Finding Magic in the Mundane
Behind-the-Scenes and an Excerpt from My Novel, East of Everywhere!
I once read a newspaper story about the tradition of children finding oranges in their stockings at Christmastime.
Oranges were a rarity—especially during the Great Depression, where fresh fruit at all was considered a luxury. This stuck with me throughout my life as a reminder to appreciate the little blessings and to always find gratitude for what’s given.
When I was writing Janie’s story in East of Everywhere, which begins in WWII, I knew her story as one of survival and struggle, especially considering the times. But I also came to know her as resilient, generous, and full of idealism. She’s anyone who has ever felt the complex pangs of heartache and hope in life.
Janie’s story was one of the hardest books I’ve ever written because it was so far from my own. Her story is imagined—a culmination of various sources of inspiration that I wanted to explore, and yet I had to reach into the depths of emotion that I am familiar with, that I know so well. They might not be shared experiences, but they’re shared emotions…human emotions that connect and unite us.
Janie makes so much out of so little.
She finds beauty in what’s simple.
For me, those little blessings—like fruit in a Christmas stocking—are what make life rich.
This scene is a blend of inspiration—hearing that story of the oranges at Christmastime and growing up reading and watching A Little Princess. Can you spot the scene?
Here’s a quick sneak peek at a Christmas scene in East of Everywhere, available everywhere books are sold!
There’d been no Christmas that year on Harker Street—that last year before Anthers Hall. Plastic wreaths decorated the apartment doors, bringing cheer to faded wood and muted hallways that boasted decades-old paint.
Sometimes, Janie would peek past open doors to see stockings hung on a wall and greeting cards proudly displayed on bookshelves. She wanted to examine every ornament on the neighbor’s fir tree, to lie beneath the branches and stare up at the lights and silver tinsel draped across its boughs and imagine there were presents with her name beneath the tree, a stocking for her on the wall, a greeting card addressed to them all at the house with the swing in the backyard and the stray cat beneath the porch—the house where her father still lived, if only in a daydream.
But there were no stockings or season’s greetings that year. And when the apartment doors closed, Janie turned to her own bare door and wondered if her mother would rise from the bed at all on Christmas Day.
She’d done her best, Rose would say when she returned from her shift at the department store where she now worked. She’d kiss Brayden’s forehead and slip into bed beside Janie and whisper she’d given it her all before sleeping soundly through the night while Janie lay awake, wondering how much money was left in the coffee tin until she’d sneak out of bed and tiptoe to the kitchen to count out the change—enough to ease her mind until morning.
Brayden was almost five by then—too old for lies and too young for the truth. He saw the wreaths and lights and trees just like Janie, and when Janie took him to the market, they slowed their steps despite the cold and the snow to look at each window display. Once, she made the mistake of taking them by the toy store. She didn’t realize it until it was too late, and they both stood on the sidewalk, staring at the colorful display of dollhouses and blocks and miniature army men, a large red wagon toting it all. Brayden pointed, his brown eyes wide and wanting, but he never asked, never cried, never wondered aloud.
Janie pulled his hand along. Neither looked back.
The next day, Janie stole the ceramic camel from the nativity set in her classroom. The day after that, it was the donkey and a sprig of mistletoe she hid in her coat pocket. By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, only Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus were left behind in the manger. She made a wreath out of old newspaper and red ribbon and hung it on their door and cut out winter scenes from magazine advertisements.
“These are our Christmas cards,” she told Brayden, who happily helped her pin them to the door.
She didn’t know what to expect Christmas morning. Maybe if she still believed in Santa Claus, she could imagine a roomful of presents and a hot meal on the table. But as she went to bed that night, she only imagined it would be a day like any other day.
Except, it wasn’t.
When Janie opened her eyes, Brayden was playing with an old toy truck on his cot, and their mother was nowhere to be found. She wandered into the living room and glanced in the kitchen, but that was empty, too. She’d wanted to cry, but a tapping at the bedroom window had dried her tears and pulled her back into the moment.
Brayden glanced up. “Miss Maggie!” he exclaimed and shoved open the window.
Maggie ducked her head and climbed in off the fire escape, packages wrapped in brown paper tucked under her arms.
“Merry Christmas, kiddos!”
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