The Search for Adriana (A children's Christmas Story for your Consideration)

(A children's story I've been working on for some time. Too busy with other projects--like three other books--to complete (I've written 3 chapters). But this one's near and dear to my heart. It's about the absence of fathers in children's lives and the devastating affect it can have. Let me know what you think, Warpies. Peace!)

The Search for Adriana

On the first of December our family put up Christmas lights and ornaments on the house. But it wasn't just any ordinary decorating that was being done. Every year for years people came from all over to lend a hand. It had started a long time ago as something small and had turned into something big. Our house is very large with lots of bushes and a large stone wall circles it. The wall stands about five feet high. I can just see over it. The house has been in our family for a very long time. And even though this is true my Mom had been talking to my Dad about selling it. They want people to look at it after all the lights are up. My father said that it would be a good selling point, that the lights make the house look like it's from another time, my mother said from another world. But all that would have to wait because my Dad is away.

There are so many lights to put up. I never realized how many there were until this year, because I had never helped from the beginning before. Usually I'd go out with my Dad and we'd buy eggnog. Then we'd go over to the people who didn't have much in the way of anything and give it to them. But this year, like I said, my Dad isn't home.

It's eight o'clock Saturday morning and already people are gathering outside, some fifteen to twenty. People of all ages came, kids my age and younger up to people my Grandma's age. This year my Mom had to go out and say hello and show them to the garage where the decorations are kept. She mentioned how she was so thankful that they had come to help make Christmas live alive in Springtown once again. She said other really nice things, and in such a quite, gentle voice that the people had to stay perfectly still as to not rustle their jackets so they could catch every word. The people were so quiet you could have heard a church mouse saying his prayers. It was like the Pope had come to give some important words about their salvation.

In my Great Grandfather's time the hangers, that's what we call them, had just come from Springtown. My Mom told me that around the time I was born they began coming from neighboring towns and more recently even from out of state. My Mom had always tried to prepare something to drink for the people, but when it got too expensive some of the local markets put up the money for cider, eggnog and cinnamon rolls. Every year the decorating got more and more elaborate. The hangers not only decorated but they brought ornaments and lights too. We were running out of places to put them all.

There were so many ornaments that some would be overlooked during the after Christmas cleanup and they'd stay up all year round. Occasionally me and my friends would find one on the lawn or pick one off the wall or a tree. The ornaments were of all kinds, and if we found one of the kind that exploded particularly well me and my friends would have at it with a b. b. gun.

I was working on decorating the wall, along with a couple people I didn't know.  Mr. Mooring was working next to me. He had been coming to the decoratings ever since he'd moved his family into town six years ago. His son Jimmy is in my grade. I don't know him too well. He's kind of quiet and the other kids make fun of him a lot so he keeps to himself. I say hi when I see him, but I think with everybody working bad thoughts into his heads he doesn't know which way I mean. All he ever does is give me a worried look and then goes about his business.

Mr. Mooring is probably the friendliest adult in town. It is so strange to see how he is and then think about how Jimmy isn't. They are nothing alike. Jimmy even has red hair. His father's and mother's hair is blonde. Some people say that Jimmy was adopted, and some say that his parent's had found him alongside the road on their way to Springtown. I hope that isn't true. We once lost our dog Filmore and found him miles away walking along the road. Before he recognized us, he had the most putrid look that you'd ever not want to see on a dog's face. Because people have more to their face than a dog, I'd hate to think what that same look could have been like on Jimmy's face. If I had seen it, I'd probably be up for weeks just thinking about it.

Anyway, as we worked along, Mr. Mooring turned to look at something behind him. I wouldn't have looked but when I saw the smile in Mr. Mooring's eyes I couldn't resist, because I knew who he was looking at.

It was a girl by the name of Cynthia Two ‘n' Two. She sat with her bottom planted in the snow and her legs straight out in front. Her arms were locked behind her for support. Her cheeks were bunched up in satisfaction while her little feet spun circles of energy, looking like that fun fuel was going to help her lift off to get the object that had set her to joy. But the most interesting feature, at least to me, where her freckles. She had freckles upon freckles upon freckles. Some said too many freckles.

I don't know. I remember the first time I saw Rosemarie McMullan; I couldn't take my eyes off her freckles. I'd never seen a constellation like that on anyone's face. I remember staring and staring and getting so close I could make out the difference between the freckles and other stuff like moles and pock marks. Those were the planets. But those freckles got me to connecting for making Orion and The Big Dipper and stuff. I was having a good old time until I got swatted upside the head so hard I saw a lot of temporary stars.  Rosemarie yelled at me, "I don't take kindly to molesters, Jimmy Big Bottoms." I was a little "husky" back then. That's older folks' kinder way of saying fat.

Cynthia Two ‘n' Two was staring intently at one of the ornaments on the wall. It was a tiny Christmas Man ornament, one with red and white checkered clothes. It wore a checkered hat and checkered coat. Only his socks were solid, bright red with a tiny touch of blue.

I had seen her sitting there before we started working and knew why she had come. At that time, I walked over to the Christmas Man and took him from the wall, but when I turned all I saw was the back of Cynthia's little head bobbing away from me. I decided to put it back and figured that if she really wanted to have it she'd come and get it. She must have snuck back sometime during me and Mr. Mooring's decorating.

Mr. Mooring smiled a warm half smile at Cynthia Two ‘n' Two and walked over to the Christmas Man. He reached down and plucked the ornament form the wall. He dusted off some of the dirt and I could tell he was thinking about giving it to her, but when he caught Cynthia's once placid face now showing mild concern, he returned it to its place.

That's right. This was the ornament she loved and had waited all year to put up.

This morning she had come to the house to find it, but after searching through the boxes, and even asking my Mom where the Christmas Man might be, she slowly shuffled away in disappointment and went to the spot where she had placed him the year before, hoping to find him. When she arrived, even before looking to see if he was still there, she sat down in the snow. She kept from glancing up at the spot where the Christmas Man had been. She continued to look at the ground for some time. Finally she looked up, and when she did, her worried face turned to one of great relief because there sitting before her was the little Christmas Man. However, she still didn't move, that worried look began to creep back onto her face. Cynthia had been looking that way for some time.

I'd see her around a lot, but when I said hi, she'd always just scrunched up her face and got all kind of squirrelly. Last Christmas was the first one that Cynthia Two ‘n' Two had spent without her father. Cynthia's Mom had told her that he was away on business and that he'd be home sometime soon. But many holidays came and went that year without him showing up. Cynthia's mom never told her why her Dad had left; she only knew that her Mom' face never looked the same. Even when she smiled at Cynthia, the smile didn't seem to have the strength to make it all the way up, up to where it used to go.

Cynthia sat there as if looking after the Christmas Man's safety until Mr. Mooring had dusted him off and put him out of harm's way again. But after he did so something changed on Cynthia's face. She seemed to take on considerable satisfaction. I'd seen the same face on my mom when she plucked a particularly good coupon from the newspaper or won some type of grocery contest at the Highland Park Market. The brother's who owned the store were always running contests to make the mom's glow. That glowing made the brother's a lot of money with all the returning to shop it did for the moms.

Getting the Christmas Man cleaned up had set Cynthia alight, like Noah's dead-tired dove coming back with the olive leaf to nestle in his hand for the peace it had found.

Mr. Mooring turned back and plucked Mr. Christmas Man from the wall after he saw Cynthia's face and turned to gently place it in her hand, and when he did, her little closed mouth went up a notch into a small, agreeable grin. Her cheeks then blew out like a blowfish's, just as pink and rosy before you'd step on 'em with one quick blow to gut ‘em out.  

Something about that cleaning had done the trick. But I also think Mr. Mooring was a key element in the return, for when he dropped it in her hand, I saw Cynthia take on a dad-smile, the kind showing love only dad's can bring.

Cynthia took it, blew on it slightly, pushed off on one arm and stood up.

Mr. Mooring said, "Would you like me to put him up for you Cynthia? We can find a much better place for him, one that you can even reach."

All Cynthia said was, "Not this morning, Mr. Mooring," and walked toward her home clutching the Christmas Man tightly in her little brown fist.