one bowl stir together the flour, baking soda, spices and salt. In another bowl with an electric mixer beat together the butter and brown sugar at medium-high speed until nice and fluffy.

2. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, then beat in the cane syrup. At this point, the batter might look curdled, but, as Aunt Eloise would tell you, don’t worry about it. Reduce the mixer speed to low and beat in the flour mixture, then the hot water. Continue to beat until the batter is smooth, a minute or so.

3. Pour the batter into the pan and bake in the middle of the oven until a wooden skewer inserted in the center of the gingerbread comes out perfectly clean, around 35 to 40 minutes. Put the pan on a wire rack to cool for a bit, then serve warm. The gingerbread is also a great keeper: the flavor deepens after a day or so, and if tightly wrapped, the cake stays moist.

Scarlet Poached Pears à la Gourmet

Serves 6

If your pears are very small or ripe (instead of firm-ripe), then set the kitchen timer for 20 minutes, say, instead of the 35 to 40 minutes specified below. And if the pears are indeed done more quickly, then transfer them to a bowl to cool, remove the bay leaf and cinnamon, and continue to simmer the poaching liquid until thickened and syrupy.

About the poaching wine: Orange Muscat is not the easiest dessert wine to find, but don’t fret. Another muscat won’t have the same alluring orange-apricot aroma, but it will still be delicious. Serve these beauties with a fork, for stabilizing the pear, and a dessert spoon, for scooping flesh and juice.

2 cups Orange Muscat such as Quady Winery’s Essensia (from a 750-ml bottle)

1 medium red beet (1/4 pound), peeled and sliced

1 tablespoon sugar

2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

1 cinnamon stick (about 2 inches in length)

1 bay leaf

3 small firm-ripe pears (about 1 pound total), such as Forelle or Bosc, peeled, halved lengthwise, and cored

1. Bring wine, beet, sugar, lemon juice, cinnamon stick, and bay leaf to a boil in a 1 1/2 – to 2-quart saucepan, stirring until sugar is dissolved.

2. Add pears and cover with a round of parchment paper to help them cook and color evenly. (So that they stay covered with liquid, place a small saucer on top of the parchment as they cook.) Reduce the heat and simmer, turning occasionally, until pears are tender and liquid is syrupy, 35 to 40 minutes. Transfer pears to a bowl. Discard cinnamon stick and bay leaf and pour syrup over pears. Cool completely in syrup, about 30 minutes. Poached pears can be made 1 day ahead and chilled in the syrup; the color will deepen the longer they stay in the syrup.

Cheese Biscuits

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon coarse salt

A generous pinch cayenne

1 stick unsalted butter, cut into pieces and softened to room temperature

6 ounces extra-sharp orange cheddar plus 2 ounces Parmigiano-Reggiano, coarsely grated (about 2 cups total) and at room temperature

Finely chopped crystallized ginger, for garnish

1. Whisk together the flour, salt and cayenne in a bowl until combined well. In another bowl, with a stand mixer, beat together butter and cheese until smooth. Beat dry ingredients into cheese mixture until smooth. The dough should be very malleable, like Play-Doh.

2. Roll the dough into a couple of logs for slicing. Wrap in waxed paper and chill until firm but not hard, about 30 minutes. (Dough keeps in the refrigerator 1 week. You can also freeze it, wrapped well; let it thaw at room temperature until pliable enough to work with.)

3. Preheat oven to 350 degrees and cut each log into 1/8-inch rounds, giving the log a quarter turn after each slice so it stays round. Put a dab of the crystallized ginger on top of each biscuit, pressing gently so it adheres.

4. You can either bake the biscuits, one baking sheet at a time, in the middle of the oven, or set the racks in the upper and lower thirds, and switch the baking sheets halfway through. Depending on the size and thickness of your biscuits, they’ll take anywhere from 16 to 18 minutes to bake. They are done when the bottoms are golden but the tops and sides are still pale. Let cool on a wire rack. Biscuits will stay fresh in an airtight tin for days and even improve in flavor.  PS

Jane Lear, formerly of Gourmet magazine and Martha Stewart Living, is the editor of Feed Me, a quarterly magazine for Long Island food lovers.

Southwords

Dispelling Darkness

A candle for every season, every reason

By Tom Allen

Candles go with Christmas like eggs with Easter; turkey with Thanksgiving. Choose tapers or tea lights, votives or pillars, from hundreds in stores or online. Some burn a flame, others need batteries. Dripless or scented, there’s a candle for every occasion.

Candles, although not high-tech like cars or computers, remain a billion dollar industry, fueled by wellness and self-care trends. Cocooning requires candles. Staying in has become the new going out. Open the Hello Fresh box, pour a glass from wine-of-the-month delivery, and light a seasonal scent from Bath and Body Works. “Alexa, play some Diana Krall.”

Used to be candles served practical purposes, though occasionally, decorative. My mother, pragmatic and minimalist when it came to Christmas decor, stationed two red tapers at each end of our mantel, with cellophane intact. The tapers remained unlit despite the manger scene, even on Christmas Eve. When the power went out during a January storm she might remove the cellophane and light the candles, but ambience had nothing to do with kindling a flame.

Electric candles, with opaque, orange bulbs from the 1950s and ’60s, illuminated front windows; by the ’70s, Colonial Williamsburg’s influence reached small-town N.C. White lights replaced colored. Clear lights glowed in our windows, lit our tree, and twined around the lamppost. But red tapers, cellophane intact, still stood on the mantel. I’m not sure Mom ever bought into the scented candle craze. French Vanilla? Frosted Cranberry? If the power goes out, who needs aromatherapy? Gimme some light so I can see how to brush my teeth.

Today, chandlers (the fancy name for folks who make candles) market to our olfactory receptors and life situations. Tough day at the office? How ’bout a Stress Relief 3-Wick Eucalyptus + Spearmint or a soy-based Lime Basil Mandarin? Snowed in without a good read? Light a Frostbeard Studio brand favorite — Bookstore, a blend of “driftwood, mahogany, coffee, and the subtle scent of leather.” Missing your homeland? Homesick specializes in candles that “tap into your sensory memory through nostalgic scents that remind you of the place you grew up.” For 30 bucks you can take North Carolina on the road over the holidays and “breathe in memories . . . recalling blackberries, peaches, and notes of smoky barbecue. Spicy hints of cinnamon and clove are balanced with mild and sweet tonka bean and amber.” Tonka bean? What’s a tonka bean? 

I confess, my wife and I bought into the seasonal scents — Bahama Breeze, Clean Cotton, Apple Spice. And for the holidays, Balsam and Cedar, Christmas Cookie, Home for the Holidays. Our favorite, from locally owned Seagrove Candles: Yuletide, our answer to “Candle of the Month” for December.

No electric candles in our windows. Only traditional red tapers, sans wrappers, line our mantel — three on each end, with brass holders of varying heights. Tea lights for my grandmother’s buffet, pillars rest on our dining room table, and votives cast a glow on departed loved ones’ photos.

An Advent wreath, with three purple candles and one pink, lit weekly to remind us of the season’s significance, sits beside a Hummel Nativity. Last Christmas, thanks to my wife, after 27 years, the remaining two Wise Men found their way to the creche, illuminated by the wreath’s “Christ Candle,” reserved for Christmas Eve.

Christmas and Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights, fall during the darkest days of the year. Light plays an important role in those narratives. Angelic light surrounds frightened shepherds; a star guides Magi to a newborn king; a tiny bit of oil miraculously burned for eight days in a temple candelabrum. Perhaps that’s why we light Advent wreaths, menorahs, and Yankee Candles during light-starved December — to remind us that light dispels darkness, whether inside our cocoons or deep within our souls.

So strike a match, light up the mantel, kindle your own flame. Create light. Be light. Illuminate your corner of the world. What a wonderful, priceless gift. PS

Tom Allen is minister of education at First Baptist Church, Southern Pines.

Poem

The Aurora

Life in the

South suits me

just fine —

warm winters,

slow speech,

kudzu, and

iced tea.

But just once

I want to

stand in the

frigid dark,

wrapped in

a fur-lined

parka,

mukluks

on my feet,

scanning the

horizon for

a snow drift

that might morph

into a polar bear

and watch

the aurora borealis

explode across

the night sky —

green and red

lights

circling and waving,

twisting and weaving,

in a shimmering

dance.

— Karen Filipski

The Last Christmas Tree

Fiction by Bruce Shields   •   Illustrations by Harry Blair

In a small village, deep in a valley of the Great Smoky Mountains, freshly fallen snow glistened in the late afternoon light, blanketing the ground and adorning the firs and the cedars and the tall, stately pines. The sun cast long shadows across the snow, giving a warm, orange glow to all it touched. Horse-drawn sleighs glided along the streets, and bells on the harnesses jingled in the chilly air. Wreaths of green boughs with their red ribbons hung from the lamplights. Smoke wafted from the chimneys of the homes lining the streets, and festive lights sparkled from their windows. You could almost smell the gingerbread and hot apple cider.

High up on the mountainside, an old man looked down on the twinkling lights and curling smoke through passive gray eyes. He knew the joy and excitement the people were feeling at Christmas. He knew how the children’s eyes would sparkle as the families sat by their fires at night and talked of the days ahead. But for him, all that was many, many years ago — like another lifetime. Now his long hair and beard were white as the snow around him, and if any sense of joy or sorrow remained, the distant stare in his tired eyes gave no hint of what it might be.

His name was Samuel Cross, although most of the villagers knew him as Old Sam. He had lived alone in the mountains for as long as anyone could remember. He was a gentle recluse who seemed to want nothing more than to be left alone — with one exception. Each year, he brought the villagers their Christmas trees.

He grew the trees beside his mountain cabin, tending to them as though they were children of his own. Indeed, they were his family. When Christmas was a few days away, he would carefully select and cut the trees to load on his sleigh and sell in the village square. It was the only time he was ever seen by the villagers and, by Christmas Eve, he would be gone.

Old Sam spent the day cutting the trees, and with his sleigh piled high with the fragrant evergreens, he was ready to begin the long trip down the mountain. Just before he mounted his sleigh, he paused beside a small fir. It was no more than 3 feet tall, with a bent trunk that supported a few poorly arranged boughs. Although he normally left the smaller trees to grow for future years, something inside him said that he could not leave this one behind. He knelt beside it in the snow and carefully cut the trunk with his sharp axe. Then he carried the little tree to his sleigh and placed it on top of the others.

Sam climbed up onto the seat, gave the reins a snap and began his journey down the mountain. A full moon lit the way and, with a bed of fresh snow on the road, the old mare pulled the sleigh along at a smart pace. Three bells on the horse’s harness made a cheerful jingle that carried far down the mountainside, the sound that Christmas was on its way.

Sarah heard the bells and ran to her window. She was the first to see the sleigh because her family’s small house was on the very outskirts of the village. She pressed her face close to the cold windowpane, her breath fogging it over. She wiped the glass clean enough to see through a small circle, and her heart quickened when she saw the horse and sleigh as Old Sam passed right in front of her with his wonderful cargo of Christmas trees.

The trees in Sarah’s home had never been the largest in the village, but to her they were unquestionably the most beautiful in the world. Her father always said Christmas wasn’t complete without a tree, and she remembered with delight how he would make such a show of bringing in their Christmas tree each year. He was a man who lived life with joy, and he was never happier than when his family was gathered together around their tree.

She remembered, too, how the tree always seemed to brighten their small home. Before putting on the homemade decorations, her family would sit and admire their tree just as it was, and her father would say how it reminded him of beauty and hope for a new beginning. Sarah’s heart swelled with joy as she thought about those happy days. But then, as the sleigh disappeared toward the center of the village and the sound of the bells faded into the cold night, she was brought back to the harsh reality that, for her family, times had changed.

Sarah had always believed her father when he took her on his knee and told her that they were the richest family in the village. It was only as she grew older that she realized how terribly poor her family really was. For some years her father had not been well and was barely able to keep a steady job. Last Christmas, as a young lady of 9, she began to see things as they were. Her father had grown sicker and hadn’t worked since early summer.

One night, when her parents thought she was asleep, Sarah heard her mother say to her father that they simply could not afford a Christmas tree that year. There was not even enough money to feed and clothe the children, and certainly not a penny to spare for anything so frivolous as a tree. Sarah’s mother was as practical as her father was hopeful. It was not that she loved her family any less. In fact, it was her intense love for her family that caused her to worry so much. That night, through a crack in the door, she saw her father put his arm around her mother and, in his usual cheerful way, comfort her. Sarah thought she heard him say something about a miracle, but that only seemed to make her mother cry more.

Still, they did manage to have a tree that year. Yes, it was the smallest one ever, but Sarah’s father brought it home with such a show that it seemed to be the grandest yet. He told the family again of how important the Christmas tree was — a reminder of how something small and humble can bring joy and hope into the world.

That night, Sarah saw tears in her mother’s eyes. It was to be the last Christmas the family would have with their father. In the early spring he was overcome by his illness, and they buried him among the daffodils where the valley gently rises toward the mountains.

That seemed like such a long time ago now, and yet there were times when Sarah still looked up expecting to see her father come through the door. She wondered what the first Christmas without him would be like. She was 10 now, and she knew her mother was depending on her to be grown up and brave. But her brother, John, who was only 5, still didn’t really understand that his father would not be home for Christmas. Their father had always managed to provide them both with a small toy at Christmas, and it hurt her to think of John’s disappointment because there would be nothing this year. Most of all, she couldn’t bring herself to accept that there would be no Christmas tree.

Sarah had a blend of her mother’s practicality and her father’s belief in the impossible. Though her mother hadn’t mentioned it, Sarah knew she couldn’t afford to buy a Christmas tree this year. Sarah didn’t resent this. Her mother worked hard in the nice homes of the village to provide for her children. She knew that the money her mother made would barely be enough to see them through the long, cold winter. Still, her father’s side of Sarah would not let her give up. She believed he would have found a way. He would have continued to hope.

Sarah’s school was at the other end of the village from her home, and the walk took her through the center of town, along the streets with delightful store windows, past the village square, and finally into the part of town with the grandest, loveliest homes. She always enjoyed the walk, but never so much as at Christmastime, when the stores were filled with wonderful gifts, the homes beautifully decorated and the village square alive with Old Sam’s freshly cut Christmas trees.

On her way home from school, Sarah paused to look in the store windows at the toys, the lacy dresses, bright ribbons, jars of candy and baskets of fruit. For a moment, she allowed herself to dream of having such nice things, but quickly stopped, knowing there would be no toys or fancy dresses this year. Sarah did, however, have a way to surprise her brother. She had five pennies and she planned to buy some candy and fruit to put in John’s stocking. It was still four days until Christmas, and she decided to wait as long as she could in the hope that the prices might be lower and her pennies would buy more.

When Sarah arrived in the square it was crowded with fine sleighs as the village families carefully inspected each tree to make sure they would have the right one for them. In a far corner, Old Sam sat on a log beside a small fire. He didn’t seem to notice or care what was going on around him. In one hand he held a carving knife and in the other a pine branch. A pile of wood shavings surrounded his feet. He rarely spoke to anyone, and only looked up from his whittling when someone was ready to buy their tree.

Sarah felt as though she was in a fairyland, breathing in the fragrance of the trees as she walked between the rows. She inspected each tree with great care, as though she, too, was making the all-important decision of which one to take home. Finally, she made her decision. She selected the most beautiful tree in the square and, in her imagination, pretended to take it home to her family. She knew it was silly to dream, and yet somehow she believed it was possible until a family walked up and announced that the tree — her tree — was the one for them. She stood silently fighting back tears, and watched her tree being taken away.

Before she realized it, an hour had passed and the tall pines were casting long shadows across the square. As Sarah began to turn for home, she suddenly had the feeling that someone was looking at her. She turned quickly, and her eyes met those of Old Sam. There was no expression on his face; he simply sat and looked at her through his gray eyes. She turned to see if there was someone behind her, but realized she was all alone.

When she looked back at him, he had gone back to his whittling. It made her so self-conscious, she ran for home, nearly tripping over a small tree. It was so small that she hadn’t even noticed it before. And, as she glanced at it for the first time, she thought it looked rather pitiful and hardly could be called a Christmas tree at all. “What a silly-looking thing you are,” she said. And she raced all the way home.

When she returned to the village square the following day after school, Sarah was surprised to find so many trees already sold, taken to homes throughout the village. Even so there were still many nice, freshly cut trees left, and Sarah inspected each with great care. Again she let her imagination wander back in time. She remembered how her father looked at her and how he seemed to delight in her excitement as she studied each tree. The dream seemed so real that, for a moment, Sarah thought she could feel her father’s gaze. But it was Old Sam who was looking at her.

She shifted her eyes slowly and for a few seconds met the eyes of the old man sitting on the log. Sarah was certain she saw a brief smile. His weathered face behind the white beard seemed different that day, and Sarah had the feeling he was looking at her the same way her father once had. Old Sam sat silently for a moment and then, gesturing toward a tree some distance away, he said, “Have you looked at this one?”

When she turned, Sarah saw the little tree that she had nearly tripped over the day before. Sarah’s mother had taught her to always tell the truth, but she didn’t want to hurt the old man’s feelings. It was simply not a proper Christmas tree. She stood there for a moment looking at the little tree and trying to think what to say. But the problem solved itself, for when she looked back, Old Sam had stepped away to help another customer.

The following day was the last day of school before Christmas. There was the usual holiday excitement in the air as her class let out. Most of the children hurried home, anxious to be with their families and to enjoy their trees, look at the beautifully wrapped gifts and sample all those delicious things to eat. But Sarah went back to the village square.

When she arrived, there were only two trees left — a medium-sized one and the funny looking little tree. The old man was talking to the last family in the square. Sarah wished with all her heart that the family would pick the little tree, though she realized how unlikely that was. Sure enough, they selected the larger one. She stood there as Old Sam took their money and put the tree in the family’s sleigh, and she watched them disappear down the snowy lane. Suddenly, Sarah realized that she was all alone with the old man and the last Christmas tree.

Old Sam returned to his log by the fire and resumed his whittling, and she walked over to the little tree. For the first time, she looked closely at it. She still thought it was rather pitiful. It was so small, and the trunk was noticeably bent, and she wished the few little boughs were arranged better. Still, it was a real tree and it did have the same wonderful fragrance as the others, and she thought of how her father would have made it look grand by bringing it home with such a show.

Sarah felt the five pennies in her coat pocket. Then she swallowed hard, mustered up all her courage and walked over to the old man. In her most adult, business-like tone, she asked, “How much is that one?” Old Sam looked up into her eyes and then over at the little tree. He seemed to study the tree for a long time, staring beyond it, as though his thoughts were far away from the village square. Then he blinked his eyes and cocked his head and asked, “What do you have?”

“Five pennies, sir,” she replied.

“That will do,” he said with a serious nod.

It was everything she had. Sarah felt the coins in her pocket and tried to think which was more important for John — to have a gift on Christmas or to have a tree. It was such a hard decision, too hard for a 10-year-old girl. Finally she told Old Sam that she would have to go home and think it over. He gave no response, looked down and resumed his carving. Sarah was afraid she might have hurt the old man’s feelings and she stood there for a moment trying to think of what else to say. But it was getting late and she had to go home or her mother would worry.

Sarah kept thinking about the old man as she walked home. After supper, she asked her mother if she knew anything about him. Her mother thought for a moment, remembering what her own parents told her once.

“When Samuel Cross was a young man,” she began, “he and his wife lived here in the village. After many years of marriage, they had a child — a girl. She was a gentle child with beautifully delicate features, and she was loved by everyone in the village. But she was very small and frail and, because she was crippled, her father carried her wherever they went. He seemed to love doing this, since the child was the joy of his life. Then one winter, when she was about your age, Sarah, the little girl passed away. Her mother was so grief-stricken that she too died of a broken heart. Old Sam went up into the mountains and has lived there ever since, returning to the village only to sell his trees.”

Sarah understood why the old man looked at her the way he did, for it was the same way her father once looked at her. At that very moment Sarah resolved that she should buy the tree. In fact, the more she thought about it the more it seemed the little tree had always been meant for her and John, and she wanted it more than any Christmas tree she could ever remember. She wanted to run back to the village square and buy it right then, but her mother told her it was too late and that she would have to wait until morning.

That evening, Sarah made Christmas decorations out of pieces of paper and, as she fashioned each one, she thought of how lovely they were going to look on her tree. She thought of the happiness it would bring Old Sam to have someone share his love for the little tree. Sarah was so excited she had trouble falling asleep. When morning finally came, it was the day before Christmas.

She was up at dawn and hurried to finish her chores. After a bowl of warm cereal and a glass of milk, Sarah was off for the village square. She ran most of the way and when she could run no more, she walked as fast as her legs would carry her. Her anticipation mounted as she reached the top of a hill where she could look down into the village. But, when she reached the summit, her heart sank like a great weight — the village square was empty.

She stood motionless for a moment, then hurried down to the square, hoping upon hope. Maybe Old Sam had slept late and would be coming along soon with her tree. But what if someone else already bought it? She couldn’t bear to think of it.

She stood in the snow all morning watching for Old Sam. By noon she realized he wasn’t coming. She wanted to hide someplace and cry, but knew that her father would have wanted her to be brave.

After a while, Sarah remembered that she still had her five pennies, so she left the square and went to the general store. Even though it was Christmas Eve, the money didn’t go as far as she had hoped. Still, she was able to buy a few peppermint sticks and an orange for John. And so, with her candy and fruit, Sarah went home.

That night, their mother sat on the side of the bed in which both Sarah and John slept. She tried to remember how her husband used to tell the Christmas story every Christmas Eve. Sarah listened carefully and once again felt the warmth that the story always brought her, and she lay there for a while trying to be thankful for God’s gifts. But she was only a little girl and it was the first Christmas without her father, and the disappointment of the day still lay heavily upon her heart. She cried quietly so as not to wake John and soon fell asleep herself.

Sarah was up early on Christmas morning. The world somehow looked different — more special — on Christmas day. So, while her mother and John were sleeping, she filled John’s stocking, then dressed and went to the front door to see how this day would look.

Sarah opened the door and the morning sun bounced brightly off the snow. Her eyes burst wide open when she beheld a sight that took her breath away. There, in her front yard, on a beautiful blanket of new fallen snow stood a tree — her tree!

Sarah wanted to scream for joy, but her heart was pounding so hard she could barely get her breath. As she began walking toward the tree, she saw that it was decorated with many delicate wooden carvings — dolls, toy soldiers, wagons, animals and on and on. Each was made of pine, and some looked like they had been freshly carved, while others seemed weathered, as though they had been collected over many years. On the bottom of each carving, were the initials S.C.

Sarah was startled by a holler and turned to see John running toward the tree and her mother standing in the doorway. The young boy danced around the tree, looking at all the toys. He took a truck from one of the boughs and, when he saw the initials, he exclaimed with total conviction, “Santa Claus!”

Sarah started to explain, but then saw her mother’s smile and heard her say, “Why, sure enough.”

Many Christmases have since come and gone, and Sarah has had children and grandchildren of her own. Many Christmas trees have stood in her home. Some have been large and lovely, but none have ever been so beautiful nor stayed so dear to her heart as the little tree that taught her that true happiness does not come from things large and grand, but through humble gifts, given with love.  PS

Bruce Shields is a retired ophthalmologist who spent his career at Duke and Yale universities in patient care, education and research. He lives with his wife, Sharon, in Burlington, North Carolina.

PinePitch

Tea Time on the Tracks

Get that pinky finger in the air to support the Sandhills Woman’s Exchange on the refurbished Aberdeen, Carolina and Western railroad cars parked near the Pinehurst Resort on N.C. 5. Hot tea and food will be served by waitresses in period dress. Entertainment features Hollis Carbrey and tickets are $75. For information and tickets, call (910) 295-4677.

Christmas on Connecticut

Get in the spirit at the Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities’ open house beginning Thursday, Dec. 5, from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., at 55 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. It continues at the same time on Dec. 6 and runs from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. on Dec. 7. The cost is $5 at the door. Need more info? Go to weymouthcenter.org or call (910) 692-6261.

Dancer, Prancer and You

The 5K Reindeer Fun Run weaves through the streets of Aberdeen on Dec. 7 from 8 a.m. to 12 p.m. All proceeds go to the Boys and Girls Club of the Sandhills. Rendezvous at 100 E. Main St., Aberdeen. For more information, call (910) 693-3045 or go to www.reindeerfunrun.com.

Ted Fitzgerald/The Pilot

Tree Lightings

The village of Pinehurst will come alive at its tree lighting at 6:30 p.m. on Dec. 6 in Tufts Memorial Park, 1 Village Green Road West. There will be music, crafts and an appearance by Santa, who will make the commute from Aberdeen, where he stars in their tree lighting on Dec. 5, from 6:15 to 7:30 p.m. at The Depot, 100 E. Main Street. For a big man, he gets around. Pinehurst information can be found at www.vopnc.org, and for more Aberdeen details, call (910) 944-7275.

Ruth Pauley Lecture Series

Michael Mann, the director of the Earth System Science Center at Penn State University, will present “Leaving the Madhouse: The Path to Climate Action,” at 7 p.m. on Dec. 5 at the Bradshaw Performing Arts Center, Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Southern Pines. For more information go to www.ruthpauley.org.

Deck the Halls

The STARworks Gallery at 100 Russell Drive in Star will hold its magnificent ornament sale from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. on Saturday, Dec. 7. There will be more than 2,500 handcrafted ornaments available. For more information, call (910) 428-9001 or visit www.starworksnc.org.

Ted Fitzgerald/The Pilot

Mr. Claus in the House

The date for the Christmas parade is Dec. 7; the time is 11 a.m.; the place is downtown Southern Pines. There will be bands a-marchin’ and Santa Claus a-wavin’. If you need any more information than that, call (910) 692-7376.

Jazz Age

Join the Three Rivers Land Trust in Pinehurst on Dec. 7 from 9 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. to experience a bygone era, touring three restored train cars of the 1900s parked near the Pinehurst Resort on N.C. 5. A jazz band, specialty drinks and food will help support historic preservation and land conservation in the Piedmont and Sandhills. Tickets are available at www.threeriverslandtrust.org/jotr.

Tour of Homes

Visit three historic homes in Southern Pines, one in the Country Club of North Carolina and another in Whispering Pines, all decked out in their holiday finery, in the 42nd Annual Episcopal Day School Candlelight Tour of Homes on Dec. 8 from 1–5 p.m. For more information call (910) 692-3492 or go to www.episcopalday.org. Tickets are available at ticketmesandhills.com.

The Rooster’s Wife

Thursday, Dec. 5: Jonathan Byrd and The Pickup Cowboys. Byrd is a preacher’s son, a Gulf War veteran, and an award-winning songwriter known for literary, outsider songs that have become campfire favorites. He’s joined on drums by Austin McCall with musical Renaissance man Johnny Waken on guitar, saw and mandolin. Cost: $15.

Sunday, Dec. 8: Keenan McKenzie and the Riffers. McKenzie and the Riffers are a dance band designed to perform original music and tight arrangements from the 1930s and 1940s. With three horns, the group plays a mix of clever big band reduction and swing-era combo tunes. Cost: $15.

Thursday, Dec. 12: Holiday Cheer with Newberry and Verch. Growing up, musicians Joe Newberry and April Verch absorbed traditions of home and hearth — in his Missouri Ozarks and her Ottawa Valley of Canada. The holidays have always been a special time of the year for both, with the lure of family and friends, festive decorations, gifts under the tree, and always . . . music. Cost: $20.

Sunday, Dec. 15: Amanda Anne Platt and the Honeycutters. Getting in the holiday spirit with their new EP, “Christmas on a Greyhound Bus,” they’re on a limited run of one-night stands, playing some of their favorite seasonal tunes as well as some original holiday material. Don’t worry, they’ll also be doing a whole set of Honeycutters classics to round out the night. Cost: $15.

Thursday, Dec. 19: Open mic with The Parsons.
Unless otherwise noted, doors open at 6 p.m. and music begins at 6:46 at the Poplar Knight Spot, 114 Knight St., Aberdeen. Prices above are for members. Annual memberships are $5 and available online or at the door. For more information call (910) 944-7502 or visit www.theroosterswife.org or ticketmesandhills.com.

The Nutcracker

Experience the Bolshoi Ballet’s magical production of this timeless classic accompanied by Tchaikovsky’s beloved score on Sunday, Dec. 15, at 1 p.m., at the Sunrise Theater, 244 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. For more information, call (910) 692-3611 or go to www.sunrisetheater.com.

Murphy Family Christmas

A tradition like no other, the Murphy Family Christmas Concert, sponsored by Chapman’s Food and Spirits, will be held at 2:30 p.m. on Saturday, Dec. 21, at the Sunrise Theater, 244 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. For more information, call (910) 692-3611 or visit www.sunrisetheater.com.

Ted Fitzgerald/The Pilot

Shaw House Holiday

Celebrate the season by attending an open house of the Shaw House, the Garner House and the Sanders Cabin at the corner of Morganton Road and Broad St., in Southern Pines. For information and registration, call (910) 692-2051, email info@moorehistory.com or visit www.moorehistory.com.

Good Natured

Gifts of Love

Finding the meaning of the season

By Karen Frye

December is always a busy time. The year is ending and the holiday season is on! The hustle and bustle, the shopping, the wrapping, the preparation for get-togethers with family and friends can be overwhelming and disguise what this time of the year truly represents.

The theme of the season is gifts — not just tangible gifts wrapped in pretty paper — but also gifts of our hearts . . . gifts of love. This year, remind yourself it’s a spiritual time, a celebration of love for each other. It’s about understanding what is really important and meaningful to each of us.

Giving gifts of love can mean more than that sweater or watch we may not need. The feeling one receives from a gift of love goes deeper and touches our heart. It brings us hope and the contagious desire to spread our love to others.

These gifts don’t have to cost a thing. The commercialism in December can create an emotional meltdown, and the stress of spending (too much) money can ruin the true meaning of the season. Adopt a meaningful tradition — kind words of appreciation and gratitude to someone who has been of service to you in some way; or spending time with someone who may be alone for the holidays. Consider what would be most beneficial to those in your life.

Some other ways to make this holiday more meaningful:

• Find a family that may be struggling financially and buy their groceries
   for a week, or even a meal.

• Go to a nursing home and spend time with someone who may be alone.

• Adopt a rescue pet.

• Treat the person in line behind you at the coffee shop.

• Smile more at the people you meet on the street. Even a smile can
   brighten someone’s day and make a difference in their lives.

Remember the saying, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” It all begins with one person, and that person is you.

Give gifts of the heart, gifts of love, joy and peace. It’s the true meaning of this very special time. PS

Karen Frye is the owner and founder of Nature’s Own and teaches yoga at the Bikram Yoga Studio.

Mom Inc

Magnificent Seven

Their precious moments together

By Renee Whitmore

It’s December, cloudy with a chance of snow. Seven students sit in chairs along two tables. The timer is set for 12 minutes. We write.

Grace is to my left. Curly brownish-blonde hair and stylish glasses frame her face. Her purple pen fills her lined pages with pretty cursive. She stops for a moment, rubs her left ring finger, and continues. She tells her tale through the eyes of a character named Mercy, who graduates from high school and moves to New York City to become an actor. She meets a guy, of course, and we wonder where he fits in . . .

Lauren sits directly in front of me, second row. She prefers to type on her laptop, and I watch her as she squints, backspaces, reworks a phrase, smiles, types on. Lauren pulls us in with descriptive scenes and intense characters and endings that surprise us and make her grin in delight . . .

Abby’s in the second row, to my left. Her brown hair is pulled up in a ponytail. Slightly slouched over her notebook, she writes quickly, turns a page, and a minute later, turns another. She asks, “Is this believable?” or, “Should I add more dialogue?” and treats everyone’s story as if it’s the only one she cares about. And, at that very moment, it is . . .

Makenzie sits in between Abby and Lauren in the second row. She writes meticulously — with a pencil. She erases. Her eyes squint as she ponders the sentence she just wrote. She erases some more. Thinks. Writes. Makenzie is working on a thriller. A man wakes up in a hospital bed with no recollection of how he arrived. A girl he has never met sneaks into the room, yanks out his IVs, and says, “We’re getting out of here . . .”

Brittany sits on the far right side of the room, also in the second row, armed with her Starbucks latte with extra espresso. Her long dark hair drapes over her gray hoodie as she writes. She examines every sentence before she moves to the next, and she thinks every scene, every character, every plot twist through before she commits it to paper. She pulls us into her real-life stories . . .

There are two Sams. Sam R. sits right in front of me, a left-hander who writes in harsh, black ink, his eyebrows furrowing. He thinks and continues writing. Sam R. is in the Air Force and will travel to Germany this month. He plans to Skype us. His characters linger in our minds . . .

Sam S. has long, wavy hair spilling over his shoulders and an entire gallon of Deer Park water. He bites a nail, lays his head on his left hand, and writes. He pre-writes in his mind, and when he’s got it just about right, it comes spilling out on paper. His stories are intense — there’s always some sort of dark psychopath involved . . .

I look at my class, quietly writing. Someone coughs. Someone sighs. Someone erases. There’s a steady click of the keys on Lauren’s laptop, a sound that’s more comforting than distracting. Our time together is far from ordinary.

My iPhone’s alarm sounds. Our 12 minutes is up. I take a sip of my hot tea and smile.

I glance out the window. The snow begins to fall.  PS

When Renee isn’t teaching English or being a professional taxi driver for her two boys, she is working on her first book.

Almanac

December is a treasure trove of fragrance and memory.

One whiff of cinnamon, for instance, and I’m back in Grammy’s kitchen, watching the birds through the sunny window as cinnamon sticks simmer on the stovetop.

“Is that pesky critter back?” she asks, squinting as she scans the front yard, feeders swinging like pendulums.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she says, watching a plump gray squirrel balance between a crape myrtle branch and a hanging tray like some kind of clumsy acrobat. “Hand me my squirt gun, would you?”

Incense fumes take me back further still: to the children’s Nativity play at Catholic Mass, frankincense and myrrh wafting up toward the vaulted ceiling as toddlers slink from laps to kneelers, climb from kneelers to creaky wooden pews. As the organist fires up “Joy to the World,” all I can see is Christmas dinner (sliced ham, soft rolls, green beans, potato gratin), a smorgasbord of cookies, and the ocean of neatly wrapped presents to follow.

And then — yes, there it is — the scent of Fraser fir.

I must have been 11 when my folks brought home that first real tree. Until that day, unfurling and shaping the plastic branches of our tired yet faithful artificial tree was, for me, the highlight of the holidays. But once the entire house smelled like a lush woodland forest, I was forever transformed. Although I had neither the words nor the reference for it then, now I might compare the experience to some kind of awakening — like falling in love. All I knew for sure was this: If I had any say in the matter, my days of plastic trees were done.

Hot chocolate, citrus, fire, peppermint bark, homemade pie . . .

This aromatic month, no telling what delightful memories might come to light.

The Real Thing

Spruce, pine or fir, evergreen trees have long been used to celebrate winter festivals — pagan, Christian or otherwise. If you’re considering a living tree for the house and landscape this year, you’ll want to keep it outside for as long as possible (read: It won’t be happy indoors for more than 14 days). Although their needles aren’t as soft as the iconic fir, white pines thrive in North Carolina.

Rosemary “trees” are another great option. Just be mindful not to “shock” them with too-cold temperatures if you snag one from a local nursery. The shorter their journey from cozy greenhouse to warm home, the better.

December Sky Watch

This month, love is in the night sky. On Saturday, Dec. 28, two days after an annular solar eclipse not visible from here (try Saudi Arabia, southern India or parts of Indonesia), a crescent moon and Venus will “kiss” in the southwestern horizon at 8:33 p.m. National Geographic named it one of the top sky-watching events of 2019. Take their cue. Mistletoe is everywhere. You know what to do.

Winterberry Magic

Want to draw more birds to your backyard this and future winters? Just add berries. Audubon North Carolina’s Bird Friendly Communities Initiative dubbed the winterberry “irresistible” to wood thrushes, gray catbirds, Eastern bluebirds, American robins, cedar waxwings and woodpeckers. And this native plant just so happens to thrive in the mountains, piedmont and coastal plain.

Like its iconic cousin the American holly, winterberry plants are either male or female. This means you’ll need to plant at least two-for-one to produce fruit. The winterberry flowers from April to June, and while it loses its leaves in the autumn (unlike the holly), all the better for witnessing its colorful berries, which it bears from August through December. You’ll get a better glimpse of the visiting birds that way, too.

Other plants with brilliant berries: beautyberry, deciduous hollies, Washington hawthorn.

I heard a bird sing

In the dark of December,

A magical thing,

And sweet to remember:

“We are nearer to spring

Than we were in September.”

— Oliver Herford, “Hope,” 1914

Stocking Stuffers for Your Favorite Gardener

• Snapdragon seeds

• Pruning shears

• Natural twine

• Gardeners hand cream

• Winter Poems, by Barbara Rogasky