Part Two is here. Go ahead. We'll still be here when you get back . . . Part Three.
Over tiny chicken sandwiches, the Ladies Aid discussed the certain disaster that was to befall their tiny town on December 3. Mrs. Jasper got so animated that she spilled her tea. Right into Mrs. Wayan's lap. A portent of things to come . . . The first meeting of the Christmas parade committee was held on October 13. Chairs had been set up in a non-committal and unbiased circle in the center of the high school gym. Jenna Grace and F. Roddy were among the first to arrive. Pointedly ignoring each other, they took seats at polar opposite sides of the circle. Then they spent the remaining few minutes alternately ignoring or glaring at the other. Reba wheeled in a coffee/tea cart and parked it beside a waiting table. She pulled out several pans of bars and divided her time between slicing and setting out and hovered anxiously over a fat tea kettle. The room began to fill with chatting, happy people. They drifted over to the refreshments and filled plates and cups. Then they found seats in the circle. The two already seated said nothing. Slowly, the chatter died out and people uncomfortably concentrated on eating and drinking. Jenna Grace cleared her throat. "Well, now that we have finished with the 'party' part of the meeting, maybe we can get down to business." "Exactly what I was going to say," F. Roddy said. "If you hadn't ignored decorum and jumped in." "Decorum?" Jenna Grace's eyebrows went up. "I just thought someone with a brain should take charge." "And you just assumed that could be you?" F. Roddy looked at his fingernails. Jenna Grace puffed up like a toad. "What are you saying, Froddy?" she said. "That you should be in charge?" "Well you got something right," F. Roddy said, ignoring her mocking use of his name. The crowd had gone completely silent by this time and were watching the two carefully, their heads swiveling back and forth from one to the other. Jenna Grace calmed herself with obvious effort. "I think we should put the person in charge who has already proved their leadership skills," she said, smoothing one hand over her immaculate hair. Jenna Grace always wore her grey-streaked hair scraped tightly into a bun at the back of her head. The thought of even one lock escaping was unthinkable. "And just what have you organized?" F. Roddy demanded. "I know they were looking for someone to run the cock-fighting out at Cowells. Is it your fine hand we see in that?" Jenna Grace puffed up again. "How dare you!" she hissed. "Oh. Sorry. Was there something else?" "You know dam - darn well, Froddy, that I've organized and directed the Ice Cream Festival for the past eight years!" she shouted. "Maybe one day there'll be actual ice cream there," F. Roddy said. Jenna Grace surged to her feet. "I refuse to sit here and be insulted!" she said, and turning smartly, marched towards the door. "Good. Now you can go somewhere else to be insulted," F. Roddy said. A sharp "Harrumph" was his only response. The door banged shut. "Well, now maybe we can get down to business," F. Roddy said. An uncomfortable silence met him. "People?" "I'm sorry, F. Roddy," Dennis said, getting to his feet. "I agreed to work with Jenna Grace and I'd better honor that." F. Roddy nodded. "Anyone else?" Several other people stood up and followed Dennis out the door. "Well, that's that," F. Roddy said. "Now shall we get down to work?" Surprisingly, they managed to plan the basic framework for the entire celebration. "See what you can accomplish when you have the right people?" F. Roddy asked. Meanwhile, Jenna Grace had circled her wagons on the far side of town. "Well," she said, tapping several sheets of paper together. "I think that's enough for our first evening. You have all been remarkably efficient and cooperative. Our basic plan is complete. Now all that's left is to flesh it out."
Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .