When five-year-old Morganne asks the Question of All Questions, her father must improvise the origin story he and his wife never got around to discussing. What unfolds is a heartwarming tale of small-town rivalries, runaway yarn, and one spectacularly chaotic holiday tradition: the Wintervale Sweater Wars.
“Where did I come from, Daddy?”
Dalton nearly dropped the Rubbermaid tub of vintage hand-blown Santas on the hearth. He and Morganne had been charged with getting a head start on the tree while Nola braved the specialty stores for last-minute supplies. He’d told Nola not to wait until the last minute, but it was woven into that woman’s DNA to do things up against the wire with a ticking clock.
And now this. The Question of All Questions?
He was tempted to distract his daughter with the Peterson Family tree topper—the highest of all decorating honors—but that would get him in huge trouble with Nola.
The topping of the tree had to wait for Mommy.
Dalton watched Morganne hang her knitted Baby’s First Christmas ornament and flick it on the branch so it spun in the sparkle of the multicolored lights. The yarn has held up well over the last five years—quality materials—and Dalton hoped it would hold up another twenty. One future holiday season, they’d pack Morganne’s ornaments into her own Rubbermaid tote so she could have moments like this with her children.
But the yarn won’t hold if Morganne kept flicking it.
“Stop flicking it.”
She flipped away from the tree, her braids twisting across her shoulders, and asked again. “Where. Did. I. Come. From. Daddy?”
She got that from her mother. Punctuating every word with a full stop. But the “daddy” was delivered with a dollop of manipulative sweetness (also from her mother), and he knew he’d have to come up with something. Fast. Hoping her five-year-old brain would glitch to another topic and the Question of All Questions would fizzle was not going to work.
He wasn’t about to give some stork explanation. That was what his mother had done. Or that Santa stuffed the babies in stockings for mommies and daddies. That was what his father had told him. He had to find out the old-fashioned way. From a ten-year-old classmate. So the terminology was all jacked up, and, well…
He had to think. And not just about explaining Birds and Bees 101 to a five-year-old, but how this particular precocious five-year-old will retell it to her whole kindergarten class come Monday, once the story’s had time to weave itself into her mind.
Nola and Dalton had talked about this six months ago. They figured they’d have more time. They should’ve known better. Had a script written and stashed in the cupboard next to the cocoa and Kool-Aid.
One in the glovebox, too. Just in case.
And why did the kid have to pop the Question when her mother was away? He groaned but masked it by reaching for the ornament box. Morganne giggled. Dalton handed his daughter a glass Santa and showed her how to hang it gently. “These aren’t like the knitted ones. These will break, so be careful.” She was a true klutz sometimes—like him.
She glowed and her brown eyes shone bright in the fireplace flames. After she was satisfied with her effort—putting the Santa as high up as her little arms could reach and not dropping him—she said, “I’m waiting.”
“I know.” Dalton hung another Santa and handed Morganne her second.
He was better equipped to tell her how St. Nick and the Easter Bunny vacation together in Cancun at an adults-only resort in the off-season. He was better equipped to tell her about how the Tooth Fairy and Jack Frost meet Santa and the Easter Bunny in Cancun.
Really spin the yarn. No loose ends.
Whatever he was going to tell her about this, though, it had to be the truth.
“I’ll tell you what. We’ll finish this tote of Santas. I’ll grab us a plate of cookies and a couple of mugs of hot cocoa—
“With those itty bitty mashmells.” She held up two tiny fingers close together.
He held up two not-so-tiny fingers close together. “With those itty bitty mashmells, and I’ll tell you the story of where you came from.”
She did a giddy little jump-and-squeal and reached in the tote for her third “big girl decorating” Santa, talking to herself the whole time like Grandpa Prewitt used to do. Half of it Dalton couldn’t make out because his brain was glitching.
He pushed aside boxes and decorating clutter so Nola wouldn’t trip on something on her way back through the house—if she ever got home—and secured the storytelling sugar. He situated himself in the rocking recliner closest to the fireplace, and Morganne wasted no time climbing into his lap and reaching for her mug and a Santa-hat-shaped sugar cookie.
“So you wanted to know if Santa was real.” Dalton attempted one last Hail Mary pass to divert.
“Noooo. I want to know how I got here.” Her feet kicked excitedly, hitting Dalton in the shins. He situated her more comfortably on his lap, covering her with the blanket from the back of the chair, and the pair leaned back.
She looked up at him and tilted her head ever so slightly to the left. Waiting. For an answer. Like yesterday.
Dalton grinned. That she got from her Grandpa Josias.
And that gave Dalton an idea.
He’d keep it simple. The best yarns always are.
Dalton began to weave…
#
It was the winter of, well, it didn’t matter what year. Five-year-olds don’t care about decades. He really did need to focus.
Dalton had been on the West Coast, taking in the California sun, surfing most waking hours and running his startup software company by night. He’d fled the Midwest and its dreary skies shortly after high school.
Actually, he’d fled the ridiculousness that plagues most kids in small towns—you know everyone and everyone knows you. When your family is in a tempestuous clash with the other prominent family in town, that’s your whole life.
Want to check out the newest Captain Underpants from the library? (Yes, he was too old. No he didn’t care.) “Hey, Dalton, tell your mom I have her new pattern books in.” You use up your two-book allotment on two knitting books. Captain doesn’t even get to tie on his cape.
Want to take in the new action movie down at the one-screen cinema where Caitlyn works weekends? “Hey, Dalton! Thanks a lot. My mom made me wear a sweater your mom made for our family postcard picture, and now I’m branded.” You leave the seething hot girl to the popcorn machine and don’t look back.
Want to get a grape Slurpee from the gas station? “Hey, Dalton, how’s the llamas?” Leave the purple lips for someone else. It’s not worth the humiliation.
And yes. Moriah and Prewitt Peterson kept llamas in the backyard, and it was Dalton’s job to feed and water the “livestock.” They had a corner lot, the last house on the city limits just enough for a bit of ground and a small barn. Llamas. Plural. For llama wool. To knit. The sweaters. For the one event that the whole town lived for:
The Wintervale Sweater Wars.
The event had started long before Dalton or Nola were born. Before the commercialization of ugly sweaters and the party fad that goes with it. This was the time when one had to wear what some relative crafted—no matter how hideous the relative or the design.
Line up. Smile. Take photos. Today, sweet memes are made of these picture-perfect nightmares.
Back then, you’d pray for the day when you outgrew the creation and you could donate it to the thrift store or the shelters. Many folks over the years had little “accidents” while wearing their “handmade with love” tops.
A sleeve caught fire while lighting the Hanukkah menorah.
The hem snagged on a pine branch at the Christmas Tree farm and the whole thing came unraveled.
And many, many people’s dryers are just way too hot, resulting in an abundance of festive wear choices for babydolls or Goldendoodles.
Dalton stayed gone, only visiting well after the Sweater Wars were over for the season, usually landing the day before Christmas and flying back out a couple of days before New Year’s to avoid the grand resetting of the knitting squabbles between the Petersons and the Storiers.
Until the winter his startup went nose up (he couldn’t find a competent coder to save his life or his business). Which happened to be the same winter when his mother broke her ankle and his father panicked. How was he to take care of Moriah and the llamas in this weather? So Dalton came home to Wintervale early to help his parents. On the flight back, he’d convinced himself with Mom’s injury that at least his family would pull out of the War, and peace on earth may be had.
No such luck. Two feet into the front door, and Dad started in. “Lolly’s lost her tether. Moriah was supposed to have knitted her saddle blanket, but I can’t find it, and she’s too out of it to tell me where to look.”
Dalton hadn’t even dropped his suitcase and already it’d begun.
Want to tend to Mom’s broken ankle? “Hey, Dalton, we need that runway built tomorrow.” Let the humiliation start afresh.
He did the responsible son thing and hauled his mom to the emergency room—she’d so far refused to let Prewitt take her, but Dalton said he’d not help build the runway if she didn’t go. She rolled her eyes at him. “The stork must’ve dropped you on your head. You know how important this is.”
“Yeah, Mom. But you come first or you won’t be able to knit anything else.”
“I do not knit with my toes, Boy.” She yammered the whole trip to the ER. The whole time in the waiting room. All the way home and back into the house. Runway plans. Tend to Lolly. Find her saddle blanket. She’s sure she folded it, and it’s on the dryer, but Prewitt is blind and half deaf and doesn’t pay attention to her one bit.
Dalton wished he were blind and half-deaf. The doctor gave Moriah meds and strict orders to rest. Only the meds were taken. Moriah would not miss the War for anything. She’d knitted a complete ensemble for Prewitt to wear. An overcoat, vest, and pants. All in black and white with red stitching and a red pocket square. A scarf of green. Fit for Santa if he were going ballroom dancing.
“I had to bargain and trade—” Moriah winced and shuffled in her seat. “Trade with that rat Josias. Anne’s made—” More wincing. “Anne’s made Nola the center of the show. Again. A dress, I hear. Likened to a ball gown, I hear. And out of Lolly’s hard-grown fur.”
She shuffled and the motion from the couch caused the crutches to slide down the wall. Dalton righted them again.
He swallowed hard. “Nola?” He’d have figured Nola would’ve had enough of her parents’ War, having, like him, to be forced onto the fashion runway year after year in llama attire. He’d wanted to ask her out throughout high school, but that was off-limits. Another instance of small-town life sucking the life out of him.
Want to ask the pretty Storier girl on a date? “Hey Dalton, we trade with the Storiers. We do not date the Storiers.” So Nola was left to date other guys and would be seen around school wearing matching knitted cardigans.
He gathered himself. “Well, that is the deal, right, Mom?” Dalton leaned his mother’s crutches against the wall and re-propped her swollen foot up on the pillow for the third time. “I mean, you trade the wool for the Storiers’ weaving and dye. And you should really rest.”
“Storiers.” She stuck her nose in the air.
And thus the tumultuous relationship. The Petersons owned the llamas—thus the wool that must be fed, watered, and housed all year round. The Storiers owned the weaving machine, the skill to turn wool into yarn, and the organic dyes. But then they’d compete—each wearing the others’ hard work. Over the years, the battle had been neck and neck.
This year, the winner would get the biggest trophy yet and a spot in next summer’s State Fair showcase. The tension was wild and the stakes couldn’t have been higher.
Prewitt joined them from the living room doorway. He’d finally found Lolly’s new saddle blanket and was fighting it, trying to get it folded. “Storiers. They’ve won the last three years in a row. Our last three-year streak was, what, Honey, a whole decade ago?”
“Yes, Dear. We’re overdue.”
Prewitt took two more steps into the living room, tripped on the blanket's hem, and cracked his head on the coffee table, giving Dalton the opportunity to take a second parent to the emergency room in a single day.
The doctor provided a concerned look, a concussion diagnosis, five eyebrow stitches, meds, and strict rules to rest.
This provided Dalton the butt-crack-of-dawn opportunity to assemble the fashion runway with his parents seated five feet from him, micromanaging every detail. Though others came and went and volunteered as they could, setting up chairs and cleaning and such, they were not die-hard War heroes like his parents. They enter Sweater Wars for fun, knowing they’ll do no better than third place.
First and second have been reserved for Storiers and Petersons for decades.
And so it went. Three-foot-tall plastic candy canes spaced so far apart. No, not like that, like that.
The ancient speakers in the Expo Hall must be wired properly so the judges could be heard clearly in all corners of the tired building. Call the electrician because the heat’s fritzing. Call the plumber because the pipes in the men’s restroom froze overnight.
The plywood walkway must be repainted— from red to bright white and then glitter sprayed to make it sparkle. No. We can’t use the red from last year. The red will clash with Moriah’s entry into the Sweater Wars. That candy cane is too close to the other candy canes. “You don’t want people to look at unevenly spaced candy canes. You want all eyes on you, Dalton.”
And then it dawned on him. His mother meant him to wear the suit. Take Dad’s place in the show. Like he was going ballroom dancing with Santa. This was a problem because he’s a klutz, doesn’t know how to ballroom dance, and a percentage of the judging goes to showmanship. You could have the best entry, but if the model trips, you’re dinged on the score.
He was about to protest when the Storiers came through. Josias and Anne, able-bodied, he noted, pulled a spinning wheel on a flatbed hand cart. Nola was behind them, maneuvering a stack of totes on a wagon.
His instinct was to help Nola. Clear the cotton from his throat and wipe the sweat from his hands. Say hi. But the glares from his parents kept him on candy cane duty.
As his back was to the rest of the fuss in the building, his parents thankfully distracted with townspeople gossip, he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Hi.”
It was Nola. He dropped the candy cane. She looked the same—no, she looked better. Better than she did in high school. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Kind smile. Just… relaxed.
“Hey.” He picked up the candy cane prop and handed it to her. Apologized. Took it back. Apologized again.
Smooth, Dalton. Smooth.
“It must be the paint fumes.” She grinned and pointed to the runway, wet and glistening like newly fallen snow. Or something like that.
“Yeah… it needed an upgrade, or so I was directed.”
“We could’ve used the red. Saved the labor.”
“Evidently, there is a clashing component to take into consideration.”
“Ahhhh. Yes.” She glanced over Dalton’s shoulder toward his parents. “They don’t look top of game.”
“Nope. They are not.”
“Will Moriah enter?” Nola’s eyes got wide. “I thought Prewitt was the model—oh wait.”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Dalton felt his face burn.
“So I guess we’ll be the Talk. Of. The. Town.” She sassed her shoulders back and forth, and the cotton in Dalton’s mouth threatened to choke him.
This was going badly. As badly as anything in high school ever went. “Yeah.”
“Nola Marie Storier!” Josias’s voice boomed off the Expo Hall’s walls, his head tilted to the side, demanding action.
“Oops. Fraternizing with the enemy. I’ve been caught. Good luck tonight.” And with that, she spun, her hair braids twisting over her shoulders, and joined Anne and Josias in unpacking their weaving display.
He turned toward his parents to find them glaring. And that one candy cane still wasn’t spaced right.
#
Backstage, the night of the War, Dalton was sweating bullets way before he ever donned his mother’s creation. This was more stressful than losing his startup.
By the time she got done fussing between the crutch under her one arm and the white vest and black jacket and the black pants—god help him, the pants!—he was nearly soaked through. Then she whipped a surprise out of her bag—a green cumberbund she’d knitted the night before. To match the scarf. “Good grief, Mom.”
“I’ve got enough worries, Dalton. This ankle. Your dad’s concussion. He keeps picking at the stitches and has already bled on poor Lolly’s blanket. At least it was in the red section—”
The door swung open, and Nola walked in. Rather, glided in. Smile on her face, hair done up in a formal thingy on top of her head and held with a red knitted bow. A few delicate tendrils of curls framed her face. Her dress—the one Anne knitted—was astonishing, even if it was of yarn. It was all white with dainty clusters of red and green sequins spaced just right—not like his candy canes. There were larger sequins framing her shoulders and a sash knitted in the brightest red.
Moriah jerked on the vest, drawing his attention back to her. “Focus, son. But take note. That’s how you behave in formal wear.”
“Mom, it’s not formal wear. It’s Lolly’s hair for crying out loud.”
She jerked on the vest again. “And it cost me dearly to have this dyed black. You will wear it proudly.” She straightened the pocket square and scarf. “I think you’re ready. Don’t let me down.”
The judge came over the loudspeaker, a final call for everyone to take their seats and “only models backstage at this point. All knitting needles must be stowed! No final adjustments!” Anne and Moriah tossed their chins in the air at each other and left the room. Other contestants—models—strode about in sweaters. Because it’s Sweater Wars. One poor bloke was in bright green overalls with a red trap door in the back, but there were dropped stitches and the shoulder strap was fraying.
Nola and Dylan stood out like sore thumbs.
Like they were the children of feuding knitters.
“So…I guess it would be futile for me to ask for your sympathy because my parents are injured.”
“Yeah. I don’t play that way. My folks are upright, but they give me so much grief over this. I play along. A month of this out of the year to honor the tradition, then we slide downhill into the New Year, and I can be me again.” She swished her gown when she spoke. He couldn’t help but wonder what this encounter would look like at a real ball.
Dylan tugged at his scarf, careful not to unravel it. Or himself. Or his nerves any further. He should just ask. “And who are you for the other eleven months?” He was hoping she wasn’t going to say “married” or “living on Llama Island off the coast of South America.”
“I’m a coder.”
His eyes went wide. “You’re a—”
“Line up, let the fashion processing begin!” The judge interrupted the moment. The other models lined up single file, their sweaters sweatering and blinking and swishing.
The guy in the overalls did a country line dance down the runway and the crowd roared with laughter.
But when it was Dalton and Nola’s turn, they were to go down together, side by side, so neither got to go first or last, so as not to have an unfair advantage. That enormous trophy no one had room for was on the line.
That theme from The Nutcracker Ballet played (that had to be Anne’s doing), and Nola slipped her hand into the crook of Dalton’s arm. “Shall we get this over with?”
“We shall.”
The judges called out their names. Alphabetical order, so Dalton went first. He left Nola briefly midway down the glistening runway to stride down to the end of the aisle and do his showing off. Turn this way. Oohs and ahs from the crowd. Turn the other. More oohs. A few ahs. And then he walked back.
The judge called out Nola’s name, and the crowd went wild. She was impeccable, and right then he knew he wouldn't have to find a place in the house for the trophy. He would, however, have to haul two parents home and tend to wounds both physical and egotistical. But that was okay. Anne and Josias—with his spinning and dying—won this year’s Sweater Wars fair and square.
Nola met Dalton at the halfway point, and as she slid her hand back into his arm, their shoulders brushed. Her sequins caught in his scarf, and… things started to unravel. Her shoulder came completely undone, white yarn billowing down, turning her puffy-sleeved dress into a one-sided tank top.
As Dalton clumsily worked the scarf loose, his jacket brushed her dress, and another sequin caught. More thread unraveled, this time, black yarn undoing from the jacket sleeve until there was a three-quarter thing happening on that left arm.
The more the pair tried to unhook, the worse things got, until they were so tangled up, he tripped on the hem of her dress and they both landed hard on the runway, Nola on top of Dalton, unable to wiggle free, every sequin on her dress grabbing at his jacket, vest, and pants. Three-foot plastic candy canes toppled around them like dominoes. The crowd laughed harder than they did during Overall’s line dance.
All Dalton could do was gaze up into Nola’s blue eyes and join in the laughter until someone bothered to show up with a pair of scissors and put the formal wear out of its misery.
“I won’t be needing to find a space for that trophy.” She was laughing too. “I’m glad. They have enough. Time for someone else to have a little fun.”
“Yeah. Fun.”
Overalls came running down with scissors—a very bad thing to do, by the way. His fraying shoulder strap hung completely loose. He snipped it off and tossed it out of the way before he started snipping the dress away from the tuxedo.
Once everyone was free and on their feet, the judge announced the winners. Nola and Dalton tied for second. Overalls took the trophy.
Backstage, Nola and Dalton were still picking frayed ends and tucking loose strands. “Tomorrow, after we clean up the Hall, would you maybe want to—”
“Go ballroom dancing?” Nola finished his question.
Dalton ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I was thinking about starting with burgers and fries, but maybe.”
“I think we could work up to the ballroom.” She took off the sash around her dress and tossed it onto a dressing table. It was the only thing that didn’t suffer loss in the runway escapade. That and the bow in her hair, which she tossed too. Likewise, Dalton’s scarf and pocket square came through relatively unscathed. Nothing that couldn’t be stitched back together. He put his ensemble pieces onto the table with hers.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
#
“And that’s where you come from, Morganne. A scarf, a sash, a bow, and a pocket square. From Wintervale’s 25th Annual Sweater Wars.”
She looked at Dalton, a little skeptical.
“We fell in love, and we knitted you together. Just like that.”
“I’m knitted together.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She grinned. “I’m knitted. I’m knitted!” She looked down at her hands and lifted her shirt up to inspect her tummy. “You guys did a good job. I don’t even have any seams.”
Dalton laughed so hard he nearly knocked her off onto the floor.
Nola came through the front door about then, frazzled but smiling, kicking snow from her shoes and balancing bags dangling from each arm. Morganne and Dalton abandoned the recliner to help.
“Why isn’t she in bed? And why isn’t the tree—”
Dalton was shaking his head slowly. Nola handed the bags to Morganne.
“We’re sugar high. And we’ve had a conversation—”
“Ooh. For Sweater Wars!” Morganne dumped the goodies onto the floor and sorted them into piles of bells, tinsels, and buttons. She zoned in on the carrot-shaped bobbles.
Morganne ran to Nola’s knitting basket and pulled out a nearly completed sweater, just her size. Pink and black with white snowmen. “Carrots! And I’ll win and that’s good because Sweater Wars is where I come from. And. I. Don’t. Got. No. Seams.”
Nola looked at Dalton. “Conversation?”
Dalton shrugged his shoulders. “I had to improvise.”
Morganne ran to her parents, carrots in one hand, sweater in the other, and slung her arms around them both. “Thank you for knitting me.”
“Dalton,” Nola whispered. “What have you done?”
“Too many mashmells.” He held up his fingers really close together and kissed his wife.
Tomorrow, the trio would join Grandpas Josias and Prewitt and Grandmas Moriah and Anne at the Expo Hall. They’d assemble the fashion runway for the 31st Wintervale Sweater Wars. They’d fight and bicker about the best way to set up the lights and how to space the candy canes lining the runway. And where Lolly the Llama should be tethered. And where to set up the spinning demonstration.
Tomorrow, Nola and Dalton would unbox three-foot plastic candy canes and demonstrate to Morganne that first encounter. The beginnings of the most fabulous yarn...
But tonight, they’ll finish decorating the tree. Top it off with the Peterson Family topper, an intricately knitted wreath made from a scarf, a sash, a bow, and a pocket square. Morganne will watch as Nola sews tiny carrots on the tiny sweater snowmen.
Then they’ll head to the backyard to feed their llama.
