Page 59 of Meet Me In Winterberry

Brent is talking to his parents, and Nora yells at him to hush. She definitely gets her bossy side from her dad. She’s going to be a force of nature when she gets older.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m hushing,” Brent says, sticking his tongue out at his little girl.

I hear the sound of a marching band coming down the street before I see them. Followed by a banner that reads “Winterberry High School Marching Band” are rows of kids with instruments, playing all of the classics. Tunes including White Christmas, We Wish You A Merry Christmas, and Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer fill the air and I find myself singing along.

I glance over at Brent who’s watching the parade and silently tapping his leg along to the songs. I don’t think he wants anyone to notice, so I pretend like I don’t see it.

Behind the band comes cheerleaders with their pom-poms, fire trucks with their sirens blaring, police cars with their lights on, and even more Christmas music.

There’s a small lull in the parade, and I still don’t get the point of the “Christmas Log Parade” name, but before I can ask Brent, I see a group of kids coming down the street, and the crowd’s cheering picks up.

Nora jumps to her feet, bouncing excitedly as the kids approach. I notice one of them pulls a red wagon behind them. Other kids surround the wagon as they walk, and it isn’t until they’re almost in front of us that I can see what’s being toted inside.

It’s a huge log.

The log sits on a bed of red-and-green velvet blankets, with pieces of holly and red berries attached. As the wagon goes by, the entire crowd rises, vigorously clapping their hands and hollering.

I don’t really understand what’s happening, but I’m in awe of all the shared excitement around me. As soon as the group passes, I tap on Brent’s shoulder.

“What in the world was that?” I ask once the excitement simmers down.

The crowd begins moving at once, toward the gazebo in the center of town, and I don’t know if I should follow or stay where I am.

Brent leans down and whispers in my ear, sending a chill down my spine. “Come follow and see for yourself. I may not be a Christmas fan, nor am I someone who loves crowds, but this part I think you’ll love as much as I do.”

As we start walking, following along with the crowd, he puts his hand on the small of my back and stays close.

“By the way,” he whispers. “You look beautiful.”

I glance up at him and smile, unsure of what to say. I continue walking instead of responding.

The closer we get to the center of town, the more the excitement grows. The band is set up to one side of the gazebo, and the kids surround the wagon on the other side.

The crowd spreads around— covering every inch of the snowy grass and spilling into the street. The band plays festive songs before Mayor Young ascends the gazebo steps to the podium and everyone quiets down.

For the first time, I notice a stone fireplace set up on the sidewalk in front of the gazebo. This must’ve been set up today because I haven’t seen it before.

Mayor Young says a few words into the microphone before the little girl who was pulling the wagon takes the log out and stands in front of the fireplace.

The whole crowd is silent, watching with rapt attention as the little girl puts the log into the fireplace. The mayor strikes a match and throws it into the fireplace and the logs erupt in flames.

As the logs crackle and pop, the comforting aroma of burning wood and smoke fills the air, the entire crowd goes wild, cheering, clapping, and singing along to “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas,” with the band.

I glance around at the residents of Winterberry, all together celebrating this moment, together in song, and a small tear escapes my eye.

I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, from the Eiffel Tower lit up to lions roaming in Africa, but there’s something about the homey atmosphere of Winterberry and its residents that sticks out to me. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced.

Slowly, more tears fall, and I’m defenseless against them.

The moment I take the sleeve of my coat to wipe them, Brent turns to face me, using the sleeve of his shirt instead to catch my tears.

We lock eyes and I shake my head, pulling myself together.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice laced with concern. He probably thinks I’m a crazy woman for crying over a log.

“Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Yeah, this is a Winterberry tradition. It started when the town was formed, as a way to keep warm during the winter months. Then, at some point, it became a Christmas tradition,” he explains. “The fireplace stays lit through Christmas Day, and then that night the town comes together again for it to be put out. It doesn’t make much sense but it’s a thing.”

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