Some Sundays end the way they should.
A good meal. Plates pushed back. Folks sitting around a little longer than planned. Nobody watching the clock. The talk wandering from one thing to the next, easy and unimportant in the best way. Somebody pours another cup of coffee or tea. Slices of pumpkin and pecan pies are served. Or maybe a slice of cake. Or two. And no one says much about it.
Those moments matter more than we sometimes realize at the time.
Before we get too far along, there is one small thing I would like to settle right from the start.
These days, the moment someone hears the words “weekly” and “email,” a little voice pipes up:
Oh no… not JAN.
Just Another Newsletter.
You know the kind.
Crowded inbox. Loud subject lines. Endless self-promotion.
More noise than nourishment.
And if that is what The Hearth & Holler Gazette were going to be — I would not blame you one bit for steering clear.
But here is the thing —
This is not JAN. Not even close.
The Gazette is not a newsletter.
There will be no book pitches.
No launch announcements.
No character reveals dropped like bait.
No “Pre-order Now!” or “Don’t forget to buy!” reminders elbowing their way into your morning.
Instead, think of it this way —
The Hearth & Holler Gazette is a fictional small-town paper, delivered once a week on Saturday mornings, the way such things used to be — its pages set in the early years of the twentieth century, beginning in January of 1904.
A place for:
It exists for one reason only —
To offer a pause.
A smile.
A little warmth.
That is the why.
Everything else grows from that.
One might think of The Hearth & Holler Gazette as something closer to Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion —
without the live music, and without needing to go buy a radio.
A familiar voice.
A small town and folks you come to know.
Stories and observations that take their time, and trust you to do the same.
Or perhaps it brings to mind Charles Osgood’s quiet pieces — the kind that never shouted for attention, yet somehow always earned it.
If you ever found comfort in evenings spent with The Andy Griffith Show, The Waltons, or Little House on the Prairie, then you already understand the spirit at work here.
Not because those stories ignored the wider world —
but because, for a little while, they set a different table.
That is the neighbourhood the Gazette hopes to live in.
As the year begins to slow down and we edge closer to Christmas, I have found myself thinking less about what was accomplished and more about what quietly mattered — the small moments, the kindnesses that did not make headlines but made days a little better.
A few evenings ago, Little Red Bear asked if he might stop by the Writing Pages for a few minutes to share some of the things that stayed with him this year. Not the grand events, but the everyday goodness he noticed along the way. I was glad to say yes — and this is his note.
As Christmas draws near each year, I find myself returning to a handful of stories that never lose their warmth — stories that remind us of who we were, who we are, and who we still hope to be. One of those is the classic newspaper reply known today simply as “Yes, Virginia.”
If you’ve ever paused during the holiday bustle and wondered where the magic of Christmas hides itself these days — haven’t we all felt that? — the history of this little letter has a way of lighting the lantern again. And like all good stories, there’s more to it than most folks remember.
Here is the story behind the story — the people, the newspaper, the unlikely pairing, and the words that continue to shine like a window candle more than a century later.
INTRODUCTION —
As we make our way through this busy December stretch, I thought it might be nice to pause for just a moment and share a quiet word from someone new in our Honey Hill world — someone many of you first met a few days ago in “The Lantern in Clara Thimblewick’s Window.”
Clara Thimblewick will soon be stepping into an important role in our community. Beginning in January, she will serve as the Editor of The Hearth
& Holler Gazette, guiding our weekly wanderings through Honey Hill, Hopper’s Holler, Round Corners, and beyond with a steady hand and a thoughtful eye.
After spending much of her life working in newspapers back East, Clara has returned to Missouri to take up this new post and, in her words, “to resume a more measured life than present-day city rhythms permit.”
As a small seasonal greeting — and an early chance to become acquainted — Clara wished to offer a brief message to readers here on The Writing Pages. I am delighted to share her note with you today.
A Holiday Note from Clara Thimblewick —
It is my hope that this message finds you in a moment of quiet, however small such moments may be in December. The soft light of winter has a
way of inviting reflection, even in the midst of the season’s many demands, and I am grateful for the opportunity to address you for the first time.
Although my name may be unfamiliar to you at present, please allow me to offer a brief introduction. I was raised in Missouri during childhood, later sent East for my schooling, and remained there for many years while building a career in the newspapers. I have now returned home to serve as Editor of The Hearth & Holler Gazette, a responsibility I accept with both humility and resolve. It is my intention to honor the stories of this
community with clarity, fairness, and respect.
There is much work ahead as we prepare the Gazette for its January debut. New ventures often bring with them a quiet sense of anticipation, and I feel it very keenly. In time, I hope to become a familiar presence in your weekly reading — not by insistence, but by steady and conscientious service.
For now, I simply wish to extend to you my warmest regard during this winter season. May the quieter hours be gentle company to you and may the small lights along your path — a lamp in a window, a friendly word, a simple kindness — bring you a measure of comfort as the year draws to its close.
With sincere respect,
Clara Thimblewick
Editor, “The Hearth & Holler Gazette”
CLOSING THOUGHTS —
I hope Clara’s note brought a touch of calm to your day. She will be joining us more regularly once the Gazette begins its weekly visits in January, and I am looking forward to the steady presence she will bring to our little corner of Honey Hill Country.
Thank you for reading and settin’ a spell with us today.
— Jim (and Red!)
If you would enjoy a weekly visit to Little Red Bear’s Honey Hill Country, you are already in the right place. A simple subscription to The Writing Pages is all that is required. Beginning in January, the Hearth & Holler Gazette will arrive automatically each week, bringing a small slice of Honey Hill Country to your doorstep.
P.S. from Little Red Bear — “Clara is too polite to say it, but I am not — you ought to sign up for the Gazette. Good things are on the way, and I would hate for you to miss out.”
INTRODUCTION —
There is a certain way winter settles over Honey Hill — not with fanfare, but with a soft hush, as though the whole forest is catching its breath before Christmas.
On mornings such as this, Little Red Bear likes to take an early stroll, merely to wander through the quiet and listen to what his heart might be trying to tell him before the day unfolds. And every now and then, something small and unexpected offers a gentle reminder of the kindness still humming through the hollers.
This little story is one of those moments — a simple winter vignette featuring a neighbour you’ll soon be seeing more of in our Hearth & Holler Gazette.
by James Milson
A soft snowfall had drifted through Honey Hill in the night, leaving the world brushed in white. The morning felt quieter than usual — the sort of quiet that invites you to walk slowly and listen. Little Red Bear bundled up for his stroll and stepped outside, his breath rising faintly in the frosty air.
As he came round the bend near the edge of town, a warm glow caught his eye. There, in the window of Clara Thimblewick’s cottage, a lantern flickered against the early dawn.
It surprised him. Clara was an early riser, yes, but the lantern wasn’t usually lit so long after the sun had pushed up over the ridge. Little Red Bear paused a moment, then decided to stop in — just to make sure everything was all right. Kindness, after all, begins with paying attention.
Clara opened the door before he could even knock fully.
“Well now, Red,” she said, her smile warming the morning even more than the lantern’s glow, “aren’t you a sight of winter cheer.”
“I saw your lamp burning,” Little Red Bear replied, “and thought I’d better check on you to make sure everything is okay.”
“Oh, that,” she said, waving a gentle hand. “Every year when the days get short, I keep a lantern in the window. A bit of welcoming light can make a world of difference for someone lost and wandering in the cold.”
They chatted for a few minutes — nothing urgent, nothing dramatic — just neighbourly warmth shared over the doorway. Before Little Red Bear turned to leave, Clara reached for a neatly folded scarf from a basket near the stove.
“Take this along,” she said, reaching up and slipping it over his shoulders before he could protest. “I made extra this year. Winter is too long a season not to keep someone else warm when we can. You really should dress warmer when you are out in this cold, Red.”
Little Red Bear thanked her — though he insisted he already had a perfectly good scarf — and set off down the snowy path again, the new one settling warmly around his shoulders as he walked.
Halfway home, Little Red Bear paused beside an old fencepost overlooking the lower meadow. The wind, cold and steady now, was picking up across the open stretch. Little Red Bear thought about Clara’s lantern burning in the window, and how she had lit it not for herself, but for anyone else who might need to feel its glow.
Carefully removing the scarf from around his neck, Little Red Bear tied it gently around the fencepost, letting its soft red wool flap a little in the breeze. Maybe someone would come along who needed it more than he did, he thought. Perhaps a traveller, or a creature searching for a warmer night to shelter from the cold.
Kindness, he remembered, has a way of echoing. And Clara would like that, he figured.
Little Red Bear took one last look at the splash of red flapping in the breeze against the snowy field, and then headed home, feeling even a little warmer now.
Closing Reflection —
It’s not always the grand gestures that make a difference, is it? More often than not, it’s the small, everyday kindnesses — a lantern in the window, a warm word at the door, a scarf left for the next passerby — that help us feel less alone in the world. As we move nearer to Christmas, may we each find simple ways to brighten the path for someone else. Sometimes that’s all the season asks of us. And we can certainly do that for someone, can’t we?
Little Red Bear and I hope Clara’s lantern brought a touch of light to your day, and that a bit of warmth follows you along your own winter path. From our little corner of Honey Hill to yours, Little Red Bear and I wish you warmth, kindness, and a peaceful path as Christmas draws near. Thanks for settin’ a spell with us today.
— Jim (and Red!)
You’ll be seeing more of Clara Thimblewick soon — she has a gentle way of adding light to the hollers, and we’re excited to feature her in an upcoming Hearth & Holler Gazette story next week.
And if you’re wandering back through Honey Hill next week, Little Red Bear and I hope you’ll join us again on Tuesday, December 16th. We’ve got a special birthday post waiting — and we’d sure love to share it with you.
James Milson - The Writing Pages 