A Funny Christmas Memory

 

Here is another Christmas Memory. This one has been told many times in my family.

A Spoonful of Fudge

Spiral back in time with me to a mid-December day in 1947 and relive one of my treasured memories. With our teacher’s guidance, my third grade class planned the Christmas party, which would be held on our final day before the holiday break. Our classroom already looked festive thanks to a live Christmas tree decorated with our art work. Cut-out paper snowflakes adorned the tall windows, and in free time we’d made construction paper chains which we used to decorate every available space in the room. 

But now the most important part of getting ready was upon us. Miss Marshak asked for volunteers to bring Christmas napkins, cookies, and punch.

 “Now what else would be good to have at the party?” she asked. 

A boy in the last row hollered, “Fudge!” 

At his one-word answer, I sat up straight and waved my hand in the air. When Miss Marshak did not call on me immediately, I bounced up and down in my chair and gestured furiously.

 “Yes, Nancy,” she finally said. 

“I’ll bring the fudge. My mother makes the best fudge in the world.” My mouth watered at the thought of the creamy, rich chocolate candy my entire family loved.

I could hardly wait to get home and tell my mother that I’d volunteered to bring fudge for the party. She’d be so excited to share her special fudge with all my classmates. I barely felt the cold December air as I hurried along the six blocks from school to our apartment building. My feet scarcely touched the stairs as I sailed up the three flights to our door. 

Mother stopped peeling potatoes when I burst into the kitchen. I announced the great news, but I didn’t get the reaction I’d expected. Her face paled. “Fudge? Isn’t there something else you can bring?” 

“No. Other people signed up for the rest.” My excitement deflated like a pricked balloon.

What could be wrong? 

Mother shrugged, picked up the potato peeler and said, “It’s all right. I’ll make the fudge.”

The December days slid by, one by one. I helped Mother put up our Christmas decorations. Dad took my brothers and me to pick out a tree, and Mother spent her days wrapping packages and baking special cookies and Christmas cakes. At school, we practiced for our part in the all-school musical program, read Christmas stories in reading time and created our own in Language Arts period. Giggles got louder as Christmas surrounded us.

Finally, the day before the party arrived. Our teacher went over a checklist to make sure everyone remembered what they were to bring the next day. How could I forget? I’d thought about the chocolaty, wonderful fudge Mother would make every day. I could almost taste its smoothness and the lingering sweetness it left.

When I got home that afternoon, my baby brother was crying, and Mother looked about to cry along with him. “What’s wrong?” I asked. My worry centered not on the baby or my mother but on the fudge. 

Mother sank into a kitchen chair. “I’ve made three batches of fudge today, and none of them worked. They’re all too soft. I can’t send it to school.” 

I had no idea why she was so disturbed. Fudge was always soft and gooey. We spooned it up every time we had it. “Why?” was all I could think to say.

“Nancy,” my mother said, “fudge is not meant to be eaten with a spoon. It should be firm enough to pick it up in a piece and pop into your mouth. I beat and beat it, but it’s like it always is when I make it. Too soft. And I made it three times today!” 

Tears welled in her eyes, and my baby brother reached up and patted her cheek. Maybe even he knew how bad she felt. How could I bring the fudge to school? I loved my mother’s fudge, but maybe nobody else would. Maybe they’d laugh when they saw it. I worked up my courage and asked, “What are we going to do?”

The next morning, I carried a big pan of fudge and 21 spoons to school.

 The soft candy was the hit of the party. After we had our punch and cookies, everyone gathered around the cake pan of fudge, spoon in hand, and dug in. My fears were never realized. One of the boys licked his spoon and said, “You were right. Your mom does make the best fudge in the world.” Echoes of agreement sounded around the circle. We dipped our spoons for more.

Some years later, Mother began to make a new fudge recipe that contained marshmallow crème. The ads promised it was foolproof--firm fudge every time. They were right, but the spoonsful of soft fudge we’d eaten all those years before remained my favorite, and I never forgot how my mother found a solution to what might have been my biggest third grade disaster. It wasn't only fudge she'd given me that December day.

 

(c)

A Christmas Memory

With only a few days until Christmas, I am going to share a few of the Christmas stories I have written over the years. Today, it is a memory of finding the right tree back in my 1940s childhood. 

Finding The Right Christmas Tree

By Nancy Julien Kopp

 In the 1940’s, we city folk didn’t cut down a tree in the fields but kept our own tradition. On a cold December evening, Dad announced that it was time to find a Christmas tree. My two younger brothers and I grabbed heavy coats, hats, gloves and snow boots, and flew down three flights of stairs to our 1939 Plymouth. Our excitement bubbled over in giggles and hoots.

The corner lot Dad drove to, normally empty, now held dozens of evergreen trees. The pines and firs seemed to have appeared magically, lined up like the toy soldiers my brothers played with.  A wire had been strung around the lot and bare light bulbs attached. There was plenty of light to allow buyers see the assortment of trees that would decorate the homes in our neighborhood.

.

The proprietors, who were also hunters, had erected a wooden teepee-like frame in a prominent corner to display two dead deer and a black bear. They were hung from hooks and occasionally swayed when the wind gusted. 

 

My brothers and I marched round and round the frozen animals. 

“Go ahead, touch it,” Howard dared.

    

My hand reached within inches of the thick, matted fur of the bear, but I quickly drew it back. “You first,” I challenged, but Howard only circled the animals, hands behind him.

Meanwhile, Dad walked the rows of trees, pulling a few upright, shaking the snow off.

He called to us and we crunched across the snow-packed ground.

 Dad held a tree upright. “No,” we chorused. “It’s not big enough.” 

We followed Dad and thumbed our noses at several other trees. “Not big enough,” we repeated, stamping cold feet to warm them.

The owner ambled over, so bundled up he looked kin to the dead bear. He kept a cigar clamped in his teeth and wore gloves with the fingers cut off, so he could peel off dollar bills from the stack he carried to make change.

Dad shook the man’s hand and said, “OK, let’s see the good trees now.” 

The burly man moved the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, rolled his eyes and finally gestured for us to follow him.

 

We scooted across the pine-scented lot to a brick building. The man opened a door, and we tromped single-file down a long flight of concrete steps.

 

Even more trees leaned against the walls. Dad pulled out one after the other until he found a tree that we three children deemed “big enough.” 

Silence now, as the serious part of this adventure commenced. Dad and the cigar chomping man dickered about the price. Finally, money changed hands, and Dad hoisted the tree. We jostled one another up the steps to be closer to the green treasure.

Dad fastened the tree to the top of the car with the rope he’d brought. The boys and I knelt on the back seat, watching to make sure the tree didn’t slide off the roof of the car during the short drive.

 

Once home, Dad hauled the tree up three flights of stairs to our apartment and put it on our small outdoor balcony. We’d wait until close to Christmas to bring it in and decorate the branches. Several times a day, I peered through the glass door to check that no one had stolen it. Why I thought someone would climb to the third-floor balcony to steal our tree is a wonder.

 

Days later, Dad carried the tree inside and tried to put it in the stand, but it was no use. The tree was too tall. It should have been no surprise, as it happened every year. He always caved to our chorus of “not big enough.” Dad found his favorite saw and cut several inches off the tree trunk. When he put it in the stand, the tree rose like a flagpole, straight and tall, nearly touching the ceiling. There was a collective “Ahhh” from the entire family.

Dad hummed a Christmas tune as he strung the many-colored lights, then Mother helped us hang sparkly ornaments, and we finished with strand upon strand of silver tinsel, being warned to place it strand by strand. “No throwing it at the tree,” Mom said. Near the finish line, we did throw that tinsel when Mom went to the kitchen. It was great fun to toss it and see how high we could throw. 

Finally, Dad climbed a step-stool and placed the last piece on the top. What joy to see our special angel with the pink satin dress and golden wings. The tree was so tall that her blonde hair skimmed the ceiling. I visited her every day while the tree was up. There were days when it seemed she smiled at me. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without her.

That sweet angel got lost somewhere over the years. Most likely, she’d become tattered and torn, and Mother discarded her long after we children had grown and left home.

Finding the right tree and decorating it each year was one more link in the chain of family bonding. My brothers and I were gifted with the treasure of the memories of that holiday tradition.

Now, my husband brings our tree upstairs from a basement storage closet. Artificial, always the same height, never needs to be made shorter. It’s easier, but I miss those cold, snowy excursions to the tree lot with my brothers. I still put an angel on top of the tree. She’s nice but not quite the same as the one with the pink dress and golden wings. Not once has she smiled at me.

 

Have You Found Your Writer's Voice?

 

(A former post that still has good information for the writer)

When I was a newbie writer, I asked a writer friend to look at a couple children's stories I had written to see if she could give me some tips or point out major errors. After she'd read the stories, we got together one afternoon, and over a cup of tea, the first thing she said about my writing was, "You have found your voice." 

I looked at her and wasn't sure what to say. Voice? What the heck was that? Being so new to this world, I hesitated to ask her for an explanation. She went on to point out things in the stories. I did learn more later on about what a writer's voice is. 

The important thing is to find your own voice. You don't want to mimic another writer's voice. 

A simple explanation of voice is that your voice as a writer is your style. It's the way you put words together in sentences, or in paragraphs. Elements of voice are word selection, writing structure, and pace. Every person is unique, as is every writer. The way I put words together should not be the same as you. 

Other parts of your voice are the way you allow emotions and feelings to come through. Also, your tone and rhythm, perhaps even patterns in the way you arrange words. 

Our writing voice lets our personality come through to the reader. 

Think about a handful of authors whose books you enjoy. Don't they each have a different writing style? Some are slow paced, while others race through the story, and you're right there with them. Some put long descriptions in their stories while others make do with a few adjectives here and there to give you a sense of place or let you 'see' the scene better. If you have a list of favorite authors, give some thought as to why their work appeals to you. What is it about their style of writing that makes you want more? The story itself is of prime importance, but so is the writer's voice. 

I've mentioned an author by the name of Charles Todd before. He (actually a mother/son writing team) has a series about a young detective at Scotland Yard, set in the early years after WWI in England. The stories move at a slow pace, but new bits and pieces keep me reading. The writer's voice comes through clearly, and stays consistent in each ensuing novel. I find that most interesting since the author is two people writing as one. 

Don't try to be John Grisham or Nora Roberts. Find your own voice. Write as only you can write. Be yourself. If you want to read about your writing voice in more detail, use a search engine and read several articles. 

Keep Your Passion for Writing Alive

 

A friend once had the poster above on her Facebook page. Definitely advice that is short and sweet but, oh so good. I'd like to have it blown up to poster size and tack it to the wall above my computer. Maybe I should get two and put one on the fridge as a reminder to get myself to the office to write. Or how about another in the laundry room? 

It's far too easy to allow life to get in the way of our writing, especially at holiday time. We have the best of intentions to spend X amount of time writing each day, but our world sometimes has other plans. Children need us, husbands require help in finding something. (What is it about men who have lived in the same place for years and years but still can't find numerous items?) The phone rings, or the doorbell. We're needed at a meeting or must run to the store to pick up milk and bread. The list could go on and on. 

We have responsibilities that must be met, and that's just fine. As long as we keep writing a primary task, we'll be alright. Just don't let it slip farther and farther down the to-do list. Once it hits near the bottom of the list, your writing world is going to become dimmer and dimmer. You run the risk of stopping altogether. I've seen people in my critique group quit. They say things like "I'm just not writing anymore." or "Right now, other things in my life are of more importance." Probably true but it makes me sad. I wonder if they will ever resume writing.

Most writers pursue their craft because they're passionate about writing. Make no mistake, it takes some doing to keep that passion lit. Like anything else, we sometimes have to truly work at it. We need some encouragement as well. And maybe we need some occasional success to keep the spark alive. 

For now, I'm going to let the poster of those four hunks keep me going. How about you? What will you do to keep your passion for writing alive?

What's So Special About Christmas Stories?

 

Have you ever thought about the favorite Christmas stories, ones that people read over and over again? What is so appealing that they have lasted for years and years? Same thing with those Christmas movies that were either adapted from books or written solely as a screenplay. And, also, the poems. Here are just a few that come to mind. You can probably add others to this list.

1. A Christmas Carol

2. Miracle on 34th Street

3. It's A wonderful Life

4. The Grinch Who Stole Christmas

5. A Cup of Christmas Tea (Narrative Poem)

6. The Bells of Christmas (Poem)

7. Twas The Night Before Christmas (Poem)

8. White Christmas

9. Polar Express

10. The Best Christmas Pageant Ever

11. The Littlest Angel

12. Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer

For one thing, Christmas is a holiday that touches the heart, the original Christmas story in the bible is filled with emotion as are the books, poem, and films with a Christmas theme. Some are happy, some are sad, but all bring out emotion in some way.

Christmas memories are often very special and these books and more trigger those memories we hold dear. Only yesterday, a friend whose early childhood years were in an occupied European country told me about the Christmases when she had no gift and how hard it was to go to school and not be able to tell her friends what she got for Christmas. Some were like here, others had families that managed to find gifts somehow. But even though it was a sad memory, her face lit up with that memory and maybe others that went along with it. Perhaps she remembered the little things her mother did at home to make it look like Christmas. It doesn't matter whether our Christmas memories sparkle with joyous moments to be savored over and over or are of hard times when perhaps the gifts became less important than the meaning of Christmas and the family being together.

Most Christmas stories have happy endings, even those who tell of difficult times but brought a treasured lesson. And don't we all love a happy ending? They also let us reach deeper into the meaning of Christmas and the many aspects of the holiday--beyond the gift giving and receiving.

I've written several Christmas memory stories but never a fiction piece. I think it is better to write the story during the holiday season as you are so tuned in, but marketing a Christmas story must be done in the spring or early summer. Try to write a Christmas story when it is high summer and you may not be able to achieve the same emotions as you might when you write it in December.

Have you ever written a Christmas story? Whether fiction or memoir, poem or lyrics for a song, it is probably special to you in your list of works. If you don't celebrate Christmas, but some other winter holiday instead, have you written a story that fits the theme? Holiday stories are fun to write, wonderful to read, and make memories if they are good enough.

By Nancy Julien Kopp - December 20, 2013 No comments:  

A Writer's Christmas List

December has arrived, and we begin to think about Christmas lists. Lists of things to be done, lists of gifts we must find and purchase, lists of holiday goodies for the teas, lunches, dinners, and parties we might have. But how about adding a wish list of your own? A List of Things A Writer Would Like to Receive.

That list might not be one where your family can run to the nearest Costco or Macy's to find the gift. No. Some of things on that list are mere wishes or possibilities. Let's look at what you might put on a list like this.

A.  A published piece once a month in 2025

B.  The ability to get an idea in your head to be totally coherent in print

C.  Extra time to write

D.  A great critique group that will help you polish your work

E.  A List of Markets that your kind of writing publishes

F.  A few new reference books on the craft of writing, maybe even one

G.  Patience while waiting to hear the status of a submission

H.  A muse who will be positive and give help when needed

I.  To be able to show, not tell, a story

J.  To use sensory details automatically as you write

K.  To use as many active verbs as possible

What else would you add to this list? Think about your writing life and what it has been, what it is, and what you would like it to be. 

If I could put each of the items on the list in a silver box and tie it with a big red ribbon, and send it to you, I would. Your family probably would do so, as well, if possible. Many things on that list are ones only you can find and use. 

It's Christmas, so why not reward yourself? 

 

 

Thanksgiving Memories--Write Your Own

 

I'm going to post a piece I wrote for my Family Memories Book about the month of November and especially Thanksgiving. Hopefully, this will trigger some of your own memories so you can write them for your Family Memories Book. Do now or soon after Thanksgiving before the next holiday craziness begins.

Thanksgiving Then and Now (written in 2013)

The crisp, sunny days of October somehow slid into damp, gray ones during November in the Chicago area where I grew up. The sun played hide-and-seek in the late autumn and winter months, mostly hiding. Wind swept across Lake Michigan, bringing a chill that seeped through warm, woolen jackets and into our bones. Un-raked leaves swirled around our feet with each new gust of wind, and naked tree branches dipped and swayed like ballerinas announcing that winter would soon begin. We walked faster on our way to and from school, and Mom often commented that we had roses in our cheeks when we came into the warm kitchen from outdoors.

 We accepted the chill and gloom of November because it heralded Thanksgiving. At school, we spent that month learning about Pilgrims and Squanto, the Indian who helped the settlers through that first tortuous winter. Teachers planned bulletin board displays with a Thanksgiving theme. Everyone celebrated this non-religious holiday. Rather strange since the Pilgrims came to this country seeking religious freedom.

Mom and my aunts prepared the dinner—turkey roasted to a golden brown and stuffed with a moist dressing redolent with sage, that teased for hours with its pervading aroma. Aunt Adeline made a second stuffing adding sausage, a recipe from the French side of the family. We had creamy mashed potatoes and rich gravy made from the turkey drippings, sweet potato casserole with a marshmallow topping, seasoned green beans, homemade yeast rolls, cranberry sauce, and the family favorite, Seafoam Salad, a mixture of lime jello, cream cheese, mashed pears and whipped cream.  Spicy pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream and apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream finished off our feast.

Dad’s two older sisters lived in the Chicago area, so we usually celebrated Thanksgiving with them, alternating homes from year to year.  We lived in a third-floor walk-up apartment but managed to fit all three families when it was our turn. The eight cousins, despite the wide range of ages, had a wonderful time together. After dinner, we got shooed outside to play. I suspect the adults sat around and drank more coffee, nibbled on the leftovers and did all they could to put off the dishwashing time.

No dishwashers in those days, so all the women pitched in and cleared the table, washed and dried the dishes, often with towels made from flour sacks. When my female cousins and I got older, we were drafted into the kitchen with chattering women and clattering dishes.  The men plunked themselves into chairs and listened to the radio or watched the small screen black and white TV when we finally had one.

After I married, I invited my parents and brothers to our home for Thanksgiving, even though I wondered if my mom would be hurt. She’d been the hostess ever since my aunts passed away. I needn’t have worried, for her answer was “Finally! I’ve been waiting to be invited out for Thanksgiving for years.”

Now, (2013) my children’s families make the trip home for Thanksgiving every other year. We use a few shortcuts in cooking, and we load the dishwasher instead of drying dishes, but the grandchildren revel in being with cousins just as I did. The faces around the table change, but the same warmth of a family gathering to give thanks remains. May it ever be so.