The Stone Soup Book of Festival and Holiday Stories

By Children’s Art Foundation - Stone Soup Inc.

Stone Soup is the international literary magazine and website publishing writing and art by young people under the age of 14. Founded in 1973, we have published more creative work by children than any other publisher, selecting the very best from thousands of submissions every year. This volume of stories about Festivals and Holidays is par

• Language: English
• Publisher: Children’s Art Foundation - Stone Soup Inc.
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780894090721

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The Stone Soup Book of Festival and Holiday Stories

Edited by Stone Soup staff.

Copyright © 2018 by the Children’s Art Foundation-Stone Soup Inc.

Previous editions:

The Stone Soup Book of Holiday Stories

(Children’s Art Foundation, 2015), ISBN 978-0-89409-043-1.

The Stone Soup Book of Holiday Stories eBook

(Children’s Art Foundation, 2015), ISBN 978-0-89409-044-8.

This edition brings together previous collections and additional material in a newly edited form.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher.

Children’s Art Foundation-Stone Soup Inc.

126 Otis Street, Santa Cruz, CA 95060

www.stonesoup.com

ISBN: 978-0-89409-065-3

ISBN: 978-0-89409-072-1 (e-book)

Book design by Joe Ewart

Typeset in Quincy CF and Neue Haas Unica

Printed in the U.S.A.

Cover: Being Lucia by Ravela Smyth, 11.

Illustration for the story published in Stone Soup, January/February 2015.

INTRODUCTION

NEW YEAR

FRIDAY NIGHT AT MISS FARIDA’S PIANO LESSON

TAE KATHLEEN KELLER, 8

HONESTY

ZHANG HE, 11

CHINESE NEW YEAR—PAYING RESPECT

CHRIS HOE, 13

GENERAL PATTON, DRILL SERGEANT

CHRYSTAN SKEFOS, 13

NEW YEAR CHAOS

LINDSEY NEEF, 13

VALENTINE’S DAY

THE VALENTINE TRAIL

HARRIET MALAS, 12

ALIAS WOLFIE (AN EXCERPT)

REBECCA TAMEL, 11

SECRET CRUSHES

EMMY J. X. WONG, 12

RECEPTACLE

JESSICA LAM, 11

ST PATRICK’S DAY

ST. PATRICK’S DAY

AMY MORRISON, 12

LEPRECHAUN RAIN

HANNAH OGDEN, 13

EASTER

WHEN THE EASTER BUNNY CAME

JOANNA ESTRADA, 6

FINDERS, KEEPERS

HOLLY WIST, 13

PLASTIC EGGS AND A WIND-UP RABBIT

CAMMIE KEEL, 13

PUBLIC HOLIDAYS

FIREWORKS

ANNA CURREY, 12

FIREWORK CITY

JEM BURCH, 13

MEMORIAL DAY

SHERRY MAYLE, 12

HALLOWEEN

OCTOBER’S FLIGHT

ZOE KAYTON, 12

MY LITTLE WITCH

JEANINE QUINN, 11

ELLIE’S MARKET

ALICE MAR-ABE, 11

THE EVIL WITCH

JOSPEPHINE TAVERA, AGE UNKNOWN

THANKSGIVING

A CHERRY PIE THANKSGIVING

SHANNON ELDERON, 12

ONE FANTASTIC TURKEY

ALLEGRA RICH, 11

MY THANKS

ELIZABETH PUTERBAUGH, 11

MY GRANDMA JOHNSON

MELANIE MASTIN, 12

HANUKKAH

THE HAPPY HANUKKAH BLANKET

JENNA MOSKOWITZ, 11

ELF HAT

MOLLY DEKTAR, 13

CHRISTMAS

NUTCRACKER DREAMS

RACHEL HELLWIG, 13

A CHRISTMAS TREE

ALISSA CORDNER, 10

THE CHRISTMAS ANGEL

ALEXANDRA TEAGUE, 11

THE EIGHT SNOW GLOBES

NINA LAMPERT, 12

A CHRISTMAS SECRET

LAURA CHADDOCK, 11

A CHRISTMAS WISH

ALEX IVKER, 11

CHRISTMAS MAGIC

LIZZY TEERLINK, 13

WHERE IS THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT?

CHRISTY CALAME, 12

CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

VANESSA COAKLEY, 12

A CALF FOR CHRISTMAS

WILLIAM GWALTNEY, 12

A FORTUNATE SOUL

ISABEL FOLGER, 10

THE CHRISTMAS REALIZATION

MELISSA SMITH, 13

THE ANNUAL HOLIDAY SUMMER STREET SHOWDOWN

ALEYDIS BARNES, 12

CHRISTMAS GIFTS

SCOTT LIMBACHER, 10

A MILLION SANTAS INVADE NEW YORK CITY

OLIVIA CALAMIA, 12

STILLE NACHT: A WORLD WAR I CHRISTMAS

WILLIAM GWALTNEY, 13

SNOW

BRIGID ARMBRUST, 12, AND MOLLY ARMBRUST, 8

LONGING

EMILY SCHNEIDER, 13

A SPECIAL PRESENT

ISABEL FOLGER, 12

CEREMONIES AND RELIGIOUS CELEBRATIONS

THE PUBERTY CEREMONY

LEON KING, 12

SPIRIT OF LOVE

SONIA CARROLL, 12

BUBBE’S MEZUZAH

LURIA RITTENBERG, 12

THE FIRE OF DIWALI

ASHA BAUDART-GEHLAWAT, 10

EPIPHANY FELOS

ANDREA LUCE, 11

SUNRISE

EMILY BLACKMER, 12

BEING LUCIA

MOLLY O’TOOLE, 12

A BEAUTIFUL MEMORY

EMMA LOIZEAUX, 11

MAIDU CREATION STORY

JAYSON HAYS, AGE UNKNOWN

FIESTA

NATALIA M. THOMPSON, 11

ABOUT THIS BOOK

INTRODUCTION

The 53 stories and three poems in this volume were written by authors between the ages of six and 13, selected for publication in Stone Soup magazine. Since its beginning in 1973, Stone Soup has published art, poetry, and short fiction springing from the imaginations of young writers and artists. The excitement and traditions associated with the events that mark each year have been part of that work since the very first issue of the magazine.

In this collection, you will find stories about family gatherings, gift giving, seasonal rituals and performances, and fun with friends, all with holidays, festivals or collective celebrations–secular and religious–at their core. Predictably, for a magazine whose home is in the United States, the longest section contains stories based around Christmas, with a smattering about Hanukkah, Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July. But you’ll also read poems and stories about celebrations in other cultures, from Diwali to a Navajo puberty ceremony, and meet a few Halloween witches, solstice sunrises, and St. Patrick’s Day leprechauns along the way. Join us for a walk through a year punctuated by festivals, holidays–and our young authors’ creative thinking.

THE EDITORS, STONE SOUP

NOVEMBER 2018

FRIDAY NIGHT AT MISS FARIDA’S PIANO LESSON

TAE KATHLEEN KELLER, 8

Miss Farida loves

vanilla-smelling candles

which flicker

against the sleeping couch.

I place my sandals

beside the spill

of shoes and slippers strewn

across the plastic mat

in the hallway to her room.

I see the Sesame Street stickers propped

near the electric piano,

tangled in a hoop

of dreaming dust,

and the pedals, wrapped in a layer

of fine metal.

Miss Farida takes my stack

of weary books

that whimper as she turns to Stepping Stones.

My delicate hands

look like tiny mice skittering

across the keys.

I play to a beat from the metronome

fast as a hummingbird’s heartbeat,

slow as a whale’s.

Miss Farida takes a pencil

from her hair and writes

in my notebook.

"Tonight you will write a song

about New Year’s."

I pick up my denim

bag and dump

my books into it.

Already, I begin to hear

the notes of endless

possibilities for my composition:

The orchestra of 10,000

fuchsia fireworks exploding

in the air,

the symphony of sparklers,

the dropping ball of melody,

the score of the night,

filled with new beginnings.

HONESTY

ZHANG HE, 11

It was a freezing cold winter day in China. My family and I were visiting my beloved paternal grandmother who lives in Zhengzhou, a city in China. And this time we were celebrating the Chinese New Year with her.

It was said that eating oranges during the special occasion is meant for good luck. Being superstitious, my father and I went to the market to buy a few before the big day. The market in China is different. It’s usually a street with small booths. These booths sell fresh vegetables, fruits, and even meat. People who have farms in the countryside always come to the market to sell their goods.

When my father and I arrived, the market was crowded with people, and of course, oranges. We looked around in the crowd of people and stopped at the sight of a small booth. This small booth was quite different; it was just a big piece of cloth on the ground with a few fresh-looking oranges. But I wondered why there were no customers. Unable to stop my curiosity, I persuaded my father to take a look at the oranges. We walked toward the booth and saw a young girl sitting on a stool, reading next to the booth. Her mind seemed to have whirled into the story, because she didn’t even notice us when we walked toward her.

My father cleared his throat and asked, How much are the oranges?

The girl heard him and jumped up as though her stool had just been electrified. Oh . . . uh . . . what? the girl stammered.

How much are the oranges? my father repeated patiently.

Oh . . . three for one yuan, the girl answered politely. They are not totally ripe . . . a bit sour, she added, when my father was examining the oranges carefully.

After a while he looked up and said, I don’t mind if they are sour . . . I’ll buy twenty of them. Both the girl and I looked at him with surprise; I never thought my father could be so generous. Then the girl put the oranges in a bag and gave them to him. My father carelessly stuffed some money into her hand and we walked out of the busy street.

Why did you buy so many oranges from her? I asked my father as we walked toward the bus stop.

Well, she was so truthful and even told me that her own oranges are sour; besides, she really enjoys studying. And look at her book, it’s so old; maybe she can use the money she earned to buy some books!

I nodded my head vigorously after hearing my father’s words. Just then, I felt somebody tugging my arm; I turned and recognized the person as the girl we bought the oranges from. Ran . . . ran all the . . . way here, never . . . thought you walked so fast . . . here’s . . . your change . . . she panted, and stuffed the money in my hand. Got to go and . . . look after my booth, bye! Before I could mutter a thanks, she had already turned a corner and was out of sight. I stared at the coins in my hand; although it was only a few coins, the girl and her act of honesty will be etched in my memory forever . . .

CHINESE NEW YEAR—PAYING RESPECT

CHRIS HOE, 13

It was January 28—Chinese New Year in Singapore. Everyone in our house was busy, my parents shifting in and out of the bathroom, my elder brother changing into new clothes he received, a new shirt, slacks and tie, and for myself, I was busy putting oranges (in Singapore oranges are a symbol of gold, and you give these out to people in bunches of two) into a plastic bag. Finally our family was ready. My mother and father sat in two wooden chairs, behind them a white wall with a large round poster of an Oriental dragon with bright borders of red around the poster. This was the family room, and according to Chinese tradition my brother and I were required to kneel in front of our parents, paying respect by also offering tea to them. I knelt in front of my mother with a cup of tea in my hands. She took the cup from my hands, drank from it, then returned the cup to me with a bright shiny red packet, which is called Hong Bao. It contains some money, and for the rest of the day we would be calling on relatives to receive and give out a lot of these red packets. I thanked my mother and then did the same routine to my father. He also gave me a Hong Bao. My older brother then followed my example and a couple of minutes later our family was on the road.

Our first stop was at my grandmother’s house, a one-floor, two-square-meter house. The garden and gate’s driveway was cleaned and swept for it was bad luck to have an unclean house on Chinese New Year. Over the door there was a large red cloth symbolizing luck (in Chinese culture the color for luck is red), and written on it in bright gold letters were the words, Gong Xi Fa Chia, meaning good luck and prosperity.

Hello, my grandmother said.

Hi, hi, we all replied. I could see from afar her face clear and smooth, but as we came closer to where she stood in the open doorway, I could see the wrinkles of time on the corners of her eyes and face. Her hair was black with many white hairs showing her old age. After that all the greetings were given out to my grandmother, uncle, aunt, and our aunt-in-law. My family paid our respect to our grandmother, and the same procedure as I had done for my parents followed.

I walked to the dining table where all the Chinese New Year treats were. The table was round and heavy, made of oak, and had a glass covering on the top. There were eighteen small bowls of tidbits, bright orange butter cake, golden brown cookies, dark chocolates, candies, and numerous other foods. I took a few samples and walked to where more relatives were coming into the house. I received more Hong Baos and greetings, and of course my mother and father gave out more Hong Baos too.

A dragon dance was held, starting in the front yard and gradually making its way inside. This procession was to drive all spirits of evil away from my grandma’s house. It was fantastic! In the corner the huge drums were pounded over and over again in steady rhythm as the dragon was dancing around. The dragon was made of a long piece of cloth in a bright design of colors. At the front was a wooden headpiece of a dragon. Two acrobatic professionals would man the dragon, one in the front and one in the back. The headpiece had special features; it could be made to blink and open or close its mouth. The dragon danced around, performing daring feats such as the front part jumping on to the back part, and jumping over miniature bridges. The warm weather of the tropics shone down immensely, the dancers sweating, the heat on my back as I stood, watching the dancers from the porch. We cheered as the dragon procession went to its climax as the dragon jumped and caught some cabbage in the air.

GENERAL PATTON, DRILL SERGEANT

CHRYSTAN SKEFOS, 13

Mom! Let’s get this one! It looks like Grandpa did!

Honey, Mom said, that’s General Patton. She looked perplexed.

I know. He was a famous general in World War II, like Grandpa.

With a muffled laugh, my mother consented to buying the figurine. What mother could deprive her five-year-old of the belief that his grandfather was a war hero? To me, that five-year-old, we had a real-life G.I. Joe in the family!

It was nearing Christmas, a holiday we would spend at my grandparents’ home as we did every year. That year, I had asked Santa for camouflage, walkie-talkies, and as many sets of army figurines as his elves could make. Christmas morning tested patience with its seemingly slow arrival, but my dawn reconnoitering revealed the right number of presents for me under Nana’s tree, laden with slightly peeling glass ornaments and globs of tinsel. I unceremoniously ripped off the paper, scrutinizing each emerging present. Moving on to the one remaining package bearing my name, my eyes grew large and a grin overtook my face—a real helmet of a real soldier! Mom read the small card: To Nick, love Grandpa. I began jumping up and down, bounced over to Grandpa, and delivered an extremely firm handshake (soldiers didn’t hug) of gratitude and respect.

Then on to my older sister, who inexplicably kept wandering off as I explained that this helmet was her grandfather’s, and that she should respect him for being such a brave soldier in the war. She exchanged anxious glances with Mom (hardly a proper response), but I was too much in awe of Grandpa to bother with her unheroic soul!

That Christmas of my fifth year, I idolized Grandpa, my personal Patton. G.I. Joes, fatigues, and helmets—all made this enchantment spiral exponentially so that my family was beginning to question if the fascination was merely a phase, or whether they would have to take affirmative action toward ending it!

The walkie-talkie solved the problem all too soon. Company was invited for New Year’s brunch, and I was drafted to help with the Big Clean (otherwise known as KP). While ordered about, I was devising plans of espionage. Having strategically concealed one walkie-talkie in the den, I assumed my post in the stairwell with the twin walkie talkie as the guests trickled in. It wasn’t long before voices came through loud and clear.

Look! A walkie-talkie! I bet David would love this—perfect for his fort! A perceptive guest had found my tool of reconnaissance, oblivious to the fact that it was carrying her every word to my waiting ears.

Oh, that. Grandpa’s voice signaled his entrance. Nick’s excited by that army paraphernalia.

It’s a phase, Mom’s voice interjected. The problem is that he’s convinced Dad is a war hero!

My mind raced, and my fingers drummed against the banister. Why would that be a problem? It was true!

Truth is, I was only in the army to fix people’s teeth—a dentist who wished he were home! We haven’t had the heart to tell him!

After a few seconds I remembered to breathe! How was that possible? All this time I had believed that Grandpa was not just a soldier, but a soldier of achievement, prestige, bravery. Only in the army to fix people’s teeth? I was incredulous. This news was devastating, a source of embarrassment. I was mad at myself but began to wonder why my family would allow me to be so enthralled with something that wasn’t true. I felt betrayed and gullible. I collected my wits, changed out of my fatigues, and placed my walkie-talkie on the bed. Somehow everything looked phony now. As I took the helmet off, I decided to forget about my career in the army. I could always be the policeman I had wanted to be before I knew of Grandpa’s army life—or, really, of my dream of his army life.

On that New Year’s Day my opinion of my grandfather plummeted. But that, too, was only a phase. Now I teasingly refer to him as General Patton, the dentist, and he responds with the family joke—really just a drill sergeant!

NEW YEAR CHAOS

LINDSEY NEEF, 13

Five minutes! Kristen Miller screamed. She raced into the kitchen where I was making popcorn and came to a screeching stop. It was New Year’s Eve, and I was babysitting.

OK! Great! I said as I poured the melted butter over the popcorn. Why don’t you turn on the television? Maybe you’ll find some sort of New Year’s Eve special on.

Hey, Scott, turn on the TV! Kristen yelled as she raced away like a runaway train. She almost knocked down Scott, her little brother, who was entering the kitchen.

Lindsey! he whined, staring up at me. Kristen’s bossing me around again.

I am not. You’re just so stupid that. . . . I clapped a hand over Kristen’s mouth before she could finish her thought.

Look. According to that clock, the new year starts in, um, four minutes and thirty-four seconds. Here are the two bowls of popcorn. Why don’t each of you take one and go into the den? I’ll be there in a minute. With that, I shooed them out of the kitchen.

While I was pouring some root beer into glasses, Cisco, their dog, entered the kitchen. He looked up at me so mournfully that I gave him