Simon was lying in the bed reviewing his schedule. Not a lot was happening. He prayed for snow, that meant work cleaning driveways. He was startled when Rebecca jumped in the bed. Laughing he asked, “happy?”
She purred in his ear as he laid his phone on the night stand, “you will never guess what I learned today?”
“What did you learn?” He hissed as she nibbled on his ear.
“So,” she raised up straddling him. “The crones were talkin’ in the teachers lounge. Not as important, looks like long range forecasts have predicted a freeze out for us in January.” She laid her hands on his chest. “This led to a conversation about our beloved sheriff.” He shifted slightly under her. The heat from and the position of her body was working magic. “The crones say that soon after he became sheriff, during one of these ‘freeze outs’, “she straightened up so she could use air quotes when she said freeze outs. “He and a couple deputies went to Coal Town to see if he could get THOSE people to shelter.” Even though he was in a state of arousal, Simon didn’t like the way she said ‘those people’. “Apparently, he found his mother, butt naked, dead. The crones couldn’t decide between them what the corner had ruled the cause of death.”
Simon wanted to say how horrible this information was. And how horrific that must have been. But his wife was doing things to him. Things he enjoyed and he couldn’t form a thought, let along a sentence to express that thought.
I read Jdelveaux’s review of Murder as a Fine Art. Truly, I was hooked at the mention of Victorian England. I borrowed the audiobook from hoopla that very day.
David Morrell (the author) tells us, at the end of the book, he spent 2 years submerged in the world of Thomas De Quincey. His research and passion for his subject is obvious. Not only does he show us Victorian England in great detail. We get a vivid verbal picture of his supporting characters; so much so that I found myself rooting for De Quincey and Inspector Detective Ryan.
Morrell also spells out a side of the British East India Company, it left me thinking, ‘is that real’? This book is under historical fiction. Wow! If it is true, and we know it COULD be, it’s sickening to me.
Thomas De Quincey wrote an essay Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, in a time when privacy and decorum were of the upmost importance. Not only did he outline his addiction, a very private subject; he talked about love and affections. Subjects so taboo that his essay sickened the people that read it.
I’m not going to share too much detail about the content of the book (no spoiler alerts here).
If you have watch From Hell with Johnny Depp, I found myself drawing some similarities between the 2 works. Murder as a Fine Art is not about Jack the Ripper. I feel like it is a precursor in someways.
Thanks to Murder as a Fine Art, I have been introduced to a host of period authors that I look forward to listening to: Thomas De Quincey, Samuel Coleridge, and Wilkie Collins.
Jack bundled up against the cold as he and Evie walked around Sunshine Valley. The mad dash that has became Christmas was over. Most folks had returned 80% of their gifts or had stored them to be regifted. A light snow was falling, most folks were snuggled in their houses.
He held onto Evie’s arm a little tighter. “I started doing this when I moved closer to town.” The smile on his face was one of contentment. “The decorations seem prettier to me after all the fuss is over. They seem to glow brighter, hummin’ bird.”
“Thanks for sharin’ this with me dad.”
“I know the reason isn’t pretty,” he patted her hand. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
As they strolled, she thought, ‘I am too? Am I glad to be home?’ So far, there really wasn’t anything to miss. Other than her old church family. Talking to them just wasn’t the same as being submersed in their love. But she was adjusting. Right? Workin’ with The Peel’s to get Hillbilly Yoga off the ground was fillin’ hours. And of course, her job. Simon was probably upset that she took to carin’ for Teka twice a month. That was eatin’ into his pocket. It filled a hole in her life. She smiled, and of course Dillon. But the way the man worked, gee whiz. She was reluctant to ask him to do stuff, he needed rest more an anything. But, he could always say no, right? He was a grown man.
“I don’t know what I was expecten’, some aspects have been really hard. Others, joyous.” He squeezed her arm a little tighter.
“Dad?” She thought about how to phrase her question. “Dillon is a very sweet man, why didn’t he marry? Have a family?”
“Oh hummin’ bird, none of them wur you. You are the woman he judged all women by.”
“That’s not fair to anyone. I’m not the end all and be all of anything.”
“Look at it from his point of view, when he was hurtin’, where did he run?”
“To you and mom.”
“I think it might have started that way. But it all boiled down to you. God gave me the kindest soul in heaven as a daughter.”
“Thanks dad. There are times,” she trailed off. “That sets me up for all kinds of failure.” She squealed.
Jack stopped, then turned to face her. “You put too much pressure on both of you. He already loves you. That battle is won. Your mother and I had our share of struggles. At the end of the day, our love for each other made all the struggles seem small.”
“If he’s been waitin’ all his life for me, he’s gonna be so disappointed.”
Jack’s heart froze. “Why hummin’ bird?”
“I’m just a person. Flawed. Has he put me on some kind of pedestal to fall off of and crush us both?”
“I don’t see that. Dillon was so lost as a boy and a young man. He had to find himself. If he had turned out like his parents, no one would have blamed him. But he rose above. First, he lost you.” He sighed, “we both did. He got a job that made him grow. Losing both parents to the devil,” Jack grunted. “But you’re back. Where, as a parent, I feel you belong. Selfish, I know.”
Evie’s head was running away from her. This was too much information. She remembered the ‘he’s been moppin’ ‘round here for 40 years’ comment. But she thought her dad was teasing. Though she’s never known him to be a jokester. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt Dillon.
Her dad cut through her thought’s. Have you ever wondered why I never remarried? Your mom’s been gone,” he paused thinking. Then finally settled on, “awhile now.”
“I figured she was ‘the one’.”
“I figure, you are that person for Dillon.”
“The path hasn’t been easy but you are home for a reason. Perhaps God knows you both are ready for each other.”
According to the National Retail Federation (NRF), the average American is expected to spend around $902 on Christmas this year 2024. Google AI search results. This figure is on the low end of all the numbers I ran across. The lowest was $50.00, to the highest being $3,000. Living in a highly commercialized, capitalist society. Christmas is about presents. The value of your worth is based on the money spent on your present. This is reinforced even in the shows we watch. There is an episode of The Big Bang Theory where Penny gets Sheldon a present. He suspected she’d buy him one. Not knowing what she would get him, he bought a number of presents equal to the value he estimated she might spend. Sounds about right?
As a loved one, we want to get our people things that are meaningful. That says, ‘we pay attention to you. We listen to you. We know your likes and dislikes.’
Years ago, I hated Christmas. You know that person: Christmas music SUCKS. Retail SUCKS! They start putting Christmas items out in July now. CHRISTMAS SUCKS! Not for the love of Christmas but to get your money. Remember: capitalism.
Celebrating our human birthdays, we tick off the years leading to the end of our mortal lives here on earth. Each year is one year closer to the end. Celebrating the birth of Christ is so different. If we let it, we are re-energized with the Spirit of Christmas. It’s a warm, joyful feeling. It doesn’t change the world outside. It changes the heart inside. It changes the way we view everything, if we let it. However, we can slam the door in the face of Christmas.
We often view Jesus as our Christian present. Our gift from God. It goes so much deeper than that. It’s taken me a long time to understand that Christmas truly is a feeling. A renewing of the spirit. A fresh start. A rebirth. This gift we have been given changes you from the inside. And this Spirit is perhaps it strongest at Christmas. Have you been paying attention to your fellow humans? Stress of capitalism aside, most people seem happier. They are kinder. This may not be the case when you want to throat punch your fellow shopper in line at Wal-Mart because they took the last bag of Doritos. On a whole people seem different. And it’s a difference you can sense at Christmas.
Stress, anxiety, depression, loneliness, anger, a multitude of real issues weigh us down. And makes us slam the door shut on the Spirit that is Christmas. I am in no way making light of these very real, personal responses. I feel them just like you do. The Spirit of Christmas is all around us. A force bigger than anything. Brighter than the sun. Sweeter than honey. Stronger than steel. Can you feel it? Is it tugging at your heart but you can’t define it? Christ is Christmas. Christ is that Spirit. He will not force himself upon you. Leave your door ajar.
“Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude.”
-1 Corinthians 13:4
“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”
-Ephesians 4:32
“But love your enemies,and do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return, and your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the Most High, for he is kind to the ungrateful and the evil.”
-Luke 6:35
“She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.”
Doing 3 community dinners back to back was exhausting. And Evie couldn’t imagine how Della felt.
Thanksgiving and Christmas, Evie reached out to some of her old friends from her past life to help. Few people in Sunshine Valley wanted to give up their holidays with their family to serve others. She, Della, and Dillon (representing the sheriff’s department) chose the day before Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. People were traveling or just didn’t bother. Povol had asked for volunteers from the shelter that wanted to help. Dillon had worked with the jailer to see if anyone in the county lockup wanted some community time.
She had asked at one of their planning meetings if ‘getting people involved, was always this hard’? Simultaneously they both said ‘yes’! Dillon went even farther to explain that in years past, they had just handed out boxed lunches because they couldn’t get enough people to volunteer to do the buffet style that Della was known for. Box lunches worked well during the height of Covid. Dillon had been hoping that since life was getting back to normal, that volunteers would pour forth, but it wasn’t happening.
Simon and Rebecca showed up to volunteer. Dillon and Della were amazed. They had never volunteered for both before. It was either or. Dillon tried to take it on faith that they had volunteered for both out of kindness. A nagging thought in the back of his head told him otherwise.
Dillon about died at Christmas when a tour bus pulled close to Coal Town and 15 teenagers filed out all wearing letterman jackets. He met Paul and Betty. Paul was a professor and coach at the school Evie had attended. The bus was filled with blankets, clothes, some toys and just random gifts adults might like. It was all he could do not to cry. Even after he found out that the students had to have 25 hours of community service to graduate and these were the stragglers that hadn’t fulfilled their commitment. It didn’t matter. His heart was overflowing.
Dillon worked Christmas Day so that the deputies who had small children didn’t have too. Evie spent the day with her dad. The day after Christmas, Dillon and Evie sat on his couch, he on one end facing her. She on the other end facing him. “I can’t believe you got all those volunteers for Christmas.”
“I don’t know if we can make it happen every year.”
He smiled, “I understand. I’ll take this one.” A frown filled is face. “Wasn’t it risky reaching back into your past?”
“I met Paul and Betty through church. Doug never went to church with me. Or attended any church functions. Though Paul worked at the school I attended, I never met him until I started going to the same church.”
“Thank you. I don’t think we could have done it without them.”
“It was my pleasure. Oh,” she got up. “I got you something.” She presented him with the beautifully wrapped box. “Merry Christmas.”
“The box is so purdy, I almost don’t want to open it.” He grinned, “but I’m gonna.” Inside the box was a “boot and glove warmer.”
She smiled, “every-time you stick your hands or feet into warm articles, you will be reminded how much I love you.”
He thought to himself, ‘that was the best Christmas present ever. She loved him.’ He knew it. But hearing her say it pushed all the right buttons.
All of the jewelry he had seen her wear was simple. Small earrings, unless it was a fun holiday. Cross neckless. A watch. Her engagement ring. But not much more. He had even been asking her dad for gift ideas. It needed to be special. He thought about all their shared childhood memories. Adult Evie was causing him to think and feel things that childhood Evie didn’t know existed. He was sick as he presented her with the small bag. She tore into it with the excitement of a child. Inside was a pair of silver earrings, shaped like a hot air balloon with 2 entwined hearts on the balloon part of the earrings. “Dillon,” she sighed. “They are beautiful.”
Poetry & More 