Grandmom Mayvee

The following is a container of recollections neither full nor empty of truth.
My grandmom grew up amid candles and lanterns in Littleville, a town of two streets and one store which traded mostly in fixings-nails for fixing wood, thread for fixing clothes, and beans for fixing hunger.
She enjoyed Christmas morning’s excitements but was happiest the day before. Everything seemed better.
The firewood she carried seemed lighter, the buckets of water she brought from the well felt almost empty even though they were almost full, the smiles of grown-ups stayed longer and the tails of all the town’s dogs wagged “happy fast.”
Too, the bells that hung from doors and posts did more than ring, they almost sang. She remembered being once worried on Christmas Eve.
Her fretting began with the falling to Earth of several clouds that produced, by twilight, a fog so dense all of Littleville was rendered hidden. Alarmed, grandmom, then 9, rushed to her mother, confessing, “Mommy, I think Santa won’t find our home tonight.”
“Mayvee, Santa has helpers all over the world. Their goodness will provide a way,” responded her mother.
Later, after the onset of night, scores of birds, their wings having been turned into fog-grabbing magnets by a rubbing of hay dust descended on Littleville. While some flew along clearing rooftops, others did so closer to ground-level.
The (swishing) sound produced by flapping wings brought the eyes of humans and pets to stare out windows in amazement at soaring and diving feathered beings pulling behind them long trails of white-like haze.
The workers, all volunteers, toiled in haste without stop. Well before Santa’s expected arrival, they had finished carrying away Littleville’s worrisome fog.
Grandmom, having witnessed their effort’s success, turned to her mother, saying, “I’m sorry for believing only people could have goodness.”
“Dear daughter” her mother responded, “goodness is expressed in all of life. The sun expresses it in light and warmth, the flower in scent and color, and the Earth by holding and feeding the seeds we plant. And though goodness is everywhere, it is not by everyone seen, only by those with a willing heart – a heart willing to see.”
Lewis writes from Corbin City.