Welcome to day ten of the Winter Writing Challenge! Are you ready to get those creative juices flowing? All of your submissions yesterday were so fun. Let’s see what you come up with today!
Here’s your next prompt!
Write a vignette about stockings over a fireplace.
Think you’re up for the challenge? We can’t wait to see what sort of vignette you guys come up with.
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Remember, your vignettes should be less than 500 words!
Before you start writing, we have some important rules for you to follow.
Writing Rules
1. Please keep the content of the poems and vignettes you post to a PG rating. Please avoid real curse words. Violence/fighting should be limited and purposeful. Please do not include any spice.
2. Have fun!
Remember to scroll all the way to the bottom of the page and post your vignette as an “answer” to this question. 🙂
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Happy Writing!
Alli Prince
The stockings hang crooked over the old stone fireplace, one is bright red with a faded reindeer, and another is loosely knitted by hands that have forgotten the pattern. They droop under their own weight, empty for now but hinting at more to come. The fire below snaps and rumbles, holding on in the quiet of winter. The sooty mantle, marked by memories of past Christmases, holds chipped candlesticks and a crayon Santa made years ago. Someone, maybe Dad, put up a string of blinking lights with red thumbtacks, making the whole scene glow a bit wild and uneven. The stockings sway when anyone walks by. No one moves quickly in this room tonight. There’s cocoa, peeled clementines, and the soft hush of voices waiting for snow.
The stockings are the last thing I see before I go upstairs, half-expecting to hear a jingle, but also thinking I might be too old to believe. In the flicker of the fire, the empty toes seem a little more hopeful. I wonder if stockings come alive when the house is quiet, if they dream about the small treasures that could fill them by morning. As if he knows secrets too, the dog lifts his head, sighs, and settles back down. The fire is almost out. The stockings wait.
Marie admired the department store stockings, displayed in a variety of colors and styles and designs that almost overwhelmed, but they were a little too dear, this year. She couldn’t justify a stocking that cost more than what she could afford to put in it.
Next year, though. And if not, then surely the one after. One Christmas she would be able to pin up more than just hope.
The Dollar Store stockings were cheap red and white felt, with barely enough gusseting at the seams for anything to fit inside, but she made do. A candy cane still fit in nicely, a little notebook and glitter pen. Molly hadn’t yet outgrown her love of stickers, and there was room enough for a few small sheets. Little cartoon portraits of cute kittens that would end up all over the walls of her room, her headboard. Marie sprang for a few small, festive craft bells, and on her lunch break sewed them down the red felt like a row of bright brass buttons. A coworker donated an extra bag of candy from the break room vending machine.
All the long ride home, Marie watched the bokeh of Christmas lights through the rain-blurred window, and wondered if it would be warm and dry enough for a Christmas Eve walk. It took Molly’s mind off things to admire the jeweled red and green and blue around every window, the cozy vignettes aglow beyond. Dioramas of families who had more. Families who had.
It wasn’t about the things, she knew that. She suspected Molly did too, but too well Marie remembered the disappointment of being a little girl tasked with smiling politely through all her friends tales of Christmas bounty.
At home she filled the felt stocking and thumb-tacked it to the edge of the kitchen island in lieu of a mantle. She fared better at the Dollar Tree than she’d hoped: sugar cookie mix and a few plastic cutters, hot chocolate mix, plus a coloring books and brand new crayons. There weren’t many gifts around the little tabletop tree, but there were some. More than last year, and some even from her wish list.
Marie didn’t need riches or excess, just a genuine smile come Christmas morning. Molly’s laughter as they diligently cut and baked and ate the world’s ugliest sugar cookies, or fed themselves popcorn by the light of the TV. Something that her daughter could boast about to her friends, finally. Something she’d one day look back on with a grown woman’s forgiveness, and gratitude, and realize that her mother had tried.
God, she really had tried.
The smooth, aged wood would not be insulted by shiny new nails. Instead, an assortment of rusty nails pulled from old barns sat in a dented coffee tin for just this moment. It was time for the kids, grandkids, and great grandkids to hand their stockings to Grandad and allow him to gently hammer them into place.
His gnarled hands positioned an old nail into a waiting hole from previous years and tapped, tapped until it held firm. He began with the oldest on the right, next he moved to the far left, placing them on one side then the other according to age. One by one, the red plaid, stripped green, fuzzy and faded, or new and stiffly starched stockings were hung above the crackling fire.
As he approached the middle of the yellow stone fireplace, a bead of sweat popped up on his forehead. He wiped it away and smiled as he beckoned his oldest grandson to bring the newborn’s stocking for the place of honor at the center of the mantle.
A bright blue stocking with red ribbon sewn in a checkerboard pattern across its surface dangled from his left hand as he kissed the forehead of the infant cradled in his right arm. A tear slipped down the old man’s weathered cheek as he placed the final nail before stepping back into the semi-circle of family to gaze upon the fireplace now glowing with the love of generations.
Christmas stockings. Oddly shaped fabric sacks for candy, oranges, and apples. That’s what they were when I was growing up. Then I got engaged and went to my first Christmas at my fiancé’s parent’s home. He was the youngest of five children, his siblings all married and starting to populate the next generation. He didn’t mention any special Christmas traditions when we traveled that Christmas, but it didn’t take long after we arrived for his mother to invite me down to the den to see her Christmas stockings.
I gave my future husband a questioning look, but he just muttered, “She makes them for everyone.” So totally clueless, I followed Mary down the stairs.
When we stepped into the den, I stopped in surprise. Hanging from the mantel of the fireplace were Christmas stockings. Not your typical box store fur and velvet, not even homemade quilted stockings (which I sort of expected, since Mary quilted). Oh no. These were large felt applique stockings, bedazzled with sequins, beads, and embroidery. The Santas and snowmen were stuffed and rounded, the dolls had floss hair, the designs extended beyond the outline of the stocking, expanding into the real world like a pop-up storybook.
And there were so many of them. One for all seven of the founding family, plus one for Mary’s mother. Five for the kids’ spouses, and another eight for the current grandchildren. Mary took me through each one, explaining why she picked the specific design for that person; showing off the particularly special pieces of embellishment or tricky stitching. Incredible, painstaking work.
She went on to describe the stocking she had started for the baby due in July.
“How long does it take you to make one?”
“It depends, but somewhere around three months.” Mary paused. “Of course, I can’t work on them full time every day. I still have to do the cooking and cleaning. Sometimes we travel.”
“These are beautiful. Amazing. I’m very impressed.” And I was. I fingered through the line of stockings, pausing to better appreciate the ones for the family members I’d met.
When I turned to face her, there was an awkward pause.
“Of course, since they take so long to make,” Mary hesitated, “I only make them for new people when they are officially part of the family.”
Part of me understood. Things happen. Relationships end. She didn’t want to pour her heart into a project that would then have to be hidden away because that person was out of the picture.
Another part of me lusted to have a beautiful stocking with my name on it hanging from her mantel.
“I totally understand.” I gave Mary a bright smile.
As I followed her up the stairs, I paused to take another look at the row of marvelous stockings, their sequins sparkling, catching the light. I decided I needed to have a few words with my dear husband-to-be, to enlighten him about the Christmas stockings his mom just “made for everyone.”
The humans were never exactly what I’d call normal. Their oddities range from thinking that a gigantic, slobbering beast is cute, to that nasty habit they have of stealing my excrement. But right around the time of year when the air becomes cold and the sky turns gray with snow-laden clouds, the humans have gone downright insane.
First, there’s the tree. I was previously of the mindset that trees stayed outside. They’re kind of like couches, trees are. You don’t see couches outside, just like you don’t see trees inside. It always made perfect sense.
But now, not only have the humans brought a tree inside, but they gave it a bowl of water, a blanket, and all these pretty little lights and baubles. It’s like they think the tree is a dog or something!
Honesty, maybe they do. I wouldn’t put anything past those humans.
Anyways, the tree is just the beginning. They’ve also put all these figurines, decorations, and nick-knacks all over the house.
At first I thought it was great—so many things to bat off tables! But it turns out I’m supposed to leave them alone. So, naturally, I wait until the humans are gone to release the decorations to the call of gravity.
But I’ve nearly forgotten to mention the strangest symptom of the humans’ insanity: the socks.
Socks are like trees. And couches. The tree stays outside, the couch stays inside, and the socks stay on the humans’ feet (or in the laundry, on occasion). But, like the tree before it, the socks have moved too. I’m starting to worry about the couch.
Now, the socks are apparently deserving of a place of honor: hung from the mantelpiece in the sitting room, displayed for all to see! I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t care less about the aesthetic value of socks.
Well, being a scientific type, I decided to investigate this latest phenomena.
My first observation is that these socks are way too big for anyone to actually wear. Except maybe the dog, if you put it on his head like a hat. Scratch that, he’d probably just shred it.
Well, the next thing I noticed was that each stocking had a letter sewed onto it. It took me only a few moments of puzzling before it came to me that each letter matched the name of one of the humans: from the parents, all the way down to the littlest ones.
The pattern stops with the last two, though—an ‘L’ and a ‘G’. Those stumped me. I had to turn my head sideways for a whole minute before an idea came to me for those.
What if…the ‘L’ stands for ‘Leo’? That’s the name of the dog. And that would leave the ‘G’…could it be that it stands for ‘Griffin’?
My head goes further sideways, until I topple over on the living room rug. Griffin is my name!
My first reaction was: The humans named a sock after me. That was a bizarre enough thought that I had to go to sleep, just to try to forget it.
It wasn’t until the morning, that everything finally fit together.
When I sauntered down the stairs in the morning, I found all seven stockings filled to bursting with all kinds of stuff. The humans had candy, toys, and more candy. The dog got a bone that squeaked every time he chewed it, which has to be the most annoying invention in the entire galaxy.
And as for me? I got a stuffed mouse!
Well, I learned something these past few days. Two things, actually. One is that just when I think I’ve got the humans figured out, there’s always something new they spring at you.
And the second thing I learned? They’re not just the humans. They’re my humans—their quirks and all.
Now that’s a thought both comforting and frightening! I think I’ll have to try and sleep that one away, too.
I love it!
Agnes took a step back, wrinkled hands on ample hips, to admire her handiwork. It had taken a little longer to do this year. She and Tom have always split up the duties–he pulled all the decorations out of the attic, and she did the decorating. But Tom is gone now, and navigating the ladder to the attic was far more difficult than it used to be. Her arthritic knees didn’t want to cooperate, leaving her concerned she might not be able to do it at all.
She did, though, and she was proud of the accomplishment. Agnes had to learn–or relearn–how to do the things Tom used to take care of. There was a lot of that these days. Despite the aches, pains, and lack of flexibility, she proved she could rise to the occasion. Literally. Up the ladder her unsteady legs went.
The accomplishment made her feel good for a moment. Then the never-ending ache in her heart–like it had been beaten into a mealy mess with a meat tenderizer–returned. The ache had been her ever-present companion for the past eight months.
Tom was always with her in her thoughts, in the home they had made together. Like the hideous clock hanging on the kitchen wall that he’d brought back from Heidelberg after being stationed there in the early 1960s. She had always threatened to take it down and give it to the Salvation Army, but he had loved it so much. It reminded him of his time in Germany as a young twenty-year-old. Now, the thought of taking it off the wall felt like she would be removing her beloved husband from her home. No, it had to stay just where it was. All she had left were the mementos of him. Of days gone by.
She wished with all that was in her that he was still here, celebrating another Christmas with her. But God had a different plan.
Agnes surveyed her handiwork and was pleased. There, all in a neat row, were five stockings hanging over the fireplace–one for her, one for Tom, three for the children. No one would be filling her stocking this year. Who knew when her children would visit for the holidays? Two lived out of state and her son who lived in-state was a busy executive. Nonetheless, she had always set these stockings out and would continue to do so, even if she was all alone on Christmas.
“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care.” I read those words from Clement Moore’s classic poem when I was eight. My father was recording our recitations, mine and my three sisters’. The phrase has been frozen in my mind, and each time I hang the socks (let’s be real, we use knee-highs), whenltger it was a single sock or enough to represent my growing family, it resounds in my mind.
The image of seven graduated-size stockings, lovingly decorated by mother and accompanied by a uniquely designed porcelain bell on the mantle proper, creeps into my memory, a time before we lost father when I was twelve, a time when simple gifts were the delight of the day. We knew what would be in those socks, red and white and green, hanging above the faux fire.
We knew we would drag out the reveal as long as possible, announcing each precious item one by one: Black Jack gum, Fruit Stripe gum, Beemans gum, novelty, coins, and a tangerine.
Try as I may, the experience was never the same with my daughters, although they, too, treasured the sequined stockings I made and drew out, one by one, the delights. But my mother wasn’t there, and my father was not there, and what made me think our gas faux fire could ever recreate the same love as a tangerine-toed sock on a Christmas morning long ago?
Twelve stockings hung above the fireplace, waiting for someone to fill them.
It became more and more difficult every year. But they would not give up the joyful looks of their children when they began to rummage through the stockings. Some of them, of course, were still too young and would only make incomprehensible faces, but the photo would seal up the moment, and the future would remind them of it.
And when they finally succeeded and went up to their bedroom, they found a surprise.
Their older children, probably Ron, Patricia and August, had hung two long stockings – a man’s and a woman’s – on the wardrobe, and under it they had glued a beautiful drawing of a fireplace, probably made by them. And the stockings were full and it was clearly visible, and one could say that they would burst with content.
And he said:
“We taught them to give gifts and here’s what happens…”
“I think we taught them to love…” – she said.
“A Woman’s Work”
Jennifer kept the stocking filling for Christmas Eve, around 11pm when she was sure the last pair of feet had slipped into bed. It was a hallowed moment for her, something Chris was not allowed to partake in. The gifts under the trees were a collaboration of their efforts; stockings were the territory of Mother Benson alone.
She thanked the Lord above that her farmhouse had an honest to goodness mantelpiece, complete with an oak log sleepily burning in the hearth to keep Wyoming’s howling cold out. She didn’t know how her urbanite sister managed when all she had were mini splits. As Jennifer brought the box of goodies out from her supply closet, she sighed in satisfaction. She was sure this year’s treats would deliver, as usual.
The twins were as dissimilar as could be, and Jennifer smiled as she filled theirs first. Eric did the family proud with his academics, though she hadn’t the foggiest idea where he got his brains from. She dropped a Sudoku book into his velvet brown stocking, his favourite Tootsie rolls, and a rolled up shirt she had found with a joke about pi. Annie got a book as well, though it was blank and lined for writing. It’d be well used by next spring, along with the pack of fine tipped pens Jennifer added alongside. A bag of red licorice and floral stickers fell into the blue and white quilted stocking, and the twins were complete.
Eva was a wild card, and Jennifer thought her stocking emblazoned with cartoon dogs and cats aptly fit her middle child. She gently laid a Fujifilm camera in the toe, something Eva has been eyeing for awhile. A pack of crazy socks with hippos covered up the coveted gift, followed by jellybeans, and finally some bejeweled hair scrunchies.
Allison, the baby. Jennifer stroked the powdery pink stocking, slightly guilty for never exchanging it for a more mature one after her youngest “grew up”. But Allison didn’t seem to care. In went a new halter for Jupiter, a large paint by number, a bag of gummy bears, and checkered apron.
Jennifer stepped back, admiring the stockings now chubby and content from her stuffing.
Except for Ethan’s.
Jennifer reached out and squeezed the camo stocking, hanging limply from its nail. What did Afghanis do in December? She squeezed harder, closing her eyes and humming a stupid holiday classic, something about mistletoe and magic. Anything to keep from crying on Christmas Eve. What a pathetic thing for a military mom to do.
A gun barked in the distance, some farmer warning a wolf off perhaps. Jennifer flinched, her breath catching as she let the stocking go. God wasn’t confined to Wyoming she reminded herself; Kabul was tucked in His hands as tightly as the gifts in her kids’ stockings. With a murmured prayer, Jennifer snapped the living room light off and walked down the hall to her and Chris’s bedroom.
Next Christmas he’d be home.
Whoops, I made a revision just now to cut out the 46 extra words I shouldn’t have had in there. (: Forgot, sorry Alli!
Really enjoyed reading this Hannah, I thought it especially creative as to the gifts placed in each stocking – how it described the individuality and personalities of the children, just by what the mom put in there. 😊
Thanks Amanda! I ended up using my 3 siblings and myself for that bit as a tribute of sorts. Ethan is made up, but the others all come from our own personalities. (:
Outside, snowflakes fall one by one on a cold Christmas Eve. Inside the little cottage made of stone, a cozy scene was unfolding. The flames dance on the silent night. Soon the velvet red stockings would be filled with goodies for the children to wake up to. Hanging over the mantle, the stockings wait patiently to be supplied while the fire crackles, giving off a warm orange hue, duly lighting up the living room in a soft glow.
Stella looked around the room, so excited for their first Christmas in their new home. This is exactly what she had imagined when they first toured the house last June. Cold outside, warm and toasty inside next to the warm glowing fire. And a real mantle with a real fireplace. The gifts were all wrapped under the tree and the scent of pine added to the authenticity of the moment.
Hanging the first stocking on the mantle, she commented, “I think I overdid it this year.”
“You say that every year,” Her husband answered carrying two mugs of hot cocoa, heaped with marshmallows into the room.
“I was so excited about finally having a fireplace to hang our stockings. I’ve been waiting for this my whole life!”
“Is that Charlotte’s?”
“Yep,” Stella looked at the knit stocking, red, with a fancy, embroidered, silver “C.” The items were falling out of the top as she carefully hung the stocking, It was jam packed, with candy and snacks and little toys and pens and nail polish.
Picking up the next one she said, “this is Ryan’s.” It was equally stuffed, a green stocking with a red train on the side, and fake fur around the top. The candy falling out the top. Sam’s was next, a grey stocking with a Christmas puppy, again overflowing with goodies.
“It’s a dream come true,” Stella smiled, taking her seat next to Mark. “Thank you for this house…and this amazing fire. It’s been a perfect Christmas Eve.”
“I’m happy too,” Mark said. “I may have overdone it on the fire.” He laughed.
They sat quietly for a few minutes, each taking in the comfort and reflecting on the day.
“I don’t’ know how you even find all that stuff.” He nodded to the stockings.
Stella was excited for kids to see them in the morning. She thought about all the fun surprises inside, slime, markers, their favorite chocolates.
“Oh no!” Stella jumped up, running to grab the stockings.
“What the heck?”
“The chocolate, the fire, it’s going to be a mess!’
“OOOH, great catch!”
Carrying them across the room to the table near the door.
“Let’s maybe wait a bit and let that fire die down.” Stella laughed. “See, perfect Christmas Eve.”
The stone fireplace sat in the center of the left wall. It was a small fireplace. One small shelf lay above the alcove in which a fire crackled behind the iron grate.This time of year, the shelf held a little Christmas village complete with miniature pines, a handful of houses, stores, and figurines. Two medium-sized red stockings hung from the shelf. They each bore a decorative tassel and snowflake embroidered in silver. The sole difference lay in the initials in the center of the main snowflake.
Agnes smiled as she took in the scene from her favorite rocking chair. Memories filled her vision as she remembered her children pulling aromatic oranges, peppermint sticks, and small toys from the stockings of many Christmas Eve’s past. The fireplace with the stockings never failed to help her remember the joy her family shared.
In the age of central air, all of the fireplaces in this Federal Style Southern Belle home were bricked over years ago to keep the heat out. It’s rare to see a working fireplace in Brunswick, Georgia today, but in this home, the previous owners spared themselves the added expense of removing the hearth or mantle from the main living space.
Placed in the center of the long interior wall, it is flanked by openings to the greeting hall. The room is a challenge to furnish. Long and somewhat narrow, it does not lend itself to the modern image of an all-purpose greeting and family entertainment room. We gave up on that idea when we found there was no easy way to mount a TV above the mantle on the bricks of the unused chimney.
It has remained a quiet room, save for the random squeaks from the floorboards. Readers and needlecrafters keep the room company for most of the year. From mid-November to Three Kings Day, the room takes on a life of its own as the host of our Christmas decorations and gatherings.
The mantle, with its age-worn smooth, irregular shelf serves as the focal point. A somewhat forgotten stage for wicker bric-a-brac during the year, it houses holiday heirlooms nestled in branches cut from our outdoor firs.
The protruding needles help hide the hangers for the stockings we place there. Each stocking has a story. Mine has been passed down through the generations. It has my name Ethan, the name of my grandfather and his grandfather. Gelena’s mother crafted her stocking in haste before her first Christmas. Josie and Jemma’s stockings have a special hand-made addition. They are linked together, as all twins are from birth.
They are six years old, and I don’t expect that we will be seeing them sneak down the stairs to meet Santa. They will probably roll their eyes when I get to our family addition to the reading of the Night Before Christmas – the part where Santa slides down the chimney – and he magically makes the bricks disappear so he can leave the presents under the tree.
Mary carefully pulled the fragile tissue paper away from each of the five stockings as she removed them from the faded green and red plastic tote. Five names, meticulously knitted in gold on white strips at the top of each green stocking. Five names, one for each member of the Bailey family: Bryan, Mary, Emma, Micah, and Sarah.
Great-grandma Ada knit the stockings years ago, embellishing them with red pompoms made of fuzzy yarn, flashy white sequins, and gaudy baubles of gold and silver. Not a year passed that the stockings didn’t hang over the maple mantel, dangling flat and thin until Christmas Day. Sometime during the evening before, human elves filled the stockings with sweets, treats, and tiny treasures. On Christmas Day, the stockings were transformed, full of bulges and stretched out to accommodate their new loads.
Heavy silver-colored stocking hangers, a recent upgrade from nails pounded haphazardly into the wood sometime in the last century, shone brightly above the fireplace. Each hanger depicted the head of a different woodland creature – a furry fox, a happy hedgehog, a somewhat stoic-looking bear, a wide-eyed owl, and a regal buck. The children fought over who got to hang their stocking on which animal – some years the hedgie was most coveted, some years it was the fox.
The sharp scent of pine filled the air as Mary arranged freshly cut boughs around the hangers. A few sprigs of holly filled in the gaps, the bright red berries contrasting nicely with the dark evergreen needles.
Decoration
The terracotta bricks of our fireplace were laid in a “running” pattern up to the top four rows, which have steps of brick, each slightly further out than the last, to hold up the mantel. The mantel is white, but pushpin holes reveal the original pine color of the wood.
Felted, plastic-mesh, dollar-store stockings drape down from the semigloss mantel of our decorative fireplace. My stocking is pink because nobody else would take the pink one (not even my sister), and all the others are Santa stockings with red bases and white trims.
Two black-tinted glass doors open into a chain row to block ashes from flying out. If you slide the chains out of the way, you can light a wood fire from the logs Dad bought on his trip to the store.
There’s an artificial feeling sitting under plastic-mesh stockings next to a silent fire that gives no warmth. The store-bought logs in our fireplace always burn quietly. “Recycled paper,” as advertised on the logs, has no bugs like campfires do, to prevent crackling; has gaps between layers to ensure even burning; and has no need for turning or adjusting.
I hope, soon I’ll go camping. Campfires give much more warmth.
The fire was burning low, glowing embers silhouetting the empty stockings. It was getting late but Mathew was determined to stay up all night. There was no way Santa would get past him.
He zoned out staring at the stockings, tracing the barely discernible patterns with his eyes. How could it be so hard to stay awake? It was easy when he wasn’t trying. The embers were mesmerizing, sending shifting shadows around the room. The stockings an odd, dark island in a sea of dancing light and shadows. He stared at the middle one, that one was his. And this time he would catch Santa in the act.
A log shifted in the fireplace sending up a shower of sparks. Mathew jerked to attention. Had he been falling asleep? He shook his head trying to bring the Stockings into focus. They were full.
Her Christmas tree was more of a shrub but it was all she could manage to cut down and drag into her tidy, little home. She carefully pruned off some wayward branches. Those were gently placed on the mantle and adorned with the old red bows she took from the aged trunk.
She placed each ancient ornament on the tree, remembering where they came from or who made them. Smiling, her eyes twinkled, as she recalled how proud her children were every year they brought home yet another handmade masterpiece for their tree.
Finally, she unwrapped the stockings. One for each child, one for her husband and one for her. The old nails were still in place, firmly hammered to the fireplace years ago. She lovingly hung each stocking,letting her fingertips linger over the embroidered names – Charlie, Gretchen, Freddy, Mother and Father. The children were all grown now. All moved far away and busy with their own lives. She cherished their phone calls but knew they would not be home for Christmas. Bob, her husband, passed away last year. Her heart ached to think of the strong man she married forty years ago, now gone, leaving her behind, alone.
Looking at her work, all the room festooned with Christmas, she wondered if it was worth doing at all. Still, it was pretty and, in a small way, did lift her spirit a bit. With a sigh, she readied herself for bed and soon she was asleep. Her dreams took her far away to places she had known so well, and there, surrounded by the trimmings of Christmas, there they all were – Bob, the children, even friends she hadn’t seen in years! All reveling in the spirit with laughter and love. She stirred in her sleep, pushing wakefulness away as long as she could. Once awake, she smiled, content, holding onto the memories and basking in the goodness of the day, long after morning arrived.
Classic Red Stockings
The classic red Christmas stockings, made of soft plush, and topped with a wide fluffy white cuff. They have become the center of everyone’s magical Christmas scene.
As many focus about making special moments at Christmas time, I like to keep it simple and make it minimal.
In my mind I envision a perfect holiday scene.
A perfect getaway in a cabin in the woods. It’s rugged and rustic, like the place of Jesus’s birth. At the heart of its center, stands a fieldstone fireplace with a rough cut mantle made of wood. It is natural, and has an untamed look.
We decorate it with our finds in the woods. Fresh boughs of long-needle white pine, its soft texture layered with juniper, pinecones, and berries of holly. Adding some fairy twinkling lights, that show off a beautiful blue-green hue.
My attention brought to the fire flames that flicker and leap, are casting a warm, golden and orange glow, creating a cozy atmosphere.
As the fire draws air, the room is filled with the comforting sounds of hissing, and crackling, and popping. The smell of burning wood produces an earthy aroma mixed with scents of pine and cedar. A wave of radiant heat is cast into the room, its warmth has drawn my dog to the base of the hearth, where she is contently curled up and fast asleep.
To finish the mantle, I add a hand-carved reindeer, and a ceramic cardinal resting upon a branch, to remind us of our loved ones no longer here. The final touch, a jolly Santa, whose Christmas red coat match the stockings hung below.
Our stockings, made of soft red plush and the white fuzzy cuff, of which there are three, lettered B, K and R, who anticipate they will be filled with holiday treats.
But, we must remember what these stockings truly mean. For Christians, their red is the symbolism of Christ’s blood, and for everyone to live all the time, generously in the Christmas Spirit, and in Christ’s Love.
They were empty. The five little stockings that hung from the fireplace mantle. Found in an attic box tucked away under a damp roof gable. Crocheted from yarn that was once bright green and red, now leached to dull sage and pink. Rows of neat stitching standing out amongst untangling thread. Moth eaten, mouse nibbled and worn.
The fire sizzled and crackled below, flashing light intermittently around the room. A Christmas tree with paper angels and decorations, two rocking chairs, a small table under a window that was covered with tangerines, peppermint candy canes, small chocolate coins in silver wrapping, and Morgan Silver Dollars.
And an old man with curved, arthritic fingers, dividing the table contents into five groups.
‘Well Ruby,’ he says over his shoulder
‘It looks like we’ve got more than enough this year. Sure hope the grands can make it through the snow this time’ He adjusts his eye glasses and peers out through the frost tipped window’ His bushy grey eyebrows furrowing ‘Only a slight dusting…’ He says softly.
He shuffles across the knotted pine floor and retrieves the stockings.
‘I remember when you made these as clear as day’ he says chuckling, as he filled their woolly open mouths.
‘You had just started to crochet and the first one was big enough to fit a Sasquatch foot’
He slapped his thigh with merriment. A whirring added to his laughter, and then a clock chimed four times. His laughter faded.
‘They said if they made it, they’d be here by two?…’ he muttered rhetorically.
So he waited in the rocking chair until the fire smoldered and the moon rose full peak.
He looked out the window, one more time, just to make sure, shoulders drooped in disappointment.
‘Well, there’s always next year I suppose…I’m off to bed’
Heading for the staircase he patted a ceramic urn.
‘Night Ruby’
As the gentle orange glow of the fire cascades over the old worn furniture, laughter fills the room. Gifts are passed from hand to hand, as wisps of steam rise up from cups of hot cocoa on a table nearby.
Above the fireplace are stockings, one for each member of the family. Each stocking is embroidered with the name of to whom it belongs and decorated ornately in a fashion that suits each member of the family in a unique way.
Now, these stockings are empty, but tomorrow on Christmas morning they are sure to be filled with all kinds of gits and knick knacks, placed there by the loving head of the family.
Now the room has gone quiet, and the fire has faded away. The snow outside continues to build, and the house creaks in the wind. Even so, the family sleeps peacefully, the love and comfort of a home warmer and more welcoming than a fire could ever be. Tomorrow they will celebrate the season of our Lord Jesus’ birth, but tonight they sleep peacefully on, dreaming of the joy that will come with their waking hours.
No fireplace for socks
Oh the picturesque scene of stockings hung with care. Children hope that Santa will soon be there. Decked out halls with flair. Stories of the past everyone shares.
Oh but wait. It is only a wonderful dream.
Where are those stockings hung? We have no fireplace, no roaring flames, no worthwhile stories to share.
The wall! That’s it!
Decking the walls with paint, the artist comes out with me. On that wall trees are covered in snow. In this corner a beautifully dressed Christmas tree with gifts galore underneath. And here, a huge fireplace with roaring flames flickering teasingly licking the toes of each stocking.
A dream that can’t come true because we put our shoes out the door for Saint Nicholas to fill.
Great emotional story. Excellent memories for me. It’s almost as if you were writing my history. Thank you for the found memories you didn’t even know I had.