Elderberry Days: Season of Joy: A Sequel Novella (Elderberry Croft Book 5)
ELDERBERRY DAYS
A Holiday Sequel to Elderberry Croft
By Becky Doughty
Synopsis
It’s been a year since Willow Goodhope moved to Elderberry Croft at The Coach House Trailer Park, charming her way into the lives of each of her new neighbors with her outrageous laughter and her elderberry gifts. But the time has come for Willow to return home to where her heart has been all along. Will she find the courage to leave the sanctuary of her little cottage and face the life she left behind? Is love enough to carry her through the darkest night and into a brand new day? Join Willow Goodhope and the people in her life as she discovers beauty in the broken places, grace in the shadows, and joy in each new season.
EXTRA: Elderberry Days includes TWELVE TRIED AND TRUE (plus one for a Baker’s Dozen) delicious elderberry recipes from the kitchen of Willow Goodhope (and Becky Doughty).
If you enjoy this sequel, I’d greatly appreciate hearing from you. Leaving a review on the site where you downloaded your ebook is a great way to do so, or you can sign up for my quarterly newsletter here: Becky’s Quarterly Newsletter. And of course, I’d love to hear from you personally. Contact me by email HERE!
Copyright
ELDERBERRY DAYS: Season of Joy
A Holiday Sequel to Elderberry Croft
Copyright 2014 Becky Doughty
Published by BraveHearts Press
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the New American Standard Bible, Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
Wolfe, Thomas. You Can't Go Home Again. New York:
Scribner (A division of Simon and Schuster, Inc), 2011, Print
Author Information: www.BeckyDoughty.com
JANUARY
January 10th
Dear Mama,
I fell asleep thinking of you last night, and so you came to visit me in my dreams. You did not come alone.
Yesterday, I took down all the twinkle lights I'd strung back and forth across the patio, and the shadows of the winter night that had been kept at bay crept in around me, taking me by surprise. The darkness left me feeling rather bereft, a bit like a lost child, alone and small. When Christian arrived for dinner, he eyed the solitary glow of the porch light in its old-fashioned globe mounted above the door, and without a word, went about building us a grand fire in the stone pit on the patio. The weather cooperated, staying dry and crisp, and the smoke drifted up and away, leaving behind warmth and soft light and the fragrance of wood fire. We sat outside, bundled together in a blanket, talking of trivial things that belied the depth of what was happening between us. Christian stayed long past my witching hour, that moment each night when I'm brave enough to send him away without me, and I stood on the patio long after he was gone, unable to go inside, alone. Oh, how desperately ready I am to go with him. Even now, my heart feels large and clumsy in my chest, pressing painfully against my lungs at the thought of making a home with him again.
Home. I have thought of this place as home for a whole year now, this tiny cottage cradled against the bank of the wee stream burbling past my patio. (Burbling. Is that a word? If it isn't, it should be. It's very streamish.) Beneath a giant eucalyptus tree whose rustling branches sing green lullabies in the January breezes, Elderberry Croft has been my home for twelve timeless months.
Here, at The Coach House Trailer Park, this hidden sanctuary I stumbled upon in what must surely have been one of my darkest hours, I found a whole group of people just like me, afraid to live, afraid to move forward, resigned and waiting for it to all be over.
At first, it was enough to realize I didn't want that for them, and I determined to do everything I could while I was here to help them learn to breathe life in again. But in time, as I got to know each of my neighbors here, I realized I didn't want that for me, either. We were all desperate for miracles, and God brought them in basket loads.
Elderberry baskets, Mama. Like the ones you and I used to make together.
The "For Rent" sign was so small, I drove right by it, the awareness of it not registering until I was several blocks away. I wasn't looking for it—the notion of moving out hadn't even taken root until that moment—but as I followed Eddie Banks across the narrow bridge over the stream, I could feel myself already falling under the spell of the place. When I laid eyes on the forlorn little croft, tucked in behind the huge Coach House, I think my heart would have broken if it wasn't already in pieces. It seemed as hollowed-out and grief-stricken as I was, in spite of the stream burbling (that word—can't you just hear it?) along beside it and the lush vegetation embracing it. If a house could be a kindred spirit....
It was little more than a shack, really, slouching resignedly in the back corner of the park, waiting, biding its time, just like everyone else here. The front door, painted a surly green, hung crooked on its hinges, the bottom of it trimmed at a discernible angle to accommodate the slope of the floor. The butter colored paint on the siding was sun-faded and chalky to the touch, although only peeling in a few spots, and one of the windows had a screen missing. The painted eaves actually matched the color of the door, as did the narrow trim around the windows. Not completely abandoned, I realized, but in desperate need of a gentle hand.
I saw the fragile bones of something lovely in its brokenness, Mama, but it wasn't until I noticed the tree that I realized I was the one the little home was waiting for. An elderberry tree, perhaps a decade old, had somehow taken root and was thriving along the edge of the stream, just off the east end of the river rock patio. Did you plant it there for me?
I felt like Mother Goose's crooked man (a crooked woman), having walked a terribly crooked mile to get here, stumbling upon this little crooked house. Sans, of course, the crooked cat and mouse. (Although I did have a crooked tarantula come visit one day. I'll tell you about that another time.)
Last night, after Christian left, I stood on the patio in the dark, just listening to the stream, and grieving for the elderberry tree I must leave behind if I am to go home again. Another goodbye. Why does love always require sacrifice?
And so I thought of you. Of elderberry trees and baskets overflowing with the bounty of a day spent with you; in the kitchen, in the garden, in the woods. A morning at the library, an afternoon at the farmers market, laundry day. I only remember your baskets being full, Mama. Were they ever empty? You always had something spilling out of them. Visiting days, oh, those were my favorite full basket days. Homemade bread and cookies for the Fontaines with all their kids, tea and scones for Mrs. Tupper, pie for Phil and Lisa and treats for their dogs.
I won Kathy and her dogs over with your peanut butter treats, by the way. She's a wonderful neighbor, I must say, always watching out for me, trading recipes and magazines and gardening tips with me. I wasn't so sure about her when I first moved in, though. She was very suspicious of me, standoffish, always watching me from behind her lace curtains. I'm pretty sure she even used a pair of binoculars to get a better look! So that first week, I stayed outside as much as I could, cleaning up around the yard
, settling all my potted plants into their new homes, hanging lights and wind chimes and bird feeders, giving Kathy a good look at me. All the while, I was studying her as much as I could, too. She had this terrible cough—one that sounded a lot like Mrs. Tupper's when she overworked her poor old lungs—so she wasn't outside often, making it difficult to just strike up a neighborly chat with her about homemade cold and flu remedies. But I finally realized that the way to Kathy's heart (and lungs) was through her dogs. She came outside with them for a few minutes several times a day, and I could hear her talking to them the whole time, as though they were talking right back to her. Well, you know me, Mama. I love dogs. I love cats. I love anything with fur or feathers, right? And they seem to feel the same about me. So, I put together a twig basket for her filled with a batch of your elderberry tea and a baggie of dog treats, a couple of pretty mugs, and I went visiting, just like the old days. Worked like a charm.
Earlier this week, Kathy snapped at me when I showed up unannounced with a large batch of elderberry tea. I told her I'd heard her coughing and she rolled her eyes and told me to mind my own business. She took the tea, though, and I wasn't hurt. Not really. I know she's not angry with me, but only sad, because I'm leaving. We've become good friends this last year.
I found myself singing our song, “You Are My Sunshine,” as I stood out there last night. Quietly, so Kathy wouldn't be more upset with me than she already was, and so Doc wouldn't worry. Just the chorus, though. I used to think it was such a sweet, if a bit sad, song, but I looked up the lyrics a few years ago. It's a stalker song, Mama. You and Daddy sang me a stalker song as a lullaby! The end of that verse? "But if you leave me to love another, you'll regret it all one day." It's just creepy.
Regardless, how I loved it when you sang to me. How your words, especially near the end, came out sounding a lot more like the wind in the eucalyptus leaves than human melody, but I knew as long as you kept singing, you kept breathing. And when you could sing no longer, I sang to you. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
And despite the rather twisted nature of the song (a crooked woman must sing a crooked song, right?), it was what I sang to Julian every night. There were times I could almost feel you there with us, singing along. It was his favorite, too, even in the womb. More often than not, it was the only thing that would calm him. Two o'clock in the morning, I'd sit in the huge beanbag chair with him and sing, soft and quiet, just like last night, so as not to wake Christian. Sometimes for hours, until Julian, stubborn as his daddy, drifted off, unable to keep those big green eyes open any longer.
And yes, Christian is far more stubborn than I am. Oh, how I wish you'd gotten to meet him. I wish you had been there for our wedding, for Daddy when I moved, for Julian's birth.
For Julian's birthday. We had only one with him.
For Julian's death.
There. I said it. Julian's death. Oh, Mama.
You came across the bridge last night, and you brought Julian with you. You two were out on a visiting day. You held his hand in one of yours, a basket, for once empty, in your other arm, and the two of you chattered like magpies all the way up the front steps to my crooked green door. I sat out on the edge of the patio, my feet in the water, and watched you two through the window as you began to fill your basket with my things. It took me several moments to realize what you were doing, and at first, when I tried to get up, the water clutched at my feet, and the periwinkle vines growing along the opposite bank wrapped leafy tendrils around my ankles, holding me there. Just before I panicked, I was free, and I hurried inside to stop you. You and Julian kept talking, as though I wasn't even there, packing up all my things and tucking them into the bottomless basket. I kept pulling stuff back out, but I couldn't keep up with the two of you, and I began to cry, begging you to let me stay with you both a little longer.
I woke myself up with my sobs, but as I lay there in the dark, trying to breathe through my tear-stuffed nose, I realized I was okay. I'm still broken—maybe I'll always be—and, well, I know my jagged edges show, but I think I'm okay with that.
It was so good to see you, Mama. It's been so long since I've dreamed about you. Thank you for bringing Julian. I'm glad you have each other.
It's time, I know. It's time for me to pack my things and go home. I don't know who "they" are, Mama, but as sure as I'm breathing life in again, I know what they say to be true. Home is where the heart is.
Christian, he is the keeper of my heart. While we have each other, he is my home.
Willow's Elderberry Tea Blend (Bulk Recipe)
Ingredients
1 Cup Dried Elderberries
1 Cup Dried Elder Flowers
2 Tablespoon Dried Ginger Root (not powder)
2 Tablespoon Dried Lemon Rind
2 Cinnamon Sticks broken into pieces (optional)
Place all ingredients in a glass bowl and mix gently with a wooden spoon, making sure all ingredients are evenly dispersed. LABEL (very important!) and store in a sealed paper bag in a cool, dark place or in a refrigerator up to one year, depending on how fresh your ingredients are. If you store this in a clear jar or plastic bag, make sure you use your tea within six months to ensure effectiveness. This recipe will make approximately 25-30 cups of hot tea.
To Brew:
Stir ingredients first, then put 1/2 cup of the herbal tea mix in a thermos, or in a tea diffuser if available. Pour 4-5 cups of boiling water over the top of the herbal tea mix and let it steep for 15 to 20 minutes. Strain, add HONEY to taste, and drink. If you prefer to steep your tea in a pan on the stove-top, keep your burner on simmer for 15 minutes. Makes approximately 4 - 5 cups of tea.
Options:
Use fresh ingredients whenever they are available, especially ginger root and lemon rind. I also like to use my cinnamon stick as a stirrer, rather than breaking it into the tea blend. Just remember; sometimes using fresh ingredients will require you to adjust your measurements. As long as your essential ingredients are included, let your taste buds help determine how you drink your tea.
As with so many homeopathic treatments, there are numerous variations of this tea, but this is a standard base.
Homeopathic Information:
Elderberry tea is a tried and true cold and flu remedy that has been used for generations. Native to Africa, Europe, and Asia, it now grows, and is cultivated, in much of the United States. Renowned for their antioxidant constituents, both elderberries and elder flowers boost immunity to flu viruses and help strengthen the respiratory system, and so are quite effective against colds, coughing, bronchitis, and influenza strains. They also contain substances that ease inflammation and pain, soothe headaches, and help settle the stomach, making them effective against irritable bowel symptoms. Besides all that, these berries and flowers taste good!
FEBRUARY
February 13th
Dear Mama,
I woke up today to only the scent of Christian lingering in the tousled blankets beside me. He told me last night that he'd be gone early, so I wasn't worried, but I drew his pillow to me, burying my face in it, breathing him in. I didn't realize how much I'd missed waking up in this bed until I was back here. I've heard it said (by "they" again) that the sense of smell has the longest memory, and I believe it. I don't think there's anything more familiar to me than the wood and spice and citrus from his aftershave mingled with the man-smell that's uniquely my husband. In some strange way, it always reminds me of Daddy, triggering childhood memories, but it's not exactly the same. No one else smells like Christian does to me.
I have lots on my plate today, but I'm sitting in the beanbag chair in Julian's room, drinking my coffee and writing to you. I don't know exactly why I've started writing these letters to you, Mama. It's not like I have your address in Heaven, and I know you have far better things to do in that crazy, glorious, breathtaking, magnificent, beyond-my-imagination place than look over my shoulder to read the words I'm writing (like climbing epic trees or herping with Julian—I bet the repti
les are incredible in Heaven!), but it gives me great comfort to see your name at the top of the page, to picture your face as you read my words, and to imagine what you might say in response to my babbling.
I don't come in here and hang out with Julian's stuff when Christian is home, mainly because we spend just about every moment together when he is here. But he watches me when I pass by this room, his face carefully blank. I see the tightening around the corners of his mouth, though, as though he's holding back words he knows won't help. But when I'm home alone, sometimes I just end up here.
I found Julian's baby monitor shoved into a shoebox on the top shelf of his closet—I don't remember doing that, so perhaps Christian did. Although he didn't change anything else in here, at least not that I can tell. I'm glad. I don't think I could have borne coming home to this room dismantled or empty. We'll do it together, he and I, when we're ready.
I set up the monitor right after I found it. As soon as Christian leaves in the morning, I clip the parent unit part of it to my pants as I work around the house and garden. Christian has had a whole year to accept the silence that comes out of this room, but I still need to turn the monitor on and listen. I'm not crazy, or depressed, or anything like that. I know I'll not hear Julian, but the static makes me feel connected to him somehow, just the same, as though the line isn't completely severed... I know you understand, Mama. Don't tell Christian. Not yet. He'll worry about me.
Sometimes being home is like what you see in the movies. The daylight shines into the rooms in a soft golden hue, the smell of coffee in the morning, clinking pots and pans and dishes because there's someone to cook for and eat with. Waking up in the middle of the night for a glass of water and not bothering to turn on the light because my feet know the way in the dark. I feel like I'm drifting in slow motion, touching surfaces and textures as familiar to me as the back of my hand, a smile of perfect contentment on my face.