Thanksgiving Contest Winners Announced

Congratulations to all who entered. Many mentioned it was fun to see if they could write a

story under 1,000 words-and incorporate many of the odd words given in the contest rules.

They did a great job. One person used every single word. WOW!

The winners are:

-- First Place: "The Drifter" by Diane A. Brown, Raymond, Washington

-- Second Place: "Unexpected Dream" by Bill Wetterman Bixby, Oklahoma

Honorary Mention (again a tied, so we named two)"

-- "The Will" by Jane Hoffman, Apple Valley, Minnesota

-- "Family Dinner" by Shawn Remfrey, Warsaw, Indiana

Elementary-Age Author:
-- "My Teacher," Geovanna Barran-Pryce of Flint, Michigan

For the first time, we had several elementary age writers so we picked the one that both was a good story-and followed the guidelines

(which in this case, means incorporating as many of these words as possible). Thanks to the parents who encouraged their children to write –

and be courageous enough to enter our contest. We left the underlined words in the first story to show you what we required.

Writer
Singer
Ed Sullivan
Memory
Secret
Famous
Millionaire
Prison
Liberty
Horses
Flowers

Following are each of the stories for you to read and enjoy. It is a nice mix of emotional to high-hearted.

 

First: "The Drifter" by Diane A.Brown, Raymond, Washington

Opening the back door I stood nose to barrel with a Colt 45.

"What on earth!" I stammered, taking a step backward.

"Get inside lady and sit down," the intruder ordered. "You alone?"

"Now listen here young man, this is my home" I stood defiant, arms folded.

"Tarnation! I ain't met no woman as stubborn as you sept for my ma." He pushed inside and closed the door.

"You have interrupted my Thanksgiving baking" I fumed. "Been living on this mountain for fifty years and I always make a holiday feast."

"Quit worrying bout cooking a fancy dinner" he insisted. "The way the snow is fallin ain't nobody gonna make it up here."

"You don't know my son." I countered, staring into cold blue eyes. "He'll be here."

He ran long fingers through a mop of coal black hair, and then crammed his Stetson back in place. Scruffy whiskers covered his lean cheeks.

"I'm going to the barn to check the horses," he did a quick about face. "Don't get no ideas about running off." Slamming the door, he disappeared into the cold. The last rays of fading sunlight glistened on the crusted snow.

By the looks of his worn clothing I knew he'd been traveling for some time, a good-for-nothing drifter, spoiling my memories. His frame hinted at countless missed meals and his eyes had too many wrinkles for one so young. My Johnny would have been about the same age, if he had survived. The fever had come so quickly there was no time to get help. The pain in my heart always seemed worse this time of the year.

Left alone, I wondered what kind of secret the drifter was hiding. Snow and eminent darkness surrounded the house; there was no sense in trying to escape. I restarted my meal preparations. There would be a Thanksgiving feast tomorrow.

When the drifter returned, the kitchen smelled of nutmeg, cinnamon and pumpkin. Left-over stew simmered on the wood stove.

"See here! You're tracking mud onto my spotless floor." I grumbled. "Take those boots off this instant!"

"For heavens sake," he protested, hopping on one foot then the other, "Anything to keep you quiet."

"I'll dish up supper and set it on the table."

"Why you being nice to me? Cant you see I'm a dangerous person?" Laying his pistol on the table he sat in an empty chair. "Everyone's heard about the famous Cheyenne Kid, the one who escaped from the Denver prison."

I hid a grin as I turned to pour a glass of milk. "It's been told that he robbed a millionaire, stashed the cash in a coffin and buried it in these mountains."

"Naw, thems just stories." He said between bites. "But I done shot six men while passing through Liberty. I rode out so fast they didn't even see my dust."Sliding into the chair next to him I continued my questioning. "Then what brings you here if you're not after the money?"

"I um, um... Now see here this is just about the best stew I have ever had. I'll take some more" he insisted, holding up his bowl.

The kitchen work done, I sat by the fire in my rocking chair. The Cheyenne Kid entered and tossed more wood on the fire. A soft warmth filled the room. Patchwork quilts lay folded neatly across the wooden chairs and a single kerosene lamp set on the small table in the corner. A candle flickered on the mantel and shadows danced quietly across the walls.

"Mam, I'm real sorry for barging in on you today" he apologized.

Taking a small knife from his pocket the drifter started whittling a piece of wood "I mean you no harm," he assured. "I just needed a warm place to stay. Most folks take a look at me and out comes the shot gun."

"I lost a son, would have been about your age. That's his guitar over there." Tears slipped quietly from my eyes at the memories. "Do you have any family?"

"No one I would be proud of." Arising, he picked up the guitar. "This here's a fine git-fiddle. Would you mind if I played a tune?"

"I, I haven't let anyone touch it for years, but go ahead" I whispered. "Do you have a name?"

"Course I have a name. But if I told you then I would have to shoot you," he threatened, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Tell me."

Tightening the pegs and placing his fingers on the strings he began to strum softly.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound... ."

I listened quietly as his voice floated softly through the air. He had talent like my Johnny, a wonderful singer. Johnny had been a writer. too. He would sit for hours strumming, humming and filling sheets and sheets with his music.

"It's Joseph."

Lost in thought I looked up. "That's a fine name, right from the Bible."

Snow fell all night covering the last fall flowers. The aroma of roasting turkey filled the entire house by afternoon. Joseph went to get potatoes and carrots from the root cellar while I pulled two loaves of freshly baked sourdough bread from the oven.

Leaving his boots on the porch Joseph entered the kitchen. "Smells mighty fine, do you really think your son is coming?"

"Joseph, I have a confession to ....."

The sounds of gunfire filled the room. I whirled around, startled to find myself in a world I had forgotten, my own living room. The smell of roasting turkey lingered. I must have dozed off. The television blared loudly; a full-fledged battle between cowboys and Indians was in progress. I flipped the channel and found an Ed Sullivan holiday special to calm my pounding heart.

It seemed so real, because it had been. It was the same story Grandma Holm told every Thanksgiving. She would be here soon. My father, Joseph, would bring her and Uncle Johnny's guitar.