A Prune On A Stick For Christmas

Chapter 1

A CHRISTMAS PRUNE?

It was barely six o’clock on Christmas night in the resort town of South Lake Tahoe, California, but heavy snowfall from a dark, overcast sky made the hour appear much later.

Down near the water, just beyond the thickly wooded forest, snow covered the ground in deep layers, while up on the highway edging the lake, banks of snow created by the snow-plows reached the tops of the highway snow markers. It left the blue reflectors just visible to the steady stream of holiday travelers passing through. The falling snow and the low moaning and whispers of wind blowing through pine boughs muted the hum of passing traffic, making it nearly a silent night.

A cluster of homes lit with strings of multi-colored Christmas lights were mistily visible through the falling snow. At one house, a large, two-storied log cabin, blue miniature lights shown from both the upstairs and downstairs windows. More blue lights hung across the wide porch that ran the length and breadth of the house, and a large Christmas tree, keeping to the blue light theme, stood in the picture window facing the street.

The front door to the house opened, casting a stream of light across the porch and an aroma of roast turkey, pumpkin pie and freshly brewed coffee into the cold night air.

The strains of Bing Crosby singing about a ‘White Christmas’ could be heard as four young adults, warmly bundled against the winter evening, exited the house. A middle-aged man, Howard, both father and father-in-law to the foursome, saw them out the door. He clutched his sweater close against the sharp night air with one hand, and with his other kept the door from opening too widely.

Thanks again Dad, his eldest daughter told him as she pecked him on the cheek. I know we’re missing the great prune unveiling, but the children will enjoy it.

Ah yes, the prunes, going to be sorry to miss that! Howard’s other daughter chimed in, also grazing his cheek as she brushed past him.

I hate running out on you and mom and the prune extravaganza tonight, but you know there really wasn’t any way to duck out of this wedding. Save me a prune. We should be back before ten at the latest.

I still think it’s a crazy night to get married, why would any woman in her right mind want to combine holidays. Half the gifts! But at least Tony won’t forget their anniversary, the younger daughter called back over her shoulder, already at the car.

Don’t bet on it! The other daughter joked.

Don’t rush on our account, Howard called to their retreating backs. It’s a wedding. There is no rushing a wedding. Enjoy yourselves. You know the kids can always spend the night if it gets too late or the weather gets any worse. We love having them stay over. It’s good having children in the house again. I’ll save you all a prune.

I’ll shovel your walk tomorrow morning. How’s that? And you can pass on my prune, one burly son-in-law called good naturedly, his hand on his wife’s elbow, steadying her so she didn’t slip on the icy driveway as she climbed into their Subaru.

Deal, Howard answered, knowing by morning the snow would be knee deep out here again. He already shoveled the drive and sidewalk earlier that afternoon but it did not look like it now.

He stood framed in the doorway, wistfully watching as the four young adults climbed into the car. At least they have four-wheel drive he thought, knowing how treacherous the icy roads around the lake could be. He stood there for a few more moments, inhaling the sharp wind that smelled of snow and wet pine. Then, shivering, he waved goodnight as the red lights receded in a swirl of snowflakes and went back into the house, shutting the door firmly against the cold night.

In the dining room, three pre-teen children sat talking at the oval maple table. Nate and Tyler were brothers. Their cousin, Maria, was (so far) the only child in her family. All the dinner plates were cleared, and just one remnant of mincemeat pie and a half eaten fruitcake remained of the Christmas feast. The children looked full, and a bit glazed and sleepy.

Howard strode into the room, a chill of night air still clinging to him. He was rubbing his hands together and the tip of his nose was rosy from the cold. He paused in front of the fireplace and stretched his hands out to the flames. Then, noticing his wife in the kitchen doorway, asked, Is it prune on a stick time yet, Nana?

Nana gave her husband a nod. Yes dear, I believe it’s that time of year once again. Dim the lights and light the candles, I’ll go fetch our holiday prunes. She turned and went back into the kitchen.

Howard dimmed the lights to a romantic glow, and then carefully struck a large kitchen match and lit the two green candles placed at either end of the table.

In the background, Christmas carols played softly on a holiday CD. Not so eagerly, the three children watched as their Nana walked out of the kitchen and into the dining room, bearing a plate with a dozen prunes skewered on bamboo kabob sticks, each prune dusted white with powdered sugar. Ostensibly, there was a prune on a stick for each member of the family.

Nana, why do you and Grandpa always make such a big deal over these prune on a stick things every Christmas? asked Tyler, warily eying the prune plate as his grandmother set it down in the center of the table.

Maria picked up a kabobbed prune. Narrowing her eyes, she scrutinized the wrinkled, powdered fruit, then sniffed at it.

Nobody ever eats them. She put it back on the plate and looked over at her grandmother. Not even you, Nana, and you make them, she said, a mildly accusatory tone in her logical twelve-year-old voice.

Nobody eats them because nobody likes prunes, said Nate, wrinkling his freckled nose and emphasizing the word, nobody.

He looked at his grandfather and asked, So, why do you always make them at Christmas if you know nobody is going to eat them, not even you and Nana.

Because it’s a Christmas tradition kids, Howard jovially told the grandchildren who were now eyeing him suspiciously. It’s like hanging the stockings on the mantel, or putting an angel on the top of the tree.

I never heard of a Christmas prune tradition anyplace but at your house, Grandpa. Are you sure you just didn’t make this up? asked Tyler politely, using the same reasonable tone of voice one might use to address the insane.

Well of course I made it up! said Howard, cheerfully admitting his culpability. Somebody has to make up these traditions, don’t they? If I didn’t, who would?

Howard looked meaningfully across the table at his grandchildren. Nate, Tyler and Maria exchanged looks that clearly conveyed they had no knowledge of another soul who would even consider taking on that particular tradition. Nana raised her eyebrows slightly and shrugged.

A log snapped in the fire with a loud pop. The dog, Norm, an elderly Lab that had been blissfully sleeping on the hearth rug, twitched and snuffled, then settled back to sleep.

But don’t traditions have to mean something Grandpa? Maria persisted. What in the world does a Christmas prune mean?

It means a lot to us Maria, to the Rodgers family that is. It may not mean anything to the rest of the world, but to us, it is a very dear little fruit. And because it is such an important piece of our family history, I’ve taken it upon myself to immortalize it as our very own Rodgers’ Christmas tradition.

He picked up a prune and looked at it with affection.

Yes indeed. These babies are so special in fact, he said, looking each child straight in the eyes while his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, that if it were not for the prunes, you might never have been born!

Oh my gosh! Maria gasped, her mouth dropping open. Both the boys had similar reactions, though not as quite as quickly as their cousin did. The boys turned to stare open mouthed and wide-eyed at their grandmother.

Nana! Nate blurted, "Honest? Is there really a true story about our family and these prunes?’

There certainly is honey, said Nana. A long, long story. She rolled her eyes and gave a little chuckle. A very long story.

Ah yes, the family prune story, agreed Howard. A long and convoluted tale if ever there was one long and convoluted tale.

I’m pretty sure there was once a long and convoluted tale, concurred Nana, nodding sagely at her husband. However, long and convoluted tales aside, were it not for this powdered little prune with a stick shoved through it, she said, her voice now as soft as the flickering candle light shadowing her face, none of us would be sitting here at this table tonight.

The cousins all gasped again.

Tell us the story! begged Maria, We don’t care if it’s long, we got all night, don’t we Nana? Suddenly the children did not look so sleepy anymore.

Well, maybe not all night, Nana answered, but we do have a good bit of time before your parents get back from the wedding. More than enough time for the prune story I think.

Okay, so please, which one of you wants to tell us the story, Tyler asked. Nana?

Oh, I think not. Let your grandpa tell you, he’s much better at long convoluted prune tales than I am, and really, it’s his story.

Grandpa? Please?

Well, if you really want to hear it, I suppose I could tell you the story behind our prune tradition, hopefully, you’re all old enough to hear the truth.

Oh good! We get to hear the prune story! Maria cried.

The plate of prunes was now forgotten as all three of the children jumped out of their chairs and took their grandfather by the hand, pulling him out of his chair and leading him into the living room where they directed him to his recliner and practically pushed him into it.

Now tell us the story, they all insisted.

Okay, I will, but first I must warn you, this isn’t entirely a pretty story, it contains elements of both life and death.

Death? Maria gasped, joining her cousins already sitting on the big squashy sofa across from their grandfather’s recliner. Did someone really die?

Nana followed them into the living room, she walked over to the cabinet that housed all the entertainment equipment and turned the music down, glancing over her shoulder to see how grandpa was going to answer that one.

Well, yes, but if I told you that part then I would be getting ahead of myself in the story, said Howard, catching Nana’s eye.

Maybe I should have a cup of tea, since this is going to be a long story and I’ll need to wet my whistle occasionally, he added, getting out of his chair to place another large log on the glowing, cherry coals in the fireplace.

I’ll get your tea, offered Nana. You get settled. She went back into the kitchen as Howard closed the glass fire-screen doors against the sparks now leaping from the newly added log.

Okay, is everyone ready?

Yes Grandpa, all three grandchildren answered at once. Their grandmother came back into the living room and set a cup of tea down on the side table next to where her husband was cozying into his comfortable old leather recliner. She turned off all the lights save for the ones lighting their Christmas tree and then sat down in her own comfortable armchair, slipped off her flats and put her feet up on the hassock, a sigh of contentment on her lips.

Alright now kids, first thing you have to know is that our family prune tradition goes back some fifty years, Howard began, settling into the storytelling mode. It goes all the way back to the year 1960, the year I turned seventeen and my sister, your great Auntie Denise, was sixteen, he explained to his attentive audience.

He dunked his tea bag into his cup a few times and then set it down in the saucer under the cup.

It goes back to when the Rodgers family still lived in Loomis and all of your great grandparents were still alive. Our prune on a stick for Christmas tradition actually began on a hot morning the very first day of my last high-school summer vacation.

The tiny Christmas tree lights, wound round and through the tree branches, cast a pale blue glow across the faces of the family gathered cozily together in anticipation of the story which would finally explain the origins of the Rodgers family Christmas prunes.

The dog lay down on the hearth rug, turning around a few times before settling down, while the two tuxedo cats, Betty and Ruth, made themselves comfortable on the laps of their favorite adults. In the background, very softly, came the familiar melodies of Christmas carols.

Chapter 2

A RUDE AWAKENING

Howard!

The booming bassoon of his mother’s voice reverberated down the dimly lit hallway. It sounded just as though someone had flung a bucket of liquid drum rolls through the air. The resident population of daddy-long-legs (lurking in every dark corner) all began vibrating defensively in their webs as the thunderous roar echoed past.

A tan colored army blanket tacked over the open doorway into Howie’s bedroom proved no deterrent to Florence’s bellow, merely fluttering in the breeze of her blaring summons. Her call to action assailed the eardrums belonging to the tall, slender form lying peacefully on his stomach in the middle of his rumpled bed.

Howard! Time to rise and shine!

A muscle in his cheek twitched. A fat housefly buzzed into action and began dive-bombing Howie’s slightly open mouth. In his dream, it was the fly that bugled his name just before making its next pass at his lips.

Howard! Up and at-tem!

He rolled over on his back, one arm shading his eyes from the bright rays of morning sunshine slanting through the cracks in his bedroom walls. Long past dawn though it was, a rooster crowed outside his window.

Howard, I’m sending Rex in for you!

No sooner had these words cleared her lips than forty pounds of Irish Setter, Beagle and Coyote mix came tearing down the hallway, yipping and baying in mindless exhilaration at the heady prospect of a chase, no matter how contrived.

With his claws ripping up splinters of flaking paint as he rounded each corner, Rex the Wonder dog (a wonder someone hasn’t shot him, Denise would mutter under her breath) launched himself through the blanket and landed with a mighty thud in the middle of Howie’s chest.

Down! Heel! Get off me! shouted Howie, shoving his balled-up sheet into the toothy mouth making feints at his jugular vein. He twisted wildly to get out from beneath the foul- smelling creature already dripping pints of saliva onto his face while frantic claws raised crossword puzzles all over his bare chest.

Down! Howie yelled again. For once, the dog obeyed him. Whirling, he abandoned the attack on Howie’s throat and went right for his crotch.

No! Not down there you moron! Mother! Call off your dog!

With the ripping sound of his boxers being torn from his body rousing Howie to heroic strength, he gave a heave and threw Rex on the floor.

Just then Florence’s, Here, Rex, come on boy! boomed down the hallway.

Heeding the cry from his adored mistress, Rex checked his renewed charge mid-air, and using the bed as a springboard, launched himself clear out of Howie’s room and through the doorway. Thanks to the unexpected spring from the bed, he slammed right into the opposite wall. There was a loud whack, followed by a thud and a yipe of pain as the crazed dog went down in a tangle of tan blanket and fur.

Blinking at the blanket covered lump writhing dementedly in the doorway, Howie wondered if there was anyone else in the world besides him who greeted daybreak in similar fashion.

Naw, he thought, watching as feathers from his pillow wafted through the air, sparking for an instant as they passed through a band of sunlight. I think the majority of American youth awakens to the ringing of an alarm clock, not from an attack by the family dog.

Here Rexie, come, come, hupppp! shouted Florence. The frantic movements beneath the blanket trebled. Rex burst free and took off at top speed, baying like the hound his grandfather had been.

Miserable, damned, stupid animal, muttered Howie, checking himself for bleeding wounds. Surprisingly, he saw no blood, just red marks and dog saliva, but he itched every