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Worried about what the future holds, Ida Pickle is not feeling merry or bright

Ida Pickle was afraid of Christmas…this year. As she punched “end” on the cordless phone and looked around the 150-year-old farmhouse kitchen, a shiver washed over her. The memory of a conversation she’d overheard between her daughters during their Thanksgiving visit chilled her to the bone. She’d come quietly downstairs to find them talking in hushed tones in the kitchen.

“The place needs a lot of repairs and she can’t afford them.” This from Janet.

“I know. And living out here alone with the house in such condition can’t be comfortable for her…” Molly.

“Girls.” She couldn’t bear to let them continue. She’d stepped around the corner and into the room, smiling. “How about some tea?”

She hadn’t missed the guilty glance that passed between them. Plotting. She recognized that look from when they’d been children. Her heart sank.

Uncomfortable! How could they think she’d be uncomfortable in her own home? Even the creaks and groans the old place issued on cold winter nights were comforting. The house was telling her it lived, shared the aches and pains of aging, was with her in spirit. Ginger, her old red dog, nudged her hand and she patted him absentmindedly.

They were coming for Christmas, Janet had told her over the phone just now, children and spouses included…with a surprise. She could well imagine what it would be. This family trip was designed to give them all one last look at the old place. The time had come for Mom to sell, move out, and take up residence in a single room in a seniors’ home.

She looked at the computer in the corner by the window. Under the pen name, Valencia Grace, she’d written more than three dozen romance novels on it and many more on predecessors of manual and electric typewriters. A smile pulled at her lips as she recalled her first acceptance and her editor gently telling her she’d have to adopt a pen name. No one would buy a love story written by Ida Pickle.

Four more stories in various draft stages lay in the computer’s hard drive heart. Two others were with her editor. She wasn’t getting rich but she made enough to supplement her old age pension into a livable wage. She’d been blessed with a vivid imagination. She was content. You couldn’t put a price on that. What more could she wish for?

Peace of mind, that was it. Peace of mind that she and Ginger wouldn’t be parted from their beloved home, that they wouldn’t be forced to relinquish a lifestyle they cherished. At least not until it was absolutely necessary.

She’d kept the house clean and painted, but the pattern on the kitchen floor’s linoleum had worn faint in traffic areas. A troubling drip plagued the upstairs bathroom, several of the electrical plugs no longer worked, and the furnace seemed to have to cough its way into action this last month or two. This past spring, a couple of minor leaks had suggested the roof needed new shingles.

She sank down in the rocker beside the wood stove. Ginger nosed her hand. Gazing up at her with round, trusting eyes, he seemed to sense her distress.

“Never fear, old friend.” She laid a wrinkled hand on his head. “We’ll stay together no matter what.”

Leaning back in her chair, she remembered…

George had brought her here as a bride 60 years ago. Although the old house was George’s ancestral home, she’d quickly come to love it and feel it was where she belonged, where she was meant to live out her days. She’d cared for George’s aging parents until they’d passed. Their two daughters had been born here and had grown up within its walls.

Ida looked out the window. Her gaze drifted across the meadow to the pond at the edge of the trees where the locally famous Pickle Pond Parties had once been an integral part of Yuletide festivities.

A smile curled her mouth as she remembered how the event brought an influx of neighbours with their children, big pots of hot chocolate on the stove, rosy cheeks, bright eyes and laughter. And the sleigh rides when George would harness the gentle Clydesdales, Bonnie and Prince, and take everyone for drives down the old woods road through a winter wonderland.

Passing their years between barn and pasture, Bonnie and Prince had grown old, too old to work and had become George’s pets. Now they were gone and the big, old barn stood empty. How George had loved that team.

George. A year before he’d passed, they’d celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in the parlour. How she missed him. Sometimes, in a winter’s twilight, glancing out a window toward the barn, she fancied she’d glimpsed him coming up the path toward the house, the earflaps of his Elmer Fudd cap dangling. Seeing her watching, he’d wave and grin, the lines in his weathered face deepening.

But it hadn’t been all sunshine and roses.

Over the years, she and George had faced many challenges. A tractor accident had left him incapacitated for most of one winter, she’d battled breast cancer, and they’d lost their third child, their only son, at birth. Geordie had been born prematurely in the upstairs bedroom and lived only long enough to open hs eyes and grasp his mother’s heart.

Ida pulled her thoughts back to the present, got to her feet and headed outdoors, Ginger by her side, to fetch more wood for the stove from the supply Jim Harvey and his sons replenished in her barn each autumn. She had good neighbour, people who were an important part of her life.

She paused on the way back to the house with a canvas carrier, a gift from her daughters the previous Christmas, full of wood in her right hand. A truck was driving up the snow-crusted drive, sliding a bit on the incline. As it stopped at the back porch steps, she read the sign on its side. “Gilmore Renovations.” A sharp intake of breath in the frosty air made her cough.

“Mrs. Pickle?” A dark-haired, middle-aged man got out, smiling. “I’m Denis Gilmore. Your daughters have asked me to give them an estimate on fixing up your house.” He squinted up at the peaked roof, the gabled windows, the gingerbread trim. “You have a classic here.”

“Yes.” The word came out sounding choked.

“Here, let me help you with that.” He came forward to take the carrier but Ginger’s growl stopped him and he backed away. “A bit protective, is he?”

“Yes.” Again the monosyllabic reply in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.

“Well, then, I’ll get right to it.” He headed back to his truck and retrieved a clipboard. “I’ll take a look around outside and then the interior…if you don’t mind?”

“No.” Nothing but single word replies would come from her strangled thoughts. She watched him vanish around a corner of the house before forcing herself up the steps and into the kitchen. Struggling to contain an ache that came as much from spirit as body, she placed the wood by the stove, went to cupboard, filled the electric kettle, and took down the tea canister. An image of a “For Sale” stuck into the frozen round at her front gate made her thoughts reel.

Tea, that’s what I need. Tea. Strong and sweet.

She was seated at the table when the contractor tapped lightly on the door and, at her response, entered.

“Lovely old place you’ve got here, Mrs. Pickle,” he smiled removing his boots. “Will be a Victorian showplace once it’s fixed up.”

“I find it quite lovely as it is.” Revived by the tea, she faced him and indicated her cup. “Would you care to join me, Mr. Gilmore?” The offer came out of good manners, not a desire to share time with the man.

“Thank you, no. I’m on a tight schedule. I’ll take a look around in here and then be on my way.”

“As you wish.”

An hour later as she watched him drive away, she could restrain it no longer. Trembling, she sank down at her computer and stared out across the ivory fields. The sun had come out, making trees and pastures sparkle. So beautiful, so beautiful. In spring, wildflowers and songbirds would decorate the place. How cold they expect her to give it all up?

The furnace choked, sputtered and struggled to life. There, like me, it’s managing. I’ll tell the girls I’ll only leave this place in a box…or absolute senility.

The phone rang. Her daughter’s name appeared on the screen. She sucked in a deep breath. Here goes.

“Mom.” The cheerful voice Ida had loved and enjoyed for 40 years greeted her. “How are you?”

“Fine, just fine. Better than usual, in fact. It’s beautiful up here. Ginger and I were out for a snowshoe this morning and saw five deer.”

“Wonderful.” Then a slowing in pace, apprehension sliding over the next words. “Mom, Denis Gilmore called me just now from his cell with an estimate to fix up the house.”

“Oh yes?” Could a heart pound so hard against a 70-something chest and not cause an attack or stroke?

“He’s offered a reasonable price. If you’re agreeable he can start right after Christmas.”

“Janet, I don’t plan to move and I consider your making arrangements to renovate my home to sell…” The words spilled out with a vehemence she could no longer control.

“Sell? What are you talking about, Mom? Molly and I know how you feel about the house. We’re having it fixed up as our gift to you this year. Merry Christmas, Mom, and many more happy years in the old place! Oh, and by the way, we’re hoping to revive the Pickle Pond Party, if that’s okay with you. Molly and I talked about it to Jim, Will, and the kids and they all thought it was a great idea so they’re all coming along to help.”

Ida Pickle went weak with relief. Knees cracking, she dropped down to hug Ginger. Having a vivid imagination could be a double-edged sword. As her fear of Christmas melted she chuckled.

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