Creola's Moonbeam Read Online Free PDF

Christmas and shared my hopes for the many, many happy holidays to come.
    I carefully boxed up the tree with all matter of packing materials and took it to the post office. Giving the package to the lady behind the desk, I mentioned the disastrous results with the cookies.
    “Not to worry, ma’am,” she assured me. “Your package will arrive in excellent shape. Trust me; I’ll see to it myself.”
    I walked away convinced that my tree would arrive and be the delight of Beau’s barracks.
    The beaten-up thing was returned to me in February. A single ornament remained unbroken, a tiny plastic Santa. A good omen of sorts, actually, because years later, Beau himself would become Santa Claus. For the last five years, he has played Santa for the children of his office workers and for those of our friends. “That little ornament was spared as a sign,” Creola told me. She was right.
    Beau did have a good Christmas in Vietnam. He heard from family and friends. Best of all, he got to see Bob Hope in person. The USO show was telecast. My parents, Creola, and I sat glued to the television on that December night. No, we didn’t get a glimpse of Beau, but we did see the faces of many, many young soldiers just like him, who were serving their country.
    On Christmas Day, I, my parents, Mary Pearle and Edgar — who’d behaved well since their baby daughter, Susan, had arrived — gathered to spend the afternoon with Beau’s family and members of the Newberry clan. Yes, of course, there were tears, many tears. Yet, there was also joy in the anticipation and the absolute belief that our Beau would be safely back home with us in a few more months.
    I had Daddy take my picture in front of the Newberry’s beautifully decorated Christmas tree. In the shot, I held out my empty arm indicating the exact place where Beau should have been. Thankfully, my life-sized Santa Claus returned home from Vietnam the following fall. On December 25, 1968, he and I posed in the exact same spot.
    Beau was holding a plate of delicious holiday cookies, whole ones, silver candies in place, no crumbles.
    He’d baked them himself.

Chapter 4
     
    During that lazy morning on the beach, memories of my last birthday also drifted into mind. The event had upset me more than I cared to admit. Now, what bothered me most about the passing of another year was not my age but the fact that I had blown the short story project. I might not be good at cooking or other hobbies, but I could pride myself on an ability to weave together words. I worried about losing that knack.
    Hadn’t Creola let me languish long enough? When was her spirit going to tap me on the shoulder and give me some fresh advice?
    Get back to work, Miss Moonbeam!
    Well, that wasn’t the advice I wanted. Go away, Crellie .
    I took a sip of my drink.
    Prior to leaving Atlanta for the summer, I’d announced to everyone, including my publisher, that I was done writing. Done . As I told Beau, our children, my sister, my friends, and anyone else who asked, “The truth is, I’ve said all I’ve got to say.”
    I was lying.
    The reality was that I feared I didn’t have another story in me.
    You’re on a sabbatical , I comforted myself.
    I picked up the latest bestseller and began to read. Not able to concentrate, I tossed it aside without finishing the first chapter. Seeing another writer’s work only made me feel guilty. The book had been a birthday present. Inside was the card from a well-meaning friend.
Happy Birthday, Honey. Bet you could write one just as good. No, yours would be much better!
Love, Pam
    My friends have traditionally exhibited blind and enduring faith in me.
    I recalled my last birthday, the family dinner, and the luncheon given me by my girlfriends, now a tradition, along with their painstakingly and thoughtfully selected greeting cards.
    Egads, those cards with their tasteless jokes about aging! Years ago, cards with flaming cakes and bosoms cascading onto withered knees used to