“I could sure use a miracle right about now,” she grumbled into the chilling, opaque mist. “Something to believe in.” She was weary from Christmas shopping that began while pumpkins were still ripening on the vine. She was plagued with the knowledge that some folks placed a Christmas tree in every room of their house, while others were blessed to have just one. She could not listen to one more shopping channel host attempt to convince credit card victims that the slinky, silvery top would be fabulous with the animal print leggings; perfect attire for the office Christmas party or cocktails with friends. She was not Scrooge, but she was not far from it. And she was nearly broken, both financially and spiritually. Just a Yankee Swap gift to pick up and her shopping would finally be done.
She opened the door of her car and swung one very non-glamorous Bean boot out onto the hard packed snow surface when the car pulled up beside her. She brought her foot back into the car, allowing the driver to straighten out his vehicle in the parking space. The automobile was one of the famous and one-time popular Plymouth K-cars. It was dark blue and speckled with green and brown spots; the remnants of futile attempts to “bondo” the car together over the years. Barely audible music escaped from the partially closed car windows; a smooth gospel melody.
As the car door opened, an elderly gentleman slid out from the passenger seat; his black rubber boots partially unzipped. He tipped his green plaid hat at her and then turned to pull two tri-pod canes from the confines of the car, placing them carefully in front of him before pushing the car door shut with his hip. He made his way carefully toward the store, the two canes moving slowly and consistently before him. The driver of the car joined him, cradling the gentleman’s right elbow in his mittened hand. “Easy, now, Dad,” he said.
Two men wearing Santa hats and gray quilted parkas stood in front of the store. They were Salvation Army workers with pink cheeks, tarnished antique bells, and a bright red iron kettle that encouraged hope for those who welcomed a sincere and loving hand. The elderly gentleman and his son approached the two Santas, soft Merry Christmas greetings exchanged on the wings of wintry breath. The gentleman’s son reached into the depths of his coat pocket and withdrew a round, glass jar with red and green ribbons circling the golden lid. The jar was filled with bright copper and silver coins that pushed against the glass; ready for release. Together, father and son handed the jar to the Santas, sealing the deal with hugs as clouds of laughing vapor danced around them.
With obvious difficulty, the elderly gentleman made his way back to the old K-car, his son hovering over and around him as he opened the passenger door, guiding his father back into his seat. The gentleman sighed with relief, removing his green cap briefly to sweep back his steel gray, thin hair.
She had remained in her car throughout the exchange, her eyes unwavering. One more gift to buy. Decadent chocolate? A whimsical Christmas ornament? No. “Something to believe in,” she whispered. Pulling her last $10 bill from her wallet, she climbed out of her car and walked toward the red kettle.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
