Applesauce Footprints, part 7

The night air was cold and crisp on Annie’s face. She looked upwards and caught the flavor of snowflakes on her tongue. Stooping, she scooped up a mitten full of fresh snow and tossed it into the air. The dry powder scattered like the down of a dandelion caught on a summer’s breeze.

Turning around and around in circles, Annie watched her breath chase itself. Her mitten checked the piece of applesauce cake in her pocket. In spite of the cold, she felt warm.

A few lights shone bleakly from the houses in Poor Town. Mostly, the houses were dark. Glowing faintly, a light shone under the crack at the bottom of the Hendersons’ front door. Annie hesitantly knocked. The door opened just enough for someone to peer out and Annie thrust the piece of cake through the opening and into Mr. Henderson’s cold hand.

“Tell Marie, Merry Christmas for me,” Annie whispered, then ran back down the walkway.

Out in the street, Annie slipped her hand into her father’s larger one. She smiled up at him. Snowflakes were collecting on the brim of the old, felt western hat he always wore. His deep blue eyes could have competed with the blanketed stars for twinkles.

The wolf-dog danced around them, showering them with snow that had settled on his shaggy back and tail. He sniffed at Annie’s mitten, then at her pocket, hoping something remained besides the lingering scent of applesauce cake.

The last two pieces of Christmas candy nestled in Annie’s pocket and she took one out. She unwrapped it and gave it to the dog. The other piece would remain, its flavor to be a surprise some bleak empty day for her to smile and remember this very special Christmas by. The dog barked his thanks and both Annie and her father laughed because these two had much to laugh about.

“Merry Christmas, Daddy,” Annie whispered. Happy tears sparkled like dewdrops on her snow-dusted eyelashes.

“Merry Christmas, yourself, kid,” Mr. Tucker answered aloud.

With her hand still in his, Mr. Tucker slipped them both into the pocket of his coat and together they walked home. Their footprints left a trail through a world of whiteness where miracles come from jars of homemade applesauce, and appear in the shapes of snowflakes.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

The two Christmases I have combined from my Missouri childhood took place in the small town of Pattonsburg in the northwestern part of the state. To learn more of the history of Pattonsburg, which dates back to the early 1800s, please see on the Internet:

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