21/12/2024
๐ง๐๐ ๐๐๐๐'๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ฎ ๐๐๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ ๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ฆ๐ง๐ ๐๐ฆ | Twisting Stripes, Twining Hearts
by Ruth Anne Villanueva
There is a singular charm in those customs which, by quiet perseverance, outlast the whims of fashion and the fickleness of taste. Among them, one might find no better emblem than the humble candy cane โ a confection as constant in its sweetness as it is resolute in its strength. To some, it is but a trifling holiday sweet, but to those with eyes to see, it is a symbol of constancy and care, a tradition whose simple duality nourishes both heart and spirit alike.
It was on such reflections that young Marianne Beresford found herself one wintry afternoon, seated in her grandmother's parlor at Larkspur House. The air, scented with pine and cinnamon, held the serene stillness peculiar to days of snowfall, while the fire on the hearth sent flickering light across the room's well-worn furnishings. Before Marianne lay a collection of holiday trimmings: sprigs of holly, ribbons of crimson and gold, and a small box of candy canes โ each one a perfect curve of red and white.
Her grandmother, Mrs. Elinor Beresford, sat nearby in her high-backed chair, her hands busy with a needle and thread. Her movements were steady and unhurried, and her gaze, though fixed upon her work, did not fail to notice Marianne's quiet preoccupation. The child had taken one of the candy canes from its box and was studying it with all the intensity of a scholar before a rare manuscript.
"Grandmama," Marianne said, her brow furrowed with earnest inquiry, "why do they always look the same? The red and white stripes, the little hook at the top โ they never change." She held it up for emphasis as though demanding an explanation from the object itself.
Mrs. Beresford smiled, her eyes crinkling with affection. "It is their nature to be so, my dear. Some things do not change because they are already as they ought to be."
Marianne tilted her head, unconvinced. "But why a hook? Why not a straight stick like barley sugar?"
"Ah, that is a question with an answer both plain and profound," Mrs. Beresford replied, setting down her needlework. She leaned forward, her hands folded neatly in her lap, as though ready to impart a secret. "Look at it well, Marianne. It is a shepherd's crook, a symbol of care and guidance. It reminds us that we are watched over, even when we think ourselves lost. And if you turn it this way"โ she gently rotated the candy cane in her granddaughter's hand โ "what letter do you see?"
Marianne's face lit with recognition. "A J!" she exclaimed.
"Indeed," Mrs. Beresford said with a nod. "The first letter of a name most beloved this time of year. But there is more to it than shape alone. Look at its colors. White for purity, and red for love and sacrifice. Together, they teach us that joy, if it is to endure, must be built on both innocence and devotion."
Marianne traced the stripes with a thoughtful finger. "But it is hard, Grandmama," she said, giving the cane a firm tap on the table. "Not like other sweets that break right away."
"Precisely," Mrs. Beresford said with a gleam of approval. "Its strength is its merit, my dear. A thing that breaks too soon is a fleeting pleasure, gone before it can be properly cherished. But a candy cane, like our family traditions, is made to endure. It is firm in the face of mischief, it does not yield at the first test of will, and it requires patience to be fully enjoyed. Sweetness without strength is little more than indulgence. Strength without sweetness is a bitter draught. But both together โ ah, therein lies the beauty of it."
Marianne turned the candy cane slowly in her hand, her tiny fingers curling around it with newfound reverence. "Did you have candy canes when you were my age, Grandmama?"
"Of course," Mrs. Beresford said, her eyes distant with memory. "Though ours were not bought in tidy boxes from the mercer's shop. My mother made them herself, bending the sugar into those same red-and-white stripes. It was not an easy task, mind you, but she never failed to make enough for every one of us โ and always one more, in case a visitor should arrive." Her gaze softened. "I remember watching her twist the colors together, her hands swift and sure despite the heat of the sugar. It seemed like magic to me then, but now I know it was love โ love that was sweet but also strong."
Marianne's eyes grew wide. "Did you help her?"
"Not until I was older," Mrs. Beresford said with a small laugh. "She would not trust me near boiling sugar until I had proven myself patient enough to stir it without tasting it." Her smile grew wistful. "But once I learned, she let me twist the stripes myself. I thought it the grandest honor in the world."
Marianne's fingers tightened around the candy cane, and a look of quiet determination settled over her features. "Will you show me, Grandmama? I should like to learn how it is done."
Mrs. Beresford regarded her granddaughter with a steady, thoughtful gaze. "I believe you are ready," she said at last. "But I warn you, it is not work for the hasty or the careless. It requires patience and a steady hand."
"I can be steady," Marianne said with resolve.
"I am not as impatient as Edward."
"Few are," Mrs. Beresford replied dryly. She reached for Marianne's hand, drawing her close. "Very well, then. On Christmas Eve, we shall make them together. But you must promise me one thing."
"What is it, Grandmama?"
"That when you are older and have children of your own, you will teach them as I have taught you. For sweetness and strength, my dear, are not qualities that spring up of their own accord. They must be taught, and they must be tended."
Marianne nodded with all the gravity of a child entrusted with a significant charge. "I promise, Grandmama."
And so, on Christmas Eve, grandmother and granddaughter stood side by side in the warm kitchen of Larkspur House. The air was rich with the fragrance of peppermint and sugar, and the steady rhythm of hands twisting red and white ribbons into the familiar shape of a shepherd's crook echoed the enduring pulse of tradition itself. Marianne's brow was knit in fierce concentration, her fingers careful but determined, and Mrs. Beresford watched her with quiet pride.
The first candy cane was not perfect. Its stripes wavered; its crook was more of a bend than a curve, but it stood firm and whole in Marianne's hands. "It is not as fine as yours," she admitted, eyeing her grandmother's perfectly even twist of color.
"It is finer than you know," Mrs. Beresford said, gently smoothing a loose strand of hair from Marianne's face. "For you have made it with your own hands. And when you taste it, you will know the labor that went into it. Sweetness earned is sweeter still."
Marianne gazed at her candy cane, her eyes alight with pride and the quiet satisfaction of accomplishment. She did not eat it that night. She placed it carefully in her stocking, next to the one her grandmother had made so that in the morning, she would have them both. For though it is the nature of sweets to be eaten, it is also the nature of love to be shared.
Years later, when Marianne had children of her own, she taught them to make candy canes just as her grandmother had taught her. And though their stripes were crooked and their hands unsteady, the sweetness and strength of that simple task lingered long after the sugar had melted away. Traditions, like candy canes, are not valued for their perfection but for the enduring love they carry through time.
Illustration by Aishley Beyonce Ventura
The Edge: The official students' publication of the College of Arts and Sciences- Mariano Marcos State University
