The December Awethology - Light Volume

Beth puffed herself up a couple of notches. “We’ve already been through this. There are people who aren’t Christian and they’re offended by this.”

  “Who’s offended?” Karen answered. “No one has ever said they’re offended?”

  “Well maybe people are being polite.”

  “In New York?”

  “Karen I’m just protecting the company. If someone is offended they can make a complaint.” She leaned in closer and whispered conspiratorially. “We could even be sued. It happened in Denver.”

  “I don’t care what happened in Denver. This is like a family. Everyone understands here.”

  “Well what about Bob?”

  “What about Bob?” I asked.

  Beth jumped. “I was just telling Karen that…well I know that you’re Jewish and I was telling her that…well maybe you didn’t feel comfortable.”

  I started to laugh. “I’m not offended at all. Karen is Catholic. I have five Catholic neighbors.”

  “Well then you should understand what I’m—”

  “I’m godfather to my next door neighbor’s daughter. They’re Catholic too. How offended can I be by a crèche?”

  “But Karen needs to understand—”

  “How long have you been in New York?”

  She stared at me, her mouth open. “Uh…well…I moved here from Des Moines two years ago.”

  I heard a voice behind me that I recognized. “What’s going on? Things are getting a little loud.”

  Beth winced. Gail had come to pay us a visit. In all her encounters with Beth sparks had flown. Gail was an agnostic and Beth had used her as an example of someone whose beliefs needed to be defended, something Gail didn’t appreciate.

  “Are you telling Karen that she can’t have her crèche?” she asked Beth.

  Beth huffed. “I’ve already discussed this with Bob. This is company policy.”

  “Who developed the policy?”

  “I did.”

  “Due to a complaint from who?”

  “Well we have Bob and other people who-”

  “Bob obviously isn’t offended. And since you’re going to ask, neither am I.”

  “Bob is just trying to be polite. It seems to be what everyone in New York is required to do.”

  “Last year Karen made me Latkes. A bit beyond politeness.”

  “Latkes? They are…”

  Karen smiled. “They’re potato pancakes for Chanukah. I make them every year for Bob and Tessa.”

  Beth seemed panic-stricken. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  “Excuse me. I have a call to make.”

  She stalked off, her back stiff, radiating anger.

  “What should I do?” Karen asked me.

  “Ignore her.”

  “Maybe I should put the crèche in my desk.”

  Gail snorted. “Don’t cave, Karen. We all have your back.”

  “It’s going to become a big hassle.”

  I put my hand on the crèche. “She doesn’t get to cause trouble unless she has a good reason. This is about her and control.”

  “What can we do?”

  “I’ll go talk to her.”

  “Bob I—”

  “Don’t worry.”

  I walked down the hall to Beth’s office. She was typing something. When she saw me she jerked her head back to her screen and proceeded to pretend I wasn’t there.

  “Beth?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “I’d like to speak reasonably with you about this.”

  “Whatever you have to say, you’ll have to hold it until a meeting I plan to have. With Mr. McDaniel.”

  “We don’t need to have a meeting. There isn’t anyone who is offended by anything here.”

  “You don’t know that. We have Fatima downstairs. She’s the only Muslim in the company. She might not be too happy seeing Christian or Jewish decorations. Have you asked her?”

  I smiled. “Fatima and bunch of other’s came to my house for the Passover Seder last spring.”

  “What does that prove?”

  “It proves no one is offended by other people’s holidays or their happiness. Why don’t you let Karen keep her crèche?”

  “What you aren’t taking into account is that Karen’s desk and all of the facilities here are owned by the company which recently developed a policy that exists to defend the sensibilities of anyone who does or will work for us.”

  “Who is offended?”

  “I don’t know. We might hire an atheist tomorrow who might find Karen’s crèche offensive.”

  I found myself getting angry. “I’ve lived with these people forty hours a week for years. They’re my friends. Not generous tolerance, but real friendship. If someone was really offended we’d deal with it. But Karen, the crèche, this is part of my life. To be honest the only attitude that is offensive is yours. You have no right to tell me who I can like and who I want to respect or make happy. So until you can provide me with an actual living person who is offended, I think you need to back off.”

  I realized I was breathing hard. Beth’s eyes were wide and she seemed to be searching for something to say. I turned and walked out.

  Fatima passed me in the hall. “Just wanted to you to know we all heard that.”

  “Sorry. Did I do the wrong thing?”

  She laughed. “The thing that most people who aren’t from New York don’t understand is that our grandparents all had to wallow in the same rubbish to survive and raise their children so they could have a better life. It makes you feel a sense of kinship with all your fellow sufferers. It’s a little too deep a concept for Beth.”

  I just groaned.

  “It’ll work out, Bob. Look I have to go to a meeting. We’ll talk later.”

  The next day I came in to find the crèche missing from Karen’s desk. She looked up as I came by. “Better keep her off my back. No one will miss it.”

  “It’s part of my life. I never thought about it being important to me because it’s been here year after year. I miss it.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what to do.”

  I thought for a second. “I’m taking an early lunch.”

  Later that day Beth walked past my cubicle. Her eyes widened. “What is that?” she asked pointing to my desk.

  “A very nice devotional scene. I bought it at a very upscale store. They specialize in reproductions of renaissance art. This is a copy of a statue created in the sixteenth century.”

  Her face got red. “That’s a crèche.”

  “I guess it is, technically. You know I have seen things like this in galleries and museums. A lot of art from that period is based on religious themes.” I smiled sweetly.

  “I’m going to have to verify all this. Where did you get it?”

  “I can’t remember the name. Let’s go ask Gail.”

  “Why Gail?”

  “It was her idea to go to the gallery. She loves that place and she wanted to show it to me. We’ve been talking about it for weeks.”

  A couple of twists and turns through the cube farm took us to Gail’s desk. She looked up when she saw us. “Sorry to bother you, Gail. What was the name of that store we went to?”

  “It’s called the Gallery Store.” She turned to Beth. “It’s a Gallery that sells reproductions.”

  But Beth wasn’t listening. She was staring at the menorah on Gail’s desk. “What is that?”

  “A reproduction of a twelfth century menorah. An amazing piece.”

  Beth dry washed her hands. “You can’t have religious paraphernalia on your desks!”

  Gail smiled slightly. “I have no religion. This is art.”

  “Same for me,” I said. “People have these things in their homes. They’re in offices all over the city. Do you think I’m trying to express my faith with my sculpture? It’s not my faith.”

  I thought Beth was about to cry. She walked away from us without saying a word.

  The holida
y party went like it always did. There was a short talk about all our respective holiday traditions. And then of course, there was food. I zeroed in on the grape leaves which I didn’t get much of during the year. While I was downing my fourth one, Gail came up to me.

  “Do you miss Beth?” she asked, smiling.

  “I think it was a bit extreme to resign. It was like she lost a battle. I thought HR came about to help people.”

  “It was all about her.”

  “How many Beths are there in this country? I see this crap on TV all the time.”

  “No doubt we’ve become confused. I think we need some reform.”

  “True. But right now I don’t want to think about Beth. Another glass of wine?

  She smiled and nodded. “Certainly.”

  I Remember, Grandpa

  J C Christian

  Can terminally ill people see into the future? Do they know things no one else can know? I am convinced my Grandpa Clay did.

  I spend a lot of time with my grandparents growing up. They enjoy having me around and it’s the one place I feel safe. Grandpa has a tomato patch in his backyard that he tends with great care and pride. In the summer days of my childhood, Grandpa and I spend many hours tending the tangles of growing tomatoes. Grandpa teaches me when the tomatoes are ready to be picked.

  “Now the thing you want to do J.C. is hold it firmly, but not too hard or it will squish all over your hand, and then feel it, gently poking it a bit, and if the skin springs back, it’s ready.” I admit I squash a few along the way. Grandpa smiles “Oh well, we’ll just have Grandma make spaghetti sauce out of that.”

  I love cooking in the kitchen with Grandma. Grandma grew up on a large farm in Iowa, so she cooks old-fashioned, farm fare. Grandma never uses anything packaged or pre-made.

  “That’s food for lazy people.” she says, scoffin.

  I sit on the big yellow stool in the kitchen and chop, mix, beat, and blend Grandma’s culinary creations. Many times, Grandpa Clay comes into the kitchen and, giving me a mischievous grin when Grandma’s back is turned, sneaks a taste of whatever we’re making.

  Grandpa Clay loves to spin tales of his boyhood growing up on a farm in the fields of Minnesota. He is an engaging storyteller infusing his long narratives with just enough excitement to make them believable.

  In the evenings, after the dishes are done, I sit on the floor next to the green and gold upholstered rocking chair, which is Grandpa’s favorite chair, as he tells me his farmer boy stories.

  We talk and laugh as he paints with his words pictures of life when the 20th century was brand new.

  Over the years, several of Grandpa’s stories become my favorites and I ask him, “Tell me the one about…”

  And Grandpa smiles. “Okay sure. Well, you see about that time… “

  And I am swept back into a time very different than the life I know.

  Grandpa loves to play pool and has a large pool table in the finished basement rec room of his home. I love to play with him and many times after dinner, we head downstairs to play. Grandpa purchases a kid sized pool cue, making it easier for me to shoot. I win the majority of the games and race up the basement steps to find my Grandmother to tell her of my victory. In later years, I learn Grandpa let me win because it made me happy.

  In 1981, Grandpa Clay is diagnosed with liver cancer. He is into his 80’s by this time and elects not to go through treatment. I am devastated that my beloved grandfather, the only man in my life to that point - that ever made me feel safe - is dying. I remember asking him why he is refusing treatment. I will never forget his answer. With a warm smile, he explains it to me

  “Honey girl, I have had a long full life. For the most part, it’s been a good life too. There have been some bad times, some sad times, but for the most part I’m satisfied. I want to enjoy the time I have left without being sick and weak from the treatment which will not save my life but only prolong it. If the good Lord has decided it’s my time to join him, then so be it.”

  As the cancer progresses, Grandpa grows increasingly tired. He is no longer able to care for his prized tomato plants, so Grandma and I do it for him. Grandma can’t care for Grandpa alone so she arranges for visiting nurses to come to the house each day to help care for him as his condition continues to decline a little more every week.

  The visiting nurses don’t come on the weekends, so on Fridays after school, I go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house to help Grandma care for Grandpa. Even in his weakened condition, Grandpa still loves to talk and I spend much of my time seated by his bedside as he talks to me. He tells me he knows his time is near and gently takes hold of my hands between his own large hands grown calloused with years of farm work. I can see the bright sparkle in his blue eyes starting to fade. A wave of overwhelming sadness sweeps over me at the realization that my beloved grandfather will soon die.

  “Now, I’m going to tell you something, honey girl, and I want you to listen and remember this. There will come a day when you are going to make some lucky man a wonderful wife and he is going to love you very much. Now, I won’t be there, but there is something I want you to give him from me.” Grandpa said.

  Reaching under his pillow, Grandpa gives me a beautiful gold pocket watch.

  “I was given this when I retired and I want you to give it to the man you are going to marry. And tell him it’s from me.” With this, he wraps my hands around the watch smiling.

  I’m in tears because I know Grandpa is really saying good-bye while giving me something of him to take into the future with me.

  Two weeks later, in the early morning hours of August 26th, 1982, Grandpa goes home to Jesus.

  To cope with my grief, I write a poem called ‘I Remember, Grandpa.’

  The minister conducting the funeral service is so touched by it, he makes it the center piece of his sermon.

  I keep Grandpa’s watch as a much cherished possession for the next twenty years, waiting and hoping that Grandpa’s prediction of my future husband will come true. However, by the time I’m forty-four, I have decided Grandpa must have been wrong.

  And then in March of 2006, I meet a man named David online. Two and a half years later, we are married. On our first wedding anniversary, I give David Grandpa’s watch and tell him the story of the gentle man, my grandfather, who gave it to him.

  Disaffected Dave

  Sharon Lipman

  It was the same every year. The waiting, the anticipation, the disappointment.

  Every Christmas, Dave prayed to whatever God was out there that he’d get reassigned. Elves weren’t all happy and jolly and not all of them loved Christmas or liked spending time with undeserving children. Dave decided a long time ago that spreading Christmas cheer was the last thing he wanted to do. There were other holidays much better suited to his skill set, yet here he was again, reassigned to another family with, no doubt, another disgusting child who didn’t need or appreciate what he was there to offer.

  It was only twelve days, but to Dave, it was too bloody long. By Christmas day, he’d be tired, grouchy, and probably covered in snot. He laughed to himself. Who was he kidding? He was always grouchy.

  The doors burst open and Dave froze. He might not like it, but he knew the rules. Humans must not see him move. His eyes unmoving, he watched the stream of parents and children file past, and saw them collecting their elves. He looked the same as his brothers, but every year, he was the last to be chosen. It seemed this year would be no different.

  The screaming children came and went, clutching their elf, already demanding special treats and adventures from their long-suffering parents. The door swung shut on the last screech and he let his shoulders slump. It looked like he’d be waiting a little longer for his assignment. He strained his ears, checking to confirm no one else was about to come bowling in, and sat his weary bones down. This could be a long day, and he was already sick of standing at attention.

  He sat on the edge of the shelf, letting his legs
swing as he contemplated the task ahead. Every year, the demands of undeserving children got more and more difficult to fulfil. Parents were too busy trying to prove they loved their children by showering them with unnecessarily expensive gifts; they’d all completely forgotten the true meaning of the season. ‘Good will to all men’ was all well and good as long as they bought little Tommy the latest game console, and a tablet, and a new bike, and a mobile phone, and a T.V.

  Dave rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. Mums and Dads spent so much time away from their offspring earning enough money to provide all that crap, they forgot the most important thing—being with their children. It was no wonder Dave didn’t like kids. He supposed he shouldn’t blame them; it wasn’t their fault after all, but each generation just repeated the same mistake. The world had become selfish. They didn’t need an elf to weave his magic in the run up to Christmas. They didn’t appreciate the magic. Simply joy had left children and had been replaced by the greed and entitlement their parents unintentionally instilled in them. An elf couldn’t just play tricks and report back on behaviour any more. They had to bring presents, lots of them.

  He heard voices outside, but couldn’t be bothered to stand at attention. He was the only elf left. It wasn’t like he needed to impress anyone. He stilled his swinging legs and awaited his fate.

  A woman in an ill-fitting suit and a name tag on a lanyard click-clacked down the aisle in her cheap shoes. His field of vision was compromised since he couldn’t let the woman see him move, but he couldn’t see a child. He certainly couldn’t hear one. Now this was unusual. Things got stranger still as he saw the woman checking up and down the aisle and glancing back towards the door as if she didn’t want anyone to catch her. She returned her gaze to Dave.

  “Well, looks like you’ll have to do. I hope you’re up to the challenge,” she said.

  She reached up and snatched him from the shelf, took one last look around, and stuffed him into her handbag. Dave bounced around in the bag as she ran from the hall, his head bouncing against her purse and a phone. What the hell was going on? This wasn’t normal. The jostling stopped as the bag was dumped on something soft. Keys jangled and then a car engine roared to life. Dave lurched as they set off and then came to rest on the phone. He tried, but couldn’t see where they were going. Not that it mattered—he’d never been to this part of the world before. It wasn’t a long journey, ten minutes at most. The woman collected the bag and slung it over her shoulder, Dave bumping against her hip as she walked. He managed to turn over so he could see out of the opening at the top of the bag. Cold, hard, winter sky hurt his eyes as he watched the skeletal trees bending in the freezing wind.