By David Valdes Greenwood
Ah, the candy thoughts of Christmas. presents below the tree. Cookies for Santa. And, in fact, the yearly fruitcake.
For younger David Valdes Greenwood, the indomitable “little fruitcake” on the heart of those stories, not anything is sweeter than the promise of the vacations. A modern day Tiny Tim, he holds quickly to his excellent of what Christmas will be, regardless of the massive odds opposed to him: Sub-zero Maine winters. a number of eccentric kin. And his consistent foil: a frugal, God-fearing Grammy who turns out decided to deliver an finish to all his enjoyable. A e-book that’s “fa-la-la-licious” (Louisville Courier magazine) and jam-packed with humorous, fascinating yule stories (from development a Lego® manger to trying to find the appropriate Christmas tree), a bit Fruitcake will encourage even the most important Grinches round.
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Additional resources for A Little Fruitcake: A Childhood in Holidays
Russell didn’t make much of an impression on me at first. I remember him as tall, round faced, and balding by thirty—a silly putty version of Grampy, but younger and with real teeth. What won me over was a nifty feat of kitchen magic on the Saturday night of his visit. Because we were living on Grandparent Time, we had already eaten supper at four o’clock and had long been settled in for our ritualized family viewing of Wide World of Sports, The Lawrence Welk Show, and Hee Haw. As a grown-up living on real time, Russell was not interested in eating on the geriatric schedule, and several hours after we’d eaten, he announced that he was making pizza.
Ignacio and I always ate at the real table, our assigned spots seemingly set in stone: Ignacio directly across from me, with Mom and Grampy on either end of the table, and Grammy at my side. This was the natural order, the way it should be. I started to protest, but Grammy had neither time nor interest. “Food won’t taste a bit different just for being on the porch. ” And that was that. An outrage, but I couldn’t make a big stink about it, or everyone would think I was a spoiled brat—not my goal.
It was one thing to watch the Santa show at home, where I could be alternately entertained and jaded. It was another thing entirely to encounter Santa face to face. I could have played along, displaying my Holiday Angel side, but instead my Inner Smarty Pants took over. And is there a Santa on earth who likes a Smarty Pants? Late one afternoon, the week before Christmas, my mother, Ignacio, and I were at the bank in Skowhegan. It was not our bank, the little one in Norridgewock 0738211220-Greenwood 28 8/20/07 9:36 AM Page 28 A LITTLE FRUITCAKE where my brother and I each had savings passbooks we didn’t quite understand.