Image: Handwritten note by author. 

What do you think about cursive writing?

As a reporter, I relied heavily on my handwritten notes. Writing someone else’s words helped me better remember what they said. I invented my shorthand to capture key concepts. I starred passages that stuck out as ideal quotes because they explained a concept, described an experience, or made me laugh or cry.

    As a writer, I find my ideas flow easier with pen and paper rather than typing. Tapping on the keyboard or using dictation works too. But first, hand me a pen and let me balance a notebook in my lap.

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New Jersey dropped handwriting from its curriculum after the adoption of the Common Core State Standards in 2010, which didn’t require handwriting instruction. Many states said goodbye to cursive, but New Jersey reversed its decision.  In September, New Jersey public schools will start teaching cursive writing to third-through fifth-grade students.

Cursive is back! That's why I designed and typed (you’re welcome) a special cursive writing quiz in honor of cursive writing.  

How excited are you about the return of cursive writing to New Jersey school students?

A.     Woo-hoo! Everyone should know how to write in cursive and read it too.

B.     Every student in every state should learn longhand.

C.      I didn’t know they stopped teaching cursive.

D.     What a waste of time. What about Latin?    

What are the benefits of adding cursive to the curriculum?

A.     Improves spelling, motor skills, and hand-eye coordination  

B.     Signing legal documents and writing checks  

C.      Reading my parents’ love letters

D.     Students can write their own absentee excuses

What should our elementary students be learning besides cursive?

A.     Latin

B.     United States History

C.      Leonard Cohen’s musical catalogue  

D.     Writing with artificial intelligence

What careers are open to those who can read cursive?  

A.     Digital subscriber for the Smithsonian

B.     Teachers

C.      Historians

D.     Transcribing spells for wizards, witches, and magical beings.

What was the first instrument you used to write?    

A.     Pencil

B.     Leaky fountain pen

C.      Don’t ask. I was traumatized by the whole experience.

D.     Voice dictation

Have you ever had a pen pal?

A.     I still have pen pals.

B.      Sounds like fun. Sign me up.

C.      I’ve thought about writing to inmates.

D.     I exchange notes with my neighbor. She leaves a note on my car when I park in her spot, and I put a note when her dog does his business on my lawn.

How would you describe your signature?

A.     Big and bold like me.

B.     Tidy, tiny and unassuming  

C.      A cross between printing and writing

D.     Unruly, illegible, but hey, it’s unique.  

Do people compliment you on your signature?

A.     I’ve been told my handwriting is mesmerizing.

B.     Everyone says I have a doctor’s handwriting. Does that mean it’s awful?

C.      Sometimes. People who love loopy loops.  

D.     People ask: What language is that? Are you writing in code? Can you spell that for me?  

What is the most valuable or oldest handwritten document in your possession?

A.     I’m proud to own my great-great grandmother’s molasses cake recipe written in her own hand.

B.     A Girl Scout cookie order form (circa 1973) because it proves I could sell anything to anyone.

C.      My college essay.

D.     A postcard from the window installer looks like it’s handwritten.    

What historical documents would you like to see, read, or interpret?     

A.     Declaration of Independence

B.     Gettysburg Address

C.      Correspondence between Abigail and John Adams

D.     Give me the faint and fading documents

Key: For those with an abundance of As, buy yourself a journal. If your responses were mainly Bs, you understand the business and historical value of cursive writing. Readers who chose the C answers have good outlook on life.Write me a letter, please. If you circled more Ds, may this quiz inspire you to become a more well-rounded individual. But don’t fret if you had a few Bs, some Cs, and the rest As because it’s all for fun.

Did you know George Orwell was a pseudonym?

Orwell’s real name was Eric Blair. I learned this literary fact while hopscotch-reading through an anthology of essays. (1) 

This revelation about one of my favorite authors surprised me. I called my mother, who taught English for many years, to share the news while secretly hoping she didn’t it would be news to her. Mom didn’t know but noted it’s a common practice for authors to protect their privacy.    

Why did Blair use a pen name? Well, literary scholars have plenty of theories. A prominent one suggests that Blair didn’t want to embarrass his parents by publishing Down and Out in Paris and London (1933) under his own name. His nonfiction work is a portrayal of poverty based on working menial jobs in kitchens in Paris and living on the streets in England. An experiment to experience first-hand what poverty tasted like and felt like.

It reminds me of Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America (2001) by Barbara Ehrenreich. Ehrenreich worked undercover as a waitress, maid, and a chain retail store, to see if she could survive on minimum wage. Her work helped readers understand that living on minimum wage is not living but struggling.   

Back to Orwell, perhaps he chose the name in honor of a racehorse that had a reputation for losing races even though the odds were in its favor. “Naming himself after a loser with a disability might well have appealed to the writer’s dark sense of humour,” says Ronald Binns, author of Orwell in Southwold.

Or another guess: He wanted an English-sounding name.  

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A fiercely loved paperback of Orwell’s 1984 has a permanent home on the handmade pine bookshelf closest to my bed. It’s hard for me to read because of its physical state, not mine. Tiny typeface on dog-eared yellow pages. Plus, it smells musty and old, unlike the other crisper, younger books keeping it company. I imagine this edition has been with me since my high school days.    

Rarely do I reread books. However, 1984 has been the exception. I have returned to this classic, first assigned in school. My sense is that high school teachers dissected the meaning of the author’s satirical work, rather than the author, in this case. (2)

+++

Perhaps geography plays a role too when teaching literature. As a proud Missourian, I know that Mark Twain was Samuel L. Clemens’ pen name. It’s knowledge that I suspect they teach in school, but I believe it’s buried in the soil, or that it floats down the Mississippi River. The Mississippi River, a virtual character, in Twain’s work.

How did Clemens pick his pen name? Clemens claimed that his nom de plume was inspired by river boatmen. The boatmen called out Mark Twain, shorthand for two fathoms, helping navigate their craft. My mother also confirmed this legend. However, I found another story explaining that Clemens earned the nickname from ordering his usual drink, Mark Twain, which meant two shots of whiskey.  

Pick your story. How about another one? Twain was born on the same day Hally’s Comet shone in the sky in 1835 and died, as he predicted, when the comet appeared again in 1910.  

“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t,” as quoted by Twain’s own character Pudd’nhead Wilson.

As a writer, I plan to take more care to learn and remember authors’ names and their life stories beyond what’s on the page.

Footnotes:

1    I was reading Orwell’s essay “Such, Such were the Joys,” in The Art of the Personal Essay An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present.   

2   Inside this book was George Orwell’s biography, which noted it was the pen name of Englishman Eric Blair, born in Bengal in 1903. I’m a better reader now, never skipping over introductions or avoiding afterwords.

AI Image: Snow falling in pine forest. 

Secrets of the Snow Spirits 

The Nordic cross-country ski club made a winter pilgrimage to the Adirondacks, finding solace in the snow. Every year, they escaped to worship nature’s snowy beauty.     

    But the snow spirits had cast a curse upon the region. The surrounding mountains, valleys, and forests were starved of snow. Fewer trails boasted a snow base deep enough to bury the jutting roots and hide the brown patches.

    The Nordics shared memories of swishing through the hard-packed snow glistening in the sunshine. They longed to hear the crunch, crunch of the snow again. The youngest among them shivered, imagining the bracing, frigid air welcoming them.

    Despite the bleak, sporadic snow forecast, the Nordics continued their traditional journey north. As was their custom, each skier brought gifts to honor the snow spirits. Presents including a rare poem written by Jack Frost, lush green velvet cloaks, a silver flask of aged whiskey, and an ice-blue sapphire tiara. They hoped these treasures, so rich and rare, would impress the spirits.

    Still, not a single snowflake fell.   

    Disappointed, the skiers shunned the spirits and instead put their faith in superstitions to bring snow. The younger snow spirits giggled as they watched each person place a spoon under the bed pillow. 

    But the elder spirits lashed out, unamused. “It’s absurd. Humans also believe wearing their pajamas to bed inside out will make it snow … or backwards and inside out.”

    The Nordics decided they must work together to repair their relationship with the divine deities. If they failed, they feared the snow drought curse would last forever.

    How could they show the spirits how much they loved a snowy winter wonderland?

    A thank-you party!

    As the spirits watched from above, each Nordic presented their gift. The club’s ski instructor recited his poem about snowflakes. Each stanza sang with the same praise he shared with skiers under his tutelage.

    Next, the musician played a bold, bright melody on his flugelhorn. He had mastered the fast tempo and performed fearlessly with speed and grace, just as he did while skate-skiing.

    The humble llama farmer knitted fuzzy honey-colored scarves from spun wool. She wove warmth and comfort into the scarves, wrapping the spirits in her loving touch and kind words.

    In the spirit of warming the icy hearts of the spirits, others chopped a cord of wood and built a roaring fire ablaze in blue and orange. The wood crackled and popped. The ski-house sommelier gave all a generous pour of vintage homemade vino to fete the spirits. Her heartfelt toast was as lively and robust as the wine itself.

    The Nordic leader who loved to cook served up an Italian feast. He sacrificed his time on the trails to cook for his friends and the spirits. Every course included his signature ingredient of fresh, sweet garlic. Chopped garlic topped the bruschetta. Roasted bulbs drenched in olive oil spread on crusty bread. Tomato garlic sauce served over a swirl of steaming pasta. The sweet aroma of garlic lingered and wafted into the woods, making for sweet dreams. 

    All slept well after the dinner and festivities, and they dreamed of waking up to a winter wonderland. The next morning, their dreams had come true. Rejoice!

The sky blushed pink-orange, and the land beamed with six inches of snow.

     Tree branches wore a brand-new winter coat. Birdhouses donned fluffy top hats. Paw prints zig-zagged across the landscape in this wildlife walkway. The woodland welcome committee had already arrived—a drilling woodpecker, a screeching hawk, and a jeering blue jay. 

    The Nordics ventured into the endless winter beauty. Every kilometer of trail beckoned them. They traversed the hills together before heading in different directions. Curious skiers stopped to study the terrain, animal tracks, and tree bark. While some raced across the frozen pond, others circled around it. A few shed their skis and slip-slid-walked across the solid ice.

    The Nordics never worried about snow droughts, for the Snow Spirits rewarded those who shared their talents. Maybe, the snow spirits loved garlic too. 

Did you know George Orwell was a pseudonym?

Orwell’s real name was Eric Blair. I picked up this literary fact while hopscotch-reading through an anthology of essays.¹   

 Last week’s revelation about one of my favorite authors surprised me. It also piqued my curiosity. Why did Blair use a pen name?² 

I called my mother, who taught English for many years, to share the news while secretly hoping this was news to her too. Turns out she didn’t know, but nor was she surprised. I also learned she didn’t teach Orwell’s work.   

+++

A fiercely loved paperback of George Orwell’s 1984 has a permanent home in the handmade pine bookshelf closest to my bed. It’s hard for me to read because of its physical state, not mine. Tiny typeface on dog-eared yellow pages. Plus, it smells musty and old, unlike the other crisper, younger books keeping it company. I imagine this edition has been with me since my high school days.    

Rarely do I reread books. However, 1984 has been the exception. I have returned to this classic, first assigned in school. My sense is that high school teachers dissected the meaning of the author’s satirical work, rather than the author.  

+++

Perhaps geography plays a role too when teaching literature. As a proud Missourian, I know that Mark Twain was Samuel L. Clemens’ pen name. It’s knowledge that I suspect they teach in school, but I believe it’s buried in the soil, or that it floats down the Mississippi River. The Mississippi River, a virtual character, in Twain’s work.

How did Clemens pick his pen name? Clemens claimed that his nom de plume was inspired by river boatmen. The boatmen called out Mark Twain, shorthand for two fathoms, helping navigate their craft. My mother also confirmed this legend. However, I found another story explaining that Clemens earned the nickname from ordering his usual drink, Mark Twain, which meant two shots of whiskey.  

Pick your story. How about another one? Twain was born on the same day Hally’s Comet shone in the sky in 1835 and died, as he predicted, when the comet appeared again in 1910.  

“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t,” as quoted by Twain’s own character Pudd’nhead Wilson.

As a writer, I plan to take more care to learn and remember authors’ names and their life stories beyond what’s on the page.

^{1            I was reading Orwell’s essay “Such, Such were the Joys,” in The Art of the Personal Essay An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present.}   

^{2            Why did Eric Blair choose the name Orwell? Curious readers, I will write another blog on writers and their pen names.}  

What Can we Learn from Strangers? 

My mother and I settled into a shuttle hired to take us to a family dinner. Mom is comfortable in the back while I’m tucked into the passenger side that’s too close to the dash, even for a short-legged person like me. But it was a 15-minute trip and not worth adjusting the seat.

Our conversation with our driver started on cruise control, with the ordinary openers: How are you today? Where are you going? Where are you from? 

 We meandered through topics, and the effect was like approaching a cautionary yellow light where one relies on instinct: speed up or slow down.    

It started with my telling our affable driver that I was from Philadelphia visiting family in Columbia, Missouri, over the holidays.

“Philadelphia? They had a garbage workers’ strike this summer, right?” he said.

Did I want to talk trash? No, but I had empathy for the city workers and their families.

“It was awful,” I said, shaking my head as I imagined the stench in the July heat. I lived outside the city limits, far away from the smelly situation. However, I had friends who lived in the city who worried about the strike, especially after hauling their garbage to pickup sites with mounting piles.

Our driver, a man who probably juggled several jobs, sided with the union, believing Philadelphia’s mayor should have paid the workers, not let them go on strike. The strike lasted eight long days.

Philly is a union town. Unions thrive in the City of Brotherly Love. Last summer, the city’s Union 33, comprised of about 9,000 workers, went on strike before Independence Day, when tourists outnumber cheesesteaks. Besides sanitation workers, Union 33 members also include custodians, security guards, and others who work in the public library system, which meant many libraries, which serve as cooling centers in the summer, were closed. 

Closed due to staffing. Closed because of safety concerns. Closed in solidarity. (Because the librarians who belong to another union lent their support to their co-workers.)

We developed a rapport and continued talking. I learned our driver wasn’t a native Midwesterner. He grew up in North Carolina, far from the coast. He longed to visit the East Coast, see the Atlantic Ocean—from the shore, not a boat, thank you. Yes, he also wanted to see Philadelphia.

Did I recite the region’s historic sites, naming the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and Valley Forge? Yes. Did I kick off bragging about the Eagles? No, that’s too serious. He wasn’t wearing a Chiefs hat, but why remind him of the bitter taste of defeat? Did I remember to mention the popular shows “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” or “Abbott Elementary”? Yes, of course. Or pick an easy subject to chew on, like our famous food scene? We ran out of time.   

Without hesitating, he says he’d like to see the Rocky statue rather than the Liberty Bell. He’s not alone in his fandom. Rocky draws hordes of tourists who run up the art museum’s seventy-two steps like the character Rocky.  

Meanwhile, we were halfway to my brother’s house. It’s partly sunny with temperatures in the upper 60s. It’s the Friday after Christmas, and I assumed from the sparse traffic that the transport business had a light week.  

The transport business was not slow despite the holiday week, he said, explaining he drove dialysis patients to their appointments on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. These treatments are vital for those suffering from kidney failure or diagnosed with kidney disease.

“I admire their positive attitude,” he said, adding that they gave him inspiration.

Our silence suggested we agreed our worries were few and small in comparison. I stared out the window, sad but grateful. Gratitude is appreciating what we have in the present tense.

Over two million people worldwide treat kidney disease with dialysis or a kidney transplant, according to the Cleveland Clinic’s website. A staggering number.  

But I had met a stranger who drove a shuttle delivering compassion along with a ride.   

 

What happens when you talk, really talk with Strangers?

Although my casual exchanges with librarians, waiters, hotel receptionists, or museum staff, shuttle drivers, may feel random, I believe otherwise. Every conversation opens a door. Invites reflection. Raises a question. 

Bob the librarian told me he liked my I still read books button when I approached him for a favor. “Could you watch my box of books while I pull my car around to load up?” I asked.

Why guard a box of books in a library? My box contained three-volume sets of new, expensive encyclopedias, which were my responsibility to return to the bookstore. He agreed. I lugged the sagging box from the meeting room to the circulation desk.   

“Watch!” he called, pointing to the box, whose bottom had come apart without me realizing it. He looked for a sturdier box, and when he didn’t find one, offered to carry the books for me.

We talked as he followed me to my car parked in the back lot. He carried the heavy box with a straight back and a smile. Before the library, Bob considered himself the consummate businessman—he loved the energy that came from making deals. He spent long lunches closing deals, signing contracts, and celebrating with drinks. He called himself a functioning alcoholic — someone who manages working, parenting, and living their life without showing stereotypical outward signs of addiction.

It’s like a game of hide and seek that goes on too long when finally, the one hiding shows themselves and end the game. Or the seeker gives up searching and calls, “Olley, Olley, in free,” declaring a truce or a new round.

I listened and then shared a family story—with a stranger. A first for me. I stood there, in my memory.

He said, “I can tell you’re a worrier.”

I can confirm I know how to worry. But I strive to follow the Serenity Prayer — accepting the things I cannot change, having the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Today, Bob’s a recovering alcoholic. He told me his family checks on him, especially concerned after relaying bad news. “I don’t want a drink after hearing sad news. I crave a drink after hearing good news,” he explained.   

We shook hands. He walked back to the library, his refuge. As I drove home, I knew I’d walked through another door of understanding.  

(The librarian's name was changed at the writer's discretion.) 

Image of Santa in the Northern Lights. 

Boots Rides Again 

“Boots, why don’t you ride with me Christmas Eve?” Santa said as he scratched me behind the ears.      

I opened one eye and raised my head. I’d rather sleep by the fire.

“But you’ll miss the celestial show tonight—an epic experience,” Santa said.

Sleeping is an epic experience, I thought, stifling a yawn.    

“I’ll be back for you,” the jolly elf said with a wink I knew well.

“Where are my fur-lined gloves?” Santa called, rummaging through the closet, tossing mismatched gloves into the hallway with a thump, thump, thump.  

Mrs. Claus appeared holding his lost gloves. She handed him the gloves and wrapped a muffler around his neck in exchange for a kiss.

“You need a new muffler,” she said, poking her finger through a gapping hole. 

“I like this muffler because it’s warm. What’s wrong with it?” he said, frowning in mock protest.

“Nothing a little magic can’t fix. I'll ask the elves to mend it again,” she said, tsk-tsking as she walked away.

“What would I do without you? And my magic scarf?” he said chuckling. 

Santa saw me standing by the doorway. “Boots, you decided to ride again for old-time’s sake.”      

I’d matured at least three lifetimes since that first scary sleigh ride with Santa. What a memorable night.  

 +++

Long before Santa adopted me, my name was Midnight. My life was carefree. I lived in a barn content to share my home with horses.  

Oh, I can still smell the sweet scent of hay in my loft. But there wasn’t enough hay to keep me warm when temperatures dropped into the single digits. I still shiver remembering Missouri winters. The heartland is harsh in the winter, even though I have a fur coat.  

That night, I had snuggled into an old, smelly horse blanket. Sleep came easily. In my dreams, I pounced on grasshoppers, chased field mice in a maze of corn, and dozed in the sunshine surrounded by wildflowers. Suddenly, a blast of frigid air and the sound of jingling bells woke me. The barn door stood wide open, and a herd of deer stood in formation. The snorting bunch began eating from the trough like they hadn’t had a meal in weeks. The horses ignored them, but I couldn’t. A blinking red nose coming from the smallest deer made the barn glow. I burrowed under the blanket.

But curiosity beckoned me to investigate. I snuck outside while the herd noisily ate. Outside, I spied a funny-looking type of tractor without wheels.   

I heard heavy footsteps and jumped inside the bulging bag atop the tractor. The warmth enveloped me, coaxing me into a nap.  I awoke to a deep voice calling, “Time to fly!” followed by a slap of reins.

 Where was I? I pawed at the thick fabric with my claws. I howled, screeched, and scratched. My stomach felt like I’d eaten something rotten. Panic set in. The bag opened, and a long white beard tickled my whiskers.

“Where did you come from?” the voice asked.

The Murphy’s barn, I thought.

“I have toys to deliver, and I’m afraid you’ll stuck with me, little one,” the strange large man said as he pulled me out of the bag. He swaddled me in his worn but warm muffler.

“We’ll get you back safe. The Mrs. will know what to do,” he said.

Twinkling, blinking stars surrounded us as we whooshed through the air.

“This nice clear night makes for smooth traveling,” he said.  

Who are you?

“Ho, ho, ho! I’m Santa Claus,” he said, reading my mind.  

Where are we?   

“Don’t worry, Midnight, we know our way. Look straight ahead if you feel sick,” Santa answered in a reassuring voice that comforted me. How did he know my name?

 My nausea had passed. 

“We’re going through the Milky Way,” Santa said, gesturing with both hands.

“It’s dazzling,” I said, wishing he’d hold onto the reins.

“The skies are spectacular. We love surfing over the rainbow of Northern Lights, which is phenomenal. Rudolph took to dancing with the lights. Ho, ho, ho! I promise to show you someday,” he said.

Before I could ask who Rudolph was, I fell into a deep sleep.

Refreshed, I woke up to a symphony of snoring from a crew of Santa’s helpers. Elves. Elves are the loudest sleepers I’ve heard and remember; I’ve slept in a barn. Before I’d had time to explore, a short, smartly dressed woman with rosy cheeks and wire spectacles appeared.

“Bedraggled mess, but we’ll fix you up,” the woman said. I assumed this was the Mrs. She took my left paw in her hand. “Are your paws white? It looks like you’ve been walking in the snow.”

She pulled a brush from her apron, unknotting all the tangles until my coat glistened. She buried her face in my fur, which made her sneeze.

“Bless you,” I said.

“You need a bath, Boots,” she said. 

Didn’t she know I gave myself baths? I didn’t want a strange human touching me. But her kind eyes made me trust her.

She hummed “Jolly Old St. Nicholas” as she carried me into the house for a bath in the sink. She scrubbed and dried and fluffed my fur. She held a mirror for me to admire myself.

“Follow me Boots, I’ll conjure you up a nice dish of leftovers,” Mrs. Claus said.

She poured some cream into a bowl. It tasted like home, and I wasted no time lapping it up. She returned with a dish full of food. I inhaled the fishy goodness, not realizing how hungry I was.

Mrs. Claus invited me into their cozy cottage, where I made myself comfortable on the braided rug, where I lay now.

+++

“Boots. I promised to show you the Northern Lights. Tonight’s the night,” Santa said.

I supposed my TikTok dance video could wait until next year.

Mrs. Claus held up a cat-sized sweater and smiled. Before I could stop her, she dressed me in the hand-knit, fuzzy soft sweater. The deep red color flattered my raven-colored coat and matched Mr. Claus’ suit too.

“Perfect fit!” she beamed, clapping her hands together.

Rather snug for my taste. But I would never hurt her feelings. I paraded around the room jingling?   

“The bells are a safety feature so Santa can hear you,” Mrs. Claus said.

I rolled my eyes. She meant well, but I sounded like a miniature sleigh. Rudolph and the guys would tease me relentlessly.

“I should get a photo of you two in your matching suits before you leave,” she said.

“No time,” Mr. Claus bellowed.

“Come along then, Boots. Donner is giving his pep talk to the crew while the elves load the sleigh,” Mr. Claus said, opening the door. He scooped me up and headed for the barn.

“Fill Old Santa’s sleigh before us, ho, ho, ho, ho ho, ha, ha, ha, ha," sang the elves who were giddy with exhaustion, but as soon as we left, they would party. A drunken display that I’d unfortunately stumbled upon last Christmas Eve. I jumped from Santa’s arms into the sleigh whilst the elves sang softer now,

“Spike the nog, prepare the punch. We are a partying bunch. Ho, ho, ho, ho-ho, ha, ha, ha, ha.

This party is on the down low; Old Santa mustn’t know.

Seriously, you got my gist? Santa still keeps a naughty list.”

The eldest elf's green eyes locked on mine, a warning. I nodded because these elves had a temper, especially after too much nog or grog or whatever nasty drink they brewed. I adored thick creamy milk — hold the rum.

A chorus of elves sang louder and faster, “Ho, ho, ho, ho-ho, ha, ha, ha, ha.”

“Ho, ho, ho, let’s go!” Santa called, bursting into the barn.

All the reindeer followed his orders, pairing up in front of the sleigh. With a wave of Santa’s hand, a harness floated above the team. Donner bowed his head three times. Santa checked the radar and gave the signal for lift-off. Contrary to widely held belief, Santa planned his route based on the weather, with no time to stop for treats. In fact, he carried protein bars—but that’s our secret.

“Time to Fly!” he called.

I closed my eyes, preparing for the sleigh to rise off the ground. My ears popped. Slowly, I opened my eyes when we were at cruising altitude.

“How much further until we reach the Northern Lights?” I asked.  

To be continued.