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For Aleta and Kathleen—
two of the best friends anyone could ask for
1
December has arrived in the Mississippi Delta, a bittersweet time for those of us who miss our loved ones. At times, the holiday gaiety and sparkling decorations heighten loss. The memories of what was contrast sharply with what is. Children grow up and begin their own lives. Relatives and friends move away. My loss is more permanent. I long for those who have gone to the Great Beyond. I miss my family. But Christmas is also a festive time, a time for friends and sharing.
The clear sky, slightly tinged with lavender as dusk approaches, spreads for miles across the barren fields. Winter is a season of death for many plants, but it is also the precursor to spring and rebirth. I love being outdoors on a brisk December day, going about my regular farm chores.
My horses clatter into the barn for an afternoon feeding and their blankets. I scoop the pellets and dump them in the feeders, toss the hay into the stalls, and quickly buckle the waterproof turnout blankets around the animals in preparation for the coming night. There is such satisfaction in caring for my horses. They are healthy and filled with high spirits, but the grain settles them down quickly. I comb their manes and daydream.
I relish the exhilarating rides across the fallow cotton fields on Reveler, Miss Scrapiron, or Diablo this time of year. In the crisp winter air, no bugs bite or annoy us. The wind can cut like a sharp blade across the open spaces, but nothing detracts from the joy of the rhythm of a horse beneath me. No ride would be complete without Sweetie Pie, my loyal red tick hound, coursing beside me. She loves the ride as much as the horses and I do.
But there will be no rides this afternoon. I have my work cut out for me. Each year since I’ve returned home to Zinnia, Mississippi, I’ve become more efficient in preparing for Christmas. I have an attic full of ornaments and decorations, and I have holiday joy in my heart. I mentally plan my next attack on hanging garlands and setting up the miniature Christmas crèche that has been in the Delaney family for generations. There’s a secretary in the formal parlor that’s the perfect site. And while I’m at it, I’ll put on some Christmas songs.
I’m almost done in the barn when the horses finish eating and I turn them out. Reveler romps and snorts, eager to be out and free. He is such a boy! He bucks, farts, and gallops away, the others joining him. They’re performing that crazy psychic dance that horses do, like synchronized swimmers, all moving in unison. They round the corner of the pasture and disappear, but their hoofbeats still reverberate on the ground. They are healthy and happy, and I am blessed.
Sweetie Pie and I enter Dahlia House, my ancestral home, through the back door. Pluto greets me with a lazy yawn. The cat loves adventure, but he is not designed to keep up with a coursing hound or a galloping horse. He has wisely chosen to stay in the warm kitchen, where a pot of gumbo warms on the stove, waiting for me to turn up the heat for dinner. Gumbo is one of Coleman Peters’s favorites, and I am looking forward to his arrival when he gets off work. Until then—I increase the gas to the gumbo, select a Christmas playlist on my phone, and am ready to vie for the Martha Stewart decorating award.
An hour later, the smell of cedar fills the parlor in Dahlia House as I step back in satisfaction to view the garland of cedar fronds, holly, magnolia leaves, and glistening red ornaments that I’ve artfully woven around the antique mirror above the magnificent old mantel. Below the mantel, a fire crackles and spits a warm welcome. “Silver Bells” is playing, and I sing along. All of my friends are hustling and bustling with the fun of buying presents, planning menus, hosting parties, and good-naturedly attempting to outdo one another with decorations and food. This holiday, we have special plans.
My chosen décor comes from nature—the branches and boughs from the evergreen trees that smell so clean and remind me of Christmases past, when I was coddled and protected by loving parents. Sometimes the past is a heavy burden to carry, but I thank goodness for stalwart friends and one big burning hunk of lawman love—Coleman Peters. In fact, he should be arriving any minute. He can help me loop the garland down the railing on the gallery. This is how my mother decorated for Christmas, and her mother before her, and my aunt Loulane, who cared for me after my parents died. I cling to some traditions—those that keep my family close, especially during the holidays.
The gumbo smells good, and I have all the ingredients for Dirty Snowmen, one of my favorite winter holiday drinks, complete with chocolate shavings and lots of Baileys. The thought has my mouth watering and my imagination working overtime. There were things I could do with whipped cream—
“Ah-h-h-h-h-h!”
A pale blond woman with curly hair comes running at me with a huge butcher knife. Her white dress is covered in blood.
“Damn!” I dodge her first attempt to attack me, run around the kitchen table, and haul it through the
