A Cozy Country Christmas Anthology by LLC Melange Books

as thin as a baby willow tree.”
    A leaf, red and gold like the windfalls in
the pails, blew in the open window, skidding across the oil cloth
before drifting to the floor. Erik jumped up to chase it with the
eagerness of a kitten in pursuit of a bug, pouncing when the leaf
came to rest against the dry sink.
    Betsy brushed the hair out of her eyes with
the back of her hand, crooning as the pestle rolled in her fingers.
“Smush, mush, hush. Smush, mush, hush.”
    A bead of sweat rolled down, tickled the
corner of her eye. The pots boiling on the stove made the kitchen
seem as humid as mid-August. Betsy loved the hours spent learning
how to bake, sew and clean, watching her mama scour the tiles so
clean that they could eat off the floor if they had a mind to do
something so foolish.
    Mama made every moment fun, teaching Betsy to
square dance using the mop and broom for partners or making up
silly rhymes about why a pig’s tail was curly or how daisies knew
when it was time to poke their white bonnets up through the spring
grass. And then there were those hours spent sitting in Betsy’s
room and making plans for her future. Serious talks about becoming
a teacher, the secrets to making a husband happy and the joy of
raising children.
    While Betsy pressed the pestle against the
metal sides of the colander, her mother used the tongs to place
empty jars into a pot of boiling water.
    “Always boil the jars, Betsy. They must be
clean or you can make your family sick.”
    Every word her mama said during these magical
times seemed to be written down in her mind in the beautiful colors
of the Northern Lights, never to be forgotten.
    Turning, Betsy saw her mother come in with
her arms full of wood to replenish the supply for the stove.
    As she brushed dirt from her calico apron,
she smiled at her daughter. “Your papa has promised we’ll have
electricity one of these years and we’ll also get a telephone.
We’ll get a radio, so on winter nights we can hear music from
faraway places.”
    Her mother had come from a wealthy family in
Minneapolis, enjoying the pleasures of gas lighting and graduating
from a woman’s teaching college. Instead of educating a group of
children, however, her dreams had shrunk to teaching one daughter
about the joys of knowledge and the household arts. But she had
never expressed regret.
    “Music from faraway places?” Betsy loved to
dance around when her mother played the pump organ in the parlor.
“Like St. Paul?”
    Betsy’s best friend, Libby Hanson, had moved
to St. Paul to live with her grandparents when her father had been
killed in a farm accident. The girls exchanged letters and Libby
wrote about cable cars and picture shows. St. Paul sounded like an
exotic country to Betsy.
    “Music that your father and I can dance to.”
Sara swayed to an inaudible tune. “If we lived in the city, we’d
have electricity, a telephone and a fancy bathroom.”
    Frowning, Betsy ignored the reference of to
her parents dancing. “But we couldn’t keep cats and cows if we
lived in the city. And how could we make apple sauce without apple
trees?”
    A kiss pressed on the top of her head made
her shiver with happiness. “Don’t fret, my Betsy. We won’t be
moving to the city. Your papa loves this farm and I love your papa.
We’re very happy here. God even paints the sky for us with green
and pink lights. We don’t need a radio to have fun—”
    Her mother’s hug suddenly became a heavy
weight on Betsy’s shoulders and she winced away from the oppressive
contact. Sara Swenson staggered away and leaned against the
table.
    “Mama!” Betsy started to climb down from the
chair. “Your face is as red as Mrs. Jeppson’s Sunday hat!”
    That Sunday hat was a family joke. The widow
had worn the hat to church as far back as Betsy could remember, a
scarlet confection crowned with matching plumes that became more
and more shopworn with each passing year.
    Whenever Papa saw a cardinal, he’d say,
“There’s