SIMPLE THINGS, written and published by JD Holiday,
Dedicated to my parents, Ira and Ruth Day, in Simple Things the Cameron children worried they will not get the toys they asked for this Christmas because their mother is a last minute shopper. The uncle Trisha Frankel lived with most of her life has died. The only option she has is to find the father she does not know. Trisha takes her dog, Mitch to search out her father. Along the way, her dog is stolen. The most likely suspect in the dog’s disappearance is a man connected to the Cameron children Phoebe, Tucker, and Kirby. Phoebe, Kirby and
Tucker Cameron are busy trying to figure out if their
Christmas gifts will arrive. Helping Trisha makes them realize
sometimes the problems of others are more important than their own
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This is the painting I did for Simple Things. © 2018 by JD Holiday
SIMPLE THINGS: Middle-grade
© 2018 by JD Holiday
This is a painting I did for my latest book, Simple Things, a middle grade Christian based story.
Dedicated to my parents, Ira and Ruth Day, Simple Things is about the Cameron children worried that they will not get the toys they asked for for Christmas because their mother is a last minute shopper. The uncle that Trisha Frankel has lived with most of her life with has died. The only option she
has is to find the father she does not know, even though her uncle said,
“He was no good.” Trisha takes her dog, Mitch to search out her father and find out what he is like for herself. Along the way, her dog is stolen. The most likely suspect in the dog’s disappearance is a man
connected to the Cameron children Phoebe, Tucker, and Kirby. Phoebe, Tucker, and Kirby are busy trying to figure out if their Christmas gifts will arrive. But helping Trisha makes them realize that sometimes the lives
of others are more important than their own interests, especially at Christmas time.
Back story for Simple Things
The Christmas in 1956 a truck delivering gifts from the Spiegel catalog company caught fire on route to New Jersey the week before the holiday. My parents ordered the toys from it that year. Once informed by mail that the accident occurred my parents must have been in a panic. After all, they spent all the money they had
Christmas on that order. But Spiegel, one of an
American direct order catalog company at that time
founded in 1865, assured them they would make
good on their delivery, even if some of the items would not be
exactly what was ordered.
Spiegel along with the Sears catalogs consisted of numerous pages
devoted to toys for the Christmas season which us kids poured over
from the time the catologs arrived in the mail thorough the Christmas
season until that wonderful Christmas morning. My parents, to make
the excitment last for us, or maybe them, they liked sharing the
season's enthusiastic passion with us. For the whole month of
November up until my parent acquire the expected toys would take us
to the 2 or 3 local toy stores several times to observe the items we
fancied. They would either go back and buy what we liked or order
from either the or SEARS catalogs. I wanted the Betsy Wetsy doll that
drink and wet, bottle and diapers included! The Betsy
Wetsy dolls were originally issued by the Ideal Toy Company of New
York in 1934. It "drink-and-wet," and was one of the most
popular dolls of its kind in the Post妨orld
War II baby boom era.
We were about to get ready for bed Christmas eve when commotion began outside the single family home we rented in Totowa, New Jersey on the same block a the town cemetery. The surprise of this intrusion changed the nightly routine. The family was sitting around our living room as people did in the 1950s just to watch the beauty of our decorated and lit tree. The door bell rang to the front porch of the house. My father got up and went to look. “No one look out the window,” he commanded.
He was clearly expecting something to happen. We would learn much later that he and my mother were not so sure the toys would actually make it by truck from the companies headquarters in Chicago.
My father closed the door behind him as he went out onto the porch where muffled voices began followed by a lot of bumping and crashing sounds.
Our mother scurried to get us upstairs to our rooms and into bed leaving us children unsure of what was occurring.
Christmas morning, I was thrilled to see all the wonderful looking packages under the tree. That is until I ripped open the box to see my Betsy Wetsy doll. But it wasn't her. It was a doll I haven't seen before. I received a knockoff.
I cried throwing the baby doll to the floor, “It's not her!”
“But she's a baby,” my father said, with a sympathetic facial expression for the rubber baby. He bent down and picked up the doll and rocked it while holding it tenderly.
“I don't want her. I want Betsy,” I told him.
“But look. I think the baby's hurt,” he said, mocking more sadness.
I looked over his arms to see the baby's face. She didn't seem to be hurt, but just so cute. I took her from him and hugged her. My Betsy. I was five.