By David Valdes Greenwood
Ah, the candy thoughts of Christmas. presents below the tree. Cookies for Santa. And, in fact, the once a year fruitcake.
For younger David Valdes Greenwood, the indomitable “little fruitcake” on the middle of those stories, not anything is sweeter than the promise of the vacations. A modern day Tiny Tim, he holds quickly to his perfect of what Christmas should still be, regardless of the large odds opposed to him: Sub-zero Maine winters. a number of eccentric family. And his consistent foil: a frugal, God-fearing Grammy who turns out made up our minds to deliver an finish to all his enjoyable. A booklet that’s “fa-la-la-licious” (Louisville Courier Journal) and packed with humorous, fascinating yule stories (from construction a Lego® manger to looking for the appropriate Christmas tree), A Little Fruitcake will motivate even the most important Grinches round.
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Extra resources for A Little Fruitcake: A Childhood in Holidays
People having sex in the bathroom again,” I say. ” Louis snorts. ” “Nah,” Louis says. ” I look at my watch. My customer’s entrées should be ready. I look back at the young couple’s table. They’re still holding hands. The girl’s stopped crying. Two people sharing an ordinary moment in an ordinary restaurant. Sometimes everyday little moments become chances for people to start over. That young couple is having such a moment. A light’s shining in the girl’s eyes. Maybe she’s gonna have that baby after all.
Inez asks me as we flop down at the bar for another martini. “I have no idea,” I reply. ” she asks. ” “I enjoy writing it,” I reply. ” WA I T E R J E D I 55 Inez laughs. ” Inez leans in close to me, her body suddenly resonating seriousness. “I’ve read your stuff,” she says. ” “Maybe you should think about writing as a career. ” “Maybe,” I reply quietly. Inez squeezes my arm. “Stop waiting tables! ” “Promise me you’ll try,” Inez says. ” “C’mon. ” The bartender sets drinks down in front of us. “Salud,” Inez says.
A few seconds later the door opens and a man and woman stumble out. The lady’s face is flushed, and her cocktail dress is rumpled. The boyfriend’s pupils are red pinpricks floating on top of the whites of his eyes. He’s high as a kite. The couple bow their heads, mutter embarrassed apologies, and take the walk of shame back to their table. Before I permit access to the ladies’ room I take a quick peek to make sure everything’s in order. Sometimes people forget to clean up after themselves. Noting with satisfaction that the bathroom sink’s still attached to the wall, I reopen the commode to the female dining public.