A Camp Edson Christmas
By Cynthia Davis
Copyright © 2007, 2011 Greenroom Books
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Christina Brannigan sighed as she shuffled through the scraps of stray reindeer antlers, red noses and tattered ears. Who knew eight children could generate a two-inch accumulation of paper waste in under an hour?
The table didn’t look much better. Gobs of glue and glitter clung heavily to the areas surrounding the campers’ chairs. A couple paper vowels and a handful of consonants covered the table where the kid with the thick glasses sat. He’d shredded his reindeer pattern into strips, forming oversized letters which he rearranged throughout the entire craft session. Surveying the state of the tiny craft cabin, Christina sank into the nearest folding chair and dropped her head to the table.
“Thanks for craft time. I wish I could stay here all day.”
Christina bolted upright, peeling a glue-smeared antler from her left cheek. She started to respond to the snot-nosed 8-year-old with knotted hair and a lazy eye, but her “you’re welcome” trailed into a drawn out “umm…” as she scrambled to remember the kid’s name.
“Faith,” the girl supplied, wiping her entire forearm across her nose as she backed against the door.
Christina mentally kicked herself. Remembering their names was rule one. She knew that.
Faith waved a soggy reindeer head in Christina’s general direction. The ragged, stumpy protrusions sprouting from the top didn’t bear any resemblance to antlers, much less the hands after which they were patterned.
Surfing the internet for emergency craft ideas, Christina thought that gluing handprint antler cut outs to reindeer heads seemed like a fun, easy craft; but then, she wasn’t the only one left drained and disillusioned by overly optimistic hopes for Camp Edson’s impromptu Christmas Camp.
She had been sorting through a collection of stubby scarves and half-finished hats, questioning the wisdom of counting on her new-found knitting skills for gift-giving purposes when the e-mail from her aunt Meg appeared on her computer screen just before eleven o’clock one night last week—December 18th, to be exact.
Nothing about the last minute request surprised her. Meg Wilson was no stranger to big goals or impossible challenges. After all, she’d left a high-paying, fast-paced career as a rock-climbing instructor at a Manhattan sporting complex to manage the affairs of young, disadvantaged campers with her husband, Michael and a mostly teen-aged staff at a rural camp in upstate New York. No way was Meg going to turn down a last minute request from Social Services to take in eight kids for the holidays. She told the social worker yes on the spot—those kids would celebrate Christmas with her and Michael and her adopted daughter, Dee, right in their cozy log cabin if it came to that.
But that wasn’t necessary. By December 21st, Christina found herself in a whirlwind of cutting, pasting, baking, and frosting alongside an entire team of former camp counselors and community volunteers who worked in shifts to make Christmas a reality for the displaced kids.
She glanced at the wall clock as she swept brown reindeer scraps and stray eyeballs into a large dustpan. Six hours! she calculated in relief. Tonight she would sleep in her own bed, full of her mom’s cookies and pumpkin pie. She was glad to have done her part, but even happier to be heading home. Even though Camp Edson had long since become more to her than convenient summer job, she had to admit that the past four days hadn’t been among her best at the camp. The kids were rowdy, the staff was weary, and unless something pretty miraculous happened pretty fast, anyone heading expectantly toward the Douglas fir in the lodge tomorrow morning would be on their way toward a big disappointment.
A single drop of icy wet precipitation hit Christina’s face as she headed up the path to the lodge. She frowned, wiping her forehead in disgust. That’s all we need, she mentally grumbled. Her frown deepened at the sight of the stooped figure pushing a broom aimlessly across the floor of the screen porch, eyes downcast as though studying the assembling dirt. Ostensibly the volunteer janitor for the week, Mr. Engal performed a continuous circuit of sweeping witnessed by multiple sources at all hours of the day and night. Adding to the growing body of rumors and lore was the fact that no one had caught so much as a glimpse of his face.
Christina skirted past the old man and made a beeline for the kitchen entrance to the lodge, the large L-shaped cabin that was the hub of activity at Camp Edson. Anna, the cook with a heart as large as her ample Italian frame, was sliding a tray of cookies into a large, industrial oven as the door slammed, announcing Christina’s entrance.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Anna was saying, thumb pressed against her fingers in as she waved her arm in an expansive gesture.
“Well,” Meg said, “They’re going to call back to confirm, but it certainly seems like it.” She tossed her sleek auburn ponytail over her shoulder, scribbling something on a note pad. Although her tone was cautious, Christina could tell by her expression that she’d located an eleventh-hour source for donated Christmas gifts. Finding an organization with gifts left to give had proven to be the bane of Christmas Camp. The church down the road sent volunteers and vitamins, but not a single video. Social Services sent sandwiches, but seemed fresh out of shirts and socks. At lunch there’d been a rumor of a Women’s Guild with a few leftover gifts from their annual Presents for People drive, but the lead ran cold when the organization’s founder delivered nothing but tidings of meager membership and feeble funding.
Christina gave a gasp of excitement at the news. Clothes and toys for the campers, and all in time for Christmas morning! She could leave Christmas Camp with a happy ending. Relieved and happy, she took a deep breath, savoring the smell of Anna’s roasting turkey. The cook was preparing a big Christmas Eve meal, after which she, and most of the rest of the volunteer staff would head home to celebrate Christmas with their families. Thoughts of turkey and mashed potatoes for the road and dessert waiting at home seemed a fitting finale to the rocky week.
Christina peered over the long counter which separated the kitchen from the lounge, the gigantic living room that was the center of social life at Camp Edson. Michael had just returned from the attic, laden with ornament-filled boxes into which the campers dove with glee. Christina watched as Dee, the former troubled camper she helped find a home with her aunt and uncle, patiently guided the younger kids’ ornament-clutching fists to the tree’s upper branches. Wavy brown hair pulled back with a silk scarf complimenting her mocha-toned skin, Dee bore little resemblance to the scared and scarred child Christina met her first summer at camp. Christina briefly wondered if any of the current batch of Christmas campers had similar potential, but her thoughts darkened as the broom-pushing janitor swept his way across her line of vision.
“Again with the broom! What’s with this guy?” Christina exclaimed in irritation. Anna’s mouth went into a flat line as she shook her head. “He’s just doing his job, dear,” she soothed.
“Aren’t janitors supposed to come with, you know, a range of skills? And if sweeping is his specialty, where was he this afternoon in the craft cabin?” Christina countered in exasperation. “He was too busy up here eavesdropping on everyone to send his broom into real action.”
“Church down the road said he’s the best they’ve got. Sent him up here special,” Anna insisted. “And as far as the craft cabin,” Anna said, “No way can we send a volunteer in to clean up after what goes on in there.” The old woman flashed a mischievous glance toward Christina, recalling any number of the artistic mishaps which shaped Christina’s first summer leading arts and crafts at camp. After giving Christina a playful swat with her towel, Anna turned her attention to the turkey, frowning as she tapped the thermostat. “Cooking kind of fast,” she muttered, fiddling with the oven’s temperature control knob.
She wandered out to the lounge. Jimmy, the kid with the thick glasses, circled the tree, making inane rhymes based on the lyrics of Christmas carols. Christina scrapped any leftover thoughts she may have had concerning his future success. This kid was just out there. She glanced toward Faith, who had also lost interest in decorating and was folding and creasing what little was left of her reindeer. Christina sighed. Didn’t these kids appreciate what they were doing? Their attention spans seemed shorter than the stubby bristles on the end of Mr. Engal’s broom.
“Snow!” shrieked one of the campers, running toward the big picture window behind the tree, leading a stampede that threatened to create an indoor shower of glass ornaments. “That’s not snow,” Michael said, stroking the dark stubble that spoke of extended time away from a normal grooming routine. “That’s sleet.”
“Sleet!” Jimmy hollered. “Heat! Meat! Hey, when’s that turkey gonna be done?”
As if on cue, Anna burst from the kitchen, smoke billowing behind her. “Heating element blew,” she managed between heaving coughs. Groans of disappointment preceded chaos. Windows flew open. Cold, stiff air replaced blackened smoke and fumes. Kids screamed, raiding rooms down the hall for blankets. Anna pulled a five pound bag of frozen French Fries from the freezer and began shoving them into a toaster oven in hasty batches.
“French fries!” Jimmy yelled, waving one over his head. “Fries from France! France rhymes with dance, D-A-N-C-E!” he called, wiggling and shaking a path across the room.
At the height of the pandemonium, the lights flickered, and the building was plunged into darkness. The initial screams quickly turned to deafening silence. And then the phone rang.
Meg tried to keep her voice down but the silence seemed to amplify her somber tones. She didn’t give anything away with her words, but Christina didn’t need anything spelled out. One look out the window told her all she needed to know. The entire world looked was encrusted beneath a glassy sheet of ice.
Christina bit into half-baked French fry. The warm, crispy exterior surrounding a bitter cold core seemed a fitting symbol for her Christmas Eve. There would be no warm meal, no toys for the kids, and, blinking back tears, she acknowledged the truth that was hardest to face: she herself would share in the cold and giftless Christmas morning to which they all seemed destined. Christina tossed the French fry into the garbage, suddenly aware that at least for this one night they all shared the same miserable lot.
“Have you seen Faith?” Dee hissed in her ear. Startled, Christina stared into Dee’s wide eyes. She’d been busy, gathering the children around the tree, distributing pillows, flashlights and candy canes.
“I was just going to read to them, when I realized that I haven’t seen Faith.” Panic washed across Dee’s face. “I don’t want to worry them,” she tossed her head to toward the kitchen, where Meg, Michael and Anna were slapping together some hasty PBJs.
Could things get any worse?
Two images flashed through Christina’s mind and she instantly knew where to look. “I’ll be right back,” she called, slipping out the side door without her coat. Sliding down the slippery path to the craft cabin in pitch darkness through a sheet of raining ice, Christina fought mixed emotions. She wasn’t sure if she should be angry that the kid ran off or worried about things like frostbite or pneumonia. I wish I could stay here all day, she remembered Faith saying at the door of the arts and crafts cabin that afternoon. Then, less than an hour ago, she sat beneath the Christmas tree, folding her reindeer like so much origami.
Bursting though the cabin door, Christina spotted a thin flashlight beam that served as a visual cue of where to direct her verbal reproof. “What are you doing in here?” she asked, her voice betraying her alarm.
“Making thank you notes,” a timid voice answered from the floor.
Whoa. This wasn’t going to be pretty. Dripping wet and chilled to the bone, Christina softened as she knelt beside the child. “Faith, you know, sometimes, we don’t always get the presents we want for Christmas…” Even by the dim beam of the Faith’s flashlight, Christina could tell the kid was looking at her like she just fell from planet Zorp.
“Presents? Who said anything about presents?” Faith looked genuinely puzzled. “I’m just making cards for Miss Anna and Mrs. Meg and Mr. Michael and Miss Dee and you, too, Miss Christina. You all look so upset, and I just want you to know I’m just happy to be here.”
Hot tears of shame mixed with the icy rain on Christina’s cheeks. How could she have wasted even one thought on herself, knowing home—and her Christmas—would be waiting for her after the ice melted? Where would Faith go when it was all over? Christina scooped the child in an embrace and together they slid down the path to the lodge, where Dee had just run out of excuses to explain their absence any longer.
Soon, Michael had a fire roaring in the fireplace, and Anna had hot chocolate cooking in a pot over the open flame. Meg had made eight little cots into cozy beds and Dee began to sing Silent Night in hauntingly beautiful tones.
Shivering beneath several thick towels, Christina began to thaw from the inside out. She had been so selfish this week, so judgmental. Almost as though giving up a couple measly days of her Christmas break made her some sort of hero, she thought with regret.
Christina must have drifted off to sleep, because she awoke to sun streaming through the icy picture window and the sound of gift wrap being torn hastily from packages.
“It’s a Chrismas miracle!” Anna exclaimed again.
Christina squinted, trying to believe her eyes as package after package revealed coats and shoes that fit the recipient. She rubbed her eyes in disbelief as Faith tore into a box of crayons, scissors and glue, and Jimmy ripped open a book full of word puzzles.
“What? How? When?” Christina stumbled, and then, just like the scene in the old black and white classic Miracle on 34th Street, when a single cane propped in the corner of the house tips the family off to the identity of their benefactor, Christina spotted the worn broom with the stubby bristles leaning against the picture window.
“Where’s Mr. Engal?” she gasped. Eyes darted around the room. “When did you see him last?” “Did you see him?” “Did you?”
“I told you the church sent their very best,” Anna triumphed. “All this time, pushing that broom, he was making observations,” she insisted.
But where is he now? Christina wondered, feeling guiltier than ever, and suddenly wanting nothing more than to see the man she’d written off as a kook and ignored.
“He must have gone home to his family,” Meg guessed. “But I’m going to call the pastor of his church to send our thanks.” Meg headed into the kitchen and Christina turned her attention to Jimmy, who was already engrossed in the puzzle book.
“What are you working on?” she asked.
“Anagrams,” Jimmy answered. “You know, where you rearrange the letters of a word to make new words.” Christina’s thoughts rewound to the tattered letters in the craft cabin. Mr. Engal was way more observant than she’d ever be.
Meg returned to the lounge, a disturbed expression clouding her face.
“What’s going on?” Michael asked.
“The pastor said he was very sorry, but he never sent his janitor to us, after all. Said he got sick and they forgot to call.”
“Then who was our janitor?” Dee asked in alarm. Ripples of shock and speculation traveled across the room.
Christina glanced over at Jimmy, nose deep in his puzzle book. Still not in tune with his surroundings, Christina thought. She looked at the list of words he’d rearranged, gasping in sudden realization. In the space next to the word “angel,” Jimmy’s single anagram revealed the answer to their question, and just how much she almost missed. The childish scrawl simply read: Engal.
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Cynthia Davis lives in southeastern Virginia with her family and pets. She enjoys planting in the spring, baseball in the summer and pumpkins in the fall—but loves Christmas best of all. A Camp Edson Christmas features characters from her Young Adult novels The Chrysalis and Drink the Rain (available in print and ebook). Snapshots, her third Camp Edson book, is unfolding chapter-by-chapter with reader input. Find her on facebook or follow her on twitter.