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    The Gift
    The Gift
    The Gift
    Ebook122 pages1 hour

    The Gift

    By Alice Reynolds, Sj Sims, Gwnedolyn Mason and

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    About this ebook

    THE GIFT: A COLLECTION OF WORKS FROM THE SOUTHERN OHIO WRITER'S COLLABORATIVE, is exactly that: a gift. 

    The book is a project by the writer's group, which meets monthly at the Pump House Center for the Arts in Chillicothe, Ohio to learn to become better writers and, equally important, to connect with readers. The group ranges from those doctorates, to stay at home mothers, journalists, volunteers and college students who come from counties all throughout southern Ohio. What they all have in common is the love of words and a desire to express themselves creatively.

    The group, which formed in July 2013, encourages new writers with what we call "actionable critique." We submit stories monthly through our web site and each of us, coming from varied levels of education and experience, gives definitive feedback on each work which allows the writer to improve their work. Just saying "I liked it. It was good" isn't good enough.

    And writers never grow when someone says their work sucks. We believe that when a person leaves their ego at the door and has something positive to move toward, anyone can become a better writer. 

    As our 2015 project, we  put together a Christmas-themed collection of stories, essays and poems we are calling THE GIFT. The works range from cheery poems to make you smile to essays and stories to remind you that holidays aren't happy for everyone. 

    But most of all, this book is a thank you to the community which welcomed us.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDebra Gaskill
    Release dateFeb 1, 2016
    ISBN9781524237912
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      Book preview

      The Gift - Alice Reynolds

      River City Lights

      By Alice Reynolds

      Red cardinals roost in green pine branches;

      The risen moon casts light on fallen snow,

      And snowmen clad in scarves and warm mittens,

      Guard white fences and decorated homes.

      Some fill with people, while some sit alone.

      Hushed trailer parks and silent city lots

      Glow with Christmas lights and luminous snow,

      As the frigid Scioto River reels

      Past them in whispering ripples and rolls

      On it’s way to the mighty Ohio.

      Waves whisper past the deserted Wal-Mart

      And the car lot advertising used Fords,

      Buicks, and Chevrolets, yet no headlights

      Sparkle along that mercantile highway;

      All lights turn dark to honor Christ's birthday.

      Church spires cast shadows on river water,

      And musing stained glass windows reflect light.

      Rivers of light flow through open chapel doors

      As newcomers and congregants shake hands,

      Wash off old feuds, and praise this blessed night.

      A Bottle Cap Christmas

      By Alice Reynolds

      Always, my father showed love with his hands —

      And that love exists in the small ranch house that he built, sitting on a snow-covered hill in southern Ohio. The house rests beside woodland alive with chattering birds, sighing wind, and groaning timber. It's a white house, with shiny black shutters and a small front porch trimmed with freshly cut pine branches. It's Christmas Day, 1976, which explains the red and white plastic Santa Claus that hails passersby from his perch on the black-shingled roof, and the Christmas tree hung with tinsel, schoolroom ornaments, popcorn strings, and lights that glow through the living room window.

      My dad sits in his armchair next to the tree, dressed in his ubiquitous blue work pants, passing out brightly wrapped presents to my ten-year-old sister, my six-year-old brother, and eleven-year-old me. We eagerly tear them apart to get to the goodies underneath. My tired dad—and mom, too—can't forget mom—benevolently watch Cheryl, Pete, and me exclaim over our gifts. Thirty-eight years have passed since that morning, but I still hear our high-pitched voices:

      Look at my speedboat!

      OK, Dad, it's my turn now.

      What did you get?

      Barbie dolls.

      Look at what Pete got.

      We tear off shiny bows. Wrapping paper rips and crunches, and the television set blares in the background. Our voices continue to rise, mine most of all, when I pull wrapping paper off a box containing a brand new Barbie Dream Boat. The Dream Boat cabin is made of red and blue squishy plastic, and it comes with miniature accessories. I'm delighted with my boat, with Cheryl's and my Barbies, with the holiday wrapping paper that scrunches in our hands.

      Mom sits on the floor beside my brother, my sister, and me, patiently scooting back the discarded wrapping paper that litters the floor. (Dad would never guess that on Christmas Eve, she had crept into Cheryl's and my bedroom with a few presents for us to peek at before we woke up on Christmas Day We had already seen our Barbie dolls, encased in their cardboard boxes, redolent with the enticing good smell of new dolls).

      Mom looks young and pretty compared to my 56 year-old father, with his thinning auburn and silver hair and his lined, gray face. Her long, dark hair falls across her cheeks when she leans over to pick up Cheryl's blonde-haired Barbie. Look at her pretty hair, Mom says. Her small, rough housewife's hands smooth Barbie's shining mane before picking up an unwrapped present to hand to my dad. Grimacing slightly, he leans forward to take the gift, and mom's pretty dark eyes suddenly turn dull and set. A shadow crosses her face, but dad's face never changes.

      He glances at the name on the gift tag. This is for Pete, dad says, smiling with his whole face and his heart at my little brother.

      My brother reaches eagerly for his present, grins back at my dad. Paul and Pete are a pair, these two, and they love each other. My father rarely says a harsh word to this beloved son, the son who looks just like him, blessed with his slate-blue eyes, curling hair, and compact frame. Surely Pete knows that he is dad's darling, the joy of his aging heart. I have never been my dad's darling, nor the joy of his heart, and even on Christmas day, a small, sharp, jealous pain pokes at my chest when I watch dad smile at my little brother. By nature, pudgy, plain, and naturally cantankerous, I can only hope that dad smiles at me in the same delirious way the next time he hands me a present. And to give him his due, dad has, a few times during my eleven-year-old life, smiled tenderly at me, too, made me feel special and proud.

      Pete wildly rips wrapping paper. He uncovers a box and tears it open. A small, wooden, hand-carved, blue and white truck falls to the floor. Pete picks it up with a curious look on his face—Santa has never brought a gift like this before. The truck looks nothing like a Matchbox model or any other toy vehicle sold in department stores.

      I made it for you, Pete, my dad says as my brother picks up the toy, yanking at the attached string. Pete sets it on the oak-paneled floor, pulling the little truck along with the string. Dad watches Pete's face as the truck's little bottle cap wheels roll across the floor. He really wants Pete to like the truck. My brother smiles—he does like it—we all do. It is a cunning little thing. Mom oohs and aahs over the truck, acting as though she has never seen it before even though she must have watched dad carve it into existence after the three of us had gone to bed.

      Or perhaps dad had worked on it during the day while we were at school. Dad has more time on his hands than he used to because he hasn't been to work since he came home from the hospital. His boss still gave him his Christmas bonus, though, and that's why my brother, my sister, and I have had our usual abundant holiday, blessed with candy, and clothing, and toys, including a special toy carved with dad's sharp little knife.

      A curious feeling rises in my heart as I watch my brother roll his truck along the floor. For a moment I move beyond familiar childish jealousy to the honest appreciation that patrons pay both to art and the makers of art, for handmade creations created with love, no matter how homely, simple, or small, touch the good that exists in humanity's heart. I know in my own heart that my father's humble gift exists as art because it illustrates both his love for his son and his artisan urge to create, to carve, and to build. Dad built our house—he built our cupboards—he built a bookcase out of an old television set and painted it yellow, just for me. This year dad carved a toy for Pete. Last year, he built me a bookcase. Perhaps, next year, he would make something special for Cheryl, maybe for her birthday in July.

      That never happened.

      My father, so far as I know, never built a gift for my beautiful blonde-haired sister, indeed, never lived to see another Christmas. He passed away the following June, and when he died, his hard-handed every day strictness died with him. However, his love lived on in the small white house that he built, the bookcase that he hammered together, and the blue and white truck he so carefully carved by hand. And though I sometimes think ruefully about dad's authoritarian voice—that voice he so often raised to stubborn and at times disobedient me—I seldom fail to remember that he put that voice away at Christmas time because my father knew how to celebrate Christmas with food, and gifts, and photographs, with elegance and good cheer. And remembering those childhood Christmases past, my mind invariably turns to Dickens closing A Christmas Carol lines—lines articulating the best impulses abiding in my father's heart and soul:

      It was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that truly be said of us and all of us, as well.

      Meghan Hill

      Meghan Hill is an avid reader of just about anything she

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