September 12, 2025

September slips in softly. The relentless humidity of August breaks, even if for just a few days, allowing a sweet taste of autumn. Dawn arrives a little later, and the sun sets earlier and earlier. All good things come with an exchange. We can’t have it all, can we?

As September unfolds, sunlight turns gold. It gleams over pastures dotted with flaxen hay bales and awakens morning glories with a kiss. The world looks different. New. Change is on the horizon.

With its changing light, September skies catch the eye. Cerulean paints the morning Heavens. Clouds etched in hues of cotton candy, lilac, and apricot drift across the evening sky until indigo blankets the world.

This time of year, my memory wanders to days gone by, when my nephew and goddaughter used to romp about the farm with our big, yellow dog Buddy. He was a red-nosed pit, faithful and feisty, full of life. They climbed hay bales, rode bikes, and dug up treasures in an old summer-dried-up cattle pond. The children are grown now, and Buddy crossed the Rainbow Bridge some years ago. But, I still remember them this way. Young, carefree, and innocent. 

September turns the page, well past the midpoint of summer, to the final chapters of the year. On the way to work this week, I stopped my car and looked out over a field of round hay bales, reminding myself to take time. Savor each day. Hold onto each year. Watch the sun’s rise or descent. Notice the pastures bathed in sunlight. Listen to (and remember) the sound of children’s laughter. Slow down and rejoice in the glory of each morning.  

Mornings tend to be a rush. Tending to tasks like feeding dogs, packing lunches, and brewing that crucial cup of coffee inundates my brain before I even pull into the parking lot at work. Recently, I’ve given a lot of thought to being intentional. Savoring each moment, holding onto little things like they are precious because…they are.

As part of my daily slow-down, I started tuning into a hometown morning radio show. Not some syndicated, fast-paced show that spews celebrity gossip. No. A radio show with commercials about sales ads for the local Piggly Wiggly and Foodland. With classic country sounds from Don Williams to Dolly Parton riding the airwaves, all the way to my car’s speakers. And, the morning birthday club playing at 7:15 a.m. Monday through Friday.

At the top of the hour, on the last Friday of September, the radio host said, “Stay tuned. This morning, we have a very special birthday club.”

I did not switch stations. As I crossed the river bridge, headed into the city, the host read the birthday and anniversary announcements from the local church bulletins. He saved the best for last. A very special birthday for a very special lady in a small town a few counties over—104 years. Can you imagine?

This lady lives in the same town where my great-uncle Toby lived until he passed five years ago. On her 100th birthday, she received 100 birthday cards. This year, on her 104th birthday, they want to gather four more well-wishes to match her blessed years on Earth.

The radio host went on to tell a story about this lady. One day, when she went to the mailbox to collect her check, she came face-to-face with a rattlesnake. She went back into the house and told her husband. He advised her to get the shotgun, but she was afraid to shoot; she might miss the snake. Her solution—a garden hoe. She hacked the snake’s head off, then she hacked off its tail and sent the nine rattles to the radio show host. I’m guessing they were friends. That is one feisty lady.

When I got to work, I called the radio station and jotted an address down on a sticky note, so I could run by the grocery store and pick up a birthday card. It won’t cost me more than a few dollars, a stamp, and a brief stop on my way home. A little thing…a precious moment…to wish a lady from Alabama a very Happy 104th Birthday.

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November 15, 2025

On Saturday, November 15, I attended the North Alabama Author Festival for the second time. It was an honor, a dream come true, to visit my childhood library as a published author. The place where, before I was even old enough to start school, my grandmother took me to get my first library card. Meeting readers and other writers fills my cup, and this year it prompted me to pause and reflect, to look back on this journey in a new light.

At the start of the festival, a young man approached our table. He was wearing a bright orange T-shirt and bounced with a bit of nervousness or enthusiasm, or both.

My writing partner in crime and fellow Feisty Deeds I contributing author, Dawn, began the spiel about the four books that graced our table.

He said, “I think I’m looking for something for my mom.”

Ah, that made sense.

“What does she like to read?” I asked.

“Lots of stuff. I’m not sure,” he replied.

He rocked back and forth on his heels for a second, listening to us talk about our books before exclaiming, “I’m writing a book!”

Dawn and I glanced at each other, then back at the young man. “Oh, you are?”

Still bouncing and kind of pacing, he shared a simple description of his story. “It’s about a boy running through the woods who finds a magic portal to another world…”

“You’re writing fantasy,” I said.

He nodded. “Yes.”

Then came the loaded question— “How do you get published? I want to publish my book.”

Now, I could recount all the advice we offered about finding a writing community and the differences between indie publishing,  pitching to agents, or finding a small-press publisher, but that’s not the point.

The point is that this 14-year-old writes. He writes with conviction and is not embarrassed to share his dream. He doesn’t just want to be published; he wants to see his work on the shelves of Barnes & Noble.  

I saw a glimpse of my early-adolescent self in this young man. When I was 14, I wrote. I wrote short stories and poems, and novel manuscripts. I submitted my first-ever short story to a contest. It did not qualify because it surpassed the maximum word count, but my 14-year-old self did not know how to edit the story down a few words. I wish my English teacher had helped me. I wish I still had a copy of that story.

My mom took it to work and allowed her co-workers to read it. They could not believe that someone so young had woven a tale about a couple traveling with the Donner Party, and all the emotional twists and turns I imagined. It was—even sans publication or qualification—invigorating.

However, in subsequent years, writing fell to the wayside. It was an unattainable and unrealistic dream. I heard phrases like, Do you know how hard it is to get published? Making a living from writing is not practical. The market is saturated.

While I by no means see writing and publishing through rose colored glasses, I recognize the value of a dream and of not letting that dream fizzle out. And, I hope that the young man who approached authors at a local festival keeps writing and dreaming BIG. Who knows what the future holds? Wouldn’t it be something if someday he attended that same festival as a published author?

What’s that quote by Audrey Hepburn? “Nothing is impossible. The word itself says, ‘I’m possible!’”

November 26, 2024

We found love in a Piggly Wiggly parking lot, and this Thanksgiving, that love is who I am beyond grateful for. 

It was February 2011—cold and sunny. My husband and I had been shopping for furniture in Scottsboro. As we drove home, truck bed loaded down with our purchases,  I spotted a feisty little beagle darting between four lanes of traffic.

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“Pull over at the Piggly Wiggly,” I said.

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“Why? Do you want Girl Scout cookies?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with hope. My husband has an insistent sweet tooth.

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A gaggle of Girl Scouts were set up, selling cookies outside the store. All flavors. Their smart, timely sales always arrive just as New Year's resolutions fade.

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“No.” I pointed to the floppy-eared, bounding brown-spotted bundle. “I want that beagle.”

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I wanted to name her Dolly. I tried so hard to make that name stick. It never stuck. A well-meaning friend misspelled beagle on Facebook. “Look at this cute bagel Beth found!”

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Bagel stuck. Just plain Bagel. Let me tell you, this Bagel is anything but plain.

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She is the spiciest dog I’ve ever met. Her dogged determination ensures that she consistently achieves her goals. If you don’t do her bidding within her desired time span, she makes sure you hear about it. Barking. Staring. Toe-tapping that wears a path on the living room floor.

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I have a video of her yanking up grass in the backyard. She was hacked off (to say the least) and wanted inside.  My husband and I were enjoying breakfast on the screened-in back porch. Bagel was tearing up grass and dirt, chucking it over her doggy shoulder, and BARKING. Oh. My. Stars.

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There’s a baby gate mounted to the door frame between our living room and my office because the cats’ food dish is in my office. Bagel loves cat food. She does a drive-by every chance she gets.

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Her teeth marks mark the baby gate bars. Cats in our house do not indulge in canned cat food unless they are old; then it is an earned right. Canned cat food stinks. I’d just fed one of our senior feline citizens when Bagel caught a whiff. It sent her  into a tizzy. That gate rattled beneath her wrath. Her teeth clenched around the bars as she put every ounce of her being into budging that gate. She did not succeed, but her disdain was palpable.

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To Bagel, tomatoes are the fruit of the gods. Her chocolate eyes light up at the sight of summer’s finest delicacy. She inhales tomatoes every chance she gets.

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One time, when my mom came over for lunch, she brought tomatoes to put in a salad. The tomatoes conveniently rolled off the kitchen table and onto the floor. Bagel descended on those tomatoes like a vulture. My mom made me take them away from her.

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“No, Mom!” I yelled. “She’ll bite you!”

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The rule about not putting your hand in an alligator’s cage applies to Bagel and tomatoes. She is my sous chef, waiting faithfully at my side as I cook dinner. She knows without a doubt that if I’m cooking with tomatoes or crunchy cucumbers, she will be getting taste. Tomatoes and cucumbers don’t stand a chance. She catches them mid-air.

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A few summers ago, my mom came up with a new nickname for Bagel. Her alter ego is Agnes. My husband does not like her nickname, but I fondly refer to her as Awesome Agnes. It fits. Remember that dogged determination? That spicy Bagel dog?

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Those traits have served her well over the past year. We almost lost her due to an emergency to remove a tumor. She was diagnosed with cancer. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked out of the veterinarian’s office with her, reassuring the staff that no matter how bleak the outlook is, Bagel is indeed fine. She’s scared me more than a few times.

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But, you know what I told my husband? No one puts Bagel (aka Awesome Agnes) on a timeline. This beagle makes her own timeline. What happens cannot be determined by any human—it is between her and the Man Upstairs. She has a voracious appetite for food and life.

Tonight, when I’m cooking dinner, she’ll be standing right beside me. Her floppy ear will be brushing against my leg as she looks up with desire, waiting for the tomatoes and cucumbers (and any other food—no discrimination here) to hit the floor. Bossy barking beagle. 

A lifetime of love, found in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. As I count our blessings this year, our Bossy Barking Beagle is right at the top of the list.  

November 28, 2025

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My Goddaughter and I rescued two kittens this past September. One evening, they were sitting in the recliner with my husband, and propped up beside him was our 16-year-old beagle, Bagel. I remember telling a coworker (who is also a very close friend and one of the wisest, kindest women I know) about that evening. What a whole circle moment it was, seeing these two barely a month-old kittens sitting next to our beagle.

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“Did you take a picture?” she asked.

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“Oh, no, I didn’t have my camera, but I will next time,” I answered.

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My friend went on to explain that she was not referring to a literal “photograph.” What she meant was—Did I fix that moment in my memory?

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That question came back to me frequently yesterday as I thought back on Thanksgivings of the past. When I was a child, we'd go either up to Chicago or over to Georgia to see my grandma’s sister and her family. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade would be blaring on the TV. I’d be careful not to eat the dressing, especially once I understood that there were giblets in it.

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Other years, we’d go to my auntie’s house. Us kids played outside for hours. When they lived in North Carolina, we’d traipse around the farm, not worrying how far we went (and the adults didn’t worry, either). The scent of woodsmoke wafted in the crisp air. The fields lay fallow, and frost-kissed grasses crunched beneath our shoes. I’m sure it was far less than even a mile, but it felt like an adventure. Other years, they’d come to our house. We’d ride bikes up and down the street and play in the backyard with the dogs.

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Then there was that first Thanksgiving after my granddad died. That year was quiet and bittersweet. The house I grew up in felt strange. The living room was cold and dark; my grandmother and mother had hung a blanket over the doorway, closing it off. A few weeks earlier, my grandfather had passed away in that room. If he had been alive, a football game would be on TV, and he’d have been telling stories.

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Yesterday, I took more pictures. My Goddaughter helped my mother cook up a storm. Pumpkin crunch cake, macaroni and cheese, and two kinds of dressing.

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Over the past few years, my mom has made dressing for the rest of us and a special dish, just for my Goddaughter. She followed the same old-time recipe my Goddaughter’s granny made. Well, it’s not really a recipe. There aren’t any recorded measurements. That’s how you know it’s good.

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My Goddaughter stood at the counter, stirring her bowl of turkey and dressing. “Are you going to take a picture?”  she asked me.

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“No,” I said. I already did. I’ll never forget the first time my mom made that dressing for my Goddaughter—the year her granny died. It’s a tradition they look forward to every year.

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I hope you took pictures yesterday (whoever you are that may be reading this). I hope you take multiple pictures every day—more than you can count. You can take those pictures with you wherever you go. Blessings. Every. Single. One. And if you’re doing it right, they really add up.

 August 16, 2025

Sparked by my interest in the Depression Era and the WPA (Works Progress Administration)—which was in turn sparked by research for my current writing project—this summer, I set my sights on Dora, Alabama. The July heat was tolerable inside the cab of our air-conditioned Tacoma; not so much in the un-airconditioned Alabama Mining Museum.

The Old Dora High School gymnasium houses the Alabama Mining Museum. It’s only open on select days and hours of the week and closes at noon. Though referred to as being on the outskirts of Birmingham, be prepared to travel through the middle-of-nowhere, where the best places are often found.

The WPA built the gym in 1935, along with the library. While the gym remains in use, the library is now a shell. (More on the library in a future post.) Walking on those original, still-painted floors, seeing the massive fans high above, and feeling the stone walls, I felt a tangible connection to the past—imagining the students and the community who filled this space.

My husband and I were the only visitors that entire day. We meandered through the old gym, learning about coal mining tools from the past, the towns that sprung up around those mines, and the lives of the miners and their families. There were cash registers, schoolbooks from the children, furniture and tools from the town doctor’s office, and black and white photographs. More historical items than I can adequately recount in a few hundred words.

Near the center of the gym, on a makeshift wall, is a framed letter written by a coal miner from Fraterville, Tennessee. The worst mining disaster in the history of Tennessee happened there in 1902. In the early morning hours of May 19, a coal dust explosion killed 216 men and boys—190 were killed instantly. Trying to block out the deadly fumes, the remaining men walled themselves deeper into the mine passage. They composed letters to their loved ones as they waited to die.

Fraterville is 307 miles from Dora. I have no idea how that letter ended up at the WPA gymnasium, but I read every word a man named Jacob wrote to the woman he loved, Ellen, and their family. He said to her, “Ellen I want you to live right and come to heaven. Raise the children the best you can…”

Heavens, I cannot imagine his desperation. I cannot imagine her heartbreak. Amid all those historical items, Jacob’s letter to Ellen made a miner’s life very real. He told her where to bury his body and to say goodbye to their children. Logic knows that this man would be long gone today, even if he hadn’t died in 1902. Human frailty evokes emotions of mourning for people who aren’t even my ancestors.

Despite years of seeing pictures of Dora, I had never heard about the mining museum in its old WPA gym until this summer. I’m glad I visited—not because it made me happy, but because I had the chance to read Jacob’s letter to Ellen and honor his memory by experiencing the last words he wrote.

September 14, 2025

My mom and I drove through Blountsville today. If you’re not familiar with Blountsville, it’s a map-dot town along US 231, south of Huntsville and north of Oneonta. For years, Blountsville appeared rather lackluster. Closed up or rundown store-fronts, a dilapidated two-story house (rumored to be an old stagecoach stop), a Jack's, a Lucky’s, and some gas stations. You get the picture—a town that once thrived, that’s now mostly passed through. 

Well, I’ve been passing through Blountsville for some years, but not with tunnel vision. I like to look around, imagine what once was there, and appreciate the otherwise forgotten. Today, looking around as we passed through looked quite different. 

Gigantic, spherical displays of pink wave petunias hung from every post up and down the street. 

As we passed by, we pondered who could be planting and caring for all these flowers. Keeping flowers alive in the southern heat is no small task. Alongside the road,  a gentleman had parked his golf cart and was watering a pot overflowing with other decorative flowers. 

“That’s him,” I said. “That’s got to be the man taking care of these flowers.”

“We’re going to tell him how beautiful his work is,” my mom said. 

She turned onto a side street, prepared to turn around at the library, but we kept going. The decorations extended beyond US 231 (the main drag), along residential streets, in front of the United Methodist Church and graveyard, to the high school. They were eye-catching and simply delightful. 

The man was still tending the blossoms by the time we came back up to the section of the street in front of the pharmacy. Mom parallel parked behind his golf cart, and I got out. 

“Excuse me, sir,” I said. 

The man cut off his humming watering machine. “Yes?” He smiled.

I removed my sunglasses, holding them at my side. “My mom and I were just passing through, and we noticed the flowers. We wanted to stop and tell you how beautiful they are.” 

“Thank you.” His smile widened. 

“I hope you have a lovely Sunday.”

“Well, thank you so much, you too.” He called out another ‘thank you’ as I turned to head back to the car. 

“No thank you,” I returned. “Your work is lovely.” 

It took a few minutes out of our day to stop and show appreciation for work that no doubt has taken this gentleman (and at least a handful of other volunteers) to accomplish and maintain. But, imagine that, a group of people in a small town just doing something nice. Not asking for recognition or anything in return. Just because they want to and probably because love their hometown a whole bunch. 

The moral? A little kindness can bloom and add color to the world, leaving a mark on someone’s day when they least expect it. 

October 26, 2025

If you ever find yourself lost while careening along backroads, look for a church. Church signs are often a reliable indicator of which little town (or more often unincorporated community) you happen to be passing through. Even if decades have passed since the last congregation met, there is bound to be a sign out front telling the name of the church. Hence, noting the name of the “town.” 

It’s worth pointing out that this is not unique to the south. On a recent trip to Upstate New York, a no-longer-in-use church on a county road caught my eye—the Blossvale Union Chapel. 

As with all things historic…abandoned, I’ve searched for information about this church, so far coming up empty-handed, except for a mention in an obituary for a man that had been a member circa the 1940s. But the church’s architecture is stunning, especially the stained glass windows.

 Other than utilizing church signs to orient yourself (if you’re brave enough to venture out without GPS), houses of worship offer a glimpse into the past. In small towns, churches are for praise, fellowship, and community. Once upon a time, far more than now, they were the heart of small towns. 

Country churches are often set in picturesque locations, some tucked so far off the road that you have to slow down to catch a glimpse. 

One of my favorites is located on the Bee Line Highway between Cullman and Birmingham. 

The Bangor United Methodist Church is quite unassuming, no stained glass windows, just a rectangular-shaped building tucked back on a hill, spitting distance from the railroad tracks. Years ago, through rabbit-hole-research I found an application to the Alabama Historical Commission. The description of the inside of this church was eye-catching. 

Built in 1930, the chapel (at least at one time) contained pews held together with horseshoe spikes and pegs. When light streamed through the windows, it bathed the pine floors in a beautiful glow. Ropes to the bell tower came through the ceiling, falling just inside the front door. White sheets hung between the walls, partitioning off the back quarter of the church for children’s Sunday School. 

The church hasn’t been operational for years. A lady living nearby said that efforts to save the building stalled. Bees are the most recent occupants. There’s a hive in the back wall. Oak trees stand sentry on the holy ground. Their limbs hover just above the roof. The first (and only) time I stood in the churchyard, I imagined scenes of those bygone days—Sunday dinners on the ground, hymns filtering through the windows, and the ethereal glow of sunlight cast upon the rough-hewn pine floors. 

Along the Bee Line Highway, there’s a sign that reads, Bangor United Methodist Church. Save for a tire sign and a Baptist church sign, it’s the only indicator that there was a town here. Trains still rumble through, stirring the trees and fallen leaves, as their whistles echo through the gap. It is a place that calls to me time and time again. And, whenever I pass through, I slow down just to catch a glimpse of the little white church cradled in the arms of the oaks. 

Christmas morning, 1942

The chilled air nipped William’s nose and fingers. He yanked the bedcovers over his face, blowing hot puffs of breath to warm himself. He tried to steal a few more minutes of his dream. Scrunching his eyes, he pictured Daddy stoking the fire and Momma bringing in a tray of batter cakes smothered in Golden Eagle Syrup. They always ate in the living room before opening presents.

He covered his ears and concentrated hard. The ghostly scent of his father’s aftershave mingled with brewing coffee, enveloping him as he clung to memories of past Decembers.

The drip, drip, pop of the percolator drifted up the stairs, down the hall, straight through his bedroom door.

“Wi-yam!” Little-bitty feet pounded down the hallway. “Wi-yam!” His little sister’s voice called out, jubilant, innocent, unaware of the war overseas and the emptiness filling their home.

The doorknob jiggled. Seconds later, Eliza climbed onto his bed. William groaned.

“It’s Christmas!” Eliza sing-songed.

It wasn’t Eliza’s fault. She was barely two. She missed Daddy because William and Momma kept his memory alive.

William thrust back the covers and threw his legs over the bed, reaching for Eliza’s hand. “I know,” he forced a smile. “Let’s go see if Momma needs help in the kitchen.”

“Batter takes?” Eliza asked.

William snorted and shook his head. She remembered batter cakes more than Daddy. “I doubt it. There ain’t enough sugar.”

No fire lit the hearth. The living room was cold, but shuffling came from the kitchen. Cabinets clapped shut. The percolator percolated, but it wasn’t brewing coffee. Momma had coffee stashed away, but she vowed to drink chicory until Daddy came home.

Eliza took off toward their mother like a shot. She wrapped her arms around the backs of Momma’s legs. William hung back, leaning against the doorframe. His mother turned away from the stove and lifted Eliza, nestling her face in her daughter’s copper curls. She turned to William and smiled, her face weak and tired, yet she was putting her best foot forward for her children. Just like every day. Momma extended an arm, and William walked into her embrace.

“Merry Christmas, babies,” she whispered, a slight choke in her voice.

“Merry Christmas, Mama,” they returned.

William hugged his mother’s frame a little tighter and then made his way outside to haul in kindling and firewood.

The batter cakes were orange. Momma grated a carrot into the batter and mixed in dried fruit—a substitute for the sugar the government had rationed earlier in the year. William ran his last bite through a puddle of syrup. It tasted good enough. Momma could’ve made a mudpie delicious. But every time he glanced at Daddy’s empty chair looming in the corner, the cake felt like sawdust in his mouth.

       After breakfast, William knelt beside the Christmas tree. The meager gifts had been opened, though no wrapping paper lay strewn across the floor. Before the war, Momma chose gift paper with care, and Daddy cut and wrapped with precision.

This year, most of the gifts were for Eliza. She was too young to understand rationing. Paper dolls, drawn by Momma’s hand, and crocheted scarves and hats for both children. William presented his mother with a card he had made at school. Her dim eyes lit as she kissed his cheek, exclaiming it was the sweetest gift. He ached to give her more than cut-out Christmas trees and stars and crayon-written well wishes.

Eliza’s giggle, coupled with Bing Crosby’s crooning, attempted to warm the living room. A white Christmas indeed. Perhaps, someday, there would be a white Christmas in Alabama. Someday. When Daddy came home.

William made to stand and join his mother on the couch.

“There’s one more gift,” Momma said.

William scrunched his brow in confusion but crawled on his hands and knees, exploring the dark corner behind the tree. An unmistakable V-Mail envelope and the prettiest Christmas-paper wrapped box were hidden behind the tree trunk. There wasn’t a stitch of wrapping paper to be found in town. Where on Earth?

Momma patted the cushion beside her, and William gathered the envelope and gift, realizing when the paper crinkled that his hands were shaking.

“The postman brought the letter yesterday,” Momma said. “And this is for you.” She placed the gift in William’s lap.

“Which first?” he asked, gaping at his mother. He’d grown so much this past year that they were nearly eye to eye.

A smile lifted her tired face. “The gift. We’ll read your father’s letter as a family.”

Eliza’s babyish voice filled the room. She had already set up a tea party for her paper dolls, complete with pinecone scale plates and acorn teapots.

William unwrapped the gift gingerly, careful not to mar the precious paper. “A book?” He smoothed his hands over the barn-red cover. Little Men, the cover read, Alcott.

Momma dabbed the corners of her eyes with her fingers. “Open it.”

Written in his father’s bold, distinct handwriting was his name and the date—William Fagan. December, 25, 1942.

William traced the letters. “How?”

“He bought it before he shipped off,” his mother explained. “For you. For this Christmas.”

William sniffled and wiped his nose across his shirt sleeve. Almost-grown-up boys weren’t supposed to cry, but missing Daddy hurt enough to make him cry like a baby.

“There’s a card,” Momma prompted.

Cuddled close to his mother, William opened the card and read his father’s words.

William,

My son, I am so proud of you. The man you are becoming and the care you’ve given your momma and sister this year. No matter how big you grow to be, you will always be my little man. Braver and stronger than you know. My arms are reaching across miles and oceans to you this Christmas and every day until I am home again. Hold on to your momma and Eliza, and stay strong. You are the man of the house until I get home. I love you, son.

Always,

Daddy

William laid the letter atop his new book and read it once more. Pride and love for his father and entire family swelled in his chest. He set the book aside and went to the hearth to stoke the fire.

Eliza’s paper dolls rustled as she walked them across the floor and made them talk.

“C’mon, Eliza,” William beckoned. “Daddy sent us a letter.”

Eliza climbed up on the couch and squeezed in between William and his mother, who took turns kissing the top of her head.

“May I read the letter, Momma?” he asked.

Momma handed William the letter, and he read his father’s words out loud. Daddy’s arms reached across oceans and miles, holding them all just as tight as they would someday when he returned home. And all at once the living room felt warmer, tinged with a little Christmas hope from the Eastern Front.

Author's Note: My short story, "A Little Christmas," was inspired by a real copy of Louisa May Alcott's novel, Little Men, that I found at Candlelight Antiques just outside of Athens, Alabama, on December 23, 2025. The little boy’s name in the book is William Fagan Gooch. I shortened his name to William Fagan. Also, the date—December 25, 1942—is written in the story just as it was written in the book years ago. I know the commas are not correctly placed, but it is not my right to alter the handwriting of another person from so long ago. 

 In an effort to avoid the holiday cacophony, I took Elkton Road out of Athens and weaved through the little community of Piney Chapel, arriving at Candlelight Antiques via what appears to be a frontage road along I-65. It is not just a frontage road. Elkton Road crosses the railroad and creeks and winds past old farmhouses and leaning barns.

This story is an original work. Please enjoy it, but do not reproduce it or use it for AI training purposes. All characters and situations are from the author's imagination. Any connections to real persons or places are strictly coincidental. 

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