Holiday Digest

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Editor’s Note: Welcome to the seventh annual Holiday Digest—a collection of fiction and nonfiction stories published in the Indy by members of the Third Street Writers, a nonprofit dedicated to fostering literary arts in Laguna Beach.

Third Street Writers hosts a weekly public writing workshop on Mondays from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. at the Laguna Beach Public Library. The group has published three anthologies; the most recent collection of stories titled, “Beach Reads: Paradise,” was released in May. “Beach Reads: Adrift” is slated for release this spring.

 

 

Love Doesn’t Come in Packages

By Edward clark

On the first Friday of December, Laguna Beach celebrates the arrival of Santa Claus with a street party and parade ending in the Peppertree parking lot. There, Santa will mount his sleigh, a vintage firetruck, pass through the crowds along Forest Avenue, and in the end, light the villager Christmas tree.

I was born in New Orleans, so I’ve seen my share of parades where beads are thrown from floats into the faces of revelers. Now a Laguna resident, I decided to execute some vengeance for the New Orleans bead assault. I would throw something into Santa’s float, the reverse of what happens at Mardi Gras.

A small plastic container of multi-colored glitter from the Pearl Street General Store in hand, I waited for Santa’s “sleigh” to approach the Presbyterian Church Rose Garden. As he passed, I hurled the glitter towards the jolly old guy.

What satisfaction I felt when he turned his glance towards me with a surprised look on his face. But then, he disappeared from sight in a puff of smoke.

“What have I done?” I wondered. “That was just glitter I threw onto Santa. It wasn’t magic dust that could make him disappear.”

An angry hymn rang up from the street. “Where is Santa?”

My eyes widened when I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder and fuzzy fur tickling my ear.

I turned to find Santa standing there.

“Ho, Ho, Ho” he uttered. “What did you do to me that set me free from the carriage?” Santa grabbed me by the elbow, pulled me away from the angry crowd searching for Santa, and led me past the post office to Zinc Cafe.

He sat me at a patio table and told me not to move. When he returned, he had two hot ginger teas and double chocolate cookies. “Appropriate,” I thought. “Everybody leaves cookies for Santa and now he’s bringing me one.”

He grabbed my right hand as he sat down and I couldn’t speak. Finally, regaining my composure, I asked Santa, “What the heck are you doing?’

“I’ve been flying alone in that sleigh for centuries and it’s lonely up there. I’ve been waiting for someone like you to care about me as much as I care for the children of the world.

I gulped. This guy really believes he is Santa Claus. What am I going to do? He’s probably just an old guy in a Santa costume looking for his 15 minutes of fame.

Santa sipped his tea and nibbled his cookie, leaving brown crumbles in his white beard.

“Don’t you have anyone to talk to about this loneliness? I mean there are all those elves and Mrs. Claus.” I was hoping he’d pull a psychiatrist’s business card out of his red jacket so I’ d have someone to call and rescue me from this situation.

But instead, he said, “I’m pretty much timeless, you know, so no one is around long enough to discuss my lifetime of struggles. That’s why I was so happy you sprayed me with your magic dust and rescued me from the truck. No one has ever expressed so much interest in me personally.”

My heart sank. Now I had to be a buddy and confessor to this sad old man in a Santa costume. At least he was satisfied with the tea and wasn’t dragging me to the Marine Room for stronger liquid consolation.

Sirens filled the air as police on bicycles searched the streets of Laguna for Santa. No one noticed us sitting on Zinc’s patio, surrounded by ladies dressed in bulky Christmas sweaters and elf hats. Soon, children of the world would be missing gifts from Santa under their Christmas trees. I had to get this old guy back in his sleigh.

What am I thinking? There is no Santa Claus. This guy is messing with my grey matter.

“You don’t believe in your power with the magic dust,” Santa said, “but you returned the affection I have for all people like you across the world.”

“So, Santa,” I asked nervously, “now that you know that love is not a one-way street, how do we get you back in your sleigh?”

Smiling, he took me by my elbow and guided me back to the Presbyterian Church. We went into the sanctuary where the first gift of love is celebrated on Christmas day. There, hovering over the choir loft, were Santa’s real sleigh and all of his reindeer. No firetruck in sight.

He mounted his sleigh, holding the reins of his reindeer. As the ceiling of the sanctuary opened, Santa shouted down to me, “Remember, it’s not the gifts that make Christmas special, but the love that brings the gifts.”

With his hearty “Ho, Ho, Ho,” the reindeer took flight over Forest Avenue, where a cheer arose from the confused revelers. The police cars and fire engines sounded their sirens to wish Santa a happy journey.

My doubt disappeared as the sleigh flew above Laguna Beach. There really was a Santa Claus.

Ed Clark has lived in Laguna Beach for 39 years and is looking forward to cheering Santa’s arrival at this year’s Hospitality Night. Recently, he discovered the Third Street Writers and began writing short fiction.

 

Thankful Day for All

By Theresa Keegan

Things happen for a reason. Life. Lemons. We all know the drill. But as I was enjoying a visit to Main Beach the day before Thanksgiving, my phone pinged and tears unexpectedly formed when I opened the text.

My daughter was in Central Park, watching the balloons being inflated for the Thanksgiving Day parade. She’d gotten off work early and met her boyfriend, and they were out enjoying an amazing event. I was happy for her. Really. But it gnawed at me. That was what we did when in NYC for Thanksgiving—and she was doing it with someone else. But I was here, 3,000 miles away walking along a coast so beautiful it continuously takes my breath away.

Suddenly I claimed to be missing cold, sleet, and wind that whips through the Northeast in November. Honestly, I was missing my family.

I love nothing more than passing stuffing and hearing about my nieces’ and nephews’ college adventures, my sisters’ latest escapades, the in-laws’ newest endeavors. I like being able to laugh with people I’ve known since birth and who complete my sentences but are amazingly offended when I complete theirs. It’s family.

Earlier in the month, thinking this homesickness may arise, my husband and I proactively booked a trip to Sequoia for Thanksgiving. Nature always provides a humbling perspective and we’d never been to this national park. On Wednesday, I wiped away my silly tears, smiled for my daughter’s experience, and looked forward to our departure the next day.

Mother Nature had different plans.

Upon waking, we discovered the Grapevine was officially closed. Not even the deepest case of homesick blues justified entering a potential 10-hour traffic jam. I went back to sleep and upon waking, realized we’d just been given a secret gift of 72 hours. We enjoyed an uncharacteristic, leisurely-paced home-cooked breakfast. Seventy-one more hours to go.

We opted to head over to the Neighborhood Congregational Church to partake in a tradition that, as relative newcomers, we’d never experienced. For 20+ years, the church has served a Thanksgiving Day community dinner, opening wide its doors to every and anyone.

What a gift it was. Generous contributions resulted in a full, delicious meal for guests. Some of the freshest turkey ever seen—thanks to talented chefs who’d been working their magic since dawn—was served. The numerous stuffing options would’ve put Martha Stewart to shame. Yams in a variety of styles and seasonings were abundant. Potatoes were piled high on paper plates and homemade gravy rolled down them like lava rivulets from an erupting volcano. Coffee flowed. Slices of pumpkin pie were covered with whipped cream and heartily consumed. Seconds, thirds, and to-go plates were created. It went on for hours. Young and old. Freshly-shaven and bedraggled. Some housed in mansions, others living on the sidewalks. On this cold, wet afternoon, almost 200 people walked through these doors looking for sustenance. They received food, but also on this Thanksgiving Day, the cold that permeated their souls seemed to thaw.

They were greeted warmly, looked in the eye, and wished a Happy Thanksgiving. Their faces lit up answering the critical question heard ‘round tables nationwide: White or dark meat? Drumstick or wing? Conversation flowed. Live music played. When told they could sit at the tables set on the hall’s stage, they were as thrilled as I when, in my 20s, I was told I could sit at the kids’ table during an exceptionally crowded Thanksgiving at my parents’ place.

Finding home wherever we are, celebrating those around us, recognizing gratitude for the many blessings in our life…that is what Thanksgiving is really all about.

And this year, I found it, not in New York City or under redwoods or even along Laguna’s beautiful ocean’s edge, but amid a hall of strangers, all of us searching for, and ultimately finding, a place to belong.

Theresa Keegan is an award-winning journalist who cherishes the Monday mornings she gets to spend with the Third Street Writers at the Laguna library.

 

Gingerbread Love

By Henri Colt

An uncustomary December rain drenched the sidewalk outside the Laguna Beach Books. Leafing through a book held in her open palms, a cluster of bangles jingling on her wrist, a woman about my age with shapely hips and a slim waistline lifted her eyes.

“Can I help you?” she said, pausing to brush a lock of grey hair from her forehead. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

Richard Dana’s “Two Years Before the Mast” beckoned me from the bookshelf but was beyond my reach behind her shoulders.

“Have you read it?” she said. “It’s a marvelous piece of local history.”

“Indeed.” I pointed at the book in her hands. “Did you know Dana’s son married Longfellow’s daughter?”

“That’s an interesting bit of trivia.” She put “Hiawatha” back in the bookcase. For a moment, the spicy aroma of her perfume filled the shop. “Are you a historian?”

“My wife taught American literature. After she passed away, I retired and moved to Laguna.”

“I’m sorry.”

There was an awkward silence, the kind you feel after you’ve said something wrong and can’t think of words to make things right.

“It’s been many years,” I mumbled, “but grief can be numbing.”

“I lost my husband three years ago. I understand.”

It’s funny how, when you’re on the verge of sharing more about yourself than you probably should, feelings for another can make you take the “I” out of the equation. I wanted to know more about this woman.

“Letting go is hard,” I said.

The pearls around her neck glistened beautifully on the tapestry of her cashmere sweater. Rolling them between her fingers, she seemed wistful.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“It’s nothing,” she said solemnly. “We used to love the holidays in Laguna. My husband was a second-generation Lagunatic. Christmas cookies, apple cider, and watching Santa ride down Forest Avenue were a family Christmas tradition.”

“Hospitality night is tomorrow evening, isn’t it? I saw the announcement in StuNews. I haven’t gone in years.”

“Don’t you love it, though? Watching teenagers out on their first date, young couples with strollers, and so many smiles…”

There was an unexpected, albeit fleeting joy in her voice. I realized I didn’t know her name, nor did she know mine. “I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, “I mean, I haven’t asked someone out in a very long time.” I prayed she hadn’t seen the way I had to wipe my hands on the back of my jeans.

She smiled and pulled “Two Years Before the Mast” from the shelf. The drawing on the paperback cover was almost an exact copy of the Pilgrim, just like the replica of Richard Dana’s tallship anchored in the nearby harbor.

“I’d love to join you,” she said, handing me the book. “I’ll bring you some of my gingerbread cookies, unless you’re allergic.”

When she laughed, I felt as if my past had somehow become fused with the present, as if the youthful exuberance that entered my soul had brought years of solitude to rest and filled my heart with hope.

Henri Colt is a physician-writer and wandering scholar whose passions include tango and mountain climbing. He lives in Laguna Beach.

 

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