We are into the marrow of the Christmas season in Warhaven. The Christmas Choir Concert, the 140th annual, had been a rousing success that raised $35,000 for the ministerial relief fund. With the closing of Donald’s Western Wear, Brown’s Lunch Counter had taken up the pastrami sandwich tradition, holding it the Saturday before Christmas, so there is a long line outside and up the hill toward City Hall. The weather has been cloudy and briskly cold. The five Warhaven city councilors had spent the morning up at the Warhaven Care Center, caroling, sipping eggnog, listening and telling stories and distributing personalized gifts purchased earlier by administrator Sven Delig.
Louisa Hershberger giggles to herself for the motion activated elf she has rigged to the light fixture in the women’s restroom of city hall. When someone enters, the elf squawks, “Merry Christmas, lady!” Warhaven is full of celebration this Saturday afternoon, wassailing, julebukking, caroling, many voices raised in merriment.
Louisa has her sandwich in hand, and is strolling about when Ike Moseseek approaches, also with his sandwich. “Let’s go check out the river,” he says, inviting Louisa for a walk.
“I heard about your elf, Louisa. What a hoot. You caught Gwen off guard. I guess she screamed. She’d already let down!”
Louisa smiles. “I like to give the gift of humor.” She takes a bite of her sandwich, thick with mustard. She now hosts a slight yellow mustache.
“I have to alert the children who love practical jokes, that those who live by the sword die by the sword — maybe not in those words — but you see my point. Gwen may be planning revenge, maybe a whoopie cushion. But then, you know revenge from your husband and siblings.”
“My just desserts are bountiful.”
They both look out at the river, the water speaking a babble of music over rocks. They eat to this serenade, savoring.
“Louisa, you bring a refreshing spirit to the council chambers.”
“Thank you, Ike! You know, the four of us Hershbergers drew straws to decide which one of us would run for the council seat. It’s a debatable topic back home whether I won or lost.”
“Oh, you won! Imagine all the good you help create on the city council. I’d say you’re a natural, a good listener, a speaker with warmth and acceptance in her voice, a practical joke up her sleeve!”
“That’s kind of you, Ike, to say that.” They continue to relish the pastrami on rye.
“Louisa, I’m curious. How do you Hershbergers celebrate Christmas? Do you folks lean to the Amish or to the Lutheran traditions?”
“I’d say more toward the Amish. John and Jacob and Hannah and I try to keep some of the old ways alive. The fewer new-fangled things, the better. You know, we love the buggy and the team of horses, but the computer and the tractor have their presence in our lives. We place candles on our Christmas tree, our tannenbaum. All of us spend time contemplating that light, its source, its kindling hopes. Our presents tend to be sweets, homemade trinkets, or recycled necessities.”
As they stare out into the Rushing River eating, it begins to snow, big, large, slow floating flakes.
“We Quaish celebrate something called Night Way, a kind of solstice awareness, healing ceremonies which renew our spirits as the sun begins its course back. This Yabisheek is holy without much materialism. We give thanks. We sit around the longhouse fire and sing. We also dance in full regalia. We hope for plentiful elk and berries and fish, imagine the squash and beans and corn healthy in the giving sunshine. Yet, Louisa, many of us celebrate Christmas because television and the Internet are very convincing. Too persuasive.”
The snow continues to fall upon Warhaven, sticking to our noses and ears, our wool hats, scarves, and sleeves.
•••
The City Council is a work of fiction, written by Jim Tindall, appearing every other week.
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