Molly was roused from sleep in her chair at the computer by a scruffing sound arising from the fireplace. Something was amiss. She looked around first for her pet cat, Freya, but found her asleep on the bearskin rug before the hearth, snoring softly. Some watchcat, thought Molly with mild annoyance. But, at least Freya was safe. So what was the source of that noise, she wondered. Her palatial estate was the frequent target of vandals and thieves. Molly had been dreaming about her friend Agnes, a neighbor and a notorious dumpster-diver. it was Agnes who had hooked Molly on stewed tomatoes, much to her chagrin: Agnes was forever raiding dumpsters and then supplying Molly with canned goods; it was a case of too much of a good thing.
Coming to her feet, Molly padded into the living room and stared inquisitively at the fireplace. Her stocking was hung–with care, naturally–from the mantle, and there appeared to be something inside it; the red felt fabric bulged. Furrowing her poet’s brow, Molly stuck a hand into the stocking and fished around, extracted a green and red can of Del Monte Stewed Tomatoes–umm, her favorite.. Santa Claus! she thought joyoously, and stuck her head in the fireplace and peeped up the chimney.
“Thank you, Santa,” she shouted. There was but a muted response from St. Nick. Miniscule bits of soot fluttered down and got in Molly’s eyes. She rubbed furiously, but this resulted in giving Molly the aspect of a raccoon. Freya, awakened by the clamor, regarded Molly, hissed and spat and ran from the room. Molly was so grateful for the stewed tomatoes–vintage 1972, an antique–but she wondered what she could conjure with just one can. Thinking quickly, she stuck her head back up the chimney and yelled, “Santa, do you have an extra can of tomatoes in your bag that I can have?” There was a scuffling sound up the chimney and immediately a second can of Del Monte Stewed Tomatoes plummed down and bonked Molly soundly on the head, knocking her nearly unconscious. “Thanks again, Santa,” yelled Molly, shaking away the pain.
“You’re welcome,” shouted in return a voice that sounded uncannily like Agnes.
Bill Tope
One reply on “Happy Christmas from Edgewood, Washington”
As the sages have said: happiness is can of Del Monte stewed tomatoes.