Friday, June 10, 2005
The Christmas Castle
THE CHRISTMAS CASTLE
BY
PHOENIX MARY GRACE HOCKING
Emery Grimsby finished staining the drawbridge on the music box he had completed for his mother. It wasn’t anything like what his famous father would have made, but it was as good as Emery’s twelve-year-old hands could construct, and he was proud of it. A box exactly the right size, with Styrofoam peanut packaging beside it, waited for its treasure on the workbench.
It really was a stunning piece of work, far better than most twelve-year-old boys would have even attempted. But Emery wasn’t Horace Grimsby’s son for nothing, and he had learned to shape and whittle and coax bare wood into works of art at his father’s knee.
The music box resembled a medieval castle, and stood almost as high as Emery’s waist. For an entire year Emery had worked on the castle, shaping turrets and drawbridge and moat, complete with tiny crocodile sticking its snout out of the plastic water. Flags resplendent with lions flew from the turrets, and a fair maiden leaned out of one of the windows, apparently seeking the horizon for her wayward knight.
When the drawbridge was raised, a tune would play, but so far Emery had not decided exactly which tune. He wanted something medieval, but so far no medieval piece had spoken to his heart, and it was almost Christmas. He would have to decide soon.
“Emery!”
He walked to the workshop doorway. “Yes, Mom?”
“Time for lunch.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Emery carefully replaced the lid on the can of stain and put it back in its assigned place on the shelf. His father, Horace Grimsby, might still look like the Sheriff’s Deputy he once had been, with a chaw of tobacco in one cheek and the vocabulary of a seventh-grader, but he knew how to care for his tools and had passed that on to his son. Horace Grimsby was now a renowned sculptor and artisan and his workshop was clean as a whistle, with every tool in place and not a wood shaving in sight on the floor.
Emery slid the bolt of the workshop door into place and headed for the kitchen. Now that he thought about it, he was hungry. He’d been out in the workshop since early morning, with only a piece of toast with peanut butter and jam on it for breakfast. His stomach rumbled as he walked through the back door, stopping the screen just before it slammed.
Annie Grimsby couldn’t have looked more like an Arkansas housewife if she had made the mold for one herself. Tall and slightly plump, her skin had been darkened by many a long summer, and the lines in her face showed character and strength. She had fallen in love with her husband in grade school and neither cared much for book-learning, but instead loved the land and the outdoors and four-legged creatures.
Today, she stood at the kitchen island, four slices of homemade rye bread on the counter, Sweet Lebanon Bologna and a block of Cheddar cheese fresh from the Mennonite deli in town waited for Emery to wash his hands. Quickly, she spread her bread with Miracle Whip, and his with mustard, added some Romaine and a few slices of tomato, put the sandwich together and placed the two plates on the table.
Annie sat opposite her son and they both bowed their heads. “Dear Lord,” Emery began, “thank You for this food, and bless us as we go about Your business this day. Amen. Where’s Dad?”
“He went into town to get some supplies,” Annie answered. “I think he needs to finish one project for a client before Christmas. Have you seen what he’s working on?”
Annie was not allowed in the workshop, which was fine with her. Annie’s province was the house, the kitchen, and the garden and she was perfectly content there. She was a housewife down to her socks, and never felt the less for it. She kept a clean house, cared well for her husband and son, and provided many a comforting word for friends and neighbors, and that was all she felt God required of her.
“Oh, Mom, it’s beautiful!” Emery chewed his sandwich quickly. His Mom did not like to see half-masticated food in someone’s mouth at the table, so he chewed and swallowed, then took a drink of milk. “You remember Mrs. O’Hanlon’s little boy, Tommy? The one that died? Well, Dad has made a sculpture of him, and Mom, you’d think it was going to breathe and laugh it looks so real.”
“What’s Tommy doing?” asked Annie, for Horace never made a sculpture of anybody just standing there, doing nothing for all eternity. Horace’s sculptures were always doing something.
“Playing marbles.”
Annie laughed. “Of course!” she said. “That’s what Tommy liked to do best!” She took a sip of her own coffee, laced with Hazelnut creamer and a touch of sugar. “And what are you working on, out there in the workshop?” she asked with a grin.
“Ah, Mom,” Emery said. “You know I can’t tell you. It’s almost Christmas!”
Annie smiled. “I know.”
When Emery was just five he had made her a birdhouse for Christmas. Just slightly better than crude, it still showed promise. Horace insisted that all the work be done by Emery, with only pointers being given by himself. When Emery was six he painted some readymade pottery for her, and at seven he had graduated to throwing pots himself.
By nine he was experimenting with woodcraft, learning to whittle and sand and paint. That year he had made her another birdhouse, significantly better than the first, with rooms for more than one bird family.
At ten he learned to use power tools, but he didn’t like them much. He preferred to feel the wood in his hands, a living, breathing thing that just waited for his touch to make it come alive. He said he felt like a surgeon, gently removing parts that did not belong and healing those that did. That year he whittled an entire Nativity set for Annie, and she was stunned at the detail and life he had placed in the figures.
Last year he tried sculpting, but managed only a mediocre piece of a small dog. The dog, jumping up in the air for a Frisbee, hair flying and open-mouthed, should have been beautiful, but it lacked life and he was not pleased with it. To Annie it was lovely, but to Emery it wasn’t even close to the works of his father, so for him it was only okay.
Ah, but this year! He had begun in January, assembling the wood needed for the castle, whittling by hand the small figures placed in and around the castle. He had finished putting the last coat of stain on the drawbridge this morning, and all that remained was to find just the right tune.
“Thanks, Mom,” Emery said, rising to put his plate in the sink. “I’m going to go do some research.”
Upstairs, Emery turned on the computer and logged on to the Internet. Maybe some tune would present itself there. He typed “Medieval Music” into Google, and waited. Amazingly, a number of website appeared, many with music he could listen to, and listen he did, until his brain reeled with conflicting sounds.
And finally, finally, “Aha!”
Back downstairs, Emery rushed to the workshop. It was only a week until Christmas, and now he not only had the perfect tune, but had one more project to go with it.
Horace and Annie barely saw Emery all week. He was up before dawn, barely ate at meals, and only staggered in from the workshop when Annie came to the door and threatened to look at the project. Ah, but this! This! This would be his crowning achievement, his glory! This would be perfect!
And finally, Christmas Eve day. Emery had been in the workshop since before the rooster first stirred. About noon, he came in from the workshop, a satisfied look on his face. “It’s finished,” he said. “I think I’m going to take a nap.”
Dinner was a brief affair, consisting of leftover spaghetti and garlic bread. They went to the early service at church and were home around 10:00. Emery fairly danced around the room in excitement. He and Horace had had their heads together all day, coming in and out of the workshop, both with silly satisfied grins on their faces. It was driving Annie crazy.
“Well,” she finally said. “ I guess maybe I’ll hit the hay. Are you guys coming up?”
Horace and Emery just smiled. “Oh, maybe in a few minutes,” Emery said. “You go ahead on up. We’ll see you in the morning.”
Well, it was more than a few minutes. It was more like midnight before two sets of tired feet came up the stairs and whispers on the landing took place. Annie was bursting with curiosity, but forbear to listen. She simply turned her radio up just a little louder, and let Christmas music lull her to sleep.
Annie woke to the aroma of coffee and bacon, a family tradition. She put on her robe and slippers, and clumped noisily down the stairs, to let them know she was coming. Emery met her at the foot of the stairs, as she had known he would. “Close your eyes,” he said, and took her hand.
Emery led Annie into the living room, and sat her in her favorite chair. “Not yet!” he said, as she attempted to open her eyes. “First, I have a story to tell.”
She listened as he positioned himself in front of her. “It was the year 1223, and St. Francis of Assisi wanted to know just what the scene at Christ’s birth must have looked like. He wanted to know the scent of the hay, and the noise of the animals, and the first cries of the Christ child. Thomas of Celano, when he chronicled the event, said that the surrounding woods rang out with holy songs.”
A sound, a tune, a gay and definitely Medieval melody suddenly surrounded Annie and she gasped with pleasure. La Quinte Estampil Real was her favorite of all medieval music, and there was no way Emery could have known that. Then she heard a cow’s soft lowing, and a goat bleating, and even a baby’s tiny cry.
“Ok,” Emery said, “you can open your eyes now.”
Annie opened her eyes, and Emery moved away from in front of her. Annie put her hand to her throat and immediately burst into tears. Before her was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Emery’s castle had been transformed. Yes, it was as beautiful as before, flags waving from the turrets and the moat’s plastic water seeming to ripple and shine. The fair maiden continued to look out the window, but no longer for her knight. Instead her gaze was directed to the newly constructed courtyard.
Francis’ vision, his “new Bethlehem” was carved in minute and exquisite detail. Mary’s face radiated a peace and joy that was so real Annie almost expected her to start singing. Joseph stood protectively nearby, eyes fixed on the Child. Shepherds, Wise Men, the little Drummer Boy, all were there to worship the Child.
The crowning glory, though, was St. Francis, watching the scene as he had recreated it in The Year of our Lord, 1223. Francis’ face shone with a joy beyond understanding. His tonsured head was carved to show the very hairs, the folds of his simple gown seeming to move in the breeze. And all the soft sounds of a Holy Night, interspersed with Crusader music spun Annie’s soul around the room in a Heavenly dance, transporting her to a Night and a Time long ago, when God came to earth.
Annie stood up and wrapped her son in an embrace, tears flowing freely. “Oh, Emery,” she breathed. “It’s so beautiful.”
So Christmas Day came and went; and many times throughout the year Annie would lift the drawbridge and smile as the strains of La Quinte Estampil Real filled the room, and consider herself just very possibly the luckiest woman in the entire universe.
The End
2042 words
BY
PHOENIX MARY GRACE HOCKING
Emery Grimsby finished staining the drawbridge on the music box he had completed for his mother. It wasn’t anything like what his famous father would have made, but it was as good as Emery’s twelve-year-old hands could construct, and he was proud of it. A box exactly the right size, with Styrofoam peanut packaging beside it, waited for its treasure on the workbench.
It really was a stunning piece of work, far better than most twelve-year-old boys would have even attempted. But Emery wasn’t Horace Grimsby’s son for nothing, and he had learned to shape and whittle and coax bare wood into works of art at his father’s knee.
The music box resembled a medieval castle, and stood almost as high as Emery’s waist. For an entire year Emery had worked on the castle, shaping turrets and drawbridge and moat, complete with tiny crocodile sticking its snout out of the plastic water. Flags resplendent with lions flew from the turrets, and a fair maiden leaned out of one of the windows, apparently seeking the horizon for her wayward knight.
When the drawbridge was raised, a tune would play, but so far Emery had not decided exactly which tune. He wanted something medieval, but so far no medieval piece had spoken to his heart, and it was almost Christmas. He would have to decide soon.
“Emery!”
He walked to the workshop doorway. “Yes, Mom?”
“Time for lunch.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Emery carefully replaced the lid on the can of stain and put it back in its assigned place on the shelf. His father, Horace Grimsby, might still look like the Sheriff’s Deputy he once had been, with a chaw of tobacco in one cheek and the vocabulary of a seventh-grader, but he knew how to care for his tools and had passed that on to his son. Horace Grimsby was now a renowned sculptor and artisan and his workshop was clean as a whistle, with every tool in place and not a wood shaving in sight on the floor.
Emery slid the bolt of the workshop door into place and headed for the kitchen. Now that he thought about it, he was hungry. He’d been out in the workshop since early morning, with only a piece of toast with peanut butter and jam on it for breakfast. His stomach rumbled as he walked through the back door, stopping the screen just before it slammed.
Annie Grimsby couldn’t have looked more like an Arkansas housewife if she had made the mold for one herself. Tall and slightly plump, her skin had been darkened by many a long summer, and the lines in her face showed character and strength. She had fallen in love with her husband in grade school and neither cared much for book-learning, but instead loved the land and the outdoors and four-legged creatures.
Today, she stood at the kitchen island, four slices of homemade rye bread on the counter, Sweet Lebanon Bologna and a block of Cheddar cheese fresh from the Mennonite deli in town waited for Emery to wash his hands. Quickly, she spread her bread with Miracle Whip, and his with mustard, added some Romaine and a few slices of tomato, put the sandwich together and placed the two plates on the table.
Annie sat opposite her son and they both bowed their heads. “Dear Lord,” Emery began, “thank You for this food, and bless us as we go about Your business this day. Amen. Where’s Dad?”
“He went into town to get some supplies,” Annie answered. “I think he needs to finish one project for a client before Christmas. Have you seen what he’s working on?”
Annie was not allowed in the workshop, which was fine with her. Annie’s province was the house, the kitchen, and the garden and she was perfectly content there. She was a housewife down to her socks, and never felt the less for it. She kept a clean house, cared well for her husband and son, and provided many a comforting word for friends and neighbors, and that was all she felt God required of her.
“Oh, Mom, it’s beautiful!” Emery chewed his sandwich quickly. His Mom did not like to see half-masticated food in someone’s mouth at the table, so he chewed and swallowed, then took a drink of milk. “You remember Mrs. O’Hanlon’s little boy, Tommy? The one that died? Well, Dad has made a sculpture of him, and Mom, you’d think it was going to breathe and laugh it looks so real.”
“What’s Tommy doing?” asked Annie, for Horace never made a sculpture of anybody just standing there, doing nothing for all eternity. Horace’s sculptures were always doing something.
“Playing marbles.”
Annie laughed. “Of course!” she said. “That’s what Tommy liked to do best!” She took a sip of her own coffee, laced with Hazelnut creamer and a touch of sugar. “And what are you working on, out there in the workshop?” she asked with a grin.
“Ah, Mom,” Emery said. “You know I can’t tell you. It’s almost Christmas!”
Annie smiled. “I know.”
When Emery was just five he had made her a birdhouse for Christmas. Just slightly better than crude, it still showed promise. Horace insisted that all the work be done by Emery, with only pointers being given by himself. When Emery was six he painted some readymade pottery for her, and at seven he had graduated to throwing pots himself.
By nine he was experimenting with woodcraft, learning to whittle and sand and paint. That year he had made her another birdhouse, significantly better than the first, with rooms for more than one bird family.
At ten he learned to use power tools, but he didn’t like them much. He preferred to feel the wood in his hands, a living, breathing thing that just waited for his touch to make it come alive. He said he felt like a surgeon, gently removing parts that did not belong and healing those that did. That year he whittled an entire Nativity set for Annie, and she was stunned at the detail and life he had placed in the figures.
Last year he tried sculpting, but managed only a mediocre piece of a small dog. The dog, jumping up in the air for a Frisbee, hair flying and open-mouthed, should have been beautiful, but it lacked life and he was not pleased with it. To Annie it was lovely, but to Emery it wasn’t even close to the works of his father, so for him it was only okay.
Ah, but this year! He had begun in January, assembling the wood needed for the castle, whittling by hand the small figures placed in and around the castle. He had finished putting the last coat of stain on the drawbridge this morning, and all that remained was to find just the right tune.
“Thanks, Mom,” Emery said, rising to put his plate in the sink. “I’m going to go do some research.”
Upstairs, Emery turned on the computer and logged on to the Internet. Maybe some tune would present itself there. He typed “Medieval Music” into Google, and waited. Amazingly, a number of website appeared, many with music he could listen to, and listen he did, until his brain reeled with conflicting sounds.
And finally, finally, “Aha!”
Back downstairs, Emery rushed to the workshop. It was only a week until Christmas, and now he not only had the perfect tune, but had one more project to go with it.
Horace and Annie barely saw Emery all week. He was up before dawn, barely ate at meals, and only staggered in from the workshop when Annie came to the door and threatened to look at the project. Ah, but this! This! This would be his crowning achievement, his glory! This would be perfect!
And finally, Christmas Eve day. Emery had been in the workshop since before the rooster first stirred. About noon, he came in from the workshop, a satisfied look on his face. “It’s finished,” he said. “I think I’m going to take a nap.”
Dinner was a brief affair, consisting of leftover spaghetti and garlic bread. They went to the early service at church and were home around 10:00. Emery fairly danced around the room in excitement. He and Horace had had their heads together all day, coming in and out of the workshop, both with silly satisfied grins on their faces. It was driving Annie crazy.
“Well,” she finally said. “ I guess maybe I’ll hit the hay. Are you guys coming up?”
Horace and Emery just smiled. “Oh, maybe in a few minutes,” Emery said. “You go ahead on up. We’ll see you in the morning.”
Well, it was more than a few minutes. It was more like midnight before two sets of tired feet came up the stairs and whispers on the landing took place. Annie was bursting with curiosity, but forbear to listen. She simply turned her radio up just a little louder, and let Christmas music lull her to sleep.
Annie woke to the aroma of coffee and bacon, a family tradition. She put on her robe and slippers, and clumped noisily down the stairs, to let them know she was coming. Emery met her at the foot of the stairs, as she had known he would. “Close your eyes,” he said, and took her hand.
Emery led Annie into the living room, and sat her in her favorite chair. “Not yet!” he said, as she attempted to open her eyes. “First, I have a story to tell.”
She listened as he positioned himself in front of her. “It was the year 1223, and St. Francis of Assisi wanted to know just what the scene at Christ’s birth must have looked like. He wanted to know the scent of the hay, and the noise of the animals, and the first cries of the Christ child. Thomas of Celano, when he chronicled the event, said that the surrounding woods rang out with holy songs.”
A sound, a tune, a gay and definitely Medieval melody suddenly surrounded Annie and she gasped with pleasure. La Quinte Estampil Real was her favorite of all medieval music, and there was no way Emery could have known that. Then she heard a cow’s soft lowing, and a goat bleating, and even a baby’s tiny cry.
“Ok,” Emery said, “you can open your eyes now.”
Annie opened her eyes, and Emery moved away from in front of her. Annie put her hand to her throat and immediately burst into tears. Before her was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Emery’s castle had been transformed. Yes, it was as beautiful as before, flags waving from the turrets and the moat’s plastic water seeming to ripple and shine. The fair maiden continued to look out the window, but no longer for her knight. Instead her gaze was directed to the newly constructed courtyard.
Francis’ vision, his “new Bethlehem” was carved in minute and exquisite detail. Mary’s face radiated a peace and joy that was so real Annie almost expected her to start singing. Joseph stood protectively nearby, eyes fixed on the Child. Shepherds, Wise Men, the little Drummer Boy, all were there to worship the Child.
The crowning glory, though, was St. Francis, watching the scene as he had recreated it in The Year of our Lord, 1223. Francis’ face shone with a joy beyond understanding. His tonsured head was carved to show the very hairs, the folds of his simple gown seeming to move in the breeze. And all the soft sounds of a Holy Night, interspersed with Crusader music spun Annie’s soul around the room in a Heavenly dance, transporting her to a Night and a Time long ago, when God came to earth.
Annie stood up and wrapped her son in an embrace, tears flowing freely. “Oh, Emery,” she breathed. “It’s so beautiful.”
So Christmas Day came and went; and many times throughout the year Annie would lift the drawbridge and smile as the strains of La Quinte Estampil Real filled the room, and consider herself just very possibly the luckiest woman in the entire universe.
The End
2042 words
# posted by Phoenix MaryGrace Hocking : 11:34 AM
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
