A Man Named Bernie by Dawn DeBraal Drink, egg nog

This special man used his time

and money, spending every dime.

To work with wood, making toys

Trains and tops for girls and boys

Painted reds, blues and greens,

This generous man behind the scenes.

They don’t know he’s Santa Claus

In every way he is, because.

His generosity knows no bounds.

Working nights, his hammer pounds.

And then he serves the children, poor,

Leaving gifts at each child’s door.

And on the day their gifts arrive.

The spirit of Christmas is still alive.

 

About the author

  

Dawn DeBraal lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband, Red, a rescue dog and a stray cat. She has published over 700 stories, poems, and drabbles in several online magazines and anthologies. 

https://www.facebook.com/All-The-Clever-Names-Were-Taken-114783950248991 

https://linktr.ee/dawndebraal 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Chosen by Dawn DeBraal, hot cocoa

 The windows frosted over, it was hard to see outside. As beautiful as the decorative ice was, Rita knew frosted windows were a sign of too high humidity in the house. Stepping outside, the bitter wind struck her face, and she pulled her scarf over her mouth, resting below her eyes. Rita tugged the garbage bin down the driveway for collection. Bert used to do this chore, but with his death a few months ago, the job now rested on her.

She never realized how much Bert did for her until he was gone. Their marriage of over fifty years was a slow dance of give and take. Now, in the cold of the season, she realized how much she had taken him for granted. Bert would have fixed the humidifier so that the windows didn’t frost up. He would have moved the garbage can down to the end of the driveway and shoveled the snow for good measure before coming in for breakfast.

She grabbed the shovel and began clearing the snow from the driveway. There was only an inch of light, fluffy snow, but if she didn’t get it off the concrete, it would compact into ice, and she’d be stuck with it all winter.

Rita leaned the shovel against the rail on the back porch, stomped off her boots, and hung her coat inside. The heat of the furnace had melted the frost on the windows, and the sun shone in. Icicles hung from the eaves of the house, dripping.  

It was the loneliness that got to her. Even if she and Bert didn’t talk, his presence in the house was enough to keep her company. Now the house felt colder.

In the afternoon, the garbage truck lumbered by picking up the can and returning it to the roadside. Rita put on her coat and boots. Seeing the ice on the roof was freezing, she got out the cat litter and sprinkled it around the back steps. When she reached the can, she heard a slight meow. A small black kitten with white paws had hidden itself in front of the can.

Rita shooed it away and dragged the can back to the garage, only to see the kitten had followed her. It meowed again, looking at her with the cutest face she’d ever seen.

She went to step inside, and the kitten ran between her legs, hiding in the house somewhere. What was she to do? She searched the house but didn’t find the kitten. Rita grabbed the kitty litter, spilled some into a cake pan, and placed it near the back door. She then got a bowl of water, opened a can of tuna, and put the smallest amount on a plate.

When the kitten thawed out, both physically and mentally, it emerged from behind the couch, drawn by the tuna smell that wafted in the air. Cautiously, it walked to the fish and ate it, then drank some of the water and dutifully used the makeshift litter box.

“My, you are a smart one,” Rita murmured. Then she went into the living room and turned on the television. Rita put her feet up and sipped her tea, almost forgetting about the kitten until it jumped into her lap and curled itself into a ball. Its loud purring was reassuring, and the kitten allowed her to stroke its soft fur. They both fell asleep. When she awakened, there was another inch of snow on the driveway.

She put on her boots and coat, holding the door for the kitten, Rita let it outside, and began shoveling the driveway for the second time that day. If she let the snow get too heavy, she’d have to hire the boy down the street to help her. The kitten followed her around, jumping at the snow she tossed to the side. Its comical motions made Rita laugh. It had been a long time since she felt this happy.

Rita returned to the back door and opened it; the kitten was gone. It must have gone home. She thanked the little soul quietly for entertaining her that morning. She should think about getting a pet. While it was there, she felt its presence and no longer felt the loneliness she had been living with.

The kitten raced between her legs, making Rita laugh. She stooped to pick it up and realized it was a female.

“My, you are a determined little thing. You’ve picked me to live with, and now I pick you. First, I must check with the neighbors to see if you are theirs.” She put the kitten down and called several of her neighbors.  Everyone said no, with some explaining that the kitten had been hanging around for a week and that they were leaving food for it. She told them the cat had a home with her, in case anyone was looking for the kitten.

“Now what am I going to name you?” The kitten meowed. “How about Miss Sassy?” The kitten meowed. “Miss Sassy, it is then.” After supper, Rita turned on the television set and pulled the lever on the recliner. Miss Sassy jumped into her lap and curled herself into a ball. Rita stroked her soft fur, and the purring followed. Rita sighed contentedly.

Tomorrow she’ll go to the store and get proper cat food and a litter box, perhaps a collar with a small bell, and a cozy bed for Miss Sassy. The little body rose and fell; the kitten had complete trust in Rita, and she would respect that Miss Sassy had chosen her.

Miss Sassy was a gift, she was certain, from her husband. Bert had always wanted a cat, but Rita refused, saying she didn’t want hair in the house and gave a hundred excuses. But this one little kitten somehow found its way to her home and into her heart. On that bleak, snowy day in the middle of winter, Rita found warmth and love again.

About the author 

 

Dawn DeBraal lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband, Red, a rescue dog, and a stray cat. She has published over 700 stories, poems, and drabbles in several online magazines and anthologies, along with three novels. 

https://www.facebook.com/All-The-Clever-Names-Were-Taken-114783950248991 

https://linktr.ee/dawndebraal 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Race Down Deadman’s Hill by Dawn DeBraal, iced water

My older brother, Lee, lived fifteen months, three weeks, and five days more than me. He lorded it over my head every chance he got, feeling that that amount of time gave him vast experience and knowledge.

“I get to go first because I’m older,” he’d say, pushing me aside and getting on the go-cart at the top of Dead Man’s Hill. I would shake my head and mutter under my breath.  One day, I would make Lee eat his words. I was only an inch shorter and had him by a couple of pounds. Mom said it was because I took after my dad, and Lee took after her.

We spent a week building that go-cart, using wheels from an old buggy and parts of the buggy itself to form a stylish race car. Lee took the front of the cart and built a crossbar from two-by-fours bolted together to make a “T” shape. By using our feet, we could steer the cart to swivel left or right. There was nothing to stop us from going into Gordman’s Creek except to drop our feet and drag them like brakes.

Deadman’s Hill was the only hill in the neighborhood that didn’t empty into heavy traffic, so it provided a softer ending in case we couldn’t stop in time, and so far, Lee and I had been able to stop well before the end of the boat ramp.

The buggy-turned-go cart worked so well that we entered the annual Downhill Pushcart run. Parking Old Bess, as we named her, at the top of the Hill, we watched several other teams enter the race. Because of the width of the road, the race only allowed seven teams, and this year, all the slots were filled. Andy Krakow and his brother Randy parked their cart next to ours, and he laughed at the buggy body we had retained.

“You look like a bunch of babies,” Andy cracked. I gave him my scowl face and ignored him while Lee and I talked about the better strategy. A heavier driver in the cart would make it go down the Hill faster, and the stronger pusher would run us to the start line quicker, so we decided since I was heavier than he was, and his long legs would get us to the start line faster, I was the driver, and he was the pusher. I put my bicycle helmet on my head, letting the straps hang down, feeling like a pilot ready to take flight as I sat on our racer.

All the carts were very different one from the other. Some were made by kids, like ours, and you could tell the ones where an adult had a heavy hand in their build by putting more of themselves into the vehicles.  I looked down the line left and right. Some of the carts were much more sophisticated than ours, but Lee and I held true to the rules.

For safety reasons, an adult could only inspect the carts, and our father checked and rechecked all the moving parts. Seven carts were parked back from the start line, and the excitement was palpable. The runners would run the carts to the start lines and then let go, allowing gravity to do its job. I could see Lee stomping from one leg to the other, making me feel his adrenaline was on overcharge, and he was ready to push us to victory.

“Get ready.” Seven carts lined up at the boat landing, leading to Gordman’s Creek. I hunkered down because, as I’d read, sitting tall, offered wind resistance.

“Get set.”  Mr. Feldman, the banker and the giver of the twenty-five-dollar prize, held a starter pistol in the air.

“Go!” He fired the pistol, and all the pusher kids started to run their carts to the start line. Lee’s legs pistoned up and down like a train engine behind me. Moving the cart closer to the starting line, slightly ahead of the others, he let go once I crossed the chalked line.

The cart took off, and the racers around me kept up. We were neck and neck down Deadman’s Hill toward the creek. Andy Kraków pulled slightly ahead, and Old Bess’s wheels were flying while I focused on the task in front of me, keeping the cart straight as I could while trying to get to the finish line. When all the other drivers dropped their feet to slow down, I headed for the creek and let the cart pass by everyone.

 I flew over the finish line ahead of the rest of them and then put my feet to the ground, trying to stop the forward momentum. My shoe fell off, and I could no longer stop myself. Over the bank, I went, flying into the creek.

“Teddy! You did it!” Lee shouted, whooping it up on the bank. No one had the guts to do what I did, not put their feet down, taking their carts into the creek. The water was deeper than I imagined, and pulled at the cart, trying to carry it downstream.

“Lee, I’m losing it. Old Bess is headed down the creek!” I shouted from the water.

“Let her go, Ted, it’s too late.” I couldn’t believe my brother was suggesting we let Old Bess go.

“I can’t hang on. Help me!” I called back as the go-cart floated toward the faster water, trying to pull me with it.

“Let go, Teddy. We won; we’ll build a new cart.  You are more important!” I wrestled with my thoughts a bit and let go. Old Bess floated from my grasp and rode the creek rapids headed for bigger waters while I climbed the bank, taking my brother’s hand and letting him pull me on shore. The cart was no longer visible as it meandered around a bend.

“I lost her.” I wanted to cry with disappointment.

“You won the race, that’s all that counts!” Lee slapped me on the back, and drops of water sprayed him on the face, making me laugh.

“It’s a good thing you drove, and I pushed. I would have stopped before the creek like the rest of them. You are one crazy guy!” My brother had paid me the highest compliment he could give, which made me smile despite losing Old Bess. Usually, I wouldn’t believe his praises, but today, after winning the race, I chose to believe him because sometimes, he was right. 

 

About the author

 

Dawn DeBraal lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband, Red, a rescue dog and a stray cat. She has published over 700 stories, poems, and drabbles in several online magazines and anthologies. https://www.facebook.com/All-The-Clever-Names-Were-Taken-114783950248991 https://linktr.ee/dawndebraal Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

First Kiss by Dawn DeBraal, orange soda

Amanda Benning stared in the mirror at her twisty tooth, or “snaggle tooth” as her classmates called it. She begged her mother, to make an appointment to see an orthodontist where braces were recommended. Amanda was apprehensive about getting braces, but she hated the ugly snaggle tooth, more.

“I made an appointment for you with Dr. Smykl on Friday to get your braces.”

“Thanks, Mom.” At school, Susy Creamer handed out invitations to several students.

“What is this, Suzie?”

“My thirteenth birthday party on Saturday!”

“Oh wow, you’re the first one to become a teenager in the seventh grade.”

“Don’t bring any gifts; we’ll just have some games, play some music, and eat.”

“Okay, thanks.” It wasn’t until Friday morning that she remembered she’d be wearing braces at Suzie’s party.

“Mom is there any way to postpone Dr. Smykl’s appointment?”

“I thought you wanted braces.”

“I do, but it’s Suzie Creamer’s thirteenth birthday party tomorrow. It’s a mixer with boys and girls.”

“Amanda, you will always have another party, or something special that you will wish you didn’t have braces for. But you heard Dr. Smykl; it has to be done before you stop your growth spurt. For the next three years, you will be in braces.”

Amanda sighed and knew her mother was right. The braces went on, and she was looking in the mirror feeling an unfamiliar ache at the tugging in her mouth. This was her life for the next three years.

Suzie’s party was attended by six girls and six boys. They played Twister, and then spin the bottle. The bottle landed on Amanda, and then on Ty Mann.

“Seven minutes in heaven!” The kids chanted.

“Heaven with metal mouth,” Tommy Baker said, and the kids laughed. Amanda was devastated. Suzie pushed them both in the closet.

The door shut behind them.

“This is awkward,” Ty said.

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I should have never come. I got these braces yesterday, and they are on for the next three years.”

“I think they look nice.” Ty offered. The kids were still chanting on the other side of the door.  “Amanda, it will be worth it on the other end of this. I tell you what. Let’s just say we kissed when we get out. Everyone else has to have their turn too.”

“You’d do that for me?” she asked shyly.

“Sure.” Amanda smiled and when Suzie opened the door they came out of the closet.

“Well?” Suzie asked gleefully.

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Ty said.

“OHHHHHH” the kids chorused.

By the time the game ended everyone had to spend seven minutes in heaven. After that party, Ty became a good friend to her through their shared secret.

Three years in braces seemed to fly by. Amanda went to see Dr. Smykl on her sixteenth birthday, where he removed her braces and cleaned her teeth.

“There, look, they’re perfect if I say so myself.” He handed her a small mirror. Amanda smiled, the snaggle tooth was straight.

“Oh, they’re perfect!” she said gleefully to the beautiful smile reflected in the mirror. Ty was right, it had all been worth it, in the end. She couldn’t wait for movie night. She and several classmates were going to a show.

Ty sat next to her in the theater.

“Popcorn? Oh sorry, I forgot.”

“Love some.” Amanda dug into his bucket and smiled.

“You got your braces off! You look fantastic, but you always did!”

“Thanks, Ty. I am so glad I did it now, though it seemed like it took forever to get here.” She grabbed another handful of popcorn.

“Kind of miss the old days when you couldn’t eat my popcorn. I’m going to have to buy a bigger size.” Amanda punched his arm and laughed.

Ty walked her home and when he got to the front door, he told her again how wonderful she looked. He had always been supportive of her.

“I feel like I’m walking on cloud nine.”

“Like seven minutes in Heaven?” Ty quipped back. Amanda rolled her eyes and stood on her tippy toes, chastely kissing Ty Mann.

“There, I gave you my first kiss.” 

Ty pretended to look around as if someone overheard them.“No, remember it happened at Suzie Creamer’s thirteenth birthday party.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Amanda winked at him. “Thanks for everything.”

“Like what?”

“For making me feel better that night, and for never telling the others we didn’t kiss.”

“The way I look at it, you still owe me six minutes and some odd seconds in Heaven.”

“The way I look at it, you’re going to have to buy me a lot more popcorn to collect.”

“Goodnight Amanda.” Ty flipped his scarf around his neck and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “See you tomorrow.”

“Sure thing.” Amanda watched him walk across the street into his house. There was something special about liking the boy next door, and your first kiss.

 

About the author

 

Dawn DeBraal lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband, Red, a dorky rescue dog and a stray cat. She has published over 600 stories, poems, and drabbles in several online magazines and anthologies.  

https://www.facebook.com/All-The-Clever-Names-Were-Taken-114783950248991 

https://linktr.ee/dawndebraal 

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Good Times by Dawn DeBraal, homemade lemonade

 Miss Delilah walked down Greenwood Street almost every day. Clarence Bauer liked to find himself on the front porch to call out a greeting to her. She'd smile and wave and make him feel giddy like a young man again. She always wore a dress and a hat, a bit old-fashioned, unless you remembered the days when women were dressed to the nines if they left home.

She took this seriously, not a hair out of place, her pocketbook in her hand. She would shop for her evening meal when the weather cooled down at about four o'clock in the afternoon. You could set your wristwatch by her meticulous timing.

Clarence checked his watch, audibly saying, "Oh," he stepped out on the front porch, and the squeaky screen door snapped shut. He sat on the porch swing waiting for Miss Delilah to parade by his house. She walked with the traffic going to Blanche's Market, she'd be on the other side of the road, but on her way home, she would walk right by his porch. He knew she would stop today because the purple cone flowers had bloomed overnight, sending the dazzling color through his fence and spilling over the sidewalk. She'd told him it was her favorite flower last year, so he saved the heads and spilled the extra seeds on the fall ground. Just as he'd hoped, twice as many flowers came up. They mixed with the orange daylilies and gave quite a show.

She was walking across the road with purpose and didn't look up to see him sitting there. He was alright with that; it gave him a chance to stare at her without being noticed. If she had looked up, he would have been reading the magazine he held in his lap, just in case.

Clarence's wife died three years ago, leaving him to ramble in the large Craftsman-style house he inherited from his parents. The three-bedroom home raised four children who had started their own lives many years ago. When Ethel died, he was mixed with emotions of relief that she was out of pain for her and devastating loneliness for him. That was until Miss Delilah entered his world two years ago. She bought the house down the street from him.

She was a handsome woman, stopping and talking to the children on the sidewalk. They all knew her.

"Miss Delilah!" they'd call. With the parent's permission, she'd stop and give them a cellophane-wrapped butterscotch disk. They squealed in delight. There it was, the reason she came back on the other side of the street. There were just as many children waiting for her after a shopping excursion to get their butterscotch candy.

Clarence knew that she would be about fifteen minutes in the store before she came past his house. He also knew the Baker children were the last on the block to receive candy before she went home. They seemed to know it was her time to pass also. Three children, two girls and a boy, played on the sidewalk after they'd drawn a hopscotch grid. They tossed a small stone; where it landed, they hopped one foot, then two to get to the rock to pick it up.

"There she is!" Cassie Baker squealed. Clarence felt his heart beat a little faster. It was time to pick up his mail. If he walked slow enough, he'd be returning from the mailbox when Miss Delilah walked by.

She was handing out candies when he opened the box and pulled out his mail. As Clarence turned, she was there.

"Good day, Miss Delilah."

"Good day, Mr. Clarence, your Echinacea look amazing. Even better than last year!" She’d used the scientific name for the flowers.

"I planted a few more this year. I like the look. Would you care for a glass of lemonade?" Clarence asked her this almost every day. She always refused. On the days he didn't have a pitcher made in the refrigerator, he silently hoped she'd say no.

"It's warm today. I would love a glass." Clarence opened the gate and escorted her up the sidewalk. She sat on the porch swing while he ran inside to get her a glass of lemonade.

"Thank you." She took the moisture-laden glass and held it to her face. He found that endearing.

"It’s a scorcher today, alright." Clarence sat next to her on the swing and slowly rocked back and forth, enjoying the company.

He wondered how long they would do this dance. He was seventy-five and no longer a spring chicken.

"Delilah, would you like to stay for dinner? I have a steak that is too big for me to eat alone." 

She blushed and then looked in her grocery bag.“I brought things to make a salad. That would be a wonderful idea. Take me to the kitchen."

Clarence opened the squeaky screen door and showed her where she could make her salad. He started the grill while she chopped the lettuce, making herself comfortable in his kitchen. It had been to many years since a woman helped make dinner, and he liked the feeling.

"If you show me where your dishes are, I will set the table." 

He pointed to the cupboard near the sink. She opened the door grabbing the good dishes. He almost corrected her; those dishes were for special occasions, but he kept that to himself.

Clarence went to another cupboard, pulled out a bottle of wine, opened it to let it breathe, going back outside to flip the steak.

When he came in, he saw fresh salad next to a vase of coneflowers at the center of the table. He almost showed dismay at having those flowers cut from their stems in the prime of bloom but remembered there were so many at the gate, that a few in a vase inside didn’t take away from their beauty.

"I hope you don't mind. I thought I should bring a few flowers to enjoy while we eat."

"No, I don't mind at all,” Clarence lied as he poured a small amount of wine into the glasses, and they toasted.

"To friendship," Delilah offered. Clarence liked that sound, feeling he was not being disloyal to Ethel.

"Tell me about her." Delilah took a sip of wine.

"Ethel?”

"The one who chose these beautiful dishes, they are too nice to be in a cupboard. I could tell they weren't your everyday dishes, but at our age we need to enjoy these things. No more saving them for good. These are the good times."

Clarence had to agree with her. He hadn’t used these dishes in many years. For what reason? He didn't know.

"She was an amazing woman; we were married fifty years. She was the kind of mom who put on neighborhood plays where all the kids wanted to gather. She was creative, loving, and giving."

"She sounds amazing."

"She was. Were you ever married?"

"I was engaged. He went to Vietnam and never came back."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Clarence said, regretting he'd brought it up. Delilah looked at him strangely and then laughed.

"Last I heard, he is still alive. No, he met someone in the service, a nurse. I got a “Dear Jane” letter. I was so heartbroken; I never trusted another man."

"You were a nurse, weren't you?"

"Yes, I loved the job. I still volunteer when needed, but I am glad those days are behind me. I like being retired."

They chatted, drank wine, and sat on the porch swing until it darkened.

"Goodness, I need to get home!" Clarence offered his arm and escorted her three houses down the sidewalk.

"Thank you, Clarence. I had a lovely time."

"I did too. We should do this again."

"Yes, and soon. The next time we get together, you will come here!" Clarence's smile was broad as he walked back to his house, his step lighter than it had been for years. Delilah was the salve he needed for his soul, and he looked forward to seeing her again.

Clarence washed and dried Ethel's good China. He opened the cabinet and started to put the plates at the back when he changed his mind and set the good China in front of the everyday dishes. Delilah was right. He would use these beautiful plates and enjoy them. These were the good times.

 

About the author

Dawn DeBraal lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband, Red, two rescue dogs, and a stray cat. She has published over 500 stories, poems, and drabbles in several online magazines and anthologies. 

 

 Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.) and getting the next book out.