Thanksgiving Contest Winners Announced
Congratulations to all who entered. Many mentioned it was fun to see if they could write a story under 1,000 words-and incorporate many of the odd words given in the contest rules.
They did a great job. One person used every single word. WOW!
The winners are:
-- First Place: "The Drifter" by Diane A.Brown, Raymond, Washington
-- Second Place: "Unexpected Dream" by Bill Wetterman Bixby, Oklahoma
Honorary Mention (again a tied, so we named two)"
-- "The Will" by Jane Hoffman, Apple Valley, Minnesota
-- "Family Dinner" by Shawn Remfrey, Warsaw, Indiana
Elementary-Age Author:
-- "My Teacher," Geovanna Barran-Pryce of Flint, Michigan
For the first time, we had several elementary age writers so we picked the one that both was a good story-and followed the guidelines (which in this case, means incorporating as many of these words as possible). Thanks to the parents who encouraged their children to write -- and be courageous enough to enter our contest. We left the underlined words in the first story to show you what we required.
Writer
Singer
Ed Sullivan
Memory
Secret
Famous
Millionaire
Prison
Liberty
Horses
Flowers
Following are each of the stories for you to read and enjoy. It is a nice mix of emotional to high-hearted.
First: "The Drifter" by Diane A.Brown, Raymond, Washington
Opening the back door I stood nose to barrel with a Colt 45.
"What on earth!" I stammered, taking a step backward.
"Get inside lady and sit down," the intruder ordered. "You alone?"
"Now listen here young man, this is my home" I stood defiant, arms folded.
"Tarnation! I ain't met no woman as stubborn as you sept for my ma." He pushed inside and closed the door.
"You have interrupted my Thanksgiving baking" I fumed. "Been living on this mountain for fifty years and I always make a holiday feast."
"Quit worrying bout cooking a fancy dinner" he insisted. "The way the snow is fallin ain't nobody gonna make it up here."
"You don't know my son." I countered, staring into cold blue eyes. "He'll be here."
He ran long fingers through a mop of coal black hair, and then crammed his Stetson back in place. Scruffy whiskers covered his lean cheeks.
"I'm going to the barn to check the horses," he did a quick about face. "Don't get no ideas about running off." Slamming the door, he disappeared into the cold. The last rays of fading sunlight glistened on the crusted snow.
By the looks of his worn clothing I knew he'd been traveling for some time, a good-for-nothing drifter, spoiling my memories. His frame hinted at countless missed meals and his eyes had too many wrinkles for one so young. My Johnny would have been about the same age, if he had survived. The fever had come so quickly there was no time to get help. The pain in my heart always seemed worse this time of the year.
Left alone, I wondered what kind of secret the drifter was hiding. Snow and eminent darkness surrounded the house; there was no sense in trying to escape. I restarted my meal preparations. There would be a Thanksgiving feast tomorrow.
When the drifter returned, the kitchen smelled of nutmeg, cinnamon and pumpkin. Left-over stew simmered on the wood stove.
"See here! You're tracking mud onto my spotless floor." I grumbled. "Take those boots off this instant!"
"For heavens sake," he protested, hopping on one foot then the other, "Anything to keep you quiet."
"I'll dish up supper and set it on the table."
"Why you being nice to me? Cant you see I'm a dangerous person?" Laying his pistol on the table he sat in an empty chair. "Everyone's heard about the famous Cheyenne Kid, the one who escaped from the Denver prison."
I hid a grin as I turned to pour a glass of milk. "It's been told that he robbed a millionaire, stashed the cash in a coffin and buried it in these mountains."
"Naw, thems just stories." He said between bites. "But I done shot six men while passing through Liberty. I rode out so fast they didn't even see my dust."
Sliding into the chair next to him I continued my questioning. "Then what brings you here if you're not after the money?"
"I um, um... Now see here this is just about the best stew I have ever had. I'll take some more" he insisted, holding up his bowl.
The kitchen work done, I sat by the fire in my rocking chair. The Cheyenne Kid entered and tossed more wood on the fire. A soft warmth filled the room. Patchwork quilts lay folded neatly across the wooden chairs and a single kerosene lamp set on the small table in the corner. A candle flickered on the mantel and shadows danced quietly across the walls.
"Mam, I'm real sorry for barging in on you today" he apologized.
Taking a small knife from his pocket the drifter started whittling a piece of wood "I mean you no harm," he assured. "I just needed a warm place to stay. Most folks take a look at me and out comes the shot gun."
"I lost a son, would have been about your age. That's his guitar over there." Tears slipped quietly from my eyes at the memories. "Do you have any family?"
"No one I would be proud of." Arising, he picked up the guitar. "This here's a fine git-fiddle. Would you mind if I played a tune?"
"I, I haven't let anyone touch it for years, but go ahead" I whispered. "Do you have a name?"
"Course I have a name. But if I told you then I would have to shoot you," he threatened, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Tell me."
Tightening the pegs and placing his fingers on the strings he began to strum softly.
"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound... ."
I listened quietly as his voice floated softly through the air. He had talent like my Johnny, a wonderful singer. Johnny had been a writer. too. He would sit for hours strumming, humming and filling sheets and sheets with his music.
"It's Joseph."
Lost in thought I looked up. "That's a fine name, right from the Bible."
Snow fell all night covering the last fall flowers. The aroma of roasting turkey filled the entire house by afternoon. Joseph went to get potatoes and carrots from the root cellar while I pulled two loaves of freshly baked sourdough bread from the oven.
Leaving his boots on the porch Joseph entered the kitchen. "Smells mighty fine, do you really think your son is coming?"
"Joseph, I have a confession to ....."
The sounds of gunfire filled the room. I whirled around, startled to find myself in a world I had forgotten, my own living room. The smell of roasting turkey lingered. I must have dozed off. The television blared loudly; a full-fledged battle between cowboys and Indians was in progress. I flipped the channel and found an Ed Sullivan holiday special to calm my pounding heart.
It seemed so real, because it had been. It was the same story Grandma Holm told every Thanksgiving. She would be here soon. My father, Joseph, would bring her and Uncle Johnny's guitar.
Second Place: "An Unexpected Dream" by Bill Wetterman, Bixby, Oklahoma
"Are you daft, Sean Sullivan?" Sean's wife Maureen shook a ladle at him. "The table holds eight people. We have eight people coming. Now you want me to set a place for a ghost who won't show up."
Sean wrapped her in his arms. "When you fake being mad, your cheeks redden up like those Granny Smith apples."
She grimaced. "You're too young for memory lapses. Granny Smiths are green."
He grinned and ignored her correction. "He's coming. I saw it in a dream, as sure as I'm hugging you." He stepped back, plucked an artificial flower from the centerpiece, and put the stem through her hair. "I'm not the only one who gets crazy dreams. You had me scouring the house looking for that murderer who escaped from prison last year. Said you saw him crawl in through the bedroom window, you did."
"Don't be telling that around, Sean."
"It will be our little secret."
"You're serious about this empty chair?"
Sean crossed himself. "Swear to God. An angel told me."
"All right," she shrugged and gave him a wink. "Wild horses wouldn't change your mind anyway."
He reached to give her a love pinch, but she scooted away. "Don't be teasing me, Sean Sullivan. Or I'll smack your knuckles."
The lilt of her voice said she loved him. He backed away, and she returned to peeling potatoes.
"I never saw him you know. He died when I was six months old. And when you meet
him, don't tell him we're Republicans."
"Huh?" She put down the peeler, wiped her hands, and stroked her husband's arm.
"From what your mother told me, honey. He fought for your liberty, and he wouldn't care what party you joined. What did people tell you about him? You never shared that with me."
"He was smaller than me, and redheaded."
"All you Sullivans are redheaded." She tapped her fingers on his arm. "And you're all scrappy and handsome, too."
Sean searched his memory. "I know he had grandiose plans for me. He thought maybe I'd become a writer like Uncle Nicky, or a singer like Sinatra. At least that's what Mom said."
"Well, if he shows up... ." She stopped mid-sentence and walked over to check the oven.
"He'll be proud of you. You're not a millionaire, but a shop superintendent isn't shabby, not for an Irish in Cleveland." She smiled again, her freckles more evident under the kitchen spotlight. "I'll set the extra plate. Just don't sulk if he doesn't come."
Sean waved a hand and went out to the garage. He pulled down the ladder to the loft and crawled up. He couldn't stand up full height, but he had enough room to reach the box of pictures he'd stowed a few feet away from the opening.
Back down the ladder he came, box in hand, and rifled through old photos. He hadn't looked at pictures of his dad in years. Life without his dad left a hole in his heart, and he felt angry and guilty somehow that his father had died.
The price of liberty hit the Sullivan family hard in 1970, so hard that Sean grew up without the guidance of his dad, or his Uncle Mike. Both died in a place called Song Mao in Vietnam. Only his older brother, Ed Sullivan, was there to help him through the maze of conflicts a teenage boy faces in the inner city, and his future wife, Maureen, matured him into a man.
"You'd love her, Dad," he said aloud. "Maureen's a Kelly, you know, bright as the sun and smart as Auntie Rose. I'm lucky to have her. The boys are growing, and ... ."
Who was he kidding? No one was there to hear him, and he was foolish to think dreams came true. At least his boys had a dad, such as he was, and he hoped he did right by them.
He cheered at their basketball games and taught them how to handle bullies and the like. Sean tried to envision life with his father had he lived. But he couldn't. His shoulders slumped. Stupid dream! Why couldn't the hurt of the past stay in the past? Sean left the garage and cleaned up for company.
By noon the house buzzed with conversation. The Sullivan's best friends and their two kids bustled in with pies and ice cream for desert, and Sean did his best to be a good host.
Maureen pulled him aside, and said, "Help me cut the turkey, Sean. Dig the dressing out and put it in this bowl, while I fill the water glasses."
Sean was about to tell her to remove the extra plate when the doorbell rang. Maureen's head tilted to one side, and a quizzical look graced her face. "Sean?"
His palms started to sweat, and he said, "Coincidence, my love. I'll see who it is." He walked down the hall to the front door and stopped. A man's figure could be seen through the speckled glass. Sean grabbed the doorknob and paused. Could it be? Get a hold of yourself, Sean. It's probably a salesman.
Heart pounding, he opened the door, and a whoosh of air escaped his mouth. Sean didn't need an introduction. The man standing at the door in an army uniform was the man in the pictures.
"Hello Sean, my boy," he said. "I don't have much time, and I can't stay. I just came to
say... ."
"Dad," Sean gasped. His eyes moistened, and he felt his lips quivering. "Before you do, I need to tell you. I love you."
His father's smile broadened into a grin. He leaned toward his son and whispered, "That's what I wanted to say, Son. I love you, too."
With that the man vanished, and Sean felt a hand touch his shoulder. Maureen, tears rolling down her cheeks, stood behind him.
"I heard, Sean," she said. "Happy Thanksgiving, darling."
Honorary Mention (2 tied) "The Will" by Jane Hoffman, Apple Valley, Minnesota
Hooey! Haven't had that much fun in years. The only way it could've been better would be if Mary were still here, but she passed on twelve years ago, God rest her soul. I passed on seven days ago, and I don't mind telling you, being dead ain't for sissies. That's right, I'm dead. Deceased. Bought the farm. Kicked the bucket. I'd invited the kids for Thanksgiving dinner, ordering the whole shebang ahead of time from The Famous Catering Company, when my ticker tocked and my time was up. My oh-so-practical (as in, cheap) son, Roger, decided that it would be "most convenient for all concerned" if my funeral were held on Wednesday, have the Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday (since it was prepaid, of course - never one to pass up a free meal, that boy) and hear my will read on Friday.
Roger and his prune-faced wife, Hortense, sashayed into my house as bold as you please and acted like they owned the place already. My daughter, Trixie, decided to stay at the Wild Horses Inn down the street, probably to get away from Roger and the Puckered One. Smart girl.
The fun began Thanksgiving morning when Trixie arrived and started in on Roger before he even knew what hit him. "ROGER DODGER," she screeched as she scanned the interior, "WHAT did you do with Edie?" Mary found a stray kitten years ago and fell in love with it. She called it Ever Darling, but the kids shortened that to E.D., then just Edie.
"It's around here somewhere, I suppose," Roger said, all snooty-like. "Father should have put it to sleep years ago." The fruits of my loins and Pruneface moved to the dining room and sat down at my table. Trixie looked for Edie under the tablecloth while Roger said," Let us all hold hands while I say a prayer."
"HOLD HANDS?" Trixie's head popped up. "We NEVER held hands when Daddy was alive!"
"I am the head of the family now, and I say we -"
Right on cue, the front door opened and in sauntered Roger, Jr., wearing his blaze-orange Hennepin County Prison System shirt and ripped blue jeans with holes everywhere. I thought Roger, Sr. was going to stroke out right then and there.
"Hey, Pops. What's for dinner?" Junior crossed the room and leaned over his mother to kiss her cheek. "Happy Thanksgiving, Mom."
Pruneface gaped at him, opening and closing her mouth like a wrinkled blowfish. "T-t-thank you, dear. If memory serves me correctly, I thought that you were still...away.
When did you gain your liberty?"
"I didn't," Junior replied as he slipped into a chair, conveniently provided by a pretty young waitress from the catering company. He gave her a wink, then turned to his mother and said, "They let me out to be with my loving family for the day. They're monitoring my every move with this, though." He pulled up his right pant leg and raised his foot above the table so that they all got a good look-see at the little black box strapped to his ankle.
For once, Roger Dodger was speechless. Pruneface grabbed her glass of Chablis and drained it. Trixie, bless her little conversation-loving heart, broke the silence and babbled, "HEY, JUNIOR! Is that a new tattoo on your arm?"
"Which arm?" he asked, as he helped himself to a hefty slice of turkey. Pruneface made a strangled sound and signaled for the waitress to refill her wineglass. "You mean this one?" Junior flexed the muscle on his left arm, and a tattoo with the word, "Mother" surrounded by pink hearts and flowers, bounced up and down. "I did it for you, Mom."
"How...nice," Pruneface mumbled, signaling for her fifth glass of wine.
"Enough of this small talk," Junior said. Ladies and gents, the fireworks are about to start. "It's no secret that Gramps was loaded." Did I mention that I am - oops, was - a millionaire? "I wanna know if he left it all to me."
Roger finally found his voice, and let me tell you, it was nasty. "Pray, tell what a drug-dealing ex-con plans to do with a multi-million dollar inheritance, assuming they ever let you out?"
"Start my own recording company," Junior replied, as he polished off his third helping of sweet potatoes. The others just stared at him. "What? I've been taking lessons in the joint and I'm gonna be a country Western singer."
"Roger Aloysius Sullivan, Jr., are you INSANE?!" Trixie decided to weigh in as she crammed her face full of cranberry sauce. "OF COURSE Daddy wanted ME to nurture my inner child. I'm sure that he left it all to me so that I can buy a publishing company and fulfill my destiny of becoming a CHICK LIT WRITER!"
"Enough!" Ol' Roger tried regaining control by closing that barn door after all the horses got out. "I am the eldest and only son. I have been a captain of the manhole cover industry for thirty years. My business acumen is legendary. I wouldn't be surprised to find out tomorrow that I am the heir to Father's fortune!"
Well, the "loving family" bit pretty much bottomed out after that and they avoided each other like the plague the rest of the afternoon. Come Friday morning, nearly comatose from eating so much the day before, they all stumbled into my library to hear the reading of my will. Poor, poor Roger. Was he ever surprised to find out that it all goes to the newly built Sullivan Shelter for Homeless Cats.
Honorary Mention (2 tied) "Family Dinner," by Shawn Remfrey, Warsaw, Indiana
It's always the same every year. Stay up late the night before preparing the food ahead of time, as much as you can anyway. Then all of the cleaning. Everything has to be spotless so that the in-laws don't think you're a terrible wife and mother.
Then after a two-hour catnap, you drag yourself out of bed and begin all over again. Stuff the turkey. Peel the potatoes. Vacuum the floor one last time. Don't forget the flowers for the table and be sure to make a place for Aunt Jo's famous lime Jell-o dessert.
This year was different though. Abigail was coming. She was my deep dark secret, the one that I never told anyone-the secret that kept anyone from truly knowing me. Everything had to be perfect for the first time she was to meet her family. She deserved at least that.
As the guests arrived I became more and more anxious. What would she think of her mother? In my memory she was still a sweet newborn baby girl. What would she be like now? My thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell once again. This time
she was on the other side, waiting for me. At first all I could do was stare at her, this gorgeous little girl now, about the age six. Long curly blonde hair framed her beautiful face. The look in her eyes is what held me-the look of recognition, of belonging. As she threw her arms around my waste, I finally knew what being whole felt like.
Without a word between us, we sat on opposite ends of the table while the meal was passed around and everyone talked.
"You know your dad was on the Ed Sullivan show?"
"Ed Sullivan didn't have a show, he was a writer!'
"No! He was a singer!'
"Wasn't he that millionaire that went to prison for doing weird things with horses?'
Throughout the conversation I could not utter a word. All I could do is stare at my beautiful daughter. I'd waited six and a half years to see her again, and now here she was. I knew it wouldn't last long, so I took the liberty of getting as much of her stuffed in my memory as I could. She twirled her hair every time she looked at one of her brothers. Her nose was a bit too large for her face. She constantly kicked her feet back and forth beneath the table. She only pushed the sweet potatoes around on her plate, never taking a bite.
After dinner, when all the other guests left except for her, I decided it was time for a family meeting. After sending the boys to the den, I put my arm around Abigail's shoulder and together we walked in to meet them. Our first real family reunion.
"Who's that, Mom?' my nine-year-old asked from the recliner. I turned to smile at my older son.
"Griff, this is your sister. Her name is Abigail and she's six years old." The look of shock I expected did not come. He simply got up and hugged her like a big brother would. The smile that broke out on her face was worth more than my life savings.
"Why didn't you tell us about her? Where's she been? Why doesn't she live with us? Is she staying here now?" He turned to look at his sister. "You are staying, aren't you?"
A tear slid down her cheek as she shook her head now. I could see that neither he nor Sam, our four-year-old, quite understood what was going on.
"Abigail died right after she was born." With this statement I couldn't stop the tears from coming. "Honey, I just don't know how to explain it."
"She's an angel and she came to visit,' he shrugged. Such faith from such a small child. "At least I know she'll hear me if I pray. You will hear me, won't you, Abigail?"
The tear was replaced with another smile as she nodded. We spent the evening just being together. Abigail was infinitely patient with her brothers as they showed her all of their favorite toys and games. We all plopped down on the floor and went through the family photo albums. There were no arguments, just
peace. Our missing link had been found and we were finally perfect.
Late in the night, the time came too quickly. She hugged us each, starting with Daddy and then her brothers. I came last. I think she knew I needed her the most. She had to know the emptiness she left in me when she died. As I wrapped my arms tightly around her and pressed my lips to the top of her precious head, I swear I heard her whisper. Then she was gone, and I was left alone again in the dark with dirty dishes and floors to vacuum.
"I love you, Mommy.'
Youth Entry - "My Teacher," by Geovanna Barran-Pryce of Flint, Michigan
My favorite teacher is Mrs. Vallimont. She has short hair and the hair color is blondish brown. When you are sick she will bring you flowers. She is the nicest teacher and friend anyone could want. She was never in prison, she keeps the deepest darkest secrets, and her father is a millionaire.
One day about 3:15pm I asked her, "would like to come over for Thanksgiving?"
She said, "Yes, I would."
When I got home I ask my parents if I can I invite Mrs. Vallimont.
They said, "Why do you want to invite her?"
I said, "She is my friend and a good teacher and I though it would be nice, to give her a break."
Then they said, "Yes, she can come over for Thanksgiving."
"Yes!" I shouted.
It was one day before Thanksgiving and we still had a lot to do. After
school I ran to the store to get some horses pictures because Mrs. Vallimont loves horses. She is famous for her poems. She is a fantastic writer. Then we got two huge turkeys.
Today is Thanksgiving and we got the table set and on the plates was a
picture of turkeys. We put napkins on top of the plates with the silverware. Then Mrs. Vallimont came over and we starting talking and I told her, "You are my idol."
She said, "Thank you."
I said, "No, thank you."
Then we ate dinner; it took about an hour and thirty minutes, but it was delicious. After dinner we went to Kelsey Park to walk off dinner and on the way my parents asked Mrs. Vallimont, "What made you become a teacher?
She said, "I love kids and I know how hard it is for teenagers to learn."
It got late at night so we when back home and Mrs. Vallimont said, "Thank you for a delicious dinner." and then she left, so we went to bed.