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There is a big old sledding hill not more than two or three good snowballs’ worth of distance from our home, just behind Hank Macabee’s house. That hill was waiting for me and my brand new toboggan. It’s one of those sneak-up kind of hills with a long slow ride down that picks up speed as it goes with a bump-hump at the end that you never see coming.
I didn’t see what was coming next, either.
The Christmas tree crashed through Hank Macabee’s bay window. The tree stand clattered behind it and bounced with a clank on Hank’s half-frozen front lawn. Hank came through the door, with a shotgun in hand. He wore a Nova Scotia plaid bathrobe and a pair of fuzzy blue Smurf slippers. He pumped and blasted the Christmas tree, shattering the decorations that escaped the initial picture window caber toss. He continued pumping and blasting until his shotgun ran dry...
So WHY is Hank Macabee shooting his Christmas tree?
Grab a copy today and find out for yourself.
Book sales for this one are usually solid around Christmas time.
Shotgun Christmas
There is a big old sledding hill not more than two or three good snowballs’ worth of distance from our home, just behind Hank Macabee’s house. That hill was waiting for me and my brand new toboggan. It’s one of those sneak-up kind of hills with a long slow ride down that picks up speed as it goes with a bump-hump at the end that you never see coming.
I didn’t see what was coming next, either.
The Christmas tree crashed through Hank Macabee’s bay window. The tree stand clattered behind it and bounced with a clank on Hank’s half-frozen front lawn. Hank came through the door, shotgun in hand. He wore a Nova Scotia plaid bathrobe and a pair of fuzzy blue Smurf slippers. He pumped and blasted the Christmas tree, shattering the decorations that escaped the initial picture window caber toss.
He continued pumping and blasting until his shotgun ran dry.
He stood there, calmly reloading. I watched from the stoop. I was out there trying to judge if the half centimetre of snow that fell over Christmas night was enough to skid my new toboggan on.
“I guess he didn’t like his presents,” Dad said.
Dad stood behind me, sipping coffee. He’d snuck up and surprised me, which was a pretty good trick considering I’d just witnessed the shotgun murder of a fully dressed Christmas tree. You don’t see that many Christmas tree shootings, here in Yarmouth.
Dad was good at surprises. Three years back he undid my bicycle’s training wheels without telling me. I was halfway to school before I realized they were missing and too surprised to fall.
“What should we do?” I asked.
“Staying back would be the smart thing,” Dad said, pulling on his boots.
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French
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Already translated.
Translated by Maria Bonnel
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Author review: Maria Bonnel was a pleasure to work with. |
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Italian
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Already translated.
Translated by Marta Leoni
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Author review: Marta Leoni hit this short book of mine with both barrels, bringing a combination of eagerness, energy and electricity. I'd work with her again. |
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Portuguese
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Already translated.
Translated by Tiego Marcel Mota Barreto
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Jose Canton
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