In Search of the Perfect Gift

http://bwlpublishing.ca/authors/baldwin-barbara-romance

Books We Love and I are excited to offer you, our readers, a free collection of romantic short stories as a Kindle Exclusive. "Before Tomorrow Comes" will be free on December 8, 15, 22. Even if you aren't a Kindle Unlimited member, the book is only $4.99 to download. This special collection is my thank you for your loyalty which has provided me a platform for twenty novels. ENJOY!

Is it harder and harder every year to find a gift just perfect for all the people on your holiday list? Perhaps you've been looking in the wrong kind of store. I invite you to go shopping with Carolyn as she is "In Search of the Perfect Gift."

As numerous people converged on the single checkout lane, Carolyn began putting her items on the counter. Halfway through, she faced the cashier, realizing she was missing a key item on her list.

“Oh, dear,” she mumbled. She kept stacking the rest of her purchases on the counter, not noticing that Holly, the one and only cashier, was anxiously looking back at the line of people behind her.

“Ma’am, if you forgot something, perhaps we can put your other purchases aside so I can help the next person in line.”

Carolyn looked around, totally unaware that she was holding everyone else up. “Of course,” she rapidly scooped the glittering and twinkling items back into her basket. “I’ll just go see if I can find that one last item. I simply can’t do without it.” She turned her cart around and headed toward the back of the store. She glimpsed the line of customers. It would seem a tremendous number of people had found out about this unique store, which specialized in all things happy and joyous for the holiday season.

Carolyn glanced at the shoppers’ carts as she hurried along the line. Almost everyone had a twinkling box that contained just what she was looking for. How could she have forgotten it? In this day and economy, she supposed it wasn’t unusual for people to buy a little extra portion for the holidays when they could find it. This particular store, tucked in a small strip mall at the edge of town, was the only place she knew that had all the items she wanted for her Christmas gifts.

She slowed as she came to the cherish aisle. Among the different size boxes of affection, a small television advertised cherish with a short video of an older couple, celebrating their 75^th anniversary. How many people could cherish and hold each other in reverence for that length of time?

Next to cherish was a whole section of belief; more than should be there at this time of the shopping season. The aisle was almost dark; the boxes dull and lifeless on the shelves. Didn’t people believe anymore? Thinking over the latest news and the stories her friends had told her, she understood how hard it was to believe. One friend and her family had lost their house; another had lost a job and still another had recently lost a parent to a crippling disease. It was no wonder people quit believing in good things happening. Even though she already had a box of belief, Carolyn put another in her shopping cart. Her friends needed it.

She turned down the next aisle, not because she needed anything but she couldn’t resist the children she heard. As she walked slowly among the happiness and laughter holograms, she was caught up in their merriment. Regardless of where they were from -- and it looked like there were children from all over the world -- they played as if they had not a care in the world. Perhaps it was a case of innocence; that small children could forget about the cares of the world and be themselves – happy and carefree, if only for a short time.

Finally Carolyn came to the aisle containing the item she had neglected, although how she could have, she really didn’t know. As she gathered up box after box of hope, she counted her blessings. Hope contained the joy and faith of the season. When mixed with love and the faith and belief of good things to come, hope made a powerful mixture that could not be denied. Hope helped people survive the day to day trauma that at times was overwhelming. They found hope in family ties and community efforts.

As Carolyn hurried back into line, she realized she wasn’t the only one hoping for the best. Glittering and twinkling boxes of love and faith, among other wishes, had brought these customers to this magical store and each and every basket glowed with light. Customers in line had a special look about them. Eyes twinkled and lips tipped up in various stages of smiles. Every person’s face held a memory from some past, happy holiday. Carolyn hoped that regardless of the problems people faced, her small wishes would help them have a better holiday.

Wishing you and your family the best of the holidays with...

            Belief

            Happiness

            Laughter

            Joy

            Love

            Faith

            Cherish

            Hope

Connections by June Gadsby

While doing some research on my family tree and coming up with quite a few surprising connections, it struck me that ‘connections’ came in all shapes and sizes and were not necessarily those of relatives or ancestors.

I have one non-family connection of which I am immensely proud. It goes back to Captain Robert Falcon Scott, CVO, RN, who was a British Royal Navy officer and explorer and led two expeditions to the Antarctic regions: the Discovery Expedition and the ill-fated Terra Nova Expedition. A famous explorer who took a group of men to the South Pole in 1912. They discovered, during this expedition, fossilised plants, which proved that Antarctica was once forested and attached to other continents. Unfortunately, the return journey came to a tragic and unnecessary end. Scott and his companions died only 11 miles from a depot that would have saved their lives. 

So, you are wondering, what is my ‘connection’ with the famous Captain Robert Falcon Scott. It was with his only son, Peter, later to become Sir Peter Scott, famous naturalist, writer and artist who founded the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust. Peter had been many things before becoming a naturalist, including an Olympic ice skater, yachtsman and, ironically, a hunter – which he soon gave up when he discovered his love of wildlife, especially birds. When I met and married my husband, Brian, he worked for Sir Peter as Manager of the Washington branch of the WWT. [The original Washington in the north-east of England, rather than the Washington in the USA, where our mail very often ended up.]  HRH Prince Charles, whom I have also met twice, was at the time President of the charity, which has been and still is largely supported by the Royal Family.

My first meeting with Sir Peter and his wife Lady Philippa was a memorable occasion. They were not only visiting the wildfowl park that my husband managed, they were to have a meal in our house on the edge of the 100-acre piece of land that housed 1200 rare species of wildfowl. I rushed home from the hospital where I worked in order to smarten myself up and prepare the meal.  I was in my slip when I heard a huge crash coming from the kitchen. A cabinet full of my collection of Bronte pottery had fallen from the wall, knocked a tea-caddy and a kettle full of water onto the floor making a terrible, brown gunge. Sir Peter and Lady Philippa were due to arrive in a few minutes, and, in fact, we were still clearing up the mess when they joined us. It was a very embarrassing situation, but bless them, they were sympathetic and we eventually enjoyed a good meal together. It turned out to be a lovely social occasion. [1] 

Sir Peter had a great sense of humour – he loved playing practical jokes on his colleagues and was famous for his odd choice of brightly coloured socks. Lady Philippa was charming, which is how we found all the VIPs we met during this period of our lives. 

One memory I have is of Sir Peter walking into our kitchen while I was painting a bird portrait. I had heard how he had a habit of altering other people’s paintings. This was affectionately known as ‘Scottying’ and I held my breath, waiting for this to happen to my work. However, he was extremely kind in his praise for my little bird [2] and didn’t offer to change it in any way. I was both thrilled and disappointed. I would have loved him to ‘Scotty’ my painting. Sir Peter Scott’s paintings now sell for thousands of pounds. Unfortunately, we only have signed prints of his work and no originals. However, we did have the honour and the pleasure of visiting his studio and seeing many of his original paintings – mostly of geese flying across beautiful skies. [3]

We were invited to Sir Peter’s 80^th birthday party down at HQ Slimbridge and were so looking forward to it, as were many other people. Sadly, dear old Peter died two weeks before his birthday. Philippa, who continued his work for a few years has also now left us and we are no longer living with 1200 rare birds in our ‘front garden’, but enjoying life in rural France. My husband, now approaching his 84^th birthday, is just as passionate about wildlife and nature and is never seen without camera in hand. I still paint animals, among other subjects and write books that take the reader to the far ends of the earth – like my favourite novel set in the wilds of Patagonia, which is not all that far from the South Pole; and while I was there among the icebergs and the glaciers a few years ago, it was almost like walking in the footsteps of Robert Falcon Scott.

[1] Lord Brassey, June Gadsby, Sir Peter Scott & Lady Philippa Scott.

(2) Greenfinch

 

 

3] “In Winter Dusk”  Xmas 1984

Decorating with Dad by Eileen O'Finlan

Find buy links to this book on my Books We Love author page

This Christmas will mark the twenty-second time we’ve celebrated the holiday since my dad passed away at the age of sixty-six.  My family is big into holidays.  When I was a kid the house was decorated for every one of them, even the minor ones.  Christmas, though, was the ultimate.  No one got more into the decorating than my dad.  He turned our home into Christmas Land, inside and out.

Christmas decorating got underway once we’d returned from Thanksgiving weekend at my grandparents’ home in Bennington, Vermont.  Dad was in a festive mood after several days of feasting and visiting with a houseful of relatives.

First the living room had to be rearranged.  Over the years Dad, an engineer by trade, developed a strategy for furniture placement.  One layout was for Christmas, the other for the rest of the year.  It wasn’t just the furniture, either.  Knick-knacks and whatnots all over the house exchanged living quarters with the Christmas decorations boxed and stored in the basement.

Once the room was rearranged, the tree set securely in its stand and watered (until we switched to artificial trees), the most difficult and least fun part began - stringing the lights and garland.  Extra bulbs were kept on hand since if one went out they all went out. That meant testing every bulb on the string until the culprit was found, replacing it, and hoping that one worked.  Heaven help us if more than one bulb went out at the same time.  Dad wasn’t much for swearing, but those bulbs were almost guaranteed to elicit a few words more colorful than the lights. 

My sister, Cindy, and I endured the interminable wait in order to pounce the moment Dad finished.  It was our job to help hang the tinsel and ornaments.  We delighted at seeing these old friends that had been out-of-sight, out-of-mind for a year, especially the ones that hung on the trees of my mom’s childhood.  My favorite was a set of three delicate, sparkly silver shoes each with a tiny child inside representing Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.  Mom and Dad joined in the tree trimming while we all sang along with the Christmas albums on the record player.

Once the tree was completed, we moved to the rest of the room.  The top of the huge black and white TV was large enough to hold the snow village.  Each house and the church were painted cardboard fitted with a light bulb making their colored cellophane windowpanes glow.  There were decorated pine trees and elves made of pinecones, pipe cleaners and felt.  Flimsy it may have been, but it was cherished.  A tinkerer at heart, Dad kept adding to the village.  A mirror became a skating pond, tiny lamp posts graced the “street”.  The village eventually outgrew the TV top and had to move to a new location.

A gold bell that played Silent Night hung from one doorway, mistletoe from another.  A lighted church sat on the end table on top of sparkly white cotton batting emulating snow and surrounded by Nativity vignettes.  Mr. and Mrs. Claus stood on either side of the fireplace.  The last thing to be displayed was the crèche.  I loved the smell of the papier mache figures and the soft glow from the blue light illuminating Mary’s robe.  In the weeks to come I would spend hours playing with the crèche as if it were a doll house.

Not a room escaped decoration.  Every window had a candle either on the sill or hanging inside a red wreath.  Even the bathroom had a bubble lamp and a candle in the window.

Then came the outside.  A large plastic lantern, later to be replaced by a Santa, brightened the front porch.  Dad strung colored lights along the porch railing and throughout the hedge in front of the house.  After a heavy snowfall red, blue, yellow, green, and purple lights shone through giving the hedge an otherworldly glow.

There was no such thing as too many Christmas decorations as far as Dad was concerned.  Over the years, he made tree ornaments including drums and sleds with each of our names on them.  He outdid himself the year he made a perpetual calendar.  The scene at the top was attached with Velcro and could be changed with the seasons.  Naturally, the Christmas scene was the best.  It was a miniature replica of our living room right down to the same wallpaper and the clock and candlesticks on our fireplace mantel.

 

 

With the decorating complete, our home was transformed.  Every day of the Christmas season I played in the wonderland of my own personal Christmas Village.  Every night glowed with colorful splendor.  The saddest for me was the weekend after New Year’s when everything came down, packed away in the basement, the magic gone, the house returned to normal.  It was like waking up from the best ever dream.

Since Dad’s been gone, I decorate the house.  Though my taste is a bit different from my dad’s, I seem to have inherited his love for holiday decorating. I still move furniture, to give the tree pride of place.  I miss the smell of papier mache from the long lost crèche, my current one being made of sturdier material.  I love to sit in the living room in the evening, gazing at the lights on the tree, the one remaining Wynken, Blynken and Nod ornament always prominent.  I can feel Dad’s presence in the quiet of the evening.  Our styles are very different, but unlike me, he was decorating for kids.  His joy came as much from the glee his efforts brought to us as from his own enjoyment of the holiday.  I think he is smiling with me as I create my grownup version of Christmas Land.  And I’m certain he would appreciate the invention of pre-strung lights on the Christmas tree.

Ian Foster and Nancy Hynes - A Week In December [Official Video]