Christmas Angels, page 1
Christmas Angels
Patra Ann Taylor
Christmas Angels
Copyright © 2025 by Patra Ann Taylor
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission
from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
For more information about this author visit: https://patraanntaylor.com
First Edition
Library of Congress Control Number:
2024925903
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9920703-1-6
E-Book ISBN: 979-8-9920703-0-9
In loving memory of my mother, LouDell Taylor, who gave me much, including her memories.
Contents
Quote
Prologue
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
Epilogue
Postscript
About the Author
Also by Patra Ann Taylor
"For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."
Psalm 91:11 (KJV)
Prologue
In 1933, the menacing tentacles of the Great Depression had entwined themselves into every aspect of American life. My hometown of Jeffries, a railroad hub in north-central Indiana, was no exception. That year, when some 15 million Americans were unemployed and half of the country’s banks had failed, all hope for better days had disappeared, leaving in its wake the despair that accompanies unrelenting poverty.
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, despair had indeed heaped itself onto my family. Yet Christmas unfolded as a time of love, joy, and gratitude, creating indelible memories that warmed many family Christmases thereafter.
All these decades later, my memories flow easily even as my hand struggles to keep up with my thoughts. I always settled into these glorious memories whenever I heard carols played on a piano, or smelled the aroma of cookies baking waft from an oven, or felt fresh falling snowflakes kiss my cheeks. Now I work to capture those memories on paper, so generations to come might find hope in the depth of their own despair, to expect miracles in the darkest of times.
So many seasons of my life have passed since nine-year-old me crept onto the porch of a stranger. One minor act of kindness brought a wonderful new friend into my life, an incredible woman despite the tough hand life had dealt her. Oh, how I marveled at her grace, her beauty, her talents. I remembered her dancing eyes as they looked into my soul, sparking my desire to reach for my best self, just as she had done despite the odds stacked against her.
For my older sister, Gem, that Christmas brought the sweet taste of a first kiss, more glorious and romantic than she’d ever imagined it. Fred, the first boy she ever loved, became the only man she’d ever love. He orbited her world for decades, touching her life with his sweetness now and again. Each goodbye left her breathless and numb for months or years at a time. Her only consolation was that she knew he’d find her again. On that Christmas, when perfect first love bloomed from a perfect first kiss, Gem was Fred’s one and only, and he was hers.
My youngest sister, Thea, had no memories of her own of that Christmas, so Gem and I wove hers from our own, painting her the mental pictures of the many miracles that unfolded before us, and her special place in them. Through the years, my sisters and I re-told the story of that Christmas hundreds of times, adding our adult insights and fresh details that revealed themselves throughout our lives.
Bits of memories flicker in the twilight as I gaze from my window onto the quiet boulevard in Jeffries, where I await the dawning of another Christmas Day. Our family’s story of that glorious holiday in 1931 defined so many aspects of our lives. As darkness falls, the multitude of stars across the night sky rival the number of heaven's angels, I await the glorious Coming.
Gem passed away a decade ago. Thea died too young. Now the story of our Christmas of 1933 is mine alone to tell. I share it with you here.
With love,
Anna Ghere
Chapter 1
Holding the skirt of my favorite blue dress high above my knees, I ran the last block of Walnut Street with my coat billowing behind me. The coal smoke belching from the chimneys smelled of winter. As I turned onto Jackson Street, I ran headlong into a stiff October wind that chilled me to the bone before rattling its way through the last of the lifeless leaves clinging to the sugar maples that lined the street at perfect intervals.
There's nothing colder than the ashes of love. Those words slipped across my mind at the most unexpected moments. Where did I first hear them? Not in a feature film I watched with my sister Gem at the Clinton Theater. Not from a book my cousin Charlie read to me while curled up in our window seat. I resolved the words came to me in a dream some weeks ago, drifting up the cold air return to pierce my sleep, but for a moment. I wondered if those ashes were colder than an Indiana autumn wind. Tugging my coat around my body, I kept running.
I felt the ground pitch and shake beneath me as the 4:20 entered the Wanatah Depot. Out of breath, I gulped the cold air into my lungs. "Popo, I'm coming," I whispered.
My patent leather shoes, now a season too tight, clattered along the sidewalk as I picked up speed, leaving a whirl of dead leaves in my wake. On Friday afternoons, I took my place on the platform alongside the station master to await my father's arrival from another long week selling feed and seed to farmers across the state.
Today, I'd gotten a late start, losing track of time watching Mother prepare my sister Thea's birthday supper of stewed chicken and dumplings with all the fixings, plus chocolate cake with a thick layer of frosting for dessert. Mother had called her special supper "a real celebration." It had been a hard year for her. It was good to see an aura of contentment return to her face as she moved gracefully about her kitchen chores toward our perfect family meal.
While Mother prepared for the celebration, my brothers, sisters, and cousin gathered around the big Zenith radio in the green room listening to the National Barn Dance on WLS out of Chicago while taking turns playing checkers on the floor. After beating my cousin Charlie, I'd ignored his demands for a rematch, choosing instead to climb atop a stool in the kitchen to watch Mother drop the thick dumplings, one at a time, into the simmering stew pot. I could almost taste the egg sac, rough in my mouth. On this special day I was sure everyone would get a small bite of the delicacy, but Mother always saved the chicken liver and gizzard for Popo, who would make a lip-smacking production out of eating them while praising Mother's cooking as the rest of his family chuckled at his antics. Anticipating Thea's birthday supper, heightened by the sweet smell of chocolate cake wafting from Mother's oven, distracted me from my Friday afternoon vigil-by-the-clock.
"Aren't you meeting Popo at the Wanatah Depot this afternoon?" Mother had asked me, as she pulled her round cake pans from the oven, careful to set them carefully on the counter to prevent the layers from falling. "You'd better get moving if you're going to make it on time."
"Did you hear it?"
Mother had nodded. Two long whistle blows followed by a short toot and another long blow signaled the train was approaching its last street crossing before the depot.
As I jumped down from the stool and raced for the front door, Mother followed me. "Be sure to wear your winter coat, young lady. It's cold outside today. I don't want you catching your death."
This year's mild Indiana autumn had finally bowed to a Canadian front, amping up its frigid fury each time it licked across Lake Michigan. Despite the cold, I focused on being on the depot's platform for my father's grand exit from the passenger car.
"Remember," Mother had called from the doorway as I ran across the yard, still struggling to get an arm into one of my coat sleeves. "I'm serving supper promptly at six o'clock, so remind your father not to linger. And button that coat!"
***
I watched the passenger train pull into the station as I ran across the tracks toward the platform that ran along the northbound rails. As one foot landed between the rails, I caught my other heel on the other rail, which caused me to slip across the slick worn steel and fall onto my hands and knees in the gravel along the track.
I sat up, tears of frustration flowing down my face, and picked off the stones clinging to my hands. One minute I was crying, the next I felt my father's arms lift me from the gravel and pull me to him.
"Is my girl okay?" Popo held me close, stroking my hair.
"I missed you on the platform," I now sobbed, allowing my emotions to wash over me.
"You didn't miss me, Angel. I'm right here."
Burying my face in my father's warm neck, he soothed me a moment, then carried me to the platform and sat me on one of the wooden benches that lined the outside wall of the depot. Taking his white handkerchief from the inside pocket of his long coat, he knelt in front of me an
Popo held the hem of my dress in his hand. "Look here, Angel, I don't think you tore your dress. I'm glad because it's my favorite. It matches your eyes."
Folding his handkerchief in half, he wiped my wet cheeks. "Now your tears won't freeze." I offered him a weak smile, knowing that was what he wanted to see. "We'll have your mother put something on that knee when we get home. I'm sure she can fix you up, good as new."
I nodded, a sense of joy flooding over me at the undivided attention of the father I so adored. Popo brushed my bobbed blond hair from my face and smoothed it down in back.
"What's this?" Popo held up a crisp brown maple leaf he'd pulled from my hair, then opening his hand, he let a gust of wind lift the leaf from his fingers and carry it down the train platform.
I sniffled, unable to hold back another smile. Popo smiled back before sitting down on the bench next to me, his hand covering mine. We sat in silence, as was often our way, and watched as the conductor assisted several passengers aboard, readying the train to continue its journey north to Chicago. We sat as the train shook and rattled past us, watching until it was out of sight. Then we sat a while longer.
Finally, Popo stood and smoothed his coat. "Someone's going to be disappointed if we don't stop by."
"Miss Roxy! She's probably wondering what happened to us. We should go. Mother said supper is at six. We don't want to be late."
"Nor would we want to walk past the Blue and White Café without stopping to say hello to everyone."
My father summoned the porter, who retrieved his leather satchel from inside the depot where he'd left it earlier. "Do you have a present for Thea?" I eyed Popo's familiar satchel, hoping he'd let me in on his secret.
"You'll have to wait and see, little Miss Nosey." Popo held out his satchel where I could see the bulge of the gift tucked inside.
Then he straightened his worn felt fedora and held out his hand to me. "Let's go see Roxy. I could use a cup of hot coffee right about now."
With that, the two of us departed the train depot hand-in-hand. We walked up Jackson Street toward the center of town, the wind at our backs.
***
The supper rush had already begun when Popo and I arrived at the Blue and White Café. Many of the town's men, especially widowers, appreciated the hot home-cooking offered by the café's proprietor, Roxy Lockwood. Railroaders working either the east/west-bound Nickel Plate line or the north/south-bound Wanatah line found Roxy's food and hospitality especially satisfying. On late afternoons like this one, the oily odor of the railroaders' overalls succumbed to the pleasing aroma of vegetable soup, pot roast, and Roxy's special spicy mincemeat pie, which she offered on her menu as soon as the weather cooled. It was one of the first signs of autumn in our small town of Jeffries.
As soon as we walked in, Roxy called out from behind the counter and offered a quick wave. "Where have you been?" Without waiting for Popo's response, she pointed. "There's a table toward the back. I'll be right with you."
Popo nodded a thank you, then guided me down the narrow aisle between the row of high stools at the counter and the single line of tables along the wall. Nestled between the Clinton Theater and the National Bank building a half block off the public square, the inside of the Blue and White Café always reminded me of a cave. Sunlight poured in through the plate glass door and window at the front of this busy eating establishment, but beyond the second or third stool at the counter, the room fell into perpetual shadow, lighted only by a sparse row of bare bulbs along the ceiling. On weekend nights, Roxy often opened her basement room to capture the overflow of departing patrons from the Clinton Theater, who stop in for a cup of coffee and a slice of her delicious pie before calling it a night.
My father walked toward our designated table, greeting his many friends and acquaintances.
"Good to see you."
"How's the family?"
"Have you heard if Joe Pence recovered from that fall he took the other day?"
Popo always commanded the spotlight when he entered the diner.
I sat down on the chair Popo pulled out for me and sighed, wishing we'd arrived in time to find a couple of empty stools along the counter. I preferred sitting there where I could better see the comings and goings and take the occasional spin on the stool when Popo was otherwise engaged with one of the café's patrons. Too short to touch the tarnished brass foot rail that ran the length of the lunch counter, I'd content myself by dangling my feet while Popo absorbed the local news.
I decided it didn't matter that we were sitting at a table where I couldn't see over the patrons' heads. We had Thea's birthday celebration to get to, so I knew we wouldn't stay long.
"What will it be?" I heard Roxy's gravelly voice behind me. "How about a hot cider or a cup of cocoa?"
"I think my daughter prefers a bottle of pop, even on the coldest days of winter. Am I right, Angel?"
The thought of those cold ashes crossed my mind again. "Cocoa, please. It's chilly outside today."
Popo chuckled. "Unpredictable as are all my girls. I'll have coffee, please."
"No pie?" Roxy looked astonished. "I saved a piece of Dutch apple just for you."
"Roxy, now don't you tempt me with pie today. It's little Thea's third birthday, so if I know what's good for me, I'll save room for the feast Maggie is preparing. I'll have to pass on the pie, just this once." Turning, he asked me, "Is pie on the evening's menu?"
"Cake."
"Well, of course. Birthday cake. Chocolate, I hope."
I nodded.
"Any news from Indianapolis, Mr. Ghere?" Roxy listened intently, her curly hair spilling out around her face from the loose bun she'd fashioned that morning. With her arms folded over her white apron soiled with the day's specials, Roxy listened to Popo's account of the week, biting her lip as she took in every detail so she could pass it along to someone else later. Her carnation pink lipstick looked fresh and perfect, accenting rather than softening her thin, weathered face. Popo once told me that Roxy was a beautiful woman in her youth, but too many years of long hours at the Blue and White had taken their toll. I always thought about that whenever Popo spoke to Roxy, his eyes affixed to her animated face. I think he still saw the beautiful young woman of long ago.
"Order up." Roxy turned toward the serving window and nodded. Paul, Roxy's latest husband, worked six days a week alongside his wife.
"I'm coming, hon." Giving the table two quick raps with her knuckles, she added, "It won't be but a minute."
When Miss Roxy was back behind the counter, calling out a string of orders, I asked Popo why Miss Roxy never had children.
"I suppose it just didn't work out for her."
"I think Miss Roxy would have been a wonderful mother."
"Yes, you're right, but she would have brought the child with her when she was working. That child would never have known for sure who its mother was."
God may not have blessed Roxy with children, but He blessed her with a steady stream of husbands, some better than others. "Roxy's been working in her family's diner since she was thirteen," Popo added. "The only time she's ever taken off work was for one of her honeymoons."
"That's funny, Popo. Does Miss Roxy have a lot of money?"
"She has enough. As long as the railroads are running, she'll always have enough."
My family had enough children, I thought. We had enough animals and enough friends, but we didn't have enough money for new shoes or coats or "frivolous things," as Mother called them. I wanted to ask Popo if we were poor, but I knew the answer. His saying we had enough wouldn't change things.
The chatter of Roxy's customers muffled the clatter of forks hitting plates. Popo said his goodbyes to a couple of gentlemen who were vacating a nearby table. Upon hearing Popo's voice, Old Man Gregory, who had taken a seat three tables away, twisted his chair to face the back where we sat, his pale blue eyes appearing huge through his thick spectacles.
Old Man Gregory called out to my father, his powerful voice cutting through the din. "Augie, my friend? Is that you?"
