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a-totally-legit-farm · 4 years

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Marmalade’s Winter’s Star Party

// Hey y’all, this year I was Shio’s ( @stardeworanges ) secret santa for our discord community secret santa! It took me forever but I present to you ‘Marmalade’s Winter’s Star Party’, a story with a bit of fluff, a bit of edge, and then some more fluff, with some guest appearences in there too.

The full version can be found under the cut, or you can read the story HERE.

I hope you like it shio!!

Word Count: 3022

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Marmalade looked down at her latest accomplishment: a small stack of laminated cards, each one addressed to the friends she had made – her Valley family. There were about 50 cards, everyone from Sebastian to Gus was invited. Names embossed in cursive detailed the addressee of each invitation. The orange-haired woman was so proud of her little cards – she had designed them from scratch, from the colours on the bordering, to the little intricate mistletoe and stars adorning the corners. They were her own little doodles, quite well-done considering Marmalade had never considered herself an artist. In all honesty, Marm had gone a little over the top with these preparations, which had become obvious after she had created a 50-page binder complete with individual greetings, an array of feast meals and cocktails, and even mood boards to pin the perfect aesthetic. But she had a mission, and by Yoba, she would do whatever it took to achieve it.

Her smile softened. The Winter’s Star had always meant so much to her. When she was a little girl, she’d always visit her grandpa for his Winter’s Star festivities. Many a memory was dotted with her kind grandpa’s grin, the smell of warm cocoa, and the flashing of festive lights; the raucous of townspeople sharing hot drinks and good food. But those memories were fading with age, and Marmalade knew that she had to take up the mantle. She was going to throw the perfect Winter’s Star feast. She was going to honour her grandpa’s legacy.

And the next step to doing so was dispersing these slick-looking invitations to their rightful owners. Most important on her list was Clark, her best friend, and the newly appointed mayor. She hadn’t seen him in a few days – the farmhand had been tied up with bureaucratic red tape left behind by a spiteful Lewis. The poor man had been running circles around the town, attempting to get at least somewhere with his new legislation. Well, there was at least a slim silver lining to that storm cloud – Marmalade knew exactly where he would be.

It was a short walk from the farm to the town, though the brisk winter winds would require a Winter’s Star sweater, and of course, the tackier the better. She scanned her drawer for the best candidate: a red and white wool monstrosity, with “Orange you glad it’s winter” knitted in a box. Perfect. The sweater slipped on, gloriously awful pun present in yellow text, a pair of oranges decorating the inscription. She wrapped a scarf around her bare neck, her orange locks falling over the dark, soft material. Finally, she swung her backpack on, filled with a water bottle, some orange slices, and the crux of it all, her invitations.

Without a misstep, Marmalade was out the door, the brisk winter winds and the ankle-deep snow neither bothering nor hindering the ginger on her mission. Winter always brought a unique beauty to the Valley, bare skeletons of trees sleeping for the winter, and those brilliant blue berries poking up through the white terrain. One of Marmalade’s favourite sights had to be spotting the holly berries and crocus flowers in the dense snow. Wet gravel crunched under her feet as Marmalade trekked on. Her mental checklist of places to stop kept growing. Gotta invite Pippa and Rue and Dae! I’ll stop on the way. And I’m sure Cherry will be home – and maybe Nikoma and Jenna will come… Then I should stop at Pierre’s for some more supplies. Oh, and of course, Clark, in the town hall!

She smiled once more to herself.

Winter 26th was going to be the best Winter’s Star party anybody had ever been to!

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Clark ran his fingers through his dense, blond curls, the toll of being constantly busy affecting the usual lustre of his hair. He grimaced at the paperwork in front of him, feeling each and every monotonous, tedious word sap strength from his dwindling will to keep reading. He loved being mayor. He loved the warm appreciation of the townsfolk as he walked the streets of the Valley, he loved the constant support and trust. He loved that he was elected the Mayor. He did not love the piles of paperwork constantly inhabiting his in-tray, perched eternally on the right of his desk. The dark circles under his eyes evident of his sleeplessness, his expression stony as he stared down the stack of sheets sitting, waiting, mocking – Clark wanted nothing more than to slam his head into the desk. He pulled at his red tie, loosening its grip around his wrinkled, white button-up shirt, sleeves cuffed awkwardly around his tanned wrists. That was one thing he did miss – the blue jeans, the red flannel, the straw hat, but there was something about office-wear that really made his pecs look juicier, so he was willing to compromise. A groan escaped him, forcing its way through his teeth, as his eyes wandered towards the window, looking for anything to fuel his procrastination…

And as if summoned by Yoba himself, Marmalade burst through his office door, face alight with happiness.

She was a radiant beam of sunlight in the poorly lit office, and she couldn’t help but bring a grin to Clark’s mug. Her silly holiday sweater procured a chuckle from the exhausted ex-farmhand – it was just like Marm to be a walking pun. The woman basically bounced to the front of his desk, striking a little pose before rummaging through her pack. It was obvious Marmalade was very excited, and Hayesmith was ready for whatever the exuberant redhead was going to throw at him.

“Mayor Clark,” Marmalade’s voice rung with a silliness that she only showed around her closest friends, “I would like to cordially invite you to Miss Marmalade’s Winter Star feast party!” She slapped down the invitation on top of all of his paperwork, its festive design a winter star compared to the drab documents underneath. Clark let out another one of his gruff chuckles. “Not even a howdy before the theatrics.” Marmalade’s face went a shade of bashful pink, the playful act dialled back a bit from the cowboy’s ribbing.

“Now y’know I’m jokin’ there, Marm. I’d be pleased to make it.” He lifted the card up, inspecting the calligraphy – Clark Hayesmith, You are invited to my Winter’s Star party, 6 PM on Winter 27th. See you there! He tucked the invitation away in his pocket – it had been a while since the man had been able to socialise, and he was looking forward to the opportunity.

“Say Marm, who’ve you invited to this lil’ shindig?” Oh, how Marmalade had missed his deep, soothing drawl – and boy did she have a list of names for him. “Well, Pippa and her crew are coming, and Clive, uhh Sebastian and Maru said they would come, Red and Derek, Abigail… Nikoma sighed at me and said ‘fine’ so I’m assuming he’s coming… Jenna and Haley said yes too! Oh, and Jenna has an assistant now? And Amelia, Ainsley, Edel…” The names kept coming, and Clark’s excitement to flex his social and physical muscles was only growing.

“Trust me darl’, I’ll be there, I wouldn’t miss it for th’world . Now, I better get a hustle with this work, or I’ll be stuck here till the party’s over.” Clark shook his head in exaggerated despair, and Marmalade let out a small chuckle. “Okay Clark. See you at the party!”

“See y’all at the party, Marm.” Clark waved as Marm hurried out the door, the farmer eager to deliver the rest of her invitations. The new mayor-elect pulled out his invitation once more.

He grinned, and for the first time in what seemed like days, he actually wanted to finish his paperwork. A party clearly makes for a mighty fine motivator.

Winter 27th was going to be the best Winter’s Star party he’d ever been to.

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It was 7:56 PM on Winter 26th.

The ticking of the kitchen clock on the wall had drove her crazy. It now laid facedown on the tiled floor.

Marmalade glared at the door. She sat alone, at her dining table, 34 different plates of food sitting, cold, untouched, abandoned on the dark cherry wood, uncovered and unprotected from the cold night air. The fire had burned out about half an hour ago – what was the point of keeping a fire burning if no one was here to stay warm?

Marmalade glared at the door. She hadn’t touched any of the food she had slaved the day away cooking. She hadn’t had a sip of the punch, or the soup, or the wine. She was at first waiting for someone to come, to share the food with, but after an hour of sitting alone she had thoroughly lost her appetite.

Marmalade glared at the door – only pausing to wipe the tears defiantly escaping her eyes. She had told herself she wouldn’t cry. It didn’t matter if no one had come. She was sure there were reasons why they hadn’t come, but no one had even called to inform her. Maybe they just weren’t her friends. She had always thought that at least a few of the farmers had been left with good impressions of her. The anti-social ones, she understood – those like Katherine, afraid of people, or Nikoma, annoyed by people – but the extroverts? Cherry? Pippa? Red? Where were they?

The only conclusion Marmalade could come to was they didn’t care. They must have had other plans, or had forgotten, they must have been too busy with their lives to remember Marmalade’s party. She sniffled, wiping away more tears that had forced their way down her face. She had to reason with herself. After all, yesterday was the Winter’s Star Feast, and everyone would be tired…

Even Clark, her best friend, her old farmhand, was too busy for her. It must have been his new job…

Marmalade glared at the door. The door swung open. Tension was almost palpable in the air as Marmalade tensed up – tears at this point were streaming over her blushed cheeks, make-up running. Clark walked in, sighing. He had yet to look up, his head was hung low, the strain of sitting at a desk all day leaving a myriad of cricks in his neck and back.

The cowboy could tell Marmalade was in earshot, and he called out while taking his shoes off. “Hey Marm, excited for your party tomor-…” Finally, his gaze swung up to meet Marmalade’s glare.

Time froze as he scanned the room; the festive decorations, the tinsel-covered tree, the holly and mistletoe and wreaths hanging from every possible point. The banquet of food laid out in spectacular fashion. The poor, lonely woman, sitting isolated amongst the festivities.

Uh-oh.

Marm broke down. The floodwalls failed, and she began sobbing, only quietly, but there was no other noise – all Clark could hear was Marmalade’s soft weeping. Immediately, he moved towards her, trying to protectively wrap himself around her, in an attempt to shield the orange-haired woman from what had happened in her own dining room. She protested, albeit weakly, beating closed fists against his brawny chest. It didn’t last long, as those beating fists uncurled into fingers gripping his shirt, knuckles clenched white, the fabric a lifeline to Clark as Marmalade pressed her tear-soaked face into him.

Clark didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t even entirely sure what happened – her party wasn’t supposed to take place until tomorrow evening… Unless she didn’t know that. The invitations must have been wrong. The cowboy shook his head. All of Marmalade’s meticulous planning, all of her expertise and effort, left to rot because of a typo on the invitations. Clark knew what he had to do.

Clark continued to hold Marm as she wept out her grievances, Clark affirming her and hushing her softly. It didn’t take long for Marmalade’s crying to slow – it was clear now, obviously the town didn’t hate her. But it didn’t matter. The party was a failure, and she had spent so much time and effort and money on this one, she had nothing left to throw another one. It was all a waste, and everyone was going to be disappointed.

All Clark could do was hold the woman, assuring her that the townsfolk wouldn’t be mad. He told her stories about his failed events in the past, about his week and all the mess-about that went into being mayor, about how people were kind, and forgiving, especially in these parts. For about 40 minutes, the pair laid spread out on the on the cold tiled floor, Marmalade’s head still on Clark’s chest, time passing in an emotion-filled haze.

It was 9:03 PM on Winter 26th, according to Clark’s wristwatch.

He knew exactly what he had to do to make this right. As Marmalade drifted to sleep, he swept her up, and escorted her to her bed – and then he was out the door. He knew most of the farmers and townsfolk would be winding down for the night, but if he knew this Valley, he knew that they would come together for something this important, especially for the mayor.

Well no, actually.

They’d come together, especially for Marmalade.

Clark had to make sure that Winter 27th was going to be the best Winter’s Star party Marmalade had ever been to.

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It was 9:04 AM on Winter 27th, according to the clock Marmalade had picked up off the floor.

She was still a little down – she had thrown all the wasted food in the bin, and tried to salvage what had kept, but it all felt like a big mistake. She was now sitting at the dining table, staring absent-mindedly at the door. Clark was nowhere to be seen, again, as always. The farmer didn’t want to walk out that door, didn’t want to have to tell everyone the party was cancelled.

But she was a brave woman, and she’d let most of the negativity out last night. She wasn’t ready to do it yet, though. No, she’d check the mail, and then finish her coffee. Then she’d set off to let the public know of her shame.

The woman stood up, stretching her haunches, mug of hot, black coffee clutched tightly. A small amount of the life-saving ichor had stained the sleeve of her long sweater, but that was fine, it was just a pyjama top anyway. The soft fleecy fabric was a latte-foam tan, with the sleeves slightly too long, and honestly, the small brown stains added to the look. Marmalade ambled towards the door, procrastinating her eventual exposure to the outside elements.

It was just the mail.

She’d have to face the world eventually.

She swung the door open – and dropped her mug.

Laid out on the front lawn, cleared of snow, was tables of food. Fresh prepared meats, plates of berries and fruits – all in season, all garnished with those dark green leaves that survived the winter chill – bowls of punch and liquor and crates of wine laid out, hot coffee and soups simmering over small fires. And with it all, stood all the farmers she had invited to yesterday’s party.

Warm smiles from familiar faces all began turning towards Marmalade, the breaking of ceramic and the splashing of coffee alerting the people laying out this feast on her front lawn. It felt like a dream – the slow roll of applause started to crawl across the crowd, and before long they were all cheering at (or cheering for, more likely) Marmalade.

Friends and acquaintances from all around the Valley were present – she immediately noticed the tall figures of Barclay, Rue and Bernard, discussing fishing in the mines (a very controversial topic, apparently), with Pippa and Red inspecting the miner’s latest find close by. Edel, Katherine, Mona and Amelia sipped at Kat’s latest champagne, the bubbly enticing enough to drink even this early in the morning. Alex and Cherry were carving roast chicken, while Ainsley and Delaney seemed to be debating what exactly defined a ‘soup’. Jenna and Haley chatted away with Vi, Percival and a pair of siblings who Marmalade hadn’t seen before – but they were all far too dressed up, clearly. Even the recluses had turned out; Anderson and Morrison stood at the end of a table, alone, and Nikoma sat in a pile of snow, flask in hand. And that wasn’t even most of the people Marmalade could recognise – about 60 bodies, more than she had ever invited, stood around, having a good time, eating food and drinking merrily, just as she had envisioned for her party…

And right, smack-bang in the middle of them all was Clark, those new, dark rings under his eyes the blackest she’d ever seen them. He had been up all night, corralling the locals into coming together, pooling their resources, cooking and brewing and shovelling snow, to throw Marmalade the best Winter’s Star party that she had ever been to.

Marmalade hopped over the shattered mug, and ran straight into his arms, once again pressing her face into his broad chest. There was no way this was all happening, and yet, it seems Clark had made it happen.

A few tears stained that same, white shirt he was wearing last night.

“Thank you so much, Clark! Thank you…”

Clark smiled warmly, his tired eyes softening as he patted Marmalade on the back.

“Not a worry in the world, Marm. You know I -… You know this town would do anything for you.”

Marmalade could feel the kindness in her soul, the flame that had been doused last night, reignite within her. She couldn’t ask for anything more, to be surrounded by those she lives with, to supply the space for her community to be happy, to be safe, and to have a good Winter’s Star. To take up the mantle of her grandfather. She pulled herself from Clark, and looked around at all of her friend’s faces, warm drinks and good food in their hands.

This was going to be the best Winter’s Star party ever.

#long post #secret santa 2019 #stardeworanges #drabble #event drabble #i hope you like it shio!!!!!

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cotton-candy-farm · 5 years

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“Thank you, your hair is really gorgeous too!!... Do you mind if I try something, actually?”

Just two pastel farmers putting flowers in each others’ hair ❀❀❀

Thank you @sonder-farm for the ask! Edel is so cute and a delight to draw...

#stardew valley #Zeke #other farmers #stardew oc #stardew farmer #sdv

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sonder-farm · 5 years

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Local woman goes to the desert with a roll of wallpaper, gets sword of legend anyway, cheats God

*zelda noise*

#stardew valley #sdv #stardew valley farmer #sdv farmer #sdv oc #my art #gif #animation #galaxy sword #farmer edel #i wanna get into the whole edel is actually really badass with a sword thing soon #but she 100 percent exploited the wallpaper glitch

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dustedmagazine · 5 years

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Listed: Woven Skull

Image Credit: Edel Doherty

In 2008, the core trio that make up Woven Skull began gathering together in the home of two of the members, set deep in the bogs and forests of County Leitrim: an empty, sparse area in the northwest of Ireland known for its myths of shee, tales of lake monsters, and calls of otherworldly beings in the still of the night. Several years experimenting with combinations of instrumentation, kitchen utensils, seashells, footsteps, chimes, recordings of cats purring and frogs mating led to their current sound which combines densely propulsive guitar, distorted mandola and endless cyclical rhythms. Woven Skull strip and scrape what they can out of minimal instrumentation to teeter on the brink of total sonic meltdown creating engulfing, raw primal drones and damaged rock manoeuvres. This sound draws on the influences of the combined backgrounds of the trio with Aonghus (guitar) and Willie (percussion) born and bred in Dublin and Natalia (mandola) born in Ukraine and raised in Baltimore, Maryland. Of their most recent LP, Isaac Olson wrote that it was, “More serious than Sun City Girls and more playful than Bardo Pond... a great introduction to your new favorite cult band.”

A selection of sounds that we brought to listen to in the van during our last tour.

Agathe Max—Gypsy In a Church (Greasy Trucker Records)

A Gypsy In A Church by Agathe Max

Agathe Max and I first met when we shared a bill at a Baba Yaga's Hut gig in London. She was with her duo Mésangeand I became completely bewitched by her playing. Live, whether with a band or on her own, Agathe creates a mesh of violin magic mixed through a mastery of pedals. No action seems superfluous. Her violin bow might thump off the neck during a section that is fed into a loop and you wonder if it was maybe an accident only to find that the build up of the rhythm created by that slight thump singularly drives the whole next passage. It is meticulous. The Gypsy in a Churchalbum is Agathe solo and acoustic with two long improvised tracks. It came out on cassette in 2016 on Bristol's Greasy Trucker Records. Side A is recorded in Bristol in St. Thomas's church and Side B is from St. Leonard's in London. The spaces creep into the recordings. It makes good driving music because you get lost in time as the violin bounces around the church walls and suddenly the day has faded, twilight is spilling across the sky and and that night's venue is just around the corner. (Natalia)

Patrick Farmer & David Lacey—Pell-Mell the Prolix (caduc. Recordings)

Pell-Mell the Prolix by Patrick Farmer & David Lacey

A really tightly structured, interruptive and continually surprising concrète-ish composition by this duo of percussionists. Beautiful wood-block and dub segments deserve a mention. I found ‘Pell Mell’ to be more accessible than their earlier recording ‘Pictures of Men’ (equally worth checking out but perhaps more dense and angular in places). Ephemera of personal obsessions lumber up against indistinguishable rumblings, a passage is carved between the figurative and the unknowable. (Aonghus)

Chrissy Zebby Tembo & Ngazi Family—My Ancestors (Mississippi Records)

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When you're stuck in traffic on the M1 between Brighton and any other part of the UK and you start to wonder why in the hell did we come to this country on a bank holiday, it's time to fire up the dashboard kettle, make a press pot of joe and throw on some Classic 'Zamrock' from 1974. This is hard rock coming straight outta Zambia, thankfully made available on vinyl at an affordable price courtesy of Mississippi Recordsin Portland, Oregon. This has become one of my Desert Island records. Sabbath infused riffs dipped in some 13th Floor Elevators psych with an explosiveness that's purely African. Before you know it, three tightly packed lanes of English Midlands holiday makers turns into three lanes with one else around. (Willie)

Tadlaouia—moul el koutchi rouicha et tadlaouia

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I like to play the same albums both in the shower and in the van. I'm not quite sure why. Maybe these activities send me into the same zone? This tape gets a lot of listens in both places. I love the melding of Tadlaouia's voice with Mohamed Rouicha's string playing action. I know nothing of Tadlaouia aside from this album but I keep on eye out cause I’d love to hear more. I picked this tape up at a stall stacked floor to ceiling with cassettes. I choose it purely based on the cover. It coulda gone either way but sure, look at that shimmer in her smile. You know it's gonna be gold. (Natalia)

Angharad Davies, Tisha Mukarji & Dimitra Lazaridou-Chatzigoga—Outwash (Another Timbre)

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Three super-focused improvisations for violin, piano and zither. Shimmering drones and creaks set against more melodic playing. Moves slowly from one area to another, acoustic instruments sound like electronics and at other times like themselves. Angharad Davies played at the same festival as us a few years back, performing a piece which consisted of her bowing a single tone while gradually unwinding the string accompanied by a really subtle tape element (or that’s what my hazy memory tells me), ruled! (Aonghus)

Miles Davis—On The Corner (Columbia Records)

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Raw minimalist soul funk jazz. Totally stripped down. Enough hi-hats and trumpet wah wah pedal to keep you fuzzed out and yer head boppin'. It is such a ballsy record. But then again, Miles could get away with anything. Perfect for a morning drive on tour to get the brain aligned when you don't know what the day will bring. (Willie)

Creedence Clearwater Revival —”Sinister Purpose”

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When in a vortex of stalled traffic that makes me feel like my life is melting into nothing in front of me, I like to put Sinister Purposeby Creedence on repeat (though, in fairness, any Creedence will do). Everything always just seems better then. And should the traffic never end and the van never move again, well at least there's Jon Fogarty to sound out our impending demise. (Natalia)

Bob Dylan—Self Portrait (Columbia)

Listen on Spotify

I’ve been listening to ‘Self Portrait’ a lot over the past while. I’m not hugely knowledgeable about Dylan even though I’ve heard a lot of the oeuvre over the years. A cursory google before I wrote this text tells me it’s regarded as one of his worst... not so sure about that. Opens with the sublime “All the Tired Horses”... Dylan himself not singing on it kinda blew me away as an idea for an opener when I first heard the album. Gets into weird country crooning... his version of “Days of 49” is another highlight. Things get patchy and weird but whatever... the “Blue Moon” cover is pretty funny. I’m second-guessing myself having just seen all the negativity surrounding it and started to spin “Blonde on Blonde” just to check... nah... I still think it’s good! (Aonghus)

Samandtheplants—Flaming Liar (Them There)

Flaming Liar by Samandtheplants

A few different names and guises flock from the incredible studio of musician, artist and producer Sam Mcloughlin. This album as samandtheplantsis such an absolute joy that you can have it on repeat for hours and it gets more interesting. Two disc set of almost purely vocals and harmonium. Very lo-fi, raw and total magic. Sam's Lancashire accent coming through and adding a genuine feel to the recordings as real English folk music without it sounding too twee or dated. I'd advise anyone to go looking for Sam Mcloughlin's work, including his sound sculpture work and his N. Racker project. (Willie)

‘Fort Evil Fruit’ Cassette Label

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We here at Woven Skull are all big fans of Fort Evil Fruit. Label boss Paul has a keen ear for what's what. It's handy to stock up on all the newest FEF releases before a tour and gradually listen through them while zoning out on the revolving landscape outside the window. One of my favorite things that came out on the label in the last few years was Crevice’s debut album. The trio from Cork all play in a variety of other bands and solo projects, run labels, have radio shows and add to the general awesomeness of Cork City. Roslyn Steer's vocals on Black Box kept swirling around inside my brain for weeks after first hearing this so listener beware! It’s catchy business. (Natalia)

#dusted magazine #listed #woven skull #agathe max #patrick farmer #david lacey #chrissy zebby tembo #ngazi family #tadlaouia #angharad davies #tisha mukarji #dimitra lazaridou-chatzigoga #miles davis #creedence clearwater revival #bob dylan #samandtheplants #fort evil fruit #crevice

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jackiepalmerjr1 · 2 years

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Die Gier beim Essen/4

#FiletMignonbyJackiePalmerJr

Filet Mignon

Anmerkung. "Filet Mignon" wurde in 1978 von der damals 17-Jährigen#YvonneAlexandra Buhlmann aus Ulm als Buchmanuskript mit 130 Seiten geschrieben. Als Hintergrund schreibt sie, dass ihr Stiefvater, der ein maximaler Hypochonder war, tatsächlich ständig Schweinefilet oder Rinderfilet zu Mittag verschlang. Niemand durfte davon essen. Zeitgleich war er tatsächlich und bedauerlicherweise gezeichnet von einer schweren Schuppenflechte und deswegen super extrem eitel, und er unterließ nichts um sich edel und schön zu machen. Im Ausland schmückte er sich zudem gezielt beruflich mit fremden Federn. Unter anderem tat er verhohlen so, dass er zu einer sehr fremden seriösen Religion dazu gehört, und deswegen sein Leid.

Yvonne verwandelte sein ganzes Lügengebilde in eine völlig andere Story, zu völlig anderen, nämlich kultivierten Menschen aus dem aufregenden New York.

Vorspann:

Alle Photos, Bilder Jackie Palmer Jr, Urheberrechtlich geschützt.

Alle Kunstwerke Jackie Palmer Jr.

#FiletMignon©

Sein Name war Hamilton S. Redman. Er war einer der besten Schönheitschirurgen der Welt. Er lebte und arbeitete in New York.

Dr. Redmann war angesehen, angesagt und arrogant. Die 3A Regel. Er war Mitte 50. Das war damals nicht mehr jung. Es war die allerletzte Möglichkeit zu gehen. Redman hatte die Schnauze voll und die Taschen voll. Er brauchte Ruhe. Der Schönheitschirurg ließ an diesem Tag alle Termine platzen. Schmiss seinen Kittel hin, zog seinen Trenchcoat über und lief runter auf die Straße, die er so gut wie nie sah. Er mischte sich unters Volk. Er stand etwas entfernt von einer Mutter mit einem Kind. Das kleine Mädchen aß eine Banane. Redman sah dabei zu. Als die Kleine ihre Banane fertig gegessen hatte sagte die Mutter, dass es die Schale in den Abfallbehälter werfen soll. Die Kleine war mürrisch. "Ich sehe keinen Abfallkorb", meckerte es die Mutter an.

Die Mutter blieb liebevoll.

Sie sagte zu der Kleinen: " Da vorne, dort wo der ältere Herr steht, direkt daneben ist der Abfallkorb". Ja, Redman stand direkt neben dem Abfallkorb, ja, schön und gut. Aber er war nicht der ältere Herr. Da muss noch ein Opa irgendwo rumstehen, sagte er zu sich.

Die Mutter zeigte noch mal auf ihn, den äußerst jungen, schönsten Schönheitschirurgen der ganzen Welt und auf den Abfallbehälter. "Siehst du, dort wo der ältere Herr steht".

Redman war eindeutig der einzige, der am Abfallkorb stand.

Die Kleine rannte auf ihn und den Abfallbehälter zu und warf die Bananenschale hinein.

Redman entschloss sich sofort Urlaub zu machen. Er sagte alle Termine bis Neujahr ab. Er rief seine beiden alten Tanten Chessy und Tilly an, und sagte er flöge in einer Stunde zu ihnen, nach Irland. Für 2 Wochen.

Er packte sogar seine Tanzschuhe ein, für den 1ten Weihnachtsfeiertag.

Die Taxifahrt bis zum Gutshaus der Tanten dauerte und verschaffte ihm Abstand. Das Haus auf dem Land war ein weihnachtlicher Traum. Die Tanten umarmten ihren Neffen voller Freude und brachten ihn auf sein Zimmer. Hamilton genoss die Ruhe und die sauberen Betten.

Am nächsten Morgen schon erklärten die Tanten ihm, dass er die Ehre habe, die Weihnachtskuh auszusuchen, die geschlachtet werden würde, wie immer 14 Tage vor Heiligabend, denn die Tanten teilten sich das Rind mit 8 anderen Landbewohnern.

Für die Kuh bekam Redman ein großes rotes Stoffband, dass er der Kuh um den Hals umhängen sollte, kurz danach dann käme der Schlachter.

Zu aller Freude gab bei Chessy und Tilly jeden Heiligabend Filet Mignon.

(Ihr Geheimrezept war die Soße).

Allmählich wurde alles vorbereitet für Heiligabend. Hamilton genoss das Ganze. Die Tanten legten ihm nun das rote Band an. Er hatte es um den Hals gebunden. Redman lief über 3 Kilometer zum Stall des Farmers. Er war soviel frische Luft nicht mehr gewöhnt. Dazu diese Ruhe, Frische, diese Landschaft. Plötzlich bemerkte Redman Stiche im Brustkorb. Er schaffte es gerade noch in den Kuhstall hinein zu kommen, als er zusammenbrach.

Redman erschien nicht mehr im Haus der Tanten. Sie ließen ihn suchen, aber nirgendwo war ihr Neffe. Die beiden sagten zu sich, dass er wahrscheinlich Hals über Kopf wieder nach New York zurück geflogen wäre. Niemand vermisste ihn.

Chessy und Tilly freuten sich auf Heiligabend und ihr Filet Mignon und lächelten.

By Jackie Palmer Jr.

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