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    A Christmas Angel
    A Christmas Angel
    A Christmas Angel
    Ebook113 pages56 minutes

    A Christmas Angel

    By Constance Gelvin

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A Christmas Angel is a historical novella of Colorado Springs' life circa 1909. The problems that plague our society today (a bank scandal that resulted in a devastating recession, hunger, alcoholism) were in full force in 1909 without the cushion of public social services. But the pluck and love of widowed mother Penelope toward her feisty, overly-dramatic daughter Elsie helps them reach out to a "soiled dove" and her infant.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherConstance Gelvin
    Release dateMar 1, 2013
    ISBN9781301753871
    A Christmas Angel
    Author

    Constance Gelvin

    Constance Gelvin is a novelist ("No Reason to Lie"), produced playwright ("Mental Health and Other Myths") and blogger. She lives in Colorado Springs, and is fascinated by Colorado history.

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      Book preview

      A Christmas Angel - Constance Gelvin

      Chapter 1

      Wake up, Elsie!

      I burrowed deeper under my quilts.

      Wake up! It’s but a week before Christmas and we’ve much to do.

      I opened an eye.

      Jump from bed, dress, and see what I have for you from Uncle Samuel. You know he always wants to be the first to give you a Christmas gift. I swear, he’ll have you as spoilt as mutton sitting out on a hot day.

      I tiptoed because the floor was so cold. Inside our kitchen, Mother’s just-baked cheese straws were stacked on platters everywhere. I snatched up my leggings, petticoat and dress warming on the stove. A cauldron of water bubbled on top.

      Mother dipped a cloth in the hot water. After I scrubbed my face she said, Only three misshapen out of eight dozen, and handed me the gnarled straws. And fresh broth for dipping. She set a steaming cup down with such force that broth splashed onto the tablecloth. Mine is much superior to Invalid Broth which I do believe is intended for invalids who don’t desire recuperation. Drink up.

      Ever since the Paris Drug Company started selling Invalid Broth, Mother has maligned it at every opportune moment. Her own broth, rich from boiled-down meats (those having been reduced in price) and fresh herbs is one of our most popular savouries.

      General Palmer would often say to me, ‘Penelope, your broth—

      Brings tears to my eyes it is so good. I finished, for I’d often heard this declaration.

      Mother glanced at me sharply. That my broth made him feel vigorish again. She looked out our kitchen window facing the redstone building next door. Across from it on Tejon Street loomed the First Congregational Church with its odd witch-hat steeple. Mother sighed, This will be the first Christmas without The General in the world.

      How truly awful to die before Christmas comes ‘round! I said and blew on the broth before dipping in a straw. Only one week before Christmas, let the festivities begin! You said Uncle Samuel has a gift for me?

      Finish your breakfast while I wrap the remaining straws, Mother replied. I tipped my cup and swallowed the broth in one long gulp.

      Elsie! Only the vulgar slurp so noisily.

      Now can I—

      Close your eyes and hold out your hand.

      I felt a small, square box with a string carry-handle on top and opened my eyes. A Barnum’s Animals Crackers box, designed like a yellow-and-orange circus cage, sat on my palm. A real Animals Crackers. I couldn’t wait ‘til I could show my friends at school.

      Mother! Isn’t the box an absolute delight? Inside was a menagerie of tiny giraffes, tigers, elephants and rhinos. May I—

      You may have two of your choosing now and the rest for later.

      I placed a miniscule camel on my tongue. It was far better than anything Mother bakes. Then I savored a hippo, dissolving slowly, and was surprised they both tasted the same. I was studying a kangaroo when Mother said, Let’s get some errands run before studies and work commence.

      Waxed paper had been neatly twisted around the cheese straws bundled into threes. I have an idea, I said. I rushed into our front parlour and plundered through Mother’s ribbon basket, snatching up the red and green ribbon remnants. I ran back and tied bows around each end of the waxed paper. Isn’t that festive looking? Now the straws look like tiny gifts; we could charge an extra penny each.

      To think there are those who’d pay more for such foolishness. Mother kissed my forehead. But I think you’re right, my little factotum. Let’s see…an extra penny each and there’s eight dozen so…

      Four cents shy of a dollar!

      Nothing to sneeze at. Mother struggled into her coat, pulled her hat low, wrapping a muffler several times around her chin. I could never understand why Mother—more beautiful than any Gibson Girl with her abundant auburn hair, chocolate-brown eyes and delicate complexion—always dressed as if to disguise herself when she ventured out in public. A hatred of the cold, she’d explained (something I suffered from myself). But why then the high necks and veils in summer heat? I wondered if she felt her beauty was so dazzling she had to keep it hidden.

      We headed toward downtown. Here’s a dime, Elsie. I’ll deliver straws to Bridger’s and the Merchant’s Lunch Room while you run to the post office and buy ten Franklin stamps. Don’t dawdle. Meet me at Pearl Market and we’ll stock up on apples and spices. We’ll need lots for The Bazaar and the El Paso Club’s Christmas parties--one right after the other! But I’m not complaining, the past hard times where holiday celebrations were few, if any, are still vivid in my mind.

      I’d heard this before: that hard times were forced upon us due to bankers’ greed (citing the Knickerbocker Trust Company) and the average, everyday greed of many Americans who’d obtained credit to finance lives built upon impressing others. The closest Mother ever came to a swear was when she’d say, Oh, Ferdinand! (Ferdinand referring to a particularly scurrilous swindler). I glanced at the DeGraff building’s curlicued façade and said nothing.

      One thing I must point out is: I am not my Mother. Before my birth, she’d had the impressive position of personal factotum to none other than renowned Cripple Creek millionaire Winfield Scott Stratton. Mother often regaled me with stories about the important people she’d met (General Palmer for one), the fancy parties she’d attended, and her trip to England with an ailing Stratton. With that exciting past, I wondered how she could now rise before dawn, sweat over a hot stove and serve others silently at parties. That’s not the life for me. I want to be a child actress like Marie Eline The Thanhouser Kid. Or, better yet, another Elsie Palmer (I was named for her), and live in a castle when I’m not traveling to New York and England. I want to be whispered about for my beauty, glorious clothes, handsome suitors and fine automobiles.

      Before Mother and I could go our separate ways, a bundle of rags hefted itself from the alley on Pikes Peak Avenue and staggered toward us.

      Spare a nickel for a starving man?

      My Mother handed him two be-ribboned packets of cheese straws. I sighed…profit disappearing.

      Here’s some sustenance for you, sir. If I were to give you a nickel you might be tempted to indulge in spirits and I, thus, would be guilty of leading you astray. So. Eat, and enjoy this day in the month of our Lord’s birth.

      Then something happened that had occurred on one other occasion when I was around five years old. It had perplexed me then, and perplexed me even more after this odd exchange. The man, with rags tied onto his hands for gloves and an animal pelt wrapped around his head, squinted a watery eye at Mother.

      Angel? Is that you, Angel?

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