A Christmas Festival: A Novella

By Derek McFadden

Novelist (On Ashlyn's Bridge) and poet (Prose from a Grandson to a Senior Fellow), Derek McFadden returns with a spirited novella that sparkles with the magic and joy of holidays past.

Though afflicted with cerebral palsy, the main character, Walter Mathews, fueled by the timeless words of loving encouragement inherited from his dead father, has been blessed with a wife and daughter and holiday traditions that are eternal. It is this loving memory of his Papa and the festive holiday celebrations they once shared that allow him and his family to wake up one Christmas morning to fresh-baked pies, loving sarcasm, ageless wisdom and inspired blessings that have crossed the great divide.

A timeless story, as inspiring and entertaining in the middle of summer as it is during the holiday season, grab a cup of hot apple cider, a slice of warm apple pie, and cuddle up with this treasure for the soul. You'll soon smell the aroma of pine needles and hear the excited voices of generations of children as they await the arrival of that special day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 8, 2004
• ISBN: 9780595762170

Derek McFadden

Derek McFadden is the author of the previously-published On Ashlyn's Bridge. He lives in Redmond, Washington.

Book preview

Prologue

More Alike Than Different

When I was in high school, a man came to speak to us, the entire student body, crammed into the gymnasium, about cerebral palsy. I did not doubt that, at least in part, this talk was due to my own willingness to elaborate on the issue when the time was right.

The man speaking that day brought a slide show with him that contained plenty of interesting graphics. And he said something that stuck with me.

We are more alike than different.

Translation: We have more similarities than you know.

Sure, I couldn’t (and still can’t) button jeans. I can’t cut my food, or tie my shoes. I’ve never been known for my prowess at driving a car. I can’t swing a baseball bat all the way around. I can’t remember the last time I made solid contact using one, if there was a last time.

I have my shortcomings, but so does anyone and everyone else. We are more alike than different.

I have wants and hopes and dreams. We are more alike than different.

I have disappointments and letdowns. So do you. We are more alike than different.

I fiercely desire to express my feelings in hopes that increasing the compassion of others will make the world better. We are more alike than different.

People ask me, What’s the hardest thing to accept about the reality of cerebral palsy?

They expect me to say, Well, having it. Having to deal with it.

No big enigma there, right?

Except that I wouldn’t say that.

Not being accepted, is my answer.

A lot of times, the reply engenders blank stares. Which is fine. What it tells me about the individual initiating the stare is that they don’t get it. That by the grace of a higher power, they were saved from my fate. They don’t understand how close they came.

I would think, as I saw people with their feeling-sorry looks. Stop looking at my legs. Stop focusing on what I cannot change. Focus on me. The person that is me. If you got to know me, you’d like me.

But any attention I drew was in direct correlation with my having walked into a room or the way I did so. It got on my nerves.

Don’t pay any mind, people would advise.

A wonderful manner in which to quell the problem, if it had quelled it. Unfortunately, it remained a nuisance.

Was it a nuisance because I was making it one? Was I exacerbating the problem of the palsy by buying into what everyone else saw it as?

Well, I wasn’t going to lay the blame on myself any longer. I was going to write about people with cerebral palsy and tell their sto-

ries, which are, for the record, just as compelling and worthy of paper as anyone else’s.

This is the story that came from that declaration.

I write this story because everyone needs to be made aware that we are more alike than different, and I write this story because the past can not become the future until we stop, allow ourselves to be given pause, and reflect.

In That Shortest Day

I find myself In this shortest day, Discover darkness coming here to stay, Enveloping the afternoon. And then I remember.

There was a man of little fame. On this shortest day, his birthday came. He was a man who taught me much, And read me stories, And made me lunch.

He gave me hope when only its smallest buds blossomed That life could be won over.

Flourishing, he showed me wordlessly, And then sometimes with gregarious cheer, Had nothing to do with one’s physical prowess Or financial station But all to do with willingness shown To spring from the darkness of an uncertain winter Into a soul’s self-proclaimed, life-affirming summer.

CHAPTER 1

He’s Still Here

The Day I Was Born

The lights are bright, and I’m not quite cognizant of all that is happening. Of the doctors, the nurses, how they are trying to save my life.

Nor am I aware yet of a man called Papa. He will come to be of great importance in my life. But I don’t know that yet.

I am small, premature, coming two months early.

I watch from just inside as the ancient doctor, forceps at the ready, yanks at my ear in order to raise me into day and into life, and inadvertently he succeeds in nearly removing the ear from my head.

Thanks, I think, as I shriek and cry and do all the things you might do if some crotchety old doctor tried to remove your ear from your unsuspecting head.

I wish my eyes would open, but they won’t. I wish my fists would open out of their painful position, clenched and unmov-ing. But they won’t, a product of the cerebral palsy which, together with me, entered this world.

There is a man who is looking down on me and smiling. He has watched my birth with everyone else. He has been asked, following the ordeal, to have a drink. Initially, he agrees, but then thinks better of it. It is the day Papa quits hard liquor.

Papa. When I think back on him now, I can’t help but smile. And cry a little, too, but only because he is no longer with us, and I have to wonder if he sees me at this computer writing these words.

Even as I wonder, I know he does. He’s saying, Go for it, kid. So I will.

But I’m gonna need some help, Pop. Think you