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    Holiday Pleasures
    Holiday Pleasures
    Holiday Pleasures
    Ebook90 pages1 hour

    Holiday Pleasures

    By Arley J. Koran

    ()

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    About this ebook

    This collection of exciting stories, featuring
    good will and joy are waiting to jump-start
    your holiday mood. Each story was written
    to add sparkle and inspiration into your life
    and how you can bring sunshine into the life
    of others.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateJun 28, 2011
    ISBN9781456769215
    Holiday Pleasures
    Author

    Arley J. Koran

    In addition to his holiday books, Arley J. Koran is also the author of The Animals Can Teach Us Much series, The Stan Stanton Thrillers, and several other inspirational books. Born, raised and educated as an architect in the Midwest, Arley now resides in Silver Spring, Md. His extensive worldwide travels and a professional background in the arts has inspired exciting adventures which he shares with his continually growing list of readers of all ages.

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      Book preview

      Holiday Pleasures - Arley J. Koran

      Contents

      Foreword

      Dedication

      A Volunteer’s Reward

      Color Me White

      The Comfort Zone

      The Ghost of Christmas

      Four Quarters to Happiness

      Honesty

      Christmas Eve Humor

      Foreword

      What would the end-of-year holiday season be without colorful lights, the aroma of pine-scented candles and endless carols? In reality, it would not be very exciting until you added in the love we express toward each other with mistletoe, gifts and mouth-watering food cooked from the heart. Then again, if you really want to bring an explosion of pleasure to the holidays, add in this new collection of short stories, which will supercharge your anticipation of joy and passion toward others.

      Settle into your favorite comfy chair, with family and friends around you, and treat them to the touching experiences from holidays past contained in these stories. They will ignite the jubilation found within us at this time of year.

      Cherish the moments, because as time has proven, there will be only one holiday season to enjoy this year. And as statistics have proven, they diminish as we age. You, readers of every age, sit at the apex of life, so allow every morsel of pleasure within your grasp—including the smiles of happiness and sounds of laughter—to dominate your holiday atmosphere.

      —Nancy Pristine

      Dedication

      To my Lilly, the purest flower of my life.

      A Volunteer’s Reward

      1.jpg

      Traveling down new paths.

      A Volunteer’s Reward

      Guess who? Of course you can’t. I’m just a simple guy, living comfortably in Bethesda, Maryland, who donates his time a couple of afternoons a week at the Bethesda Naval Hospital. My church came up with the idea that our flock, of which I am one of the lambs, should spend a little time with the military veterans who have done so much in the service of our country. We especially want to assist those who have lost their limbs in places that someday will be nothing more than a final question on the national spelling bee because few people will remember them.

      My name is Barry Miller, not that it’s significant or would raise eyebrows. But for the sake of this story, knowing my name does make it easier to follow. I’m retired after forty years of working for various government agencies. Now, in my years of leisure, I spend my time painting pictures and writing short stories. That’s why I like to talk to the amputee veterans. I hope to help them find an alternate occupation, if necessary, in their lives.

      During one of my assignments back in October, I was forced to abandon my nice guy approach and come in through the back door to find an answer.

      I walked into the hospital and went to the office of Mildred Marks, the civilian who is in charge of the volunteers’ program. Mrs. Marks, what do you have for me today? I asked.

      Mr. Miller, I’m so glad you’re here. We inherited a problem from Walter Reed veterans’ hospital concerning a young soldier who lost both legs due to a roadside explosion in Iraq. He feels he is no longer a man and is worthless in life. I hope you can convince him that his world hasn’t come to an end.

      I appreciate the challenge, Mildred, and coming from you, I know you wouldn’t be giving me your problem unless it’s something you can’t handle. So, give me the lad’s name and room number, and brief me a little about his background?

      His name is Christian Carter. He’s an only child from a small town in Alabama, and his parents are farmers. His attitude is that he’ll never be able to carry on his parents’ farm. I’m afraid he needs help from the bottom up in attitude, ability and his potential.

      Mildred, is it OK if I have full access to the craft shop’s supply room and a few props if I need them?

      Help yourself, Barry. I’ll inform the other nurses that you’ll be working solo on this with an open shopping list.

      The first thing I requisitioned from the storeroom was a wheelchair. I followed that with an order for oil paints, a large canvas and an artist’s easel.

      After Mr. Carter had his usual therapy, I wheeled myself into his room, making off that I also was someone without the use of my limbs.

      How you doing, Chris? I heard you’re in the same situation as I am. We both don’t have any use of our body from the waist down. Thank goodness for wheelchairs…right, buddy?

      Christian looked more perturbed than interested in starting up a conversation. He resumed staring out the hospital room window at the autumn leaves falling in the brisk wind.

      Who would ever know what he was really thinking? But I assumed that in his mind, he had a view of fall harvest on his father’s farm and was thinking he would never be able to help there again.

      I tried a little something just to break the ice. You interested in challenging me in a wheelchair race down the corridor tonight after the nurses go off duty? Loser has to bribe the night clerk to bring us a couple pizzas. That comment went over like a lead balloon, except that I did at least get a sneering glance, which meant he heard me.

      Changing the subject, I jumped into something constructive. Hey, buddy, it’s just about two turns of a page on the calendar before the Christmas holiday, so how would you like to paint a picture for your folks back home? And don’t give me that malarkey that you don’t know how to paint. I didn’t either until somebody set me before an easel and put a paintbrush in my hand. You wouldn’t believe the trash I splashed on the canvas, only to hear my instructor tell me it was very progressive.

      Chris responded, Mister whoever-you-are, I never painted anything except the barnyard fence and even then I did a lousy job. Besides, my folks are not into paintings. They’d prefer that I furrow another row out in the field. Just let me be, mister.

      You may be right, son, but what would make a parent more proud—being able to boast of their son turning over another row of plowing or showing off a mediocre painting their hero son made with his own hands? I don’t know your mom, but I’d lay you odds, she’ll cry when she receives a painted picture for Christmas from her sonny boy.

      It’s a lot easier for you, mister, because you have your two legs and I’m zilch from the waist down, just a burden to everyone waiting for a handout.

      "Son, I’m in this wheelchair

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