Winter Story

      Be Grateful

Bob lived with his mother and father and three younger siblings in a big house that looked like it was made of gingerbread; walls of rich, yummy brown; vibrant, cherry-red shutters; and, at this time of year, a thick, fluffy layer of icing-white snow upon the roof. A fat chimney leaning against the side of the house puffed forth large quantities of woodsmoke and smells of good things; for Ma was inside cooking bread and pies and ham for dinner. Pa could be seen ensconced in the fire-side chair reading the newspaper and listening to radio, while Bob and his siblings (Jill, Jack, and Daisy) played video games in the loft.

The scene was pleasant: already a fine set of things to eat was laid upon the counter-top—cookies, oranges, and a steaming bread-pudding—the fire crackled as it burned, and the shouts of the children at play drifted downstairs. Yes, it was the picture of a good home practically bursting with good things. The children were all red cheeked, round, good-natured looking, and easy-going in temperament. The parents were kind, smiling, persuasive, and wonderful good cooks. I daresay they were mighty grateful when they got to thinking about how much they had, and how blessed they were, and how much of a grand environment it was for anybody to grow up in; but they didn't deliberate the idea much. They just enjoyed it.

It was Sunday afternoon and cold outside. There hung about the house a certain relaxed air that usually comes to a house after Sunday church is over and everyone is resting and taking advantage of the final hours of week-end. Upstairs, amid large piles of pillows and toys, the four children bent over four computers of various calibers, playing happily away. Certainly they didn't mind the snow outside, nor the preceding chill that infiltrated the loft. The computers and indeed the very thrill of the game kept them warm enough.

“Yes! I won!” Shouted Daisy. “Third time in a row!”

She was today in the proud possession of a fine gaming laptop, generally the envy of all the children, so they rotated daily. It was believed that this computer enabled its gamer to move quicker and therefore ensure victory the most. Bob cast it one longing look, but the next game was already starting and he dived back into concentration on his own rather patchy device. A few minutes passed. Daisy was winning again, and Bob was convinced he would come in last, but at that moment Pa's voice was heard calling up the stairs.

“Hey, Bob! Come down for a second.”

Bob hastily bid the others farewell and clambered over to the stairs and down to the living room. Pa had folded his newspaper and was holding out a white, paper-wrapped bundle that Ma had just handed him.

“Here, Bob. I need you to take this to Grandma's before dinner. Its an early Christmas present from your mother.”

Curiously Bob took the package. It was large and had a heavy, solid feel. He glanced outside the window. There was a dust of snow on the road, not hard to walk in, but a Grey Bank of cloud on the horizon promised more inclement weather. He looked up at Pa.

“Sure, I can do that!” He said confidently. Grandma's house was only half a mile down the road. Why, he might even be back in time for another game! Swiftly he started out the door, remembering to put on a warm flannel coat and knit scarf. It was cold and slightly windy, smelling of snow. Though the Grey clouds were gloomy and foreboding in nature, the sun still shone and made the white snow glitter amazingly. Bob took the time to enjoy the scenery as he walked. There was a group of pine trees alongside him, and a pile of cut logs at the street-corner. There was their mailbox, with the numbers 123 on it, and decorated with a holly wreath. Just around the bend was the bridge over the creek, frozen now and silent, but Bob remembered playing in it early that year when the air was warm, and hearing it splash and sparkle.

Next there came into view a chocolate-brown house, smaller than theirs, but nice-looking. Two wicker rocking-chairs stood on the porch, and a sign at the door said Let It Snow. Bob recognized the snowflake window-clings that he and his siblings had helped install on the front window. This was Grandma's house.

He knocked on the door and it was soon opened by a round, happy sort of lady with a white bun and two pink cheeks. A strong smell of coffee wafted outside.

“My dear Bob! Come in! What's that you got?”

As Bob entered the small hallway, a sudden wind blew shut the door, and a flurry of icy snowflakes pelted the window.

“Dear me.” Continued Grandma, pulling the plaid curtain closed. “A storm's coming! Looks like you should stay here for a while.”

At first Bob was a mite disappointed; his chances of returning in time for a game had just been dramatically reduced, but he quickly changed his mind when grandma opened the package. Behold, a fine apple-tart, still warm and sprinkled with cinnamon-sugar!  

“Yum!” He said, amazed that he had carried it so far without smelling it.

“Oh me o my. How kind of your ma.” Grandma said with a big smile as she carried the tart into the kitchen. “Let's see. . . We may as well enjoy a little treat, Bob dear?”

That was just what Bob was hoping to hear; the walk through the snow had indeed made him very hungry. “Yes, thank you!”

Grandma cut the pastry open and placed two gooey, steaming slices on two little China plates, and produced coffee and tea and sugar from the cabinet. And soon the two were closeted by the fireplace, clutching plates of tart and mugs of hot drink. Grandma was the sort of grandma who reveled in photo albums as a prime passtime, so a selection of these was spread upon the low coffee-table. She paged through them thoughtfully while Bob, conscious of nothing but apple-tart, munched away. A crackly radio played old Christmas music softly in the background.

“Ah, see here, this was my friend Donna. Back when we were youngsters like you. . .”

She pointed to a black and white photograph of a small, nervous-looking girl in a stiff dress and too-big shoes. Bob glanced at it curiously—he couldn't remember seeing this photo before.

“A fine girl.” said Grandma reflectively, tracing the edge of the picture with wrinkled fingers. “Came to our house whenever she could. Didn't have much at her place.”

Slightly interested, Bob looked expectantly at Grandma, hoping she would continue.

“She was so surprised that we gave each other presents for birthdays. Birthdays were only “days you got older on” so she said.”

Bob swallowed the last of his tart. “Really?”

“Yeah. Poor Donna—I haven't thought of her in years. Yes, I dont think she even knew cake and ice-cream existed afore she met me! But a finer girl I never met. . .”

Bob stared; the concept that some, indeed that most, children were not as copiously blessed as himself, was new and different. The idea grew larger and larger as Grandma reminisced about her childhood friend: how she considered cabbage and apples unheard of luxuries, how she marveled at the use of ginger and tartar-sauce. The things Bob usually thought of as “ordinary” were actually true blessings— home cooked food, piles of nice presents at Birthdays, cream cheese frosting on cookies. He became aware of the many good things he had and felt oddly uncomfortable. Was it bad to have so much? Wasn't he dreadfully spoiled? Shouldn't he be doing something about it?

He voiced this question to Grandma, who smiled.

“Many's the day I've thought about that myself. And I've come to the conclusion that sometimes there's not much you CAN do—except to be grateful, and grateful as hard as you can.”

Her eyes rested on Bob, thoughtful yet pleased.

“As long as you're thankful for the things God has given you, you can't be spoiled. You just have to be grateful—whether you have little or much.”

Thank you for reading!