Creola's Moonbeam Read Online Free PDF Page A

on the living room door. “All right then, who’s ready for some peach pie?”
    “We are!”
    The four of us ate dessert as if all were right with the world.
    I worried about Mary Pearle and Edgar, but as promised, I said not a word whenever Mary Pearle and I talked. Besides, despite only two years’ difference, my sister still seemed so much older to me! We weren’t as close then as we would become during the next few years. I confidently told Mother and Daddy that the problem would surely resolve itself.
    As Creola quoted, The days are long, but the years fly by . I was convinced that in a year’s time, we’d all be one happy family.
    Creola’s harsh but well intentioned words about my “Vietnam attitude” made me realize how much worse things must have been for Beau. To think, just the Christmas before, we’d gotten engaged, celebrated with our parents, with Creola, and again with our fraternity and sorority friends on New Year’s Eve. Would it be cold in Bien Hoa? Probably not, just rainy. But lonely.
    Beau was half a world away from me, from his family, and from everything he knew and loved. Like me and like my family, Crellie, his sister and his dear parents were also grieving themselves sick with worry. It was Beau who needed consolation, not his bride.
    I soon started to occupy myself with helping others. Instead of weeping at the sight of a Salvation Army volunteer, I rang the bell with all my might as a volunteer for the organization. I drove to Alabama and spent more time with Beau’s folks. And, in addition to my daily letters to him, I determined to start sending my husband some cheerful surprises.
    One such gift turned around as a joke on me. More of a revelation , it was. Until that point, I’d never thought of myself as having much of a southern drawl. A friend at the newspaper let me borrow her tape recorder. First, I practiced the mechanics of operating the machine. I then recorded a romantic and witty holiday message for Lt. Newberry.
    After he listened to my gift, Beau wrote back to me: Dear Magnolia . I could practically hear him chuckling.
    That was the last tape-recording from this Southern belle that the young lieutenant — and his insensitive army buddies — was to hear. Magnolia, indeed! Mad? Offended? Let’s just say this Mrs. Newberry was more far comfortable with the written word, after that.
    If this is a confession about my shortcomings, I must add that baking goodies had never been my long suit either. Nevertheless, I decided to send my soldier some Christmas cookies. These were to come from me and from me alone, so I stubbornly refused any assistance from Creola or from Beau’s mother, Mary, a cook extraordinaire. For Magnolia , this was another mistake.
    Oh, I baked the cookies, all right. My kitchen looked like there’d been a blizzard come through. It and I were covered in flour and butter. Tiny silver candies spilled and rolled into every nook and cranny of our house. At the end of the day, let it be written, those darn cookies filled two large tins and were ready for shipping. Proudly, I deposited the box at our neighborhood post office.
    Two weeks later Beau wrote back. I could hear the laughter in his ink .
Dear Honey,
I love you. Thank you so much for the cookies. I know how hard you must have worked. They were delicious. There must have been some trouble in shipping. The guys and I had to eat them with spoons! Ha Ha.
I do love the baker with all my heart, Beau
    Dauntless, I remained single-minded in my mission to help him celebrate Christmas. As my spoken word and my attempts at baking had bombed — other than to provide a few chuckles — I decided to mail my groom a fully adorned Christmas tree. Decorating has always been my forte .
    A trip to the corner drugstore netted the perfect three-foot fake tree. I covered it with miniature ornaments and topped it with a gold star. Stroking my engagement and wedding rings, I added sentimental messages about our previous