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Christmas at Grey Sage

By Phyllis Clark Nichols

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Chapter One

Thirty-two years later on Monday, December 19, 2005 at Grey Sage

Maude stood at the kitchen window and rubbed her hands, especially the fingers on her
left hand. Seems the cold made them ache a bit more with every winter, making it painful to hold
her palette now. But she wasn’t painting today. She and Lita would spend the day preparing for
the arrival of ten guests who would occupy the inn for the next couple of nights.
Silas grumbled from across the room. “Lita doing the grocery shopping? Did you tell her
not to buy eggnog? I don’t like that store-bought eggnog. It’s too sweet. We’ll be making our
own.”
“I’m certain Lita knows you don’t like eggnog from a carton since she’s been drinking
your home-made eggnog for about forty years.” Maude looked down over the guest list Lily had
sent.
“Did you tell her to buy real cream and lots of it?”
“Yes, Silas. She’s getting extra cream, extra eggs, and we’re counting on you for the
extra nog.” Maude turned from the window to see Silas sitting in his favorite chair in the keeping
room just off the kitchen. Reason says I should have used that ratty chair for firewood years ago,
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but somehow seeing Silas this morning, sitting, reading, and drinking his second cup of coffee
makes me glad I kept it. Making Silas comfortable these days was higher on her list of priorities
than replacing a worn-out chair.
She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she hadn’t loved Silas. Maude Amelia
McClane was nothing if she was not determined. As a ten-year-old girl growing up in West
Texas, she had been determined to marry Silas Hamilton Thornhill from the first time she saw
him riding the fences on their neighboring ranch. From then on, be it school, church, the local
library, riding the range, or cruising in his 1957 Chevy, Maude and Silas had been inseparable.
For her, Silas’s brown eyes just got bigger and browner, his dark hair wavier and thicker,
and his shoulders grew broader as he headed toward manhood. They belonged together, but high
school graduation sent Silas to the University in Austin and exiled Maude to study art at the
School of the Art Institute of Chicago. For Maude, they might as well have been on different
planets. She didn’t come out of her room in Chicago for the first three days, and she cried until
her sapphire blue eyes were nothing but slits in her puffed red cheeks.
But for the next four years in Chicago, when she wasn’t in class or studying, she visited
every museum, gallery and lecture offered. It was her way of filling up the time and holding her
breath until she and Silas were together again at home during holidays and summer breaks. It
was then she could finally inhale and exhale. And when they parted, the crying started all over
again.
Always determined, tired of holding her breath, and deeply in love, Maude would not be
left behind sobbing when Silas set off for medical school at Massachusetts General Hospital in
Boston. So with their parents’ blessings and a wedding the likes of which had never been seen
under a West Texas sky, Maude and Silas were married in June right after college graduation.
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As a young bride and an art teacher in an elementary school only a few blocks from their
modest apartment near the hospital in downtown Boston, Maude made Silas’s life as a medical
student and resident as easy as it could be. She prepared meals at odd hours and never
complained about his work load or schedule. When she found herself lonely, which was much of
the time, Maude haunted the art museums and galleries, dreaming about having her own art
studio and living in a place where the weather was warm and the sky was big and she didn’t look
out on brick buildings.
After nine winters in Boston and finally donning the white coat and answering calls as
Dr. Thornhill, Silas hesitated all of two seconds before accepting Dr. Aaron Thomas’s invitation
to join his practice. “Maude, want to move to New Mexico? If you do, we’ll be trading in this
three-room apartment for a four-room casita only blocks from the Plaza in downtown Santa Fe.
That’s temporary, mind you, until you can find us a real home.”
It took Maude even less time to say goodbye to concrete buildings and city noise and
pack up the evidence of their lives in Boston. Parting with their friends took a bit longer, but
Maude was not sad. She knew she’d see their closest friends again and often.
During that first summer in Santa Fe, there was not one art gallery or museum or mission
that Maude had not found and explored from the bottom up, studying not only their treasures but
their architecture. All the gallery owners on Canyon Road knew her by name. The summer
evenings found her and Silas enjoying night skies in the desert and the outdoor performances of
the Santa Fe Opera. Again, Maude had a way of filling up time while she held her breath. This
time she was holding her breath until she found them a real home.
The summer days and nights slowly turned to autumn, and Maude sensed a need to nest.
While Silas was building his medical practice and relationships with the locals, Maude began to
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look for property, not a flat-roofed pueblo in town, but a place out in the mountains, with a small
house that would be their intimate sanctuary and her studio and the cottage that would be the
nucleus of the sprawling home she intended to build. She had seen this home in her dreams. She
had lived in it in her imagination.
Her first visit to these forty-seven acres was like the first time she had seen Silas. Maude
knew. She knew this cottage on this mountain was it, the perfect spot of her dreams. She called
Silas immediately and described in detail the corals and blues of the horizon and the deep greens
of the pines in the woods and the silver sage and the running creek and the two-bedroom cottage.
On his next day off, she brought Silas to walk through the lush forest, and to picnic at
sunset, and to sit on the hood of the car in the evening to see the expansive sky. “I think we
should call the place Grey Sage, and I’d like to add a wing facing the east for a few more
bedrooms. Who wouldn’t want to wake up to the sunrise? And then I’d like a studio with
massive windows facing slightly southeast, and porches, lots of porches and breezeways. We
have to build for the land, Silas.”
Maude had only to describe her vision of what Grey Sage would look like in five years to
convince Silas no other property would do. He could not deny her the property since she had
already given it a name.
A year after moving into the Grey Sage cottage, little Elan Hamilton Thornhill was born.
Silas said, “Let’s carry on family tradition with the middle name Hamilton, but you name him,
Maude.”
Maude smiled because she had been contemplating names for months. “Hamilton makes
a fine middle name, but he looks like Elan to me.” Elan was an American Indian name meaning
friend of all. For the first year of Elan’s life, Maude thought nothing of teaching art or of
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anything other than taking care of her family and designing the structure that would rise from
this earth and blend with the sky.
About the time Maude finished the design and was ready to begin construction on Grey
Sage, Silas met Alo and Tablita Loloma when he delivered their second daughter. A Hopi Indian,
Alo was an expert in building adobe structures, and he was looking for a job. Silas liked Alo and
hired him.
When Silas brought Alo to meet Maude, Maude said, “Grey Sage was meant to be, and
you, Alo, will create walls and windows out of these visions in my head and on these plans.”
That was the beginning of a life-long friendship. For the next three years, Alo was on site,
working every day to build the walls and rooms from Maude’s sketches. Often, Alo brought
Tablita, or Lita, as Maude called her, and their two young daughters to the work site. Lita took
care of baby Elan and the girls and did the cooking while Alo constructed walls made of sand,
clay and straw, and Maude managed the crew working on the details of the interior.
As Elan grew, so did the footprint of the house – a larger kitchen with a keeping room
and huge fireplace, more bedrooms, open living spaces, four more smaller fireplaces or kivas as
they were known in these parts, and large windows. Grey Sage was not the typical design of a
ranch house in West Texas or a Santa Fe pueblo, but a series of Maude-designed rooms
connected by portales, open and covered porches to take advantage of the mountain breezes and
the views in every direction.
When the house was finished, Maude surprised Alo with one last project – the building of
a casita in the pine break down by the stream. This became Alo and Lita’s home. Over the next
decade, Maude and Alo developed quite a reputation for designing and restoring houses, but
Maude faithfully carved out time to teach art lessons to the local children and to make certain
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Elan’s life was magical. The Saltillo tile on her covered porches became paint-spattered, the
leftovers of her own creations and those of her students who sat at their easels painting
landscapes. But dried puddles of paint were of no concern to Maude. She was living her dream.
Lita became the sister Maude never had. While Maude designed and taught, Lita took
care of the house, the children, and did much of the cooking; and often times, both families
would gather around the large kitchen table for their evening meal. Elan grew up thinking of
Catori and Doli as his sisters; and to Silas and Maude’s West Texas families, Alo and Lita and
their daughters were extended family as they all spent holidays together.
The summers and the winters marched by in perfect step. Maude still met Silas at the
door with a kiss every evening, eager always to hear about his day. And Elan grew tall and lean
like his parents, straw-colored hair like hers but brown-eyed like Silas. He drew and swiped paint
on a canvas like his mother, and he went with his father on emergency house calls at night.
Elan learned Hopi ways from Alo and lived so close to the earth, and yet this fifteen-year
old read Tolstoy and listened to Tchaikovsky. He knew every square foot of this mountain. He
could trill like a Hermit thrush, and catch fish in a nearby stream with the most primitive
contraption, and he could walk through the forest without making a sound. Alo had taught him
how to find his way in the woods and how to survive if he ever was lost.
Fulfilling the name Maude gave him, he became a friend to all who knew him and to this
mystical place that was his home. Maude often looked at him in wonder, his thick blonde hair
and deep-set brown eyes and his broadening shoulders just like his father’s. She imagined the
kind of interesting man he would become and what he might achieve.
Christmas had always been their favorite holiday. For more than a decade, relatives from
West Texas took up residence for a week in all the extra bedrooms. The smell of mulled cider
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and cedar wafted throughout the rooms like the smoke from the fireplace drifted through the pine
grove next to the house. And Christmas mornings found the gathering room knee deep in
wrapping paper. Red-slippered family members, sipping their third cup of something warm,
hopscotched through the room to avoid stepping on Elan’s electric train, the one that circled the
Christmas tree in the corner and grew by a few cars each Christmas, even when Elan had a
drivers license.
All the Christmases at Grey Sage were magical until 1983 when they were no more. It
was autumn of that year when Elan fell while rock climbing, attempting to rescue another
climber. Life on this earth ended for Elan that Saturday afternoon in early November, and living
changed forever for Maude and Silas.
For Maude, the colors faded, the wind was colder, and the music was no longer sweet.
For Silas, every broken bone he treated sent him back to the day he climbed down to the rock
filled crevice cradling Elan’s lifeless body. He had hovered over his son, examining every limb
and desperate for a pulse. If possible, he would have willed his own breath and life into his son.
Those few days of shock, disbelief, and agony beyond anything they had experienced
became the hinge that time hung on. On one side of the hinge was the time they had with Elan,
and on the other side was time they had him no more. The house was cold and silent on that
other side, but slowly, they learned how to do life without Elan, and in time, their faith, though
shaken to its roots, sprouted again in season. But Christmas was never the same.
Life in the house was resurrected when Lita persuaded Maude and Silas to open their
home as an inn. “But Maude, you know how many times the tourists see the sign on the gate and
drive in. They already think it’s an inn, and they’re looking for a cup of coffee and something to
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eat.” She also convinced Maude they could easily sleep and feed twenty on the weekends. “I’ll
do the cooking and cleaning, and you could host retreats.”
Maude gave in to the idea of hosting artists’ and writers’ retreats, and it wasn’t long
before Grey Sage had developed quite a reputation across the Southwest and in the East where
Silas and Maude still had many friends.
Even as life returned to the house when it became an inn, the one thing Silas and Maude
could never manage after Elan died was Christmas at home. They closed Grey Sage for two
weeks at Christmas and took a trip, but this year Lily Mayfield had persuaded Maude to open
Grey Sage for a couple of nights for a group of her travelers. Maude agreed with the condition
they’d be out by Thursday, and she and Silas would be on a flight by Friday morning.

Maude felt the wind gust as Lita came through the back door. “Getting colder out there?”
“Oh, yes.” Lita plopped several bags on the counter. “The sky’s a thick gray this
morning. I’m happy to be done with the shopping and back home.”
Maude rushed to grab a bag of groceries from toppling onto the floor. “Shall we get the
other bags out of the truck?”
“No, Alo’s bringing them after he puts the frozen items away in the storage room freezer.
Let’s just take care of these. We’ll have plenty to eat no matter what and plenty of coffee,
speaking of which, I need a cup. What about you?”
“No, thanks. There’s coffee in the pot, but I’ve had my limit, and don’t offer anymore to
Silas, please.” Maude started toward the pantry with several cans and two bags of rice.
Lita bolted between Maude and the pantry door. “Why don’t you pour my cup of coffee
and let me put these away?”
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Maude smiled and released the canned goods and rice into Lita’s arms. “I know. You just
think it’s better when Silas makes the coffee and I pour it.”
Lita laughed. “For certain you do a better job of pouring coffee than you do in putting
away groceries. You think it’s more artistic to open the door, toss them in to see where they
might land. Only thing is I’ll be the one sweeping rice and trying to find the canned artichoke
hearts while I’m preparing meals for our guests.” Lita continued into the pantry. “Did you get the
guest list yet?”
“Lily sent it this morning.” Maude poured cream into Lita’s cup of coffee.
Lita stepped from the pantry into the kitchen and took the cup from Maude. “Did the
number change?”
“No, still only ten. She also sent a rooming list and a brief description of our guests.
Looks like an interesting-bordering-on-eccentric group headed our way.” Maude looked down
the list. “A retired military officer, an aging ballerina, a religion professor with his wife and son
who’s recuperating from war injuries, a pharmacist and his music-teaching wife, a grieving
widow who is a psycho-therapist with her daughter, need I go on? Oh, and then there’s Lily. ”
Lita took a sip of her coffee and started her steady trips to the pantry. “Well, sounds like
they have it all covered. We’ll have music and dance, religion and politics. Oh, and with a
grieving psycho-therapist who has a single daughter, we’re bound to see tears. And as you say,
and then there’s Lily…she always brings the drama with her latest man-grabbing stories.”
Alo came through the kitchen door with more grocery bags hanging from his arms,
shoulders and hands. He kicked the door shut. “We could have left the frozen goods outside.
Feels like they wouldn’t be thawing ’til June. How many guests are we expecting? You have
enough groceries here to feed a hungry tribe.”
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“Maude, would you pour him a cup of coffee? Might help his grumps.” Lita took some of
the bags from Alo and headed toward the pantry. “Maude just went over the guest list of ten, but
we have more than one tribe to feed. I didn’t want to have to leave the mountain again, so I
bought food for when Catori and Doli and the grandchildren arrive for Christmas.”
Silas walked into the kitchen and patted the ten-pound bag of beans. “Looks like we can
feed them beans until after the New Year. Did you get plenty of eggs and cream for the eggnog?”
Lita picked up her coffee cup again. “I did, and it would have been cheaper to buy a cow
and a couple of chickens.”
Maude’s eyes widened. “Don’t give him any ideas. I finally got him retired from taking
care of folks. We don’t need anything else around here to feed or take care of. We just need to
get through the next couple of days, and then we’re off.”
“Oh, I know. You’re off to the warm waters of the Caribbean, spending Christmas with
strangers under palm trees.” Lita shook her head. “Wish you’d just stay here with us. You’ve
already put out a few decorations, and Catori and Doli would love to see you.”
“And I’d love to see them, but our cruise is already paid for, and my achy joints are ready
for some tropical sunshine, and I’m finally putting my toes in the water off Curacao, another
check on my checklist.”
Alo removed his jacket. “Tell me again, how many different countries have you visited at
Christmas?”
Silas quickly responded. “Curacao will make seventeen different countries in the last
twenty-two years.”
Lita rolled her eyes. “There’s just something wrong about Christmas in Curacao. No
snow, no pine trees, no fireplaces. And “Silent Night” samba-style? What can I say?”
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Maude raised her eyebrows. “Just think though, Lita, it’s all about interesting cultures.
You started this. Your venison rump roast with a cactus pear Christmas salad was never seen on
a Christmas dinner table in West Texas. Oh, and your Hopi Cold Christmas cake.”
“Yes, but all of that is our tradition.”
“True, and our Christmas tradition is to see how many culturally-different Christmas
dinners we can have before we’re too old to travel and then it’s your venison rump roast again.”
All four adults in the kitchen became silent, knowing that escaping Christmas had
become Maude and Silas’s tradition, and even after twenty-two years, just remembering still
brought pain.
Lita broke the silence. “And what if I’m too old to cook it?”
Alo put his hand on Lita’s shoulder. “See, I’ve been telling you to teach your daughters
how to cook in our tradition.”
“I did teach them, and they’ll do a fine job when it’s their turn. But for now, it’s still my
turn. And right now it’s my turn to get the rest of these groceries put away and the beef bones
boiling to make beef stock.” Lita pointed to the door. “Alo, could you take the rest of the boxes
down to our casita? And Silas, could you check the cabinet to make certain you have enough nog
for all the cream and eggs I bought? And Maude, maybe you could get a pad and pencil and we
could finalize the menus while I get the water boiling.”
Maude returned and sat on the barstool ready to make notes. “Hmm, the butcher must
adore you, paying money for all those beef bones that he’d have to throw away.”
Lita added some salt and pepper to the pot. “I’m not certain we’d want to know what they
do with these beef bones if I didn’t buy them, but I can’t make good soup and chili without good
stock.”
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“I guess that means we can work soup and chili into our menu, right? Maybe for
tomorrow’s lunch?”
“They’re arriving for lunch tomorrow? And they’ll be back for tomorrow night’s
dinner?”
“Yes on the lunch, and no on the dinner. They’ll have dinner in town tomorrow night.
You might go easy on the green chili though. Lily says these folks have Midwest palates, and
I’m not certain they can handle New Mexico green chili.”
“Well, let’s tingle those delicate palates and give them a true Sangre de Cristo mountain
experience.” Lita grinned impishly and added more black pepper to the pot. “And Lily’s not
bringing a man with her this trip?”
“No, I couldn’t believe it. Such a rare occasion. But I think that’s why she put this trip
together.”
“Why? Because she’s manless right now?”
“Maybe. Or maybe she’s got her eye on the single military guy.”
“Which one? The old retired guy or the young soldier?” Lita dumped a bowl of beef
bones into the stock pot of boiling water and secured the lid on top.
“Now, Lita, Lily has her ways, but I don’t think . . .”
“Uh-huh. I still don’t understand how you two became such friends. She never married
and changes men more often than we change the light bulbs around here, and you’ve been a one
woman man all your life.” Lita washed her hands and dried them on the dish towel and reached
for a basket of fresh peppers.
“I don’t think our friendship had much of anything to do with our mating instincts. I think
it had to do more with our mutual curiosity. She was Manhattan in a sack dress and her fur
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trimmed jackets. I must have looked like Annie Oakley to her – my third day in Chicago and
standing on the corner of Madison and Wabash trying to find my way to the main building on
Michigan Avenue. She took pity on me and walked me to the front door a few blocks away.”
“Somehow I can’t picture Lily as being kind to a stranger.”
“Like I said, I think she was just curious. We were so different. It’s much more than
eighteen hundred miles separating Lubbock from New York City. We had much to learn from
each other, and of course, we shared our passion for art.”
“But that was so many years ago, and you’re still friends.”
“That we are. I guess those long walks on Lake Shore Drive stretched more than our legs,
and then there were the late nights in the studios trying to finish a project, and all the days and
evenings we spent in museums together while I was filling up time and missing Silas.”
“Was she man-crazy then?”
“You might say that she liked variety, and she was a bit ahead of her time, at least ahead
of my time.”
Lita laughed out loud. “Guess she taught a young, small-town, yes-m’aming, church
going, skinny thing like you a few new tricks.”
“Well, friendship with Lily exposed me to a bit more than art, but that was Lily, and
underneath all that flamboyance is a good soul who loves life and sees the world differently than
most of us.”
“She’s still raising eyebrows with her flamboyance. Last time she was here for a retreat, I
heard a young artist ask her where she grew up, and she shook that flaming red mane of hers and
said, ‘Grow up? I didn’t grow up. Who wants to grow up?’” Lita mimicked the way Lily shook
her long curly locks. “Left that poor young thing speechless.”
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“Avant garde. That’s what she was and still is.”
“Avant garde or not. I’ll be on my guard and prepared for most anything with her around.
At least they’ll be out most of the time touring Santa Fe.”
“Yes, they will. And while they’re out, I’ll be packing my red crepe pants and kimono for
Christmas Eve in Curacao.”

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