Classic Fiction Surf

A Christmas Memory | The Saturday Evening Post

Cover for A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote

Weekly Publication

The better of The Saturday Evening Post in your inbox!

Think about a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning greater than 20 years in the past. Think about the kitchen of a spreading previous home in a rustic city. A nice black range is its important function; however there’s additionally an enormous spherical desk and a hearth with two rocking chairs positioned in entrance of it. Simply in the present day the fireside commenced its seasonal roar.

A lady with shorn white hair is standing on the kitchen window. She is sporting tennis footwear and a shapeless grey sweater over a summery calico gown. She is small and sprightly, like a bantam hen; however, because of an extended youthful sickness, her shoulders are pitifully hunched. Her face is exceptional — not in contrast to Lincoln’s, craggy like that, and tinted by solar and wind; however it’s delicate too, finely boned, and her eyes are sherry-colored and timid. “Oh my,” she exclaims, her breath smoking the windowpane, “it’s fruitcake weather!”

The individual to whom she is talking is myself. I’m 7; she is 60-something. We’re cousins, very distant ones, and we now have lived collectively — properly, so long as I can keep in mind. Different individuals inhabit the home, relations; and although they’ve energy over us, and often make us cry, we aren’t, on the entire, an excessive amount of conscious of them. We’re one another’s greatest pal. She calls me Buddy, in reminiscence of a boy who was previously her greatest pal. The different Buddy died within the 1880s, when she was nonetheless a toddler. She continues to be a toddler.

“I knew it before I got out of bed,” she says, turning away from the window with a purposeful pleasure in her eyes. “The courthouse bell sounded so cold and clear. And there were no birds singing; they’ve gone to warmer country, yes indeed. Oh, Buddy, stop stuffing biscuit and fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat. We’ve 30 cakes to bake.”

It’s all the time the identical: a morning arrives in November, and my pal, as if formally inaugurating the Christmas time of yr that exhilarates her creativeness and fuels the blaze of her coronary heart, declares: “It’s fruitcake weather! Fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat.”

The hat is discovered, a straw cartwheel corsaged with velvet roses out-of-doors has pale: it as soon as belonged to a extra trendy relative. Collectively, we information our buggy, a dilapidated child carriage, out to the backyard and right into a grove of pecan timber. The buggy is mine; that’s, it was purchased for me once I was born. It’s product of wicker, slightly unraveled, and the wheels wobble like a drunkard’s legs. However it’s a trustworthy object; springtimes, we take it to the woods and fill it with flowers, herbs, wild fern for our porch pots; in the summertime, we pile it with picnic paraphernalia and sugar-cane fishing poles and roll it right down to the sting of a creek; it has its winter makes use of, too: as a truck for hauling firewood from the yard to the kitchen, as a heat mattress for Queenie, our robust little orange and white rat terrier who has survived distemper and two rattlesnake bites. Queenie is trotting beside it now.

Three hours later we’re again within the kitchen hulling a heaping buggyload of windfall pecans. Our backs harm from gathering them: how onerous they have been to seek out (the primary crop having been shaken off the timber and bought by the orchard’s house owners, who are usually not us) among the many concealing leaves, the frosted, deceiving grass. Caarackle! A cheery crunch, scraps of miniature thunder sound because the shells collapse and the golden mound of candy oily ivory meat mounts within the milk-glass bowl. Queenie begs to style, and once in a while my pal sneaks her a mite, although insisting we deprive ourselves. “We mustn’t, Buddy. If we start, we won’t stop. And there’s scarcely enough as there is. For 30 cakes.” The kitchen is rising darkish. Nightfall turns the window right into a mirror: our reflections mingle with the rising moon as we work by the hearth within the firelight. Finally, when the moon is sort of excessive, we toss the ultimate hull into the hearth and, with joined sighs, watch it catch flame. The buggy is empty, the bowl is brimful.

We eat our supper (chilly biscuits, bacon, blackberry jam) and talk about tomorrow. Tomorrow the type of work I like greatest begins: shopping for. Cherries and citron, ginger and vanilla and canned Hawaiian pineapple, rinds and raisins and walnuts and whiskey and oh, a lot flour, butter, so many eggs, spices, flavorings: why, we’ll want a pony to tug the buggy house.

However earlier than these purchases might be made, there’s the query of cash. Neither of us has any. Apart from skinflint sums individuals in the home sometimes present (a dime is taken into account very huge cash); or what we earn ourselves from numerous actions: holding rummage gross sales, promoting buckets of hand-picked blackberries, jars of selfmade jam and apple jelly and peach preserves, rounding up flowers for funerals and weddings. As soon as we gained 79th prize, 5 dollars, in a nationwide soccer contest. Not that we all know a idiot factor about soccer. It’s simply that we enter any contest we hear about: in the meanwhile our hopes are centered on the $50,000 Grand Prize being provided to call a brand new model of espresso (we prompt “A.M.”; and, after some hesitation, for my pal thought it maybe sacrilegious, the slogan “A.M.! Amen!”). To inform the reality, our solely actually worthwhile enterprise was the Enjoyable and Freak Museum we carried out in a back-yard woodshed two summers in the past. The Enjoyable was a stereopticon with slide views of Washington and New York lent us by a relative who had been to these locations (she was livid when she found why we’d borrowed it); the Freak was a three-legged biddy hen hatched by one in every of our personal hens. Everyone hereabouts needed to see that biddy: we charged grown ups a nickel, youngsters two cents. And took in a great $20 earlier than the museum shut down because of the decease of the primary attraction.

However a method and one other we do annually accumulate Christmas financial savings, a Fruitcake Fund. These moneys we maintain hidden in an historic bead purse underneath a unfastened board beneath the ground underneath a chamber pot underneath my pal’s mattress. The purse is seldom faraway from this protected location besides to make a deposit or, as occurs each Saturday, a withdrawal; for on Saturdays I’m allowed 10 cents to go to the image present. My good friend has by no means been to an image present, nor does she intend to: “I’d rather hear you tell the story, Buddy. That way I can imagine it more. Besides, a person my age shouldn’t squander their eyes. When the Lord comes, let me see him clear.” Along with by no means having seen a film, she has by no means: eaten in a restaurant, traveled greater than 5 miles from residence, acquired or despatched a telegram, learn something besides humorous papers and the Bible, worn cosmetics, cursed, wished somebody hurt, advised a lie on objective, let a hungry canine go hungry. Right here are some things she has achieved, does do: killed with a hoe the most important rattlesnake ever seen on this county (16 rattles), dip snuff (secretly), tame hummingbirds (simply attempt it) until they stability on her finger, inform ghost tales (we each consider in ghosts) so tingling they chill you in July, speak to herself, take walks within the rain, develop the prettiest japonicas on the town, know the recipe for each type of old-time Indian remedy, together with a magical wart remover.

Now, with supper completed, we retire to the room in a faraway a part of the home the place my pal sleeps in a scrap-quilt-covered iron mattress painted rose pink, her favourite colour. Silently, wallowing within the pleasures of conspiracy, we take the bead purse from its secret place and spill its contents on the scrap quilt. Greenback payments, tightly rolled and inexperienced as Might buds. Somber 50-cent items, heavy sufficient to weight a lifeless man’s eyes. Pretty dimes, the liveliest coin, the one that basically jingles. Nickels and quarters, worn clean as creek pebbles. However principally a hateful heap of bitter-odored pennies. Final summer time others in the home contracted to pay us a penny for each 25 flies we killed. Oh, the carnage of August: the flies that flew to heaven! But it was not work through which we took satisfaction. And, as we sit counting pennies, it’s as if we have been again tabulating lifeless flies. Neither of us has a head for figures; we rely slowly, lose monitor, begin once more. In line with her calculations, we’ve got $12.73. In line with mine, precisely $13. “I do hope you’re wrong, Buddy. We can’t mess around with 13. The cakes will fall. Or put somebody in the cemetery. Why, I wouldn’t dream of getting out of bed on the 13th.” That is true: she all the time spends 13ths in mattress. So, to be on the protected aspect, we subtract a penny and toss it out the window.


Of the components that go into our fruitcakes, whiskey is the costliest, in addition to the toughest to acquire: State legal guidelines forbid its sale. However everyone is aware of you should purchase a bottle from Mr. Haha Jones. And the subsequent day, having accomplished our extra prosaic buying, we set out for Mr. Haha’s enterprise handle, a “sinful” (to cite public opinion) fish-fry and dancing cafe down by the river. We’ve been there earlier than, and on the identical errand, however in earlier years our dealings have been with Haha’s spouse, an iodine-dark Indian lady with brassy peroxided hair and a dead-tired disposition. Truly, we’ve by no means laid eyes on her husband, although we’ve heard that he’s an Indian too. A big with razor scars throughout his cheeks. They name him Haha as a result of he’s so gloomy, a person who by no means laughs. As we strategy his cafe (a big log cabin festooned in and out with chains of garish-gay bare mild bulbs and standing by the river’s muddy edge underneath the shade of river timber the place moss drifts by means of the branches like grey mist) our steps decelerate. Even Queenie stops prancing and sticks shut by. Individuals have been murdered in Haha’s cafe. Minimize to items. Hit on the top. There’s a case arising in courtroom subsequent month. Naturally these goings-on occur at night time when the coloured lights forged loopy patterns and the victrola wails. Within the daytime Haha’s is shabby and abandoned. I knock on the door, Queenie barks, my good friend calls: “Mrs. Haha, ma’am? Anyone to home?”

Footsteps. The door opens. Our hearts overturn. It’s Mr. Haha Jones himself! And he is a big; he does have scars; he doesn’t smile. No, he glowers at us by means of Devil-tilted eyes and calls for to know: “What you want with Haha?”

For a second we’re too paralyzed to inform. Presently my good friend half-finds her voice, a whispery voice at greatest: “If you please, Mr. Haha, we’d like a quart of your finest whiskey.”

His eyes tilt extra. Would you consider it? Haha is smiling! Laughing, too. “Which one of you is a drinkin’ man?”

“It’s for making fruitcakes, Mr. Haha. Cooking. “

This sobers him. He frowns. “That’s no way to waste good whiskey.” However, he retreats into the shadowed cafe and seconds later seems carrying a bottle of daisy-yellow unlabeled liquor. He demonstrates its sparkle within the daylight and says: “Two dollars.”

We pay him with nickels and dimes and pennies. All of a sudden, as he jangles the cash in his hand like a fistful of cube, his face softens. “Tell you what,” he proposes, pouring the cash again into our bead purse, “just send me one of them fruitcakes instead.”

“Well,” my good friend remarks on our means residence, “there’s a lovely man. We’ll put an extra cup of raisins in his cake.”

The black range, stoked with coal and firewood, glows like a lighted pumpkin. Eggbeaters whirl, spoons spin spherical in bowls of butter and sugar, vanilla sweetens the air, ginger spices it; melting, nose-tingling odors saturate the kitchen, suffuse the home, drift out to the world on puffs of chimney smoke. In 4 days our work is completed. Thirty-one desserts, dampened with whiskey, bask on windowsills and cabinets.

Who’re they for?

Associates. Not essentially neighbor pals: certainly, the bigger share is meant for individuals we’ve met perhaps as soon as, maybe under no circumstances. Individuals who’ve struck our fancy. Like President Roosevelt. Just like the Reverend and Mrs. J.C. ­Lucey, Baptist missionaries to Borneo who lectured right here final ­winter. Or the little knife grinder who comes by means of city twice a yr. Or Abner Packer, the driving force of the six o’clock bus from Cellular, who exchanges waves with us every single day as he passes in a dust-cloud whoosh. Or the younger Wistons, a California couple whose automotive one afternoon broke down outdoors the home and who spent a pleasing hour chatting with us on the porch (younger Mr. Wiston snapped our image, the one one we’ve ever had taken). Is it as a result of my good friend is shy with everybody besides strangers that these strangers, and merest acquaintances, appear to us our truest pals? I feel sure. Additionally, the scrapbooks we hold of thank-you’s on White Home stationery, time-to-time communications from California and Borneo, the knife grinder’s penny publish playing cards, make us really feel related to eventful worlds past the kitchen with its view of a sky that stops.

Now a nude December fig department grates towards the window. The kitchen is empty, the desserts are gone; yesterday we carted the final of them to the submit workplace, the place the price of stamps turned our purse inside out. We’re broke. That moderately depresses me, however my good friend insists on celebrating — with two inches of whiskey left in Haha’s bottle. Queenie has a spoonful in a bowl of espresso (she likes her espresso chicory-­flavored and powerful). The relaxation we divide between a pair of jelly glasses. We’re each fairly awed on the prospect of consuming straight whiskey; the style of it brings screwed-up expressions and bitter shudders. However by and by we start to sing, the 2 of us singing totally different songs concurrently. I don’t know the phrases to mine, simply: Come on alongside, come on alongside, to the dark-town strutters’ ball. However I can dance: that’s what I imply to be, a faucet dancer within the films. My dancing shadow rollicks on the partitions; our voices rock the chinaware; we giggle: as if unseen arms have been tickling us. Queenie rolls on her again, her paws plow the air, one thing like a smile stretches her black lips. Inside myself, I really feel heat and sparky as these crumbling logs, carefree because the wind within the chimney. My pal waltzes around the range, the hem of her poor calico skirt pinched between her fingers as if it have been a celebration gown: Present me the best way to go house, she sings, her tennis footwear squeaking on the ground. Present me the best way to go house.

Enter: two kin. Very indignant. Potent with eyes that scold, tongues that scald. Take heed to what they should say, the phrases tumbling collectively right into a wrathful tune: “A child of 7! whiskey on his breath! are you out of your mind? feeding a child of 7! must be loony! road to ruination! remember Cousin Kate? Uncle Charlie? Uncle Charlie’s brother-in-law? shame! scandal! humiliation! kneel, pray, beg the Lord!”

Queenie sneaks beneath the range. My pal gazes at her footwear, her chin quivers, she lifts her skirt and blows her nostril and runs to her room. Lengthy after the city has gone to sleep and the home is silent apart from the chimings of clocks and the sputter of fading fires, she is weeping right into a pillow already as moist as a widow’s handkerchief.

“Don’t cry,” I say, sitting on the backside of her mattress and shivering regardless of my flannel nightgown that smells of final winter’s cough syrup, “Don’t cry,” I urge, teasing her toes, tickling her ft, “you’re too old for that.”

“It’s because,” she hiccups, “I am too old. Old and funny.”

“Not funny. Fun. More fun than anybody. Listen. If you don’t stop crying you’ll be so tired tomorrow we can’t go cut a tree.”

She straightens up. Queenie jumps on the mattress (the place Queenie isn’t allowed) to lick her cheeks. “I know where we’ll find real pretty trees, Buddy. And holly, too. With berries big as your eyes. It’s way off in the woods. Farther than we’ve ever been. Papa used to bring us Christmas trees from there: carry them on his shoulder. That’s 50 years ago. Well, now: I can’t wait for morning.”

Morning. Frozen rime lusters the grass; the solar, spherical as an orange and orange as hot-weather moons, balances on the horizon, burnishes the silvered winter woods. A wild turkey calls. A renegade hog grunts within the undergrowth. Quickly, by the sting of knee-deep, rapid-running water, we’ve to desert the buggy. Queenie wades the stream first, paddles throughout barking complaints on the swiftness of the present, the pneumonia-making coldness of it. We comply with, holding our footwear and gear (a hatchet, a burlap sack) above our heads. A mile extra: of chastising thorns, burrs and briers that catch at our garments; of rusty pine needles sensible with gaudy fungus and molted feathers. Right here, there, a flash, a flutter, an ecstasy of shrillings remind us that not all of the birds have flown south. All the time, the trail unwinds via lemony solar swimming pools and pitch vine tunnels. One other creek to cross: a disturbed armada of speckled trout froths the water spherical us, and frogs the dimensions of plates follow stomach flops; beaver workmen are constructing a dam. On the farther shore, Queenie shakes herself and trembles. My good friend shivers, too: not with chilly however enthusiasm. Considered one of her hat’s ragged roses sheds a petal as she lifts her head and inhales the pine-heavy air. “We’re almost there; can you smell it, Buddy?” she says, as if we have been approaching an ocean.

And, certainly, it’s a type of ocean. Scented acres of vacation timber, prickly-leafed holly. Pink berries shiny as Chinese language bells: black crows swoop upon them screaming. Having stuffed our burlap sacks with sufficient greenery and crimson to garland a dozen home windows, we set about selecting a tree. “It should be,” muses my good friend, “twice as tall as a boy. So a boy can’t steal the star.” The one we decide is twice as tall as me. A courageous good-looking brute that survives 30 hatchet strokes earlier than it keels with a creaking rending cry. Lugging it like a kill, we begin the lengthy trek out. Each few yards we abandon the wrestle, sit down and pant. However we’ve got the power of triumphant huntsmen; that and the tree’s virile, icy fragrance revive us, goad us on. Many compliments accompany our sundown return alongside the pink clay street to city; however my pal is sly and noncommittal when passers-by reward the treasure perched in our buggy: what a superb tree, and the place did it come from? “Yonderways,” she murmurs vaguely. As soon as a automotive stops, and the wealthy mill proprietor’s lazy spouse leans out and whines: “Giveya twobits cash for that ol tree.” Ordinarily my good friend is afraid of claiming no; however on this event she promptly shakes her head: “We wouldn’t take a dollar.” The mill proprietor’s spouse persists. “A dollar, my foot! Fifty cents. That’s my last offer. Goodness, woman, you can get another one.” In reply, my good friend gently displays: “I doubt it. There’s never two of anything.”

House: Queenie slumps by the hearth and sleeps until tomorrow, loud night breathing loud as a human.


A trunk within the attic accommodates: a shoebox of ermine tails (off the opera cape of a curious woman who as soon as rented a room in the home), coils of frazzled tinsel gone gold with age, one silver star, a quick rope of dilapidated, undoubtedly harmful candy-like mild bulbs. Wonderful decorations, so far as they go, which isn’t far sufficient: my pal needs our tree to blaze “like a Baptist window,” droop with weighty snows of decoration. However we will’t afford the made-in-Japan splendors on the five-and-dime. So we do what we’ve all the time carried out: sit for days on the kitchen desk with scissors and crayons and stacks of coloured paper. I make sketches and my pal cuts them out: plenty of cats, fish too (as a result of they’re straightforward to attract), some apples, some watermelons, a number of winged angels devised from saved-up sheets of Hershey bar tin foil. We use security pins to connect these creations to the tree; as a remaining contact, we sprinkle the branches with shredded cotton (picked in August for this function). My good friend, surveying the impact, clasps her arms collectively. “Now honest, Buddy. Doesn’t it look good enough to eat!” Queenie tries to eat an angel.

After weaving and ribboning holly wreaths for all of the entrance home windows, our subsequent challenge is the fashioning of household presents. Tie-dye scarves for the women, for the lads a homebrewed lemon and licorice and aspirin syrup to be taken “at the first Symptoms of a Cold and after Hunting.” However when it comes time for making one another’s present, my good friend and I separate to work secretly. I want to purchase her a pearl-handled knife, a radio, an entire pound of chocolate-covered cherries (we tasted some as soon as, and she or he all the time swears: “I could live on them, Buddy, Lord yes I could — and that’s not taking his name in vain”). As an alternative, I’m constructing her a kite. She want to give me a bicycle (she’s stated so on a number of million events: “If only I could, Buddy. It’s bad enough in life to do without something you want; but confound it, what gets my goat is not being able to give somebody something you want them to have. Only one of these days I will, Buddy. Locate you a bike. Don’t ask how. Steal it, maybe”). As an alternative, I’m pretty sure that she is constructing me a kite — the identical as final yr and the yr earlier than: the yr earlier than that we exchanged slingshots. All of which is ok by me. For we’re champion kite fliers who research the wind like sailors; my good friend, extra completed than I, can get a kite aloft when there isn’t sufficient breeze to hold clouds.

Christmas Eve afternoon we scrape collectively a nickel and go to the butcher’s to purchase Queenie’s conventional present, a very good gnawable beef bone. The bone, wrapped in humorous paper, is positioned excessive within the tree close to the silver star. Queenie is aware of it’s there. She squats on the foot of the tree staring up in a trance of greed: when bedtime arrives she refuses to budge. Her pleasure is equaled by my very own. I kick the covers and switch my pillow as if it have been a scorching summer time’s night time. Someplace a rooster crows: falsely, for the solar continues to be on the opposite aspect of the world.

“Buddy, are you awake!” It’s my pal, calling from her room, which is subsequent to mine; and an immediate later she is sitting on my mattress holding a candle. “Well, I can’t sleep a hoot,” she declares. “My mind’s jumping like a jack rabbit. Buddy, do you think Mrs. Roosevelt will serve our cake at dinner?” We huddle within the mattress, and she or he squeezes my hand I-love-you. “Seems like your hand used to be so much smaller. I guess I hate to see you grow up. When you’re grown up, will we still be friends?” I say all the time. “But I feel so bad, Buddy. I wanted so bad to give you a bike. I tried to sell my cameo Papa gave me. Buddy” — she hesitates, as if embarrassed — “I made you another kite.” Then I confess that I made her one, too; and we chuckle. The candle burns too brief to carry. Out it goes, exposing the starlight, the celebs spinning on the window like a visual caroling that slowly, slowly dawn silences. Probably we doze; however the beginnings of daybreak splash us like chilly water: we’re up, wide-eyed and wandering whereas we await others to waken. Fairly intentionally my good friend drops a kettle on the kitchen flooring. I tap-dance in entrance of closed doorways. One after the other the family emerges, wanting as if they’d wish to kill us each; nevertheless it’s Christmas, to allow them to’t. First, a stunning breakfast: simply all the things you possibly can think about — from flapjacks and fried squirrel to hominy grits and honey-in-the-comb. Which places everybody in a great humor besides my good friend and me. Frankly, we’re so impatient to get on the presents we will’t eat a mouthful.

Nicely, I’m disillusioned. Who wouldn’t be? With socks, a Sunday faculty shirt, some handkerchiefs, a hand-me-down sweater, and a yr’s subscription to a spiritual journal for youngsters. The Little Shepherd. It makes me boil. It actually does.

My pal has a greater haul. A sack of Satsumas, that’s her greatest current. She is proudest, nevertheless, of a white wool scarf knitted by her married sister. However she says her favourite present is the kite I constructed her. And it is extremely lovely, although not as lovely because the one she made me, which is blue and scattered with gold and inexperienced Good Conduct stars; furthermore, my identify is painted on it, “Buddy.”

“Buddy, the wind is blowing.”

The wind is blowing, and nothing will do until we’ve run to a pasture under the home the place Queenie has scooted to bury her bone (and the place, a winter therefore, Queenie shall be buried, too). There, plunging via the wholesome waist-high grass, we unreel our kites, really feel them twitching on the string like sky fish as they swim into the wind. Glad, sun-warmed, we sprawl within the grass and peel Satsumas and watch our kites cavort. Quickly I overlook the socks and hand-me-down sweater. I’m as comfortable as if we’d already gained the $50,000 Grand Prize in that coffee-naming contest.

“My, how foolish I am!” my pal cries, out of the blue alert, like a lady remembering too late she has biscuits within the oven. “You know what I’ve always thought?” she asks in a tone of discovery and never smiling at me however some extent past. “I’ve always thought a body would have to be sick and dying before they saw the Lord. And I imagined that when he came it would be like looking at the Baptist window: pretty as colored glass with the sun pouring through, such a shine you don’t know it’s getting dark. And it’s been a comfort: to think of that shine taking away all the spooky feeling. But I’ll wager it never happens. I’ll wager at the very end a body realizes the Lord has already shown Himself. That things as they are” — her hand circles in a gesture that gathers clouds and kites and grass and Queenie pawing earth over her bone — “just what they’ve always seen, was seeing Him. As for me, I could leave the world with today in my eyes.”

That is our final Christmas collectively.

Life separates us. Those that Know Greatest determine that I belong in a army faculty. And so follows a depressing succession of bugle-blowing prisons, grim reveille-ridden summer time camps. I’ve a brand new residence too. However it doesn’t rely. House is the place my pal is, and there I by no means go.

And there she stays, puttering across the kitchen. Alone with Queenie. Then alone. (“Buddy dear,” she writes in her wild hard-to-read script, “yesterday Jim Macy’s horse kicked Queenie bad. Be thankful she didn’t feel much. I wrapped her in a Fine Linen sheet and rode her in the buggy down to Simpson’s pasture where she can be with all her Bones. …”). For a number of Novembers she continues to bake her fruitcakes single-handed; not as many, however some: and, in fact, she all the time sends me “the best of the batch.” Additionally, in each letter she encloses a dime wadded in rest room paper: “See a picture show and write me the story.” However regularly in her letters she tends to confuse me together with her different pal, the Buddy who died within the 1880s; increasingly more 13ths are usually not the one days she stays in mattress: a morning arrives in November, a leafless birdless coming of winter morning, when she can’t rouse herself to exclaim: “Oh my, it’s fruitcake weather!”

Cover for A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote(Random Home)

And when that occurs, I do know it. A message saying so merely confirms a bit of stories some secret vein had already acquired, severing from me an irreplaceable a part of myself, letting it unfastened like a kite on a damaged string. That’s the reason, strolling throughout a faculty campus on this specific December morning, I maintain looking the sky. As if I anticipated to see, fairly like hearts, a misplaced pair of kites hurrying towards heaven.

Truman Capote was an eminent American writer of brief tales, performs, novels, and nonfiction works, together with Breakfast at Tiffany’s and In Chilly Blood, amongst others. First revealed in 1956, Capote’s brief story “A Christmas Memory” stays a vacation basic.

Copyright © 1956 by Truman Capote. Copyright renewed 1984 by Truman Capote. Reprinted by association with Random Home, an imprint and division of Penguin Random Home LLC. All rights reserved.

Turn out to be a Saturday Evening Post member and luxuriate in limitless entry.
Subscribe now