Every town has a grinch. In the village of Mayfield, Mr. Carlisle was the grinch. He lived in a little white house directly across the street from the field that held a weekend flea market. He hated that flea market and the cars parked along the road on Saturday and Sunday. He hated the people who came to buy their fresh fruit and vegetables and the little pieces of this & that on sale in little popup booths. He hated the hamburger and taco vendors in their food trucks. What he hated most was the Christmas Market held every year on the last weekend before the holiday.

Mr. Carlisle was old and crotchety. He sat on his porch and set his mean wrinkled face toward the field across the way. Ominously, he glared at the families crossing the street in front of his house. Their talk and their laughter irritated him. He often wrote to the city council demanding they do away with the market. The weekends were loud, and cars parked illegally across driveways. And litter! Passersby threw cups and plastic bottles onto his lawn. Once, he picked up all the garbage and deposited it onto the driver's seat of a shiny red convertible left idling in front of his house. It pleased him to see the smart young lady's expression when she returned to her vehicle to find the mess.

The Christmas Market was even worse. Jolly tunes blared from loudspeakers while some fool dressed in a Santa outfit rang a huge jingle bell. Kids screamed and jumped all over the cheerful red-clad elf as he boomed out greetings. Worse, that tall Christmas tree stood right inside the gates. He hated it most of all. Every year on the day it appeared, he shot off an angry letter to the council asking them to remove it. It remained tall and opposing directly opposite his front door.

On Christmas Market weekends, Mr. Carlisle ensured he was front and center on his porch to keep an eye on the goings on. He calculated every misstep he could find. In his mind, he prepared all the complaints for his Monday sound off to the powers that be. Snarling to everyone who passed by, he made his presence known. Most people ignored him—as they should. They were out for a good time, not to be annoyed by a poor unfortunate soul glaring from a nearby porch.

When four-year-old Bethie Simpson passed by, she couldn't help but stop and stare at the older man. Tentatively she waved in his direction before her father pulled her away. Mr. Carlisle almost smiled back at the blonde-haired little gal. Once upon a time, he had a little one just like her. His daughter had grown up, gone to college, and never returned. His wife had gone off too 'round the same time. Years of heartache made him mean. Putting his meager half smile away where it belonged, his stern glare focused on a couple who strolled past arm-in-arm.

That damn market, he told himself as he swayed in his rocker, has to go. Next year there won't be one; he'd make sure of that. As he enjoyed the thought of destroying what so many people looked forward, he looked across the way in time to see the tree sway precariously. He also saw little Bethie Simpson reaching up her tiny hand toward one of the handcrafted reindeer ornaments. As she pulled at the figure, the tree tilted further in her direction. Mr. Carlisle realized no one adequately secured its stand. In another moment, it would crash down on the child.

Mr. Carlisle hadn't moved so fast in years. He was across the street instantly; the child was in his arms at a safe distance from the disaster. Without realizing they were his shouts calling passersby to get out of the way, he saved many from getting hurt in the collapse. Holding little Bethie Simpson tightly against his chest, a genuine smile finally crossed his face.