Christmas Cookie Day by Tanya Agler

Merry Christmas! Thank you so much to Liz Flaherty for hosting me today on “Window Over the Sink,” especially since the posts in the next few weeks are all devoted to one of my favorite holidays: Christmas!

A long time ago, although in many ways it seems like yesterday, I attended the University of Georgia. One Sunday night, I debated whether to keep studying for a test the next day or go to a Christmas party. My four children are very glad I decided I was ready for the test and went to the party. When I arrived, the host brought everyone together in the living room for a Christmas Carol sing-along. There was one seat remaining, and I asked the guy who was sitting beside the empty chair if he was saving it for anyone. He wasn’t, and we started talking, through the sing-along, through refreshments, and until the party ended.

Soon thereafter, we discovered our homes away from the college dorms were only ten miles apart. Over the Christmas break, he called and asked me on a date. When he arrived at my house, he was taken by surprise as both my parents and grandparents, who’d come to visit for Christmas, barraged him with a series of questions. Since I was ready, I whisked him away to his car, and we talked through dinner.

Then it was my turn to meet his parents and siblings, and it was my turn to be amazed. Every room in his house was decorated for Christmas. Even the bathrooms had holiday hand towels and matching soap dishes along with snowmen figurines. I’d never seen so many decorations in one place. That day, his mother graciously asked if I would like to come to Cookie Day. While I didn’t know at the time it would be the first of many, I was thrilled at the kind offer and jumped at the chance.

Early one December Saturday morning, I arrived at their house, thinking it would be a half-hour of fun and then Jamie and I would have the rest of the day to go Christmas shopping or do some other holiday activity before he went to work that night at his part-time job. I walked in and found different stations: one person rolled out the dough, another cut the shapes selecting from a huge assortment of cookie cutters, another swapped out baked cookies hot from the oven for a fresh sheet, and the rest decorated cookies, cool enough to frost, with icing and a variety of sprinkles, red-hot candies, and colored sugar. The night before, his mother had mixed four batches of dough and refrigerated them.

After a lunch break, we all finished icing the last batch of cookies. Jamie’s mother kept calling out, “Make some nice ones for the neighbors.” In addition to the sugar cut-out cookies, the day before, she had made wedding cookies, peppermint bark, spritz cookies, and banana bread. The day after Cookie Day, she assembled packages of cookies and delivered them to neighbors, friends, co-workers, and anyone who needed a care package.

Rather than spending half an hour at his parents’ house, it was the whole day, and I left with a basket of cookies to take home to my parents and grandparents.

Over the years, I’ve become known as “the closer.” When everyone else is tired of decorating the cookies, I’m the one who finishes icing the remainder. We’ve branched out and added Grinches and Leg Lamps (my husband’s family loves A Christmas Story while I gravitate to It’s a Wonderful Life and Christmas in Connecticut) to the selection of stars, bells, and holly wreaths.

This year, we’re celebrating a new twist to our annual Cookie Day. My husband has invited his co-workers over, as many of them have never baked Christmas cookies before. We’re having a big party and then we’ll send them away with baskets of cookies and hopefully some fun memories.

So, from that party where I sat next to someone I didn’t know came an introduction to something new that ended up forming one of my holiday traditions. My four children love Cookie Day, and that’s one of their favorite days of the year. Let me know whether you are baking any cookies or pies for Christmas.

And my holiday wish for you is that I hope this Christmas you make a new friend or deliver a homemade treat to an old friend.

Merry Christmas!

An award-winning author, Tanya Agler makes her home in Georgia with her wonderful husband, their four children, and a lovable rescue beagle. She has written six novels for Harlequin Heartwarming with her seventh, Caught by the Cowgirl, coming in April of 2023. Her novella, Christmas Cookie Crossing, is featured in this year’s Christmas Town Bake-Off, an anthology of Christmas novellas written by seven Harlequin Heartwarming authors. When she’s not writing, Tanya loves classic movies, chocolate, and a good cup of tea. You can find her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AuthorTanyaAgler or on Goodreads at https://www.goodreads.com/tanyaagler.

A Christmas bargain…Becomes a promise of more.

Former pro soccer player and single mom Becks Porter finally owns her own soccer complex. But her Christmas dream becomes a blazing nightmare when the building literally goes up in flames—injuring her ex, firefighter Carlos Ramirez. Now Becks and Carlos must choose between old grudges and helping each other out. Sparks have a way of rekindling…but can two people start over without getting burned?

Now It Begins by Navi Vernon

Ah, Christmas. It's at our throats again. Yes, I know we’re gearing up for the big kick-off to the most joyous season of all. Yes, I hear the chorus of reminders that we should focus on Jesus as “the reason for the season.” Yes, I know it’s our big chance to be good humans, smile serenely, give generously, and clasp hands with random strangers as we sing peace, love, and understanding in perfect harmony. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Does it really work that way for you? If so, I am in awe. Maybe we could meet over coffee sometime so you can share your secrets. As for me, my dread of the frenzy between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day begins around Halloween. Before the little goblins even take off their masks, I sense its coming, the rush to shop, coordinate calendars, clean, prepare, smile. Each year I vow to have all plans and presents in place long before the next year’s H O L I D A Y S. Each year, I fail miserably, scrambling at the last minute to gather wish lists and beseech my old buddy Amazon to come to the rescue. Again.

As a kid, Christmas was simple and magical. The anticipation was excruciating, but in that giddy, can’t-wait kind of way. It seemed like every minute from decorations up to decorations down was filled with trips to grandparents, cousins, candy, late bedtimes, and animated specials on TV. My record player stayed stacked with 45s on repeat from Burl Ives, Brenda Lee, and The Chipmunks. A shiny aluminum tree graced the corner of our living room. Even without the fancy rotating colored light wheel like the one my aunt and uncle had, it looked pretty fine with all the ornaments in place. I can still smell the cedar box that held my favorites—the dazzling trio of silver, gold, and bronze stars.

Christmas was still magical when our kids were little. There’s nothing like seeing Christmas through the eyes a child, is there? Wonder and delight at every turn. Giggles and hot chocolate. New flannel pajamas and a bedtime story.

Somewhere along the line, Santa’s sleigh bells began to dim a bit. Of course, grandkids still make Christmas special. I’d be a total Scrooge if I couldn’t see that. But, I don’t put as much effort into gift buying anymore. It seems like everyone already has so much. We all do. Maybe that’s part of the problem. We don’t need more things, we just need each other. Time is so much more important.

Holidays trigger depression in many people. Others may be facing the first holidays after a profound loss. Reach out. Be kind. Be patient. Show grace. Make a seat at the table. Let them talk. Listen as they share their memories. It will help them, immeasurably, and it will make you appreciate what you have right this minute.

In fact, now that I think about it, I have nothing to complain about. I am surrounded by love. The dread comes from the stress to make it all perfect. Note to self: Forget Perfect. Enjoy the moment, flawed though it may be.

Next year, we won’t buy gifts just to check them off a list. We’ll make an intentional plan and spend more time than money. Next year.

For now though, I’m pulling out the first Christmas box because I just remembered that one of the grandkids got me a new Santa last year! It needs to go in a place of honor. Oh my gosh! The littles will be here on Wednesday. They can help decorate the tree! Life is good. Even in the midst of chaos. Merry Christmas, you all. May every one of your Santas bring you joy.

Navi Vernon is a charter member of Black Dog Writers at Black Dog Coffee in  Logansport, Indiana. She speaks with a gentle, loving, and knowing voice. I'm so grateful to her for sharing it with us today. To find other essays by Navi, visit her blog. You won't be sorry you did.

We Gather Together... by Liz Flaherty

Good Thanksgiving morning! 

As I said Saturday, the Window is going to be open with a new post every day between now and New Year's Eve. Some of my favorite people will be here to talk, mostly about the holidays. Some of the posts will be funny and some poignant. I hope you come every day and that you enjoy them all. I hope you comment, too--that is like a little gift to the writer every time it happens. 

I'll be back on Saturdays after the first of the year. Save my place for me, okay?

My latest book The Summer of Sorrow and Dance, is out in paperback now. I'm probably more excited about that than is reasonable, but you've seen me that way before, right? I don't have author copies yet, but will soon. Until then, the book is available on Amazon at the link above.

I'm wishing you the happiest holiday season ever. I hope you get family time, friends time, and moments of pleasure that scatter like starlight to fill your days. I hope you "gather together," as the hymn says. 

Navi Vernon will open the Window tomorrow to kick off our Window Holiday Celebrations. Thank you for joining us!

Have a great week. Be nice to somebody.

His Candy Christmas by Darlene Fredette

His Candy Christmas is a Redford Falls Story, Book 1, by Darlene Fredette, from the Wild Rose Press.

Original Publication: 2013 - One Sweet Christmas

It’s going to take more than a few pieces of chocolate to fill this Scrooge’s heart with Christmas cheer. Luckily Candy has a whole shop full.

Who knew returning home would contain a cool nip in the air, irresistible chocolate, and a Santa suit?

Candice Cane is not proud of the way she acted after her last encounter with Jackson Frost. Sure revenge was fun, but now Jackson is angry and looking for answers, and standing on the welcome mat in her chocolate shop. Now he's after some revenge of his own.

Jackson returned to his small hometown for one reason and one reason only. So, he's not sure how he ended up in a Santa suit in the middle of a chocolate shop, at the behest of its beautiful owner, instead of high-tailing it back to the city as fast as he can.

Excerpt:

She tapped the pen against her chin. Yes, this plan could work.

“Why the hesitation? I thought you’d be just as eager to end our marriage.”

Not just yet. Candy had a problem and Jackson was her solution. “You need a divorce, I need a Santa.”

“What?” He raised an eyebrow.

She flashed a sinister smile and winked, pointing to the clothing bag hanging from a hook on the wall. A Santa hat peeked from the open zipper. “Give me your best ho ho ho.”

“No...no way!” Jackson stepped back, colliding with the wall. “If you think I’m going to dress up as Santa, you’re out of your mind!”

“No Santa, no divorce.” Candy flicked the pen through the air and it clattered onto the table.

Buy link: https://www.amazon.com/Candy-Christmas-Redford-Falls-Book-ebook/dp/B08DRRPG4G

About Darlene Fredette

Darlene resides on the Atlantic Coast of Canada where the summers are too short and the winters are too long. An avid reader since childhood, Darlene loved to develop the many stories coming to life in her head. She writes contemporary romances with a focus on plot-driven page-turners. When not working on her next book, she can be found with her husband, her daughter, and her yellow Labrador. Darlene’s favourite pastime is taking summer day-trips to the Valley to soak in the small-town feel.

Author Web Site: http://darlenefredette.blogspot.com/

Blog: http://findingthewritewords.blogspot.com

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Darlene-Fredette/e/B005NAF660/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/darlenefredette1/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DarleneLF
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/DarleneLF

Reviews:

[His Candy Christmas] “I loved it! Would I recommend this Christmas novella? Definitely! Get cosy in your favourite chair with a warm cuppa and this novella!” ~ Sandra Jeanz Book Reviews

[His Candy Christmas] “This novella is truly a very sweet Christmas Story. I read it in one sitting and immediately fell in love with Candice Cane.” ~ Amy’s Reviews

Colds, Cats, and Welcome Holidays by Liz Flaherty

Good morning! I'm not feeling well right now--only a cold, but I haven't had one in quite some time and I am whining up a storm. Which doesn't help, in case anyone wants to try it. Save the limited breath allowed by having a cold for complaining about other things. It's cold this morning, for one thing. 

I also had a laugh this morning already. Our cats live on our front porch. They have a nice house there, a watering thingy, and that's where we feed them. They get dry food in the morning and wet food in the evening, with an occasional snack in between. They are fairly old and grumpy and set in their ways--not unlike the people they own--and they only like certain foods. They want pate, for one thing, not shreds or chunks that actually look like food. The worse it looks coming out of the can, the better. 

They also, I assume because their teeth are as old as they are, have become discriminating in their dry food choices. They only want the stuff that has tender centers. Which I can't always find. When I can't, then I get them a small bag of something else. I hide the label and everything, but they know. They know. 

So, this morning, when I already feel like hammered sh...well, feel pretty crummy, I couldn't get the front door open to feed them because--did I mention it was cold? Yeah, the storm door was frozen shut. So I took their food around to the front porch, mincing my way through the snow on the grass because I'm afraid of falling, and poured an extra-generous portion of dry food onto their plate. They fell on it like starving lemmings. I petted them and left them to their breakfast. 

However, when I walked back around to the back door, they followed me. All three of them, with accusation in every step. I looked over my shoulder, told them to go clean their plate, and hurried into the house without meeting their eyes. 

Seriously. I couldn't meet their eyes because I knew I'd disappointed them. My kids are probably wondering where this sensitive person was while they were growing up. 

Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you and your families and friends have a wonderful holiday. And, speaking of holidays...

This year, for the first time ever, the Window Over the Sink is going to open every

day between Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve with holiday posts. I hope you'll stop in every day and make the visitors welcome. There will be old favorites--Debby, Joe, and Charley will be here--plus a host of writer friends. I am kind of excited about it. 

Have a great week and a great Thanksgiving. Even from my position of leaned back in the recliner more often than not, I'm eager for the season we're entering. For the fun and decorations and sharing and food. Oh, yes, food. Let us be joyful. 

Be nice to somebody. 

 

The Poppies Still Grow by Liz Flaherty

 I don' t know when I wrote this, but it has been cobbled together for years now. In its last incarnation, my grandson Skyler was 18--now he's 26 and an officer and his mother would still make him cookies every day if it would keep him safe. It would be easy to make this a political post, but this is neither the time nor--right now, today--the place. I've changed my mind on many things over the years, and my own patriotism has taken a hard hit, but the things here--they're the same. Thank you again, veterans.

 The torch; be yours to hold it high.

    If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

A few years back, the fifth graders at my grandson’s school performed their annual Veterans Day salute. They sang and shook hands with veterans in the audience. There was a long slide show of pictures of mothers and fathers and grandfathers and other relatives who had served in the armed forces. I thought my eyes would never get dry. After watching the program, I tried to put into words how I feel, how proud and grateful I am that so many have served so long and so well.

Except I didn’t have any new words, though my eyes are leaking again as I write this introduction to a tribute I still feel.

John Thomas and Amos Ash were residents of Miami County, Indiana. They fought with the 20th Regiment of Indiana. They died at Gettysburg in 1863.

Uncle Mart was ten years older than Aunt Ethel. They were married forever, but they never had any children. That always seemed odd to me, but it really wasn’t. They adored each other and never needed anyone else; they were a complete family unit unto themselves. He was bald and funny and liked to fish. He served in the first World War. The Big One, some people said.

I don’t remember what his name was, but he and his parents were visiting my family when something happened and they had to return to their South Bend home at once because he had to catch the next train back to his duty station. The day was December 7, 1941, long before I was born, but I still remember the empty look on Mom’s face when she told the story.

Thadd was a baker in the navy during that war, the second of the World Wars. The one

more people called The Big One. A couple of years after he came home, Thadd and Mary got married and they had five kids.

His name was Wayne. I was at his going-away party before he left for Vietnam. He was young and smart and eager to serve his country. There was a girl at the party who looked at him with soft eyes. We laughed a lot, had a good time, and wished him luck when we left. We were used to it, I suppose, to saying goodbye and hoping for the chance to say hello when they came back home, so we didn’t give it that much thought.

Wayne, though, and Mike Waymire and John Miller, to name but a few, came home in flag-draped coffins. We watched the news, read the papers, wept. We remembered smooth-faced, laughing boys and mourned with the wives and girlfriends and mothers who would never feel the same again, with fathers silent and stoic in their grief. We acknowledged empty places and heard remembered laughter and voices echo through them.

I married the second of Thadd and Mary’s kids after he came home from Vietnam. Like the Korean Conflict, no one ever called it The Big War, but to the ones who served there, and the ones who waited at home, they were big enough. Long enough. Sad enough.

When Desert Storm happened our son Chris was stateside, wearing the army uniform his father had.

We watched and waited and feared and prayed. It was the same with Iraq. With Afghanistan. With all the other wars and conflicts and skirmishes where Americans have served.

My grandson Skyler is 18, a senior in high school. He spent the summer in basic training. He's our handsome, sweet boy and even though he wears a uniform well, it makes my heart clutch seeing him in it. He has walked and talked and breathed military since he was eight years old so I shouldn't have been surprised when he was ready to enlist, but I wasn't ready for it. He wants to serve and I want to make him cookies--I suppose it is the same with all young military men and their mothers and grandmothers.

In October of 2010, the city of Logansport, Indiana welcomed Sgt. Kenneth K. McAnich home. The hearse drove slow and solemn through streets lined with flags and people, the Patriot Guard riding protective escort against those who might not be respectful. It’s symbolic, this ceremonial farewell we offer our fallen warriors. I’m sure it does little to fill the echoing empty places created by their deaths. But it’s all we can do.

My husband remembers how people looked at him in airports when he came home from Vietnam. How they sneered and then looked away. I saw the same thing in Indianapolis, when among the celebratory crowds coming home at Christmastime walked a lone soldier, carrying his duffel bag and staring straight ahead. Over forty years later, those who served in Vietnam know it wasn’t them people hated; it was the war. But they still remember.

We all hate war. All of us. Thank goodness we’ve learned how to welcome home those who fight in them. We’ve learned to applaud them in airports and on planes, to buy their lunch once in a while if they’re behind us at the cashier’s station, to say thank you and mean it. 

That’s why November 11 is Veterans Day. It is not a day of celebration, although rejoicing in freedom is probably never wrong. It is instead a day of remembrance and honor to the men and women who have for nearly 240 years and who continue to serve in the preservation of that freedom. Thank you to all of you. God bless you. God bless America.

Have a good week.  Be nice to somebody. 

1993 to 2022 - some things stay the same...

I apologize. Again. Saturday morning slipped up on me and I don't have time to write a new one, so I hope you don't mind having this again. This is from sometime in 1993 and was repeated in 2017. The green carpet's long gone. A flower bed is where the hydrant used to be. Chris's feet eventually stopped growing. There are things I wrote back then that I look at and say, "What was I thinking?" But then there are others like this one, when I actually got it right. Thanks for stopping by. Don't sweat the grape juice.

Close your eyes

Listen to the skies

All is calm, all is well

- Roger Miller

There's this spot in our back yard near the porch. It's a rectangle, about four feet by ten feet or so. The grass grows really thick and nice there, probably because the hydrant, with the garden hose hanging from it, is there, too, and our garden hoses always leak.

It didn't used to look like that. It used to be all dirt--or mud, depending on if anyone was using the hose--and littered with Tonka trucks and little green army men and Weebles and Fisher-Price people. There was usually a filthy little boy sitting in the middle of it. It drove me crazy.

So now there's no more mud, and the filthy little boy is 19 and in college and a lot bigger than I am. Like I said, the grass grows thick and nice there.

I hate it.

Several years back, some of my in-laws were coming for a weekend visit. They were coming on Saturday morning. Well, there was a basketball game on Friday night and my husband and I both had to work Saturday morning. To make a long story short, the house was a disaster from top to bottom and there was no time to clean it. So I cringed and worried and left a note for my kids when I left for work on Saturday morning. "Please," I wrote, "just mow a path through the living room."

As kids often do, they surprised me. When I got home, you could smell the Pine-Sol from the back yard. They gave me a guided tour of all they'd done.

"We swept and dusted and made beds," they said, gesturing at all the splendor. "Here are the dishes done, the stove wiped off, the grape juices spilled on the carpet, all the newspapers picked up."

Grape juice on the carpet? I picked up on that right away. Sure enough, right in the middle of the doorway between the kitchen and living room was a splattery purplespot on the green carpet. It was not, need I tell you, a pretty combination.

"Oh, well, get me a rag," I said. "It's a new stain. It'll come up."

"No, Mom. We tried."

"You just need to use a little elbow grease," I argued.

"It won't come up, Mom."

It wouldn't.

Until we cut that carpet away last year to enlarge the kitchen, we had a purple-on-green spot that leaped out at me as soon as I entered the room. I noticed it every time and it never bothered me the least bit. Because when I saw the purple spot, I remembered how hard the kids had worked that morning.

It more than equaled out.

The first time our older son went to basketball camp, since his feet were growing

at the rate of a full size every couple of days--at least, that's what it seemed like--I bought him a new pair of basketball shoes. They were really, really cheap, but they looked just like the ones that cost a whole lot. With what camp cost, I explained to Chris, there was no way we could buy expensive shoes, too. No problem, he lied. When he came home a week later, his feet were raw and bleeding where they had blistered and re-blistered.

A few years later, I was bemoaning our financial status when Chris walked through the room wearing his basketball shoes, ones that had cost that "whole lot" I mentioned above. Duane pointed at his feet. "There it goes," he said. "Do you really mind that?"

Well, no. No, I didn't mind.

When your kids grow up, which they do really fast no matter how you try to slow the process, sometimes people express envy that you have your child-raising days behind you. If only for the purpose of making you feel wise, they ask for your advice. You try to abstain from giving that advice, because no two children are alike, so you can't treat them as if they are.

But I can say this much. Buy them good shoes so they'll grow straight and sturdy. Let them play in mud so they'll learn about building up and tearing down. And most of all, whatever you do, don't sweat the grape juice.

Have a great week. Be nice to somebody.