A collection of Christmas stories by various authors. Similar in style to Guidepost. Some stories make you laugh, some stories bring tears to your eyes, and some are just an enjoyable read. Some stories are repeated from Tamara rated it it was amazing Jun 23, Susan rated it it was amazing Jan 23, Liz marked it as to-read Jun 19, Teresa marked it as to-read Jun 19, Miranda King marked it as to-read Aug 26, Kim marked it as to-read Jul 11, Sandra Beck marked it as to-read Aug 03, Gina marked it as to-read May 03, There are no discussion topics on this book yet.
About Annie Acorn.
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Annie Acorn. Annie is the mother of two sons. She lives in the Washington, D. She owned a tri-state medical outsourcing business for a number of years and was the Director of a behavioral healthcare firm. She once flipped a comic book and collectible retail company comprised of five stores, and she has managed cemeteries and funeral homes.
Acorn has published in The Inspirational Writer, and she edited an in-house publication for the State of Mississippi. She is a contributor of ezine articles. In her spare time, Ms. Annie is the author of the blog at annieacorn. You can remove the unavailable item s now or we'll automatically remove it at Checkout. Remove FREE. Unavailable for purchase. Continue shopping Checkout Continue shopping.
Sort By: Bestsellers. All of this comes to a screeching halt, though, when she hears words she would never have thought possible coming over her phone. A warm-hearted story of love, family and a Christmas season well spent from celebrated author Annie Acorn. Read more A new plan was hatched, and a new love volunteered for service. Would the rescuers make it back on time, safe and sound? A warm-hearted Ragged and dirty, their manners leave much to be desired.
Still, Mary perseveres, not willing to return them to a system that will certainly not meet their needs. Despite the best efforts, though, none of them can predict the future. This story surrounds you with the sights and sounds of Christmas as well as a surprise ending. Read more 9. A special Christmas present awaits her, though, as help given to another months before bears fruit in a very meaningful way and love sets her free.
Another Christmas classic from internationally read author Annie Acorn. Those who get to know me well soon discover that this is my favorite season of the year. The wind lifting my hair, a hint of coming winter in the air, red and gold raining down from tree limbs overhead as fattened squirrels run amongst fallen leaves blowing along the ground — each one sends my spirits higher, ever more than the one before. And then, there are the holidays, stacked one upon the other, but first, one must pass through the magic portal — Halloween — a night of witches, goblins, and unseen other things.
As a child, this first fall holiday was a single sliver of fear in an otherwise calm and tranquil world — my earliest memory of this emotion formed by a collage of several things, all imprinting on my memory in the year that I was five. In my mind, my younger sister and I have been taken to visit my great-grandmother, blinded as a child by the high fever caused by her contracting measles and scarlet fever all at once.
This time, though, there is a difference. Merely by coincidence, the large, black, mantel clock behind us booms its death knoll, just as this regimen begins. Still, a tingle runs along my spine, and the tick-tock of the golden pendulum on which a farmer leans against a fence grows louder in my mind.
We only visit a few minutes, before we return to the bright sunshine without and seek our great-grandfather where he sits beneath a spreading Catawba tree, a white enamel dishpan filled with hen and chicken plants resting at his feet — snatches of memory embedded in my brain. It is he who bought the clock — a gift for his blind wife, the deep tone with which it strikes the quarter hours loud enough for her to hear the time throughout their cottage and into the yard.
Mimes hand out candy to the strolling crowd, and to this day, a mime gives me the shivers. Still, it is the tick-tock of the clock that lingers in my soul the longest, perhaps the passage of Time the scariest thing of all. Years pass, and I become ill. A diagnosis is difficult to determine, and yet, I feel the pain — unrelenting, claiming me. A miracle occurs — a surgery cures me, and my request is long forgotten.
My uncle ages and must come to live nearby. So, now it sits on a credenza behind my chair, its death knoll tolling not yet for me, as I find its ticking the minutes by to be somehow comforting. Awakening in the night, I lie and listen in the dark for its tones to tell me where we both stand as we wait to greet the light of dawn. It is a Halloween clock, this one, for it was owned those many years ago by one who lived only in the dark. Also available in print and for Nook , Kobo , and iTunes. The set is available on iTunes and for Nook and Kobo.
Afternoons, weather permitting, my sisters and I would spread a quilt beneath the large maple that held pride of place on the back corner of what we referred to as The Lot. Then, in no time at all, the dark cookie-cutter cars began passing slowly before our eyes. Over the years, I have enjoyed many railroad journeys, first as a young mother and the last as a widow, each its own special memory.
Given my history, it was no wonder I was thrilled to learn that Sister 3 had arranged a dinner excursion on the historic Walkersville Southern Railroad for forty of our extended family members and dear friends. During the day on the eagerly awaited Saturday, it had rained, but as I drove to join my sister and her husband, the sun peaked through the clouds, illuminating leaves already turned red and gold, a few drifting towards the ground.
As our small group approached Walkersville, Maryland, the clouds melted away, and a single hot air balloon appeared to be floating towards the sun that was itself heading towards the horizon. I had never been to Walkersville and was delighted to find it comprised of neat Victorian homes, most embellished with either bright red geraniums or fall-colored chrysanthemums.
Gradually, other guests arrived until, finally, our full group of forty was assembled, enjoying a gentle breeze as we waited for the signal to board.
Iced tea and lemonade were served, followed quickly by bowls of Tomato Florentine soup. Next came crisp salads and warm dinner rolls. One table over and up, three of my smaller nieces pointed excitedly as we passed beside a large pasture filled with black and white cows, some of whom lumbered in our direction to catch a better look at us. Tree limbs filled with fall-colored leaves waved at us in the breeze, and we passed over a small river, its calm surface reflecting the evening sky.
The main course was served and enjoyed, the train came to a halt and then proceeded to move backwards, past the station, and approximately the same distance in the opposite direction as we enjoyed yellow marble cake smeared with a thick layer of chocolate icing, accompanied by coffee or hot tea. Too quickly, our two hours were over — four train related quizzes with prizes, a beautiful sunset, and rounds of convivial conversation now behind us.
Station lights illuminated our way back to our cars, and we said our goodbyes — some to friends who had traveled from North Carolina to join us. This evening, we had all shared a special train trip together. Books have been an integral part of my life ever since I played with a cloth volume that sported pinking-sheared edges while still in my cradle. To this day, I cast my eye around for colorful spines, whenever I enter a room, and believe me, my home is full of them. Now, of course, my tastes have expanded to encompass such favorites as Lindts and Tobler and Godiva. On the other hand, gadgets are special friends, providing service as they ease burdens and give pleasure.
The three I remember most fondly resided in kitchens. True, my definition of a gadget may be a bit broader than that used by most folks. To me, a gadget is anything used to make my life easier. Most dictionaries confine their definitions to a mechanical contrivance. I counter that one should be generous and include a few special memories of items still associated with those held dear.
My paternal grandmother baked her Sunday beef in an early version of what resembled a crock pot on steroids. Four times the size of its modern cousins, its outside wall was comprised of a creamy yellow oval with a shiny black top. Plugged into the wall and sitting on a small table, it held pride of place in her kitchen and kept her oven clear for golden Yorkshire puddings. From afar, we breathed in rich aromas that wafted forth as my grandmother wrestled the beast into submission in much the same way as an experienced trainer controls a terrifying tiger.
In the end, the meat was delicious. Not to be outdone, my mother had her own kitchen gadget that was used to prepare meat, although hers was rarely used except for one of our birthdays. A heavy metal meat grinder that clamped onto the edge of a table top or a kitchen counter, this weighty monster was critical to the preparation of Spam salad, but watch out! Drop even one little part of it on your toe, and you would hobble around for a month or four.
The recipe is quite simple, and in this day and age, you can dispense with the meat grinder and use a much tamer food processor. The following directions are for a single batch. I would suggest you make two. Women in my family usually process each ingredient separately and then mix them together in a large bowl.
Annie Acorn's 2016 Christmas Treasury
I said hamburger buns. It was my first time to fly from D. It would be my first Christmas with Son 2 and his new wife. It was my first stretch of vacation time in quite a while. The best daughter-in-law in the world had booked reservations at the Needle and a special excursion to Victoria, B. We would be staying at the Empress Hotel and would visit the world famous Butchart Gardens.
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It was cold in D. An hour before my sister collected me for the drive to the airport I received a phone call from Son 2. Would you mind taking a cab from the airport? Heading for Chicago, she had boarded a plane in Detroit at seven that morning. Due to icy runway conditions, her flight had been redirected to Baltimore for some reason that neither of us accomplished businesswomen could quite fathom.
Instead, here we were, heading to exactly the same place, which the Weather Channel was reporting on the airport televisions currently was experiencing the exact same conditions as this morning. Due to weather delays being experienced here, there and everywhere, the gate where we were supposed to park was still being utilized by an earlier flight, and we would have to wait on the runway until that plane received its fill of fuel.
Not to worry, I told myself, I had an hour and a half in which to make my connection, and I did — with about ten seconds to spare. Still, the good news was that I had made it into the next can of sardines, along with a lovely woman who I judged to be in her mid-thirties and was now seated next to me.
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Perhaps it was because I was so much older than her. Perhaps it was because, in the dim light, it was easy to believe we were the only two people in the world. Whatever it was, she took a deep breath and continued. And so, we talked on during much of the longer leg of my flight as she shared concerns and I shared experiences as well as lessons learned.
Finally, our common bond now exhausted, she attempted to get some work done on a small laptop and I covered myself with my coat and dozed off.