A Group Written Christmas Story by members of the Springfield High School Class of '72

A Christmas Story. Each of you add a paragraph or more to build the story. Have fun. Timeline is 1972 the week before Christmas.

I was invited to be on the Springfield High School Graduating Class of 1972 Face Book Page in the spring of last year in preparation for their reunion which was held in August. Before the reunion was held they had amassed over a hundred of the graduates on that page. The class of 72 was an exceptional class. They were also the first class to graduate from the new high school building. It has always been a class full of talent and a group that knows how to have fun. I was the journalism advisor during that time.

About a week ago I issued a challenge on their page to write a group Christmas Story. The following is the story as participated in by the following. I thought you might enjoy what they came up.

Writers were: Ken Newman, Bev Garrett, Angela Carmen, Gwen Mower Wills, Virginia Snodgrass Seelen, John A Cook, Rod Nave

Ken Fenter: Tim processed another litho negative and watched the combination of columns of fine newsprint and headlines emerge. He would strip in the halftones in clear rectangles and circles. It was the Christmas issue and larger than the usual weekly papers. The staff had gone all out with borders, photos, art and features. He would have to work late. The dark room suited him. The rest of the staff was celebrating in the outer room. Their job was done. That was fine. He didn't have friends among them. They were probably exchanging gifts and drinking punch and having cookies. He smiled. Let them have fun. He was content to do his part there in the dark.

Angela Carmen: The dark of the processing room suited Tim. It is where he found himself safe and comfortable. What did he care if everyone was having fun? Tim didn’t think of himself as a loner, or anti-social. He just didn’t feel like he fit in with the ‘crowd.’ As Tim listened to the fun everyone was having, he wished more than anything that one person, just one person might walk in and invite him to the party when he finished with his job. Will they still be there, when I am done, he wondered?

Ken Newman: Still there when I am done...a sweaty palm inducing thought…stay safely in my protective cocoon of the darkroom? Am I being a coward? How do I make eye, contact, idle banter with people that I am around every day but have no sense of kinship. Dilemma…time is running out. What to do?

Gwen Mower Wills: Tim saw the sliver of light against the back wall, even though he didn't hear the door open. Quietly and expectantly, he turned to face the door. He watched a small shadow slip through the opening quickly and silently. Tim's eyes were already adjusted to the dark and he had the advantage of being able to see who had entered the room even though the other person could not yet see him. Tim felt his heart stop as he realized it was… Gina.

Virginia Snodgrass Seelen: Gina’s slender silhouette stood quietly in the doorway, particles of dust chased one another in the small stretch of light that filtered into the darkroom. Tim stood motionless staring at the blonde girl that consumed his thoughts. Tim stopped breathing and shuddered. He had longed to speak to her. His fears and dreams were about to collide. She stepped towards him, playfully touched his arm and leaned in close, just when he felt his head start to spin, forgetting for a moment how lonely he was, she whispered, “There are no windows in here. Why are there no windows in here?”

Gwen Mower Wills: Tim felt relief that he did not have to think of something to say. Leave it to Gina to never leave silence hanging in the air. A shy smile threatened to break free as Tim replied, "Windows let the light in. Kind of like what you're doing with the door open." Tim reached around Gina and felt the warm closeness of her as he tugged the door shut.

Angela Carmen: Not one to fear the dark, Gina reached into her crocheted, multi-purple shoulder bag. Digging deep she pulled out a lighter and flicked the Bic. She also pulled out a set of car keys that dangled from an oversized metal peace symbol. Turning to Tim, she jingled the keys and said, “Far out Tim you are just about done with the Christmas issue. Let me help you finish and we can get this baby to bed. My VW is parked near the back door. We can run the layout to the printer and be back in a flash to join the party.”

Tim yelled out, “Awesome, thanks Gina.” They turned to the worktable to put the finishing touches on the issue. Tim was smiling, thinking to himself, “Can you dig this?”

Ken Newman: Sweet..finish the issue...blow off the party and plenty of time to catch most of a bowl game.. there is a Santa Claus!! Tim Thought.

Gwen Mower Wills: Gina turned on the heel of her black leather 'granny' shoes, and with a flick of her almost scandalously short mini skirt slipped back out the door. The scent of her patchouli cologne lingered to entice Tim to follow. He quickly grabbed up all the work he had finished and hurried after her. "Wait for me," he called and then collided with Gina knocking her rose-colored glasses askew on the bridge of her nose. She looked so funny standing there that Tim couldn't help but laugh "Sorry." Somehow, it didn't sound very sincere even to Tim. All thoughts of watching any sports went totally out the window as he vowed to spend the rest of the evening better getting to know this funny, sexy girl with legs clear up to there.

Ken Newman: With legs like that, Gina would probably be up for a couple games of horse, ah, the legs of a basketball player, who would of thought? Tim mused.

Angela Carmen: The layout of the Christmas edition was completed in sweet time with both Tim and Gina working together. Tim bundled up all the pages and said, “Let's get this to your Bug and be on our way."

Gina grabbed her purse and opened the door for Tim. It was a short walk to the car. Gina opened the passenger side door for Tim and he set the Christmas edition on the back seat. Gina popped into the driver’s seat while Tim settled into the passenger side. A turn of the key and they would be off, however nothing happened when Gina turned the key. There was just a tiny clunk, clink, bwrrrr sound.

Tim said, “Hey Gina that doesn't sound good."

"Not a prob," said Gina. She hopped out of the Bug, whipped open the engine cover and began to tinker with the spark plugs. By the time she had adjusted a couple of plugs wires, Tim was standing behind her, watching in awe that this girl was working on her own car.

Virginia Snodgrass Seelen: Time stood still as the last few hours fast forwarded thru Tim's brain. Gina's words only half heard and muffled. The aroma of Potlatch burgers filled the air. In that moment, Tim realized that women are groovey, wondrous, mysterious, and magical creatures…

Angela Carmen: “So, Gina how the heck did you learn to work on cars,” Tim asked just before he took a big bite out of his double cheese burger with extra dill pickles. “I’ve never seen a girl work on a car, before.

“My step-dad taught me. I get to help him out in the evenings when he is grading the day’s work in the auto shop at school.”

“What?” gasped Tim, “Your step-Dad is Mr. Patterson?”

“Yeah, ya know girls can’t take auto shop.”

“By the way, you need to take another look at your carburetor. I think you are going to run into some problems with it,” Tim said with a sly grin enjoying Gina’s discomfort just a tiny, tiny bit…

Bev Garrett: As Tim gulped the last bite of his hamburger and pondered Gina's ability to diagnose a carburetor problem, he quietly said..."Would you like to share some of my fries?" She smiled coyly and looking deeply into Tim's eyes she whispered in that deep lusty voice that only a girl could...."Can you pass the ketsup?"

Angela Carmen: “Gina, I was just wondering…your last name isn’t Patterson and I don’t think anyone knows that the auto shop teacher is your step-dad?” Tim asked as he was passing the ketchup bottle to her.

“Yeah, I don’t think any of the other kids know. My mom let me keep my real dad’s last name after she married my step-dad. I didn’t want to be hassled for being a teacher’s kid,” explained Gina between sips of her lemon Coke. “Anyway it’s no big deal, but would you keep it to yourself? He’s a pretty cool guy and he is helping me repair my real dad’s 1964 Triumph Spitfire that my mom kept in storage for years. Maybe, you’ve seen it? It’s in a corner, covered up in the auto shop. I’m hoping to finish the engine repair before December 24th, because that’s my 18th birthday and my mom and step-dad are giving me the title to it. I want to drive it on Christmas Day! There is still quite a bit to do and crap, I promised my mom I would help in the evenings at her hair shop because of the Christmas rush. Dang it, it may have to wait until after the Christmas school break to finish."

Angela Carmen: What a night, Tim thought to himself riding his three speed AMF Hercules Cruiser to school that chilly Monday morning. Next Monday is Christmas and we will be let out of school early on this Friday…hmmmm. It was really cool of Gina to come in and help me out with the Christmas Edition and she’s not as weird as I thought, Tim continued to run last night through his brain. I had a great time at the Potlatch. She laughs kinda loud and that Patchouli oil is yuck and those funky rose colored glasses… oh, well… she really isn’t that weird even though she looks and acts like she is, Tim laughed at the thought of Gina working on her Mom’s VW Bug before they went to the printer with the Christmas Edition. Tim just knew he wanted to do something to help Gina fix her Triumph before Christmas Eve. I wonder how I can do that and get my car fixed, too, Tim was almost at school and still thinking, thinking, thinking…

Bev Garrett: Tim had asked a neighbor who was an import car guy for his advice the night before thinking if he had gotten an experts opinion the repair of Gina's car it might go a little smoother and then of course her help with his car. "Buddy," his neighbor said; "You might get that engine together in a snap, but I can guarantee you it will be New Year's if you’re lucky before it actually runs. That electrical system sucks and after being stored so long. It will take a lot of patience and work. You sure ya want to take this on?"

Tim's disappointment showed all over his face. With frustration he asked his friend,"If I need to ask you some questions, would that be okay?"

The man chuckled, looked at Tim out of the corner of his eye. "It's a girl isn't it?"

Ken Newman: It took Tim a moment to realize that he had been spoken to. "What?"

"It's a girl isn't it?"

“Uh, uh…yeah.” He was devastated by this body blow, numb, his mind was a void. Before finding common ground with Gina while grease monkeying, he would have bet his mustang that his existence had gone unnoticed by girls in general, much less a "keeper like Gina". There was an ease and comfort when they were tinkering with the cars, it just felt "right" and he hadn't a clue why, but he liked it, he liked it a lot. All he could do now is to share what he had found out and let the cards fall where they may, and move forward from there.

Gwen Mower Wills: Tim began to mull over what the neighbor had said. He didn't have months to get this project done. His cousin Nick might be able to help. Sure, he had spent some time at the juvenile facility, but he sure knew a lot about cars. In fact, that's how he ended up incarcerated--hot-wiring cars and taking them on joy rides. Oh well, that was behind Nick now. He was playing it pretty straight according to Aunt Edna. Besides, blood was thicker than water, wasn't it?

Angela Carmen: “Norah” Gina whispered at their locker on Monday morning, “I’ve found a guy in our class I really, really think I like. He is kinda quiet, he’s on the school newspaper staff and he likes to work on cars! I’m hoping that maybe he will give me some help fixing my Triumph. You know that the Christmas Day Parade is special, all the auto shop guys get to drive their cars down Main Street and my step-dad leads the parade in the ‘best car’ of the year. I wanted to lead the parade with my red Triumph all polished and purring, but I really want Tim Wilson in his ’67 Mustang to be the first car in the parade. He deserves it. Tim has worked really hard all year to fix his ‘stang. Please, please Norah….work my hours tonight at Mom’s salon, I will pay you extra from my savings so I can go with my step-dad tonight to work a bit on my car, but mostly it’s to leave a note for Tim under the front floor mat of his…”

Bev Garrett: "Hey! Nick....I've got to have your help......This'll sound crazy but there is this girl at school, her name is Gina and she has this Triumph Spitfire that needs a lot of help and she really wants to be able to drive this car on Christmas Eve in the parade. Hey! man do you think you can help me? Besides, it's her 18th birthday and it would be a great surprise for her to be able to drive it. I think I can work something out with her step-dad to get in and work on the car when she's not around." Tim's voice had a sense of desperation in it and Nick, having been in a similar spot once or twice before regarding girls had complete sympathy for him.

"Sure, I haven't worked on one of those little babies in a long time. You name the time and place and I'll meet you there."

A feeling to total relief washed across Tim's body and a quick flash of Gina's smile rushed through his brain. "Cool! O.K. Tonight 7:30 at the high school auto shop. I'll talk to Mr. Patterson. “Ssee you tonight."

Ken Newman: Gina stood there silently, smiling inside, while trying to keep it off her lips, listening to Tim's over animated explanation about his neighbors opinion about the car, and Nick. Pausing a moment after his assessment of the situation. Gina said, "Before dad put the car in storage, he had all
new wiring harnesses put in the car. So the cars' electrical system should be sound.

At this revaluation, Tims' mouth went slightly agape, and there was a vacancy in his eyes. So this is "twitterpated." She had alwaysthought it just a quaint saying passed on from one generation to the next, but, there it is, all over Tim’s face. HE'S MINE, she thought, smiling wryly in her mind.

John A Cook: Meanwhile back at the party that had been going on for days now, there were other interesting people getting to know each other.

Rachel was gently pressing against Ferdinand the Spanish exchange student and talking about how Mr. Turner had chased her and Bryan out of one of the private study rooms because the lights were off.

Phillip and Bethany were considering leaving since all the food had been devoured by the skinny guys on the track team.

There was a definite need of new music as many of the available albums had been replayed several times.

Angela Carmen: “Mr. Patterson”…Gina called out as she scanned the auto shop for any students that may have popped in during her stepdads usual break time. Gina usually called her stepdad Sean after all he just married her mom less than a year ago, but was careful at school not to let anyone hear her use his first name.

“Over here, Gina” he called out, “I’m under the Mustang checking some work done by a student this morning.” Gina headed towards the Mustang and saw Sean just as he was rolling out from beneath the car. “The kid who owns this car finished up his car project. I was wondering when he would figure out that the jets and air-bleeds were slightly plugged. He did a good job running some compressed air and a bit of gas through the carburetor to clean out built up gunk. Lucky kid, he could have been stuck with a complete carb rebuild. Maybe, you know him? His name is Tim Wilson.” “Hmmmm, yeah sort of”…Gina said, distracted in her thoughts as she gazed to the corner where her Triumph sat under cover….”I just got to know him last night. He also works on the school newspaper. Tim is kind of a loner, but then you know I am too.” Sean Patterson looked at his stepdaughter and quietly said, “Think about it Gina, you really aren’t a loner. This is what, the 10th school you’ve been at in 12 years? You and your mom were always moving from place to place for your Dad’s career. I think, now that you’ve been here almost two years you are starting to feel less alone. Anyway, Tim is a really smart kid, Sean Patterson continued, adding, “He will do well when he heads to Community College in January. He’s been accepted into the master mechanics program on my recommendation.” Gina was hearing what Sean was saying, but all she could think was, What!? Tim is leaving? He didn’t say anything last night about going to college and, and…

Bev Garrett: "It's LCC Gina, not Portland Community College. You can still hang out and get to know him. Did you know that we've had several guys from Springfield go to Nationals? Just a huge amount of natural mechanical talent from here I guess. So, does he know I'm your step-father?" Sean asked her.

"Well, I guess I did kind of let it slip during our conversation. He's cool with it. I know he really likes you as a teacher and basically said he's learned a lot in your class."

Angela Carmen: “Wait up, Gina. I’ve been looking all over for you.” Tim was on his bike, waving something at Gina as she was walking south of the high school towards her mom’s downtown hair salon. Gina decided to help her mom and Norah, rather than work on her Triumph. She needed some time to think about what her stepdad had shared with her. Gina turned and was watching Tim ride closer and saw that he was waving a copy of the Christmas edition. “Gina, come on hold up, I want you to see the paper. There is a story on page 3 that explains why I am leaving for the program at LCC. It is going to open up opportunities for my future. I’m sorry that you had to hear about it from Mr. Patterson, but I just met you and couldn’t share the story before the printing of the edition.”

“That’s okay Tim, and thanks. I’ll read it later. Right now, I’ve got to go help my mom.” And, with that Gina turned on her heels and continued walking towards town. “See you around, I hope,” she called over her shoulder without looking back.

Ken Newman: Lost in a sea of emotions, Gina covered the distance left to her mothers' salon with no recollection of having traveled the distance. She absent mindedly blew through the salon door with a vacancy in her eyes. She robotically crossed the room to the coat rack and hung up her jacket, leaving both hands, grasping the jacket on either side of the collar for support. Dropping her head, she stared at the floor.

"Are you ok?, her mother asked.

"No," she replied, and drew within herself and her thoughts, shutting out all else. Why am I so angry? Why does it make me want to cry? I am shaky, queasy, I have a sense of a profound loss. WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH ME? Then it came to her, I am his…

Gwen Mower Wills: “Mom, would you mind if I took tonight off?” Gina asked in a shaky voice.

“No, you probably should get some rest.” Her mother reasoned.

“Thanks.” Gina had her coat on and was out the door before her mother could ask any other questions. She ran as fast as she could until she caught up to Tim where she had left him. She was out of breath but managed to wheeze, “I’m so glad I caught you. Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

They walked aimlessly and hardly spoke at all. All they knew was that they were happy to be together. When she finally got her bearings, Gina noticed that they were in front of the auto shop. “I’ve got a key. Let’s go in.” Gina invited.

Ken Newman: With that, Gina slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled the key out, put it in the handle and with a twist opened the door. As she walked through the door, she felt Tim’s hand grasp hers, she gently tightened her grip around his strong fingers. She turned, her eyes meeting his as well as their lips. It was a short, but sweet kiss, Gina pulled away slightly and laid her head on Tim’s shoulder to drink in the moment. After a short pause, she reached around Tim and flipped on the light, bent her head back so she could look into his eyes, gave a coy smile and walked over to the Spitfire. Tim walked over to a tool cart and began wheeling it over to the car.

Gwen Mower Wills: They worked together comfortably and easily without having to speak, but the silence was broken when Tim informed Gina that he had enlisted his cousin Nick to help. “Maybe I should call him to come and help out.” Tim added.

“No,” Tina answered. “We’re really not supposed to be here after hours. I just hope nobody can see the light.” Gina gestured to the translucent overhead garage door, knowing full well that the light diffused easily through it and could be seen by anyone passing by. Suddenly, the side door flew open and a large man in a ski mask and coat burst in. Before either of them could think, the man had grabbed both Tim and Gina by the collar and forcefully shoved them into a utility closet. The door slammed shut and they heard the lock click into place. A loud scuffing came next, and they heard something heavy forced up against the door.

Crammed up against each other face to face, Tim could feel Gina’s warm peppermint breath on his chest. Now was not the time to think of things like that; he needed to figure a way out.

Ken Newman: Or, after working on the car for about an hour, Tim had gone to the drinking fountain for some water and was walking back to Gina and the car, when he spotted a small silver object flying through the air towards him. He deftly snatched it out of the air and was immediately hit with 25,000 volts when his fingers tightened around it grounding the condenser. Tim immediately went into his happy feet touchdown dance, shaking his hand violently.

There was raucous laughter coming from the far side of the car, doubled over with unbridled glee. “Something my dad showed me,” Gina laughed with an impish grin. "Does it hurt?" Asked Gina.

"Yes, it hurts" answered Tim."

“Here, let me see" prompted Gina. Taking his hand in hers, she held it to her lips and gave his boo-boo a kiss. With a twinkle of mock anger in his eyes, he wrapped his arms around her and gave her a big deep kiss. Gina broke his grasp with a gentle push, smiled and said, "When did you have your tonsils removed?"

Ken Newman: Or, there they were, stuffed in a closet like a couple of anchovies in a tin. Just as Tim was starting formulate an escape plan, the door creaked, and then opened. There right in front of him and his unbelieving eyes, was a 6ft. tall green turtle with a red bandanna around its head with two eye slits in it. Behind the first turtle was another just like the first but with a green headband and the third, wearing a blue headband had an open Pietros pizza box and was lifting a piece out. The big guy was unconscious on the floor next to the spitfire. "What the…? bzzzzzzzzzzz..Tims alarm clock went off. He laid there for a moment, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, befuddled by the dream. That is the last time I eat a …Pietros Pepperoni pizza after 10pm on a school night, he thought then smiled remembering the afternoon in the autoshop with Gina.

Bev Garrett: Before she knew what she was saying, out of Gina's mouth came words she not only couldn't stop, but she wanted to say more.

Bev Garrett: "Tim, you know I really like you.... right?

There was silence that could have been cut with a large sharp knife until Tim lifted his head from under the Triumph's engine compartment hood. He turned slowly towards her, not quite believing what he was hearing. He stumbled over the few words that came from his mouth. "Well, I suppose, but just because I'm working on your car doesn't obligate you to anything.". His words trailed off as he kept his eyes glued to her. They both stood quietly for what seemed to be hours. Suddenly, Gina snapped back into reality. She started laughing out loud at his innocence and thinking how goofy they both sounded.

"You are such a Gourd. I just spilled my guts to you and you think I just want to be friends?”

Angela Carmen: “You are not a Gourd. I was hoping you might feel the same as me,” Gina’s voice was trailing off as she slid underneath the Triumph to think…about what Tim just said and about getting the clutch and Vitesse close ratio gear upgrade done before Christmas Eve. Tim, would you come check this out with me? I have an idea."

“Hey!” the shout was so loud it reverberated against the concrete floor Tim and Gina were lying on. “What are you two kids doing in here at this time of night…and, how did you get in?”

Tim and Gina looked up from beneath the car and saw Mr. Stevans the night janitor glaring down at them. “Oh, boy”, Tim whispered in Gina’s ear…any good ideas for explaining this one?”

Bev Garrett: "Nope" Gina uttered.

"You?"

Angela Carmen: The alarm clocks shrill ringing brought Gina out of her deep slumber. Whoa, those were weird dreams. I’ve got to stop eating hot dogs smothered in chili late at night. Gina jumped out of bed and threw on some faded jeans, a heavy sweater over her turtleneck. Grabbing her shoulder bag and work gloves Gina was out the door and doing a quick walk to school. As she hurried, she was thinking, Two more days before the 24th and I’ve got to get busy on that wiring mess and fix those electrical connections. Gina was running all this through her mind, and thinking of Tim, too as she pushed open the doors to auto shop at 6 am. Gina figured she could get an early start before the guys started coming in around 7:30 am to work on their cars. Gina was stopped at the door by an unexpected sight...for what to her wondering eyes did appear, but eight guys in overalls led by Tim. They were working on her car!

Rod Nave: And Gina says, "This is the most unusual Xmas Eve, ever! "Then she looked around and thought about it for a moment and said, "One heavy sweater, two chili hotdogs, three pair of work gloves, four electrical connectors, and five turtle doves inside the battered cars, beneath the auto shop Christmas tree!!

Ken Newman: Six silver sockets, seven shiny set screws, eight odd parts, nine gnawed on cheetos, ten tiny t-nuts eleven inch timing chain and twelve inch pepperoni piiiiizzzzzza from pietros!

Rod Nave: And a Partridge Family in a PEAR (HYDE) Tree!

Bev Garrett: Gina looked on sadly, as the final verdict for the Triumph was given. Tim and the rest of the guys, including his friend Nick were all standing around the car looking into the engine compartment after Gina had walked into the cold, smelly auto shop. "Gina, we've got good news and we've got some bad news." Tim could barely get the words out.

She looked him straight in the eye. "Give me the bad news first please," she said.

Tim made an attempt to explain. "Well, the thing is…I mean… I'm really sorry but…"

"BUT WHAT?" Gina shouted out.

"The car is just not going to be running in time for the Christmas parade." Nick chimed in to save what was looking like a no win situation for Tim. "Gina, there are just too many things that need more work and it just won't happen tonight...I'm so sorry."

Gina had tears in her eye. She was so looking forward to riding down the middle of Main St. with the top down waving to all of the parade goers lining the street. It had been her dream since the day her step-father promised her the title to the car. "I was just hoping for too much I guess. Turning 18 and driving the car in the parade on the same day. What was I thinking?" Her voice trailed off. She buried her head in Tim's shoulder and held onto him tight. He slowly placed his arms around her as his friends watched.

"I know how much it meant to you and I am really sorry".

Her quiet sobs hurt him, but what could he do? Nick decided to tell her the good news and hopefully prevent Tim from being absolutely miserable. "We've got good news though. You are going to love this. Mr. Patterson gave this envelope to Tim when we got here tonight and told him to give it to you. Here, open it up." He handed her the manilla envelope. She fumbled with the metal brad that was holding it shut. Her eyes got huge as she saw what was inside.

"I can't believe it, it's the title to the Triumph, he gave me the car for real. It's really MINE." Her joy was short-lived and after the initial thrill had passed and the reality of her not being able to drive to the car in the parade rolled over her again, she became sullen.

The guys tinkered with the car a while longer, still to no avail. Tim tried hard not to make eye contact with Gina. his wish to make the car run just wasn't going to happen but he had to think of something. He couldn't let her down and he wanted so badly to write a happy ending to the story for the paper. He had a lot of ideas screaming though his head but nothing was coming together. Suddenly, he walked over to Nick and whispered something in his ear. After a few moments, Nick smiled broadly and said, "Yep! that will work, man! you’re not as dumb as you look". Tim walked slowly over to Gina. She watched him cautiously. "O.K., so this isn't your dream but it's the next best thing. and I am going to ask you to just go along with this and I think you'll really love it...okay?" He put the question to her.

"What's the idea?" She queried.

"That’s the thing. We can't tell you anything more but to show up tomorrow morning right here at 7:15 and by the way come dressed for the occasion." She studied him for a minute. "Trust me, please. This is going to be really cool." She swayed back and forth and finally she stopped and answered him. "Fine, but this better be good." She picked her envelope off of the greasy workbench and walked out the door.

Bright and early the next morning Tim pulled his Mustang in front of the large garage doors and waited. Within minutes, Nick came barreling up with a long trailer hitched to the back of his truck. They both hopped out of their vehicles and Tim went to the trunk and pulled out bags of Christmas decorations that he found in his parents garage. "Let's do this." Shortly, the trailer was transformed into a bright and shiny means of showing off the Triumph. Nick and Tim dropped the trailer enough to load the car. Just about the time the car had been loaded onto the trailer Gina walked into the auto shop and started laughing.

"Oh! my gosh..you guys."

“The parade starts at 8:30. Jump in the Mustang, Gina and we'll get down to the parade staging area." Tim shouted from across the asphalt parking lot. As they made their way to what was now an empty parking lot soon to be filled with the Grand Marshalls car, the high school band, the St. Alice float and several boy scout troops, Gina looked at Tim after a long silence.

"You are probably one of the best friends a girl could have Tim Nelson."

Tim blushed and answered her. "I'm kind of hoping that we can be a little more than just friends Gina."

Within the hour the noise from all of the people waiting for the parade to start became overwhelming to Gina. She hopped up onto the trailer and into the car as Tim shut the door for her.  

"Are you ready?" Her mittened hand found his and she squeezed his hand tightly. "I'm ready. And, Tim. I'd like to be more than just friends."

As Tim pulled onto Main St., people were clapping and shouting as the trailer with Gina and her shining red Triumph passed by them. The Springfield News photographer took several pictures and as Gina smiled and waved, she noticed her mom and step-dad on the sidewalk...proudly waving back. It was a day that dreams were made of and not only did her dream come true...she got an extra added bonus. Tim's grin was electric as he drove along. He waved and threw several handfuls of candy at children lining the street. Never thinking of anything else but Gina and her beautiful smile. The front page of the Springfield News Monday read Local Girl Gets Her Christmas Wish." Gina's huge smile beaming back and hands waving. Tim looked at it as the butterflies in his stomach took over as he added his final words to the article he had been writing, "Never underestimate the power of a Christmas wish."

THE END

There was an earlier alternate ending:

Ken Newman: Consumed by her disappointment, Gina failed to notice, overly sad eyes and long faces. Also, there was a tension in the air that was almost palpable, as her disappointment abated, she began to sense that something was afoot. When her eyes met Tims', she knew that she had been played.

“TIM?"

Tims, hand immediately went to his pocket retrieving the keys to the Spitfire. Dangling them at arm’s length, he held them out towards Gina. "Sorry" "messing with you seemed like a good idea at the time," said Tim. Giving Tim a flesh melting gaze, she stomped over to Tim. Snatched the keys from him, turned to the car, opened the door an plopped into the driver’s seat. Hesitating for a second, she thrust the key into the ignition, pushed in the clutch, took it out of gear, feathered the gas pedal twice and turned the key. The engine leapt to life, purring like a freshly fed lion, as the purring of the engine filled her body, the anger became bliss.

Kenneth Fenter I wanted to congratulate all who contributed to the Christmas Story. There were over 60 posts to the saga of Tim and Gina and several writers emerged... Well done...

A most memorable Christmas Eve in Isahaya Japan by Kenneth Fenter

Christmas Eve has always been a time that my wife Lora has protected for our family. The first year of our sojourn in Japan in 1977 was no different. We were 5,000 miles from our family and Americans friends and it had been an emotional December as it had been cold and we had run short on cash, and for a while it looked like while others at the college were getting year end bonuses we were not. Things had finally settled down and Christmas arrived. Here is the account of that evening from the book Gaijin! Gaijin!

Left to right; Phil, Lora, Janelle and Mr. Kitaura.

I had just finished my bath, and Lora was taking her turn at the ofuro when the phone rang. “Hello,” I answered. If I were to use the Japanese phone greeting of “Moshi, moshi,” the caller might think I were fluent enough to speak in Japanese.

“Herro,” a male voice said.

I waited for a moment for the voice to continue, but it did not. “Hello,” I repeated.

“Herro,” it repeated. I could tell the caller was male, and I could hear store sounds in the background.

I waited for a while longer. I was almost ready to hang up. I assumed it was a crank caller or one of the calls we occasionally received from someone on the other end who lost his nerve after hearing English.

I said “Hello,” once again.

“Herro, Kitaura here,” he said finally. He paused again. If it were the Kitaura we knew from Chinzei, he could speak only a little English and only when he had quite a bit to drink. “I come your house.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. Good-bye!” He hung up.

I didn’t know what to do. Lora had wanted a quiet evening at home. I told her about the phone call, and she cut her soak short. We thought perhaps like Mr. Nakano, Mr. Kitaura would stop for a moment and leave again. I had also given him a Christmas card. Also I didn’t know from where Mr. Kitaura was calling. He lived in Nagasaki nearly an hour away by train or bus. He could have been calling from Nagasaki or from Chinzei.

A half hour passed, and we still waited. Philip and then Janelle took their turns at the ofuro. At 8:30 the buzzer sounded, and I opened the door to find Mr. Kitaura standing outside, balancing a large boxed Christmas cake in one hand and a bag of bottles in the other.

“Merry Kurisimasu,” he said. He handed me the box. I invited him in. He kicked off his shoes, donned slippers and pushed his way into the living room. He had been there often before on school business and knew his way around. He promptly sat down in the middle of the floor on the carpet and began taking the five bottles of juice and three quarts of beer out of the shopping bag. He lined them up in front of him and then opened the cake box to take out a large white cake decorated with a cookie house, candy Santa, candy tree, the words Merry Christmas and a packet of candles.

Lora and the children gathered around Mr. Kitaura to pose for pictures, then he insisted I join the family while he took pictures.

Through all this no English words were exchanged. Mr. Kitaura did not speak English except after drinking, and he had not begun that yet. For most Japanese men, it was necessary to relax the tongue with a few beers before they lost their inhibitions, then alcohol could be blamed for any mistakes in grammar or pronunciation.

Janelle cut the cake and set a plate in front of him but he didn’t touch it.

“Keki wa tabe masu.” (Eat the cake,) Janelle said.

“I drink, no eat, Japanese Christmas party,” he laughed. He spoke rapidly in Japanese to Janelle. She understood and answered in Japanese.

I understood neither the question nor the answer. She went to the kitchen for glasses and an opener.

“Nijuu hachi, to my house?” he asked Philip. He had made an arrangement for the children to go to his house in Nagasaki on the 28th to meet his son and daughter who were the same ages.

“Yes,” Philip said. “We meet you at Nagasaki station.”

“Yes. Come back Chinzei, taxi. I bring,” he said.

“Put them on the train,” Lora said.

“We, Janelle, me, go train, Nagasaki, very easy,” Philip explained to Mr. Kitaura in his own brand of special English.

Kitaura listened and asked a couple of questions in Japanese. Janelle answered. He shook his head and said. “Taxi better.” A one-way trip to Nagasaki by taxi cost nearly 5,000 yen or 25 dollars. He drank his beer and poured for us. We sipped while he drank deeply.

Janelle brought out a Japanese card game, and he instantly took charge of it. The game consisted of two sets of cards; one set was spread out on the floor. Each card had a picture and a hiragana symbol as a clue. The leader read from another card, which contained the description of a card on the floor and had the hiragana sound as a clue. Lora, Philip and Janelle had been studying the writing system every day and had an advantage over me. I had studied them and memorized them and had forgotten them several times.

Kitaura read the Japanese, and we searched for the matching picture card. Philip recognized most of them first, and Mr. Kitaura began trying to arrange it so that Janelle could win at least one. He roared “Goot! Goot! Goot!” each time anyone recognized the hiragana. “Jōzu ne!” (Very skillful,) he would say and point to the winner.

“Japanese Christmas party,” he laughed many times. It was nearly ten thirty when the game ended. We sent the children to bed, “to wait for Santa,” we told him. I thought perhaps he would take the hint that it was getting late, and he should make his way home to Nagasaki. At the faculty party at Shimabara, he had become a little too bold with Lora after a certain point in the evening and after he had a certain amount to drink.

“I hope... I want you stay Chinzei... two year...,” he said.

I smiled and nodded. We had already decided to stay only for the one year originally contracted, but it wasn’t a good time to tell him.

“I am sorry... visa paper,” he said.

I wasn’t too sure what he was talking about. He had been in charge of our papers, which were two weeks late in arriving in the summer. Perhaps he was trying to tell us he was responsible for the lateness and was sorry. Maybe he was talking about Bill’s papers, which had come the last day before he almost had to leave the country.

“Mama san, sing White Kurisimasu,” he said. While we visited, the tape played in the background. When either “Silent Night” or “White Christmas” came on, he’d break into song, perfectly imitating Bing Crosby’s voice and inflection. “Bing Crosby,” he said. “‘White Christmas, I’m dreaming of a white Kurisimasu....’” his voice was deep, strong.... “‘just like the ones I used to know...’ In Japan, no white Kurisimasu for you... I’m sorry.”

As we listened to the music, and he sang, Lora got out the children’s stockings, a couple of large wool socks that had red and white trim she had bought that morning.

Kitaura was fascinated as he watched Lora fill the sock. In his notebook, he listed everything Lora put into the stockings: peanuts, a couple of Australian kiwi fruit, a small package of English walnuts, origami paper, stocking stuffer toys, candy and a mikan orange. The more Lora stuffed into the stockings, the more excited Kitaura became. He pulled out his wallet. “I am Santa,” he said. He stuffed a one thousand yen note into each sock. “For books,” he said. “Phirip kun bery goot hiragana. Phirip kun good ping-pong,” he said, using the familiar term for boys, “kun”, instead of the more formal “san”.

Philip played table tennis during his study and lunch breaks and had begun earning a reputation at Chinzei.

“I ping-pong champion, Kyushu,” he said proudly. He pointed to his nose, a gesture with the same meaning as pointing to yourself in the chest with your thumb. “I want go America. Play ping-pong champ. When I am in college... not study English... play ping-pong,” he laughed. He checked his notebook and read down the list, “peanuts, kiwi, walnuts, mikan” We had to spell the English for some of the words, and beside each, he wrote the katakana sounds for his further reference. “I make my kids.”

Lora hung the stockings on the back of a chair near the little tree.

He applauded gustily, “Very good. Santa Claus Mama,” he laughed.

It suddenly began to get quite cold in the room. Both kerosene stoves were out of fuel. Our reserve fuel cans were also empty. We had not planned to be up so late and had thought there would be enough fuel to last until about noon on Christmas day. Unfortunately, the fuel delivery would not be made on Sunday. Lora pulled a coat on over her sweater to keep warm. Kitaura seemed not to notice the cold.

He poured again, “Japanese Kurisimasu party. Drink. ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Kurisimasu....’” he glanced at his watch. It was past 11 p.m. “I must go back home, Nagasaki,” he said.

“How do you go home?” I asked. “By train?”

“No, by car.”

“Do you drive?”

“No. I am drink. I go taxi.”

He continued to sit in the same spot he had occupied all night, the empty bottles of beer to his side, the last glass of beer in his hand. He was a middle-aged man still in his business suit. He was tall, a little heavy, robust, his head was shaved. He had a round face with very oriental eyes and high cheekbones. His cheeks were quite flushed from the alcohol.

He glanced at his watch again, but made no move toward the phone. “You must learn Nihongo-Japanese language,” he said. “In office, girls, men, no can’t speak English. ‘Tegami’ you say. Don’t know you want. You must Nihongo. I teach. OK?”

“OK,” Lora said. He coached her on what to say to the office girl when asking if the mail had come or when we needed to order propane.

Lora repeated his phrases to his satisfaction.

The tape of Andy Williams made it around to “White Christmas” again.

“Sing mama, papa,” he said. We all sang with Andy for probably the tenth time that night. The song ended, and he checked his last bottle of beer. It was empty. He stood, “I must go Nagasaki.”

“Shall I call a taxi?” Lora offered.

“No. I call,” he said.

Our Ikebana Christmas tree.

He hung up the phone and rejoined us in the front room to inspect the stockings and the stack of gifts under the tree. “Very nice Japanese Kurisimasu party,” he said. “Now I go home Nagasaki,” he said.

We led him to the front door. I started to put my shoes on to see him to the street where the taxi would pick him up, but he insisted I stay in the house. It was cold out, and it had begun to drizzle a little as he walked unsteadily up the steps. I watched until he got to the street almost at the same time a taxi pulled up.

Lora and I picked up the empty glasses and empty beer and juice bottles and put them in the sink. “I think he sensed we were a long way from home and just wanted to be sure we had a party,” I said. “I’m sorry you didn’t have Christmas Eve with just the family here.” I half expected her to be a little angry.

“Bill said the Japanese celebrate Christmas by getting people together and having a party like a New Year’s Eve party,” Lora said. “I thoroughly enjoyed our little party. I am so touched by his thoughtfulness. The cake box came from Nagasaki. He came all the way from Nagasaki tonight and spent a lot of money and still has an hour to go to get home,” she said. It was then 11:45 P.M.

 

Gifted Hands reviewed on Webbweaverebooks blogtalkradio

Gifted Hands: Saino no Aru Te
By Kenneth Fenter
Available on Amazon.com
in print and e-book editions 

I spent a very enjoyable half hour with host C.K. Webb host of WebbWeaverbooks Blogtalk Radio Monday afternoon talking about my newest novel Gifted Hands: Saino no Aru Te. The episode is archived and can be heard on Webbweaver blogtalkradio . She asked questions about my background, my link to the Nagasaki area and gave a few minutes to read from the book. I chose to read "Haraguchi's Poem" which my fictional character a poet in the book writes as a request from his girlfriend who helps reunite the two main characters, the American artist and the Japanese koto musician after a 20 year separation.

I've always been fascinated with the skill a poet has in being able to write on one page what it takes the novelist an entire book to convey and I attempted to do that through the poet Harguchi. It is no easy task, especially if you are not a poet. I have an immense respect for poets just as I do for fine artists.

The second selection I read from the book was the opening chapter. Thirty minutes seems like a long time, but it goes fast. The reading portion didn't take long, we mostly talked. I'm interested now in going back and listening to more of the archived programs that C.K. has done and listening to other programs that she has coming up.

This is my first experience with the blogtalk radio concept. It is pretty fascinating.

Thank you C.K. Webb for the opportunity.

Kenneth Fenter

The Dulcimer, A Christmas Story by Kenneth Fenter

Appalachian mountain
dulcimer

The Dulcimer

By Kenneth Fenter, Christmas 2002

Osamu Kitajima sat on the hood of his rental car at one of the overlooks in the Great Smokey Mountain National Park. To the horizon, the Appalachians undulated with steep slopes, and narrow canyons completely covered with brilliant red, yellow, crimson and green. A blue autumn haze hung over the ridges and flowed down into the valleys causing the “smoky” look of the park’s namesake. He stared trance-like across the broad country, mentally comparing the immensity of the park and its character to his home area in Japan. Even though he had admired the mountains many times before, he never tired of their timeless beauty. From the car stereo drifted a haunting melody of a bamboo shakuhachi flute, which pushed him deeper and deeper into his meditation.

Mama raccoon looked out the hole 40 feet above the ground in the trunk of the ancient walnut tree. Below her, other denizens of the Appalachian mountainside scratched for food under leaves and rocks in the early evening twilight. A pileated woodpecker landed higher up on the trunk and began his “rat a tat tat” search for grubs under the rough bark. A graceful doe stepped daintily, warily down the narrow game trail at the foot of the tree.

Trees in brilliant fall plumage surrounded the walnut. Giant rhododendron and azalea mixed with mountain laurel and ferns. Spanish moss hung from trees. The raccoon eyed a wild persimmon with bright red fruit hanging among the few remaining leaves. A sweet persimmon would be the fare of choice on this autumn evening.

Life for the walnut tree continued much as it had for the 250 years that it had stood. During those two and a half centuries, the tree had witnessed members of several Indian nations trot down the narrow trail on their way to neighboring villages, on hunts, or to war. Wide-eyed slaves had slipped up the trail toward a dream of freedom, only to be driven back later in chains. The tree had felt the vibrations of gunshots as gray suited soldiers had ambushed cousins wearing blue. Young couples had secretly used its branches to climb in as they advanced their courtship. Intermittent fires had swept up the slope and singed its leaves and bark but had not killed it. Years had turned to decades, decades to centuries and after all that time the tree still stood proud and straight, its branches spreading wide, providing shelter and food for the animals and birds. It had escaped the axes that had felled many similar trees to build forts, barns, houses or fence posts in the early days of settlement by farmers and woodsmen.

But recently the tree had felt other vibrations that were more ominous than footsteps or gunshots in the past. Sounds of metal treads and buzzing chain saws mingled with the sound of the breezes, birds and insects of the forest.

A half mile away, the timber faller for a right of way crew lifted a bottle and took a deep draft of cool water. As he drank, he looked ahead into the mass of old-growth trees. A narrow band of trees bore red ribbons designating ones to be felled so that the heavy equipment could pass through to hew out a right of way for a power line. He lowered the bottle and studied the amazing assortment of hardwoods and cedar that made up the forest. With regret, he returned the water to his pack and picked up the chain saw. 

On another morning, the mother raccoon awakened to a sudden loud buzzing sound 40 feet below. She crawled to the entrance of her den and looked down at the tall woodsman who turned his chain saw sidewise and held the whirring chain to the trunk of the giant walnut. The vibration from the chain transmitted up the trunk and woke the two cubs who were curled behind her. “Shhh,” she chattered. “Be still. It will go away. It is the same as we have heard every day, and every day it has gone away,” she told her anxious cubs. They huddled close to her and peered out the hole to look at the action below. There were no other sounds in the woods. The birds had flown. The other small animals had fled to their dens at the first annoying sound of the chain saw.

Minutes seemed as hours as the man labored at cutting the tree until finally the giant trunk shuttered in throws of death and began to keel to one side, slowly at first and then more rapidly until it crashed to earth with a thunderous roar.

“Are you okay?” The shaken raccoon mother asked as she examined her half grown babies.

“What will we do?” the smaller one asked, dazed by the impact.

“We will get away from here as fast as we can,” her mother chattered as she gathered her two cubs by the scruff of their necks and crawled through the opening to drop to the ground and scurry away to find a new hiding place.

“Such a magnificent tree,” the woodsman said aloud. He examined the rings of the freshly cut trunk. “You have been here for a long time, but you are just as solid as a rock. I promise that you will be put to good use, old girl. I know a mill that will turn you into pieces of fine art that will be heirlooms five hundred years from now.” The woodsman refueled his saw and carefully began cutting the branches from the giant trunk. Many of the branches were larger than the trunks of the younger trees he had felled that morning.

Late that afternoon the loader crane lifted three large straight logs of the trunk onto a dusty, rusty, log truck. The branches, some straight, and some bent and twisted, were loaded onto another truck. Branches that were too small to be sawn into planks and the top portion of the main trunk were loaded onto yet another truck.

The first two trucks deposited their stack of prize hardwoods at a small sawmill near  the Craft Setlement at Nawger Nob, Townsend, Tennessee, where it would be cut into thick slabs of lumber from which fine furniture builders from all over the world would pay small fortunes.

The third truck carrying the smaller branches delivered to a different part of the mill where smaller saws specialized in cutting oak and miscellaneous bent and twisted hardwood logs into rough narrow boards to be made into pallets. The pallets would be shipped to local factories onto which products would be fastened so that forklift trucks could move the merchandise to trucks, trains and ships for delivery to all points of the globe.

Osamu Kitajima sat across the table from his American lumberman friend. He sipped his green tea appreciatively, holding the rough pottery cup between his gnarled hands. The American sipped thick black coffee from a cup made by the same local potter. “You make very good ocha, Frankran san,” he said appreciatively.

Jim Franklin grinned. “Thank you Kitajima san. You have been teaching us well these years.”

“You famery is well Frankran san?”

“Very well. My son is attending Vanderbilt Medical University in Nashville.”

“And Frankran chan?”

“My daughter, Marci, is attending Berea College up in Kentucky. She is a music major there. You should visit that college. The students are from all over the Appalachian region. It was founded to teach students arts and crafts and business so that they can know how to market their work. Every student there, even if they can afford to pay their tuition must work in the craft factories and in the stores that sell them. It is an interesting concept and it has helped many young people out of the poverty of the mountains.”

“I must go there one day. And so, what music does she study.”

“She is studying the folk music of Appalachia. Her specialty is the mountain dulcimer. Do you know dulcimer?” he asked.

“Durcimer?” the Japanese businessman asked. “I don’t know this durcimer.”

Jim Franklin pushed the button on the telephone set.

“Yes Mr. Franklin,” answered the secretary.

“Bring in your dulcimer for a minute, please.”

A few minutes later the middle aged, slightly plump, secretary entered the room carrying an hourglass shaped musical instrument about three feet long. She handed it to her boss who lay it on the table in front of the Japanese craftsman. “This is a mountain dulcimer. Some people say it has a sound similar to one of your instruments, the koto?”

“Ah so desuka,” Kitajima said. “Can you play this instrument?”

“Lula can play it beautifully,” Franklin said. “Please play something for Kitajima San.”

The secretary shyly placed the instrument on her lap and began strumming it. The Japanese man’s face grinned appreciatively. “The last time you were here you gave me a CD of your daughter playing the koto,” she said. “On that CD was a beautiful song and I have tried to adapt it to the dulcimer,” she said shyly. “See if you can recognize it.” She began to strum and the Japanese man’s face broke into a broad grin.” He hummed the familiar Japanese classic as she played.

“This song is called ‘Chidori’. It is the song of little birds dancing on the seashore. It is one of my favorite songs on the okoto. Where can I buy one of this durcimer for my daughter?”

“We have a famous maker here in Townsend. I will introduce you to him,” Jim Franklin said.

“Domo arigato, Frankrin san,” he said and he bowed slightly over the table. “And now we must speak of business. What special woods do you have for me this trip?” he asked.

“We just got in a Walnut tree that I think will be extra special. They are clearing a right of way up in the park and it had to be removed. Otherwise we would never get an old growth tree like it. I’d like to show you the logs and if you are interested you can tell me how you want to have them cut.”

“You always have special woods for me, Frankran san,” Mr. Kitajima said. 

Months after the walnut tree had been critically evaluated for the best cuts to bring out grain and color, and had been reduced to various stacks of finished lumber, it went to a building designed to slowly dry the wood to prepare it for the final manufacturing process. When Jim Franklin was satisfied the lumber had dried properly he packed it for shipment, fastening the packing crate to pallets sawn from the smaller branches of the same tree. The pallets of lumber were loaded by forklift on to railcars and they began their long journey. By rail, they slowly made their way across the United States to Seattle where they were lifted aboard a ship for the final leg of the trip across the Pacific to Tokyo where they were transferred to a truck for the trip up to Aomori to the Kitajima furniture factory. 

As Kitajima removed each plank from the pallet, he ran his hand over the fine grain and admired the warm chocolate brown color of the wood. He felt the spirit of the wood struggle to get out. He would release it in his creations. As a devout Shinto he believed that his own spirit and soul was intertwined with all of nature. 

Over time, the wide planks and thick pieces became low tables, cabinets, and accent pieces for Japanese homes and a few exporters who had wealthy clientele throughout the world. Finally, the stack had shrunk to a small pile of scrap in one corner. It was time to contact the local woodcarving teacher to come pick the rest so that his students could carve figures of birds, animals and religious figures.

“This was a very useful tree, Kitajima San,” his foreman said.

“Yes, so it was,” Kitajima said. “I must show my appreciation to Frankrin San. He always saves the very best for us.”

That night, as Kitajima mulled over what he could do to show his appreciation to his American friend, he heard the thin sound of a stringed instrument coming from the Tokonoma room. He smiled. His daughter was playing the instrument he had brought back from America, the mountain dulcimer. Uki chan was an accomplished musician on the okoto, the Japanese harp. She had studied the classic instrument since before she had begun grade school. With help from the books that her father had purchased, and help from her music teacher, she had been able to figure out how to play the dulcimer almost immediately. Before long she had begun adapting classical Japanese music to fit the new instrument’s style of play. 

Mr. Kitajima had picked the dulcimer from among several which hung on the wall in the dulcimer maker’s shop at the Craft Settlement. Although all of them were the same hourglass shape, each was made of a different type of wood: blond spruce, light yellow with dark ring sassafras, dark chocolate brown walnut, and ivory colored alder. He had chosen one made from sassafras because he liked the name of the wood as well as the sound of it.

“Where did you get this wood?” he had asked Bill the instrument maker.

“I got that one from an old barn that was being torn down. I get wood from many different places. I am always looking for old wood. Sometimes I’ll find a board in an old barn. A lot of the old buildings around here were made of hardwood. Even the fence posts were made of hardwoods. The instruments I make from the old woods are much more valuable, but I also search for new lumber at the lumberyard. As long as it can be worked down, it can be made into a good instrument,” Bill had explained. 

“Ah soka!” Kitajima said. An idea began to grow in his head. Frankran san’s daughter was studying the traditional music of the Tennessee mountains. He picked up the phone and dialed a friend who made traditional Japanese instruments such as the koto, shamisan, and shakuhachi. After his required pleasantries and polite greetings, he explained the reason for his call. “Sensei, I would like to commission you to make an instrument for the daughter of my friend in America. It is called a dulcimer. I will bring my daughter’s dulcimer to you so that you can see how it is made. I will also bring you wood from my friend’s mill so that it will have very special meaning. I wish to deliver it on my next trip to America.” 

Kitajima san used the same crate and the pallet the walnut had been shipped in to pack an order of wide clear planks of the special wood that grew on his property near the river. In his language it was called “ho” wood, a special kind of cottonwood that had even fine grain but was soft and easy to carve. It was a favorite carving wood for Japanese students learning to carve. He had introduced the wood to a woodcarver friend of Jim Franklin in Tennessee. The Americans used basswood for their carvings. The ho wood would provide an alternative.

Once again, the pallet and crate made its journey across the Pacific and overland across the United States until it finally was delivered to the woodcarving shop at Nawgers Nob, less than a mile from where the crate and pallet’s journey had begun. The crate was opened, the ho wood removed, inventoried, priced and put on the shelves to fill orders that came in by phone for items from their catalog. After the now beaten up crate was empty, it and its pallet joined other broken crates and pallets behind the shop. When enough wood accumulated, it would be hauled off to be ground into mulch. Some would become firewood if the weather turned cold.

Bill the dulcimer maker, always on the lookout for wood that he could use in his instruments, saw the new additions to the pile behind the woodcarvers shop. Usually pallets were made from trash wood or oak, but he occasionally found red cedar or mahogany used in a pallet. With his pocketknife, he shaved through the rough surface and exposed the wood beneath. A rich brown shone through. He wet his finger and swiped across the surface and the fine grain shone through. It was walnut. “It might be usable wood, never can tell.” He noted the stencil marks and painted numbers and stickers that hinted at the distances the crate and pallet had traveled. “If you could talk, you could probably tell some mighty interesting stories,” he said.

In his shop, Bill removed all screws, staples and nails from the pallet. He ran each narrow board through his planer to remove the rough surface and dings from steel strapping and from being banged into by other crates. Each board revealed the hidden beauty of the walnut hardwood. Bill ran one board through his saw, shaved off two quarter of an inch thin sheets and placed them side by side. The effect, called bookmarking, showed the grain in a mirror image with each growth ring meeting in the center. He ran the two sheets through a sanding machine working them down to an eighth inch think. This is the finest walnut I’ve ever seen, he thought. If you sound as good as you look, you will be a remarkable instrument.

Bill cut the fretboard, sides and top from other planks in the former pallet. To get a thick enough piece for the neck, which held the tuning machines, he laminated several layers of the wood. He cut a graceful scroll on the end and sanded the neck to a fine finish. This neckpiece he took to his friend the woodcarver.

“This is a remarkable piece of wood,” the woodcarver said, when he saw the neckpiece.

“Can you carve a wood spirit on it?” Bill asked.

“I think I can do that. You can almost feel the spirit in the wood. I might not have to do much of the work. It might reveal itself on its own.”

Bill and the woodcarver looked down at the finished mountain dulcimer. The rich wood shone through the layers of lacquer. Inlaid mother-of-pearl rimmed the edge. The rosette shaped sound holes were also ringed with pearl inlay. Pearl dots denoted major fret positions on the fret board. Bill strung each of the four strings and tuned them.

“Sounds good Bill,” the woodcarver said.

“So far, so good,” Bill said.

He took a pick from the drawer beneath the workbench and began strumming a slow Appalachian melody followed by a rapid rendition of a familiar fiddle tune. Putting away the pick he began plucking the strings with his right hand while he formed simple and then complex chords with his left hand. He changed tunings and called on his vast repertoire to test each one. 

“My, my,” the wood carver said.

“This one isn’t for sale,” Bill said as he wiped his eyes.

The Christmas season was busy for the Dulcimer shop. Bill depended on a supply of inexpensive dulcimers from several mass producers in Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee and South Carolina, but their inventories were also thin during the holiday season and because of a revival of interest in the instrument. Bill could hardly keep enough instruments hanging on the wall to give his customers a choice. The handmade instruments Bill labored over in his shop were ordered weeks and sometimes months in advance. They never appeared on the wall. He would not cut corners or rush an instrument just to push out more product.

The wall was bare late in the afternoon and Bill prepared to close the shop a few minutes early to join his family on Christmas Eve. The door opened slowly and a stoop shouldered old man stepped timidly into the shop.

Bill didn’t recognize the thin old man. His work overalls were clean but threadbare. His gray hair was covered by a worn felt hat, which he held nervously in his hand. His grizzled face was creased into a facsimile of the hills and canyons of the Smokies from which he had undoubtedly come. 

“I hope I’m not keeping y’all,” the old man drawled when he saw that the shop had been prepared for closing.

“Not at all sir,” Bill said. “It’s been pretty quiet this afternoon. I guess most people have headed for home for the holidays.”

“I won’t keep you long, son. But I hope you can help me. I’ve seen your sign out there for years and never came in to see you, an I hope you can forgive me of that. But until recently I didn’t have a need a yer bidness,” he said.

Bill came out from behind the counter and pointed to the rocker in the corner of the store. It was armless and a favorite place for customers and friends to sit and play his dulcimers.

The tired and frail old man gratefully accepted the chair and leaned back to unkink his bent back. “Thank you, son. I ain’t as good at standing around as I used to.”

He looked furtively around the shop, eyes searching. “Nearly 90 years ago, I used to play in a big walnut tree near our farm. They was a little neighbor girl and me would sneak off there and climb in it. We’d a got a whippin if our parents had a known we was a doin that cause they warned us to stay out a trees cause we could a hurt ourselves. Well we went there and played when we could and when we got to be sparkin age we just naturally kept going back there.

“Well, y’all might a guessed it eventually, but we have ended up spending the next 70 years married and raisin younguns. When we got married, we was dirt poor. We couldn’t a afforded to get married ifn the preacher had charged us. I wanted to give her a gift that was fittin for her and the occasion. The summer before, I had found a branch that had been broken off that tree during a snowstorm in the winter of ’23. It was the same tree we’d played in and courted in and I got an idea to use it to build her a dulcimer. They was quite a few of them around in them days and they was all homemade so it wasn’t hard to get some help from a neighbor who had made several of ‘em. We took that branch to the mill up in Cades Cove and had it cut down as thin as they could. We used a plane to get the wood thin enough. It wasn’t as fine a job as you do now a days, but we was pretty proud of our handiwork and it sounded real good.

“Well anyhow, my bride loved that little box. She learned to play it real good. As I said, we had a passel of younguns. Out a 10 of um we have out lived em all. Now it is just ma and me up in the cabin in the hills. We’ve lived there all these years through good time and poor. We don’t need much now and we get along pretty good on our social security. But the other day is when it happened. This is what I been working up to.

“You know, ma loved that music box and she would play it all the time to fill her loneliness. And then this guy came by the house and said he was looking for stuff for a museum. We tol him that we didn’t have no stuff for a museum, but he spied ma’s dulcimer and he said that it would be perfect, how much did we want for it. Well I told him it weren’t for sale and ma reminded me that if I didn’t get my eyes worked on then I’d go blind and where would that leave me. I got cataracts, you see, and it cost a pretty penny to get a doctor to cut them off right. So ma asked the man what he was a willin to pay for that dulcimer. I repeated that it weren’t for sale but she is a stubborn woman. He said he’d pay a thousand dollars for that old homemade insterment. I still tol him it weren’t for sale, but ma handed it to him and said ‘take it.’

“Well the man was good for his word and he gave her ten one hundred dollar bills and wrote out a bill of sale to prove we hadn’t robbed a bank or somethin and he left.

“Well I got my cataract cut out but it ain’t the same at home. Oh sure, I can see purty good now, as fine as an old man has a right to, but I ain’t seeing no light in ma’s eyes no more. She misses that music box so much. So I made up my mind to make her another one, but when I went down to that old tree she was gone. Lectric power line goes through there now. They cut it down and left a big ugly gash through the woods. So I came here to you.

“I’d like to buy a dulcimer for ma. You got one back there that ain’t been hung up yet? I don’t know how much you charge for them and I don’t know ifn I can afford it or not, but maybe you can take payments.”

Bill sat quietly, caught up in the old man’s story. He had no dulcimers for sale. Bill Franklin had told him about an old walnut tree that had been removed from the right of way for the power line.

“I’m sorry sir, but I sold the last one this morning. I’ll get more in, in a few days.”

“I was hopin to make a surprise for ma this Christmas. It would be the best Christmas ever, for me, to get that light back to shinin in her poor old eyes,” he said sadly.

“Maybe I can help you,” Bill said. “Wait just a moment here.” Bill walked into the backroom workshop. On the wall hung the walnut dulcimer made from the packing pallet. It was as near a perfect instrument as he had ever made and he was very proud of it. If he had decided to sell it, he could command top dollar from either a collector or a concert musician. He took it down and lovingly caressed the back and sides. He tested the tuning and carried it back to the storefront. The old man remained in the rocker where he had rested while telling his story. “I do have this old dulcimer here that I could let you have. How much did you have in mind to pay for one?”

“Well it ain’t much, and I wouldn’t want no discounts or anything, but I got 35 dollars left over from that cataract operation. Is that enough for a down payment?” He asked.

“Tell you what. This old dulcimer is what we call a second. It has a slight defect and I can’t sell it. What say I give it to you for what I got in it, you know, strings and tuning pegs and such,” Bill said.

“Well I don’t know, son. What kind of defect are you talking about? Do it sound good?”

“Oh yes, it sounds good. If I don’t tell you about the defect you probably won’t find it. If I show it to you it will grow on you,” Bill said.

“Sounds sensible, how much you got in it?”

“About 35 dollars,” Bill said.

“How about you play something on it so I can be sure it sounds okay,” he said.

“Your wife got a favorite song?”

“She always played one for the little ones when they were fussy,” he said. “If you will hand it over to me, I’ll see if I can pick it out for you,” he offered.

Bill handed him the magnificent “defective” dulcimer and the old man positioned it on his lap. His gnarled left fingers pressed the four strings and with his right hand he softly plucked the melody as he softly sang, “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me…”

When he finished he handed it back to Bill. “It sounds nearly as sweet as the music box that I made out that old walnut branch. Could a come out a the same tree. I could a swore that this spirit carving just winked at me. I’ll take it if you are still a mind to sell it.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Bill said as he enclosed the instrument into a case for which he normally charged 35 dollars.