Read Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Reprinted by permission of Off the Mark and Mark Parisi. © 2007 Mark Parisi.
T
he children were nestled all
snug in their beds, while visions of sugar
plums danced in their heads. . . .
Clement C. Moore,
The Night Before Christmas
The train rounded the bend a quarter-mile from the station with its headlight bright, even in the afternoon sunshine. I held onto my mother's hand as I pointed with my left, on tiptoes in excitement and anticipation, knowing my grandmother was arriving from Manhattan, Kansas, to spend Christmas with us in St. Louis. I missed school that afternoon to meet the train, my first-grade skills sufficient to allow the privilege of going to an outlying station near Forest Park to welcome her. Grandma came every December for several weeks until her death after Christmas in 1958. Each visit in the later years was memorable. We spent the evenings playing games, especially Rummy Royale around the kitchen table.
The Christmas I was six in 1954, however, holds a different memory, for it was the year I learned the
truth
about Santa Claus. Before Grandma came, we had decorated the balsam fir Dad had placed in the corner of the living room, the large, colored bulbs of that era reflecting in the tinsel that dangled precariously on the branches. It was especially beautiful through young, squinting eyes that blurred the tree into a shimmering mass.
Mysterious boxes were appearing daily beneath the tree, and the countdown was on until the morning when all would be revealed. I had been asked what I wanted Santa to bring me that year, and a “bride doll” was always my quick response. I had great confidence that despite not having a fireplace and chimney, St. Nick would find a way to enter our home with the desired gift.
My older brother and I shared a room across the hall from our parents in the small, two-bedroom house on the corner of Big Bend Boulevard and Exeter in Shrewsbury, Missouri. Across the shaded side street began the lovely community of Webster Groves. We moved into a large, three-story house in Webster before I entered the second grade, outgrowing our Big Bend house when my younger brother, Peter, outgrew his crib. Many dear childhood memories remain of that suburban home where my parents and their oldest son and new daughter came to live after leaving Wichita, Kansas, three months after I was born. Christmas 1954 is one of those memories.
December 24 finally arrived that year, and our father continued the tradition of taking his children to downtown St. Louis to see the beautiful and enchanting department-store windows decorated for the holidays. Before malls started crawling across the landscape of suburbia, shoppers made their way to nearby cities to find the home furnishings and clothes needed for casual and formal living. This became one of the highlights of every year, an anticipated joy that allowed Mother the peace and quiet to finish baking and preparing for Christmas.
I saw many Santas that day: on street corners ringing bells for charity, near the toy sections in each department store we visited, outside the car window as we drove past even more displays. I was puzzled by all the Santas and determined that night I'd ask my older brother why there were so many. Since he knew everything anyway, he
would undoubtedly have an answer.
Our beds on opposite walls, Kenny and I often talked at night before falling asleep, his extra six years of experience a helpful perspective on life. In the darkened room, lit only by the street lights outside our front-room window, I asked him about Santa Claus. He answered me with typical, twelve-year-old directness, “There's only one Santa that matters; the others are helpers dressed up to look like him. Our parents even help him.”
Well, that made some sense. He challenged me to sneak downstairs to see what everyone was doing, perhaps to prove his point. And so I did.
The stairs ended at a landing, with several more steps into either the kitchen or the living room. I quietly made my way until I stopped at the last step before reaching the divide where I knew I'd be visible.
The kitchen light was on, a radio was softly playing Christmas carols, and my mother and grandmother were busy with a project that caught my attention. Absorbed as they were, they never saw me peek into the room. Mom was attentively ironing an ivory satin gown, a bridal gown to fit a doll, while Grandma was working on a veil. A lovely doll with blonde, gently curled hair that framed her porcelain face lay nearby on the table. My young heart knew at once this was to be the “bride doll” I requested.
Before creeping back upstairs, I glanced into the living room at the tree, bright with color, and festooned with an abundance of presents that had materialized since I'd kissed everyone good night and gone to bed.
I quickly got under the covers and told my brother what I'd seen. Apparently, our parents did help Santa provide the bounty of Christmas morning, but I decided to watch for his coming anyway, just to see what he'd bring.
I dozed off and on in excitement, waking throughout the night to peer out the window at the stars, hoping to see Santa Claus streak across the sky. I never saw him, nor did I hear the sleigh bells jingle his arrival, but sleep overcame my desire to stay awake, and so I missed him.
We woke early on Christmas morning and eventually gathered together around the tree, under which more gifts had been added to indicate Santa had indeed come. When I first entered the living room, however, I only had eyes for the beautiful doll adorned in wedding finery, sitting serenely in a chair, a queen on a throne. She was the same one from the kitchen table, only transformed by her gown and veil.
I was told the doll had been given to my mother when she was a young girl in the years following her birth in 1910. Instructed to handle her carefully, I knew that meant I was to love her with gentle hands.
A doll was under the tree every Christmas after that, until in time I had acquired an enviable collection: a red-haired Ginny doll, a brunette Jill doll, Tiny Tears, and assorted dolls with wardrobes made by my mother.
December 1954 gave me an enlightened understanding of Santa Claus. The true generosity of the real St. Nicholas was aided by my grandmother, my parents, and the individuals who gave themselves to help children and others experience a blessed Christmas. His legendary spirit was alive and active in my parents throughout their lifetime, blessing our family with memories fine and dear. They made wonderful Santa's helpers!
Ann Greenleaf Wirtz
Ann As previously appeared in the
Times News,
December 2006.
A
child's love is like a whisper,
given in little ways we do not hear. . . .
It is never ending
A blessing from above
Listen to the whispers of a child's love.
Sue Ellen Chandler
On Christmas Eve, I would be the only one in our home stirring, always the last to get to bed. I needed to stay up late to help Santa with his customary night's work.
Gifts that we could afford were wrapped and placed beneath an evergreen tree decorated for the most part with handmade ornaments. Our tree was tiny, but once decorated with our personal touch, it always seemed to have a peaceful, natural glow.
We had long tucked our little ones into their beds with their dreams of Christmas morning still dancing in their heads. (At least, I thought they were all fast asleep in their beds.) When I turned off the last of the living-room lights, I noticed one still on at the far end of the hall.
Quite surprised, I slipped silently down the hall toward the light, careful not to make a sound in hopes of seeing just what was going on in my wee lassie's room at this late-night hour. Her door was not quite shut, so I peeked in. I could see our sweet bonnie lass sitting alone on the floor of her room, struggling to wrap an old, tattered shoe box. She appeared to have all the right gear, only lacking
the skill that would come in a few short years.
“Little one,” I softly said, “what are you doing up so late and out of your bed? Santa may not come if you're still awake.”
She replied, “Daddy, I wanted to give Santa a gift.”
“But, sweetheart,” I replied, “we left him shortbread and milk. He always likes that.”
She sighed deeply as if to say that I just did not understand and then continued, “But, Daddy, this one is more special than that.”
I sat down beside her and asked her to show me what made it so. One by one, she took from the box and laid before me all the special things never meant for me to see.
One was a candy cane, halfâeaten, that had once hung on our tree. She said, “This is so Santa will know the sweetness of Christmas shared with a friend.”
Next was a child's game set of ball and jacks, one of her favorite games to play. My daughter explained, “This is so Santa knows the joy of playing and sharing my favorite toy.” Then came a picture of the manger scene, one she had colored in Sunday school and went on to say, “This is a picture of baby Jesus with his mom and dad, so Santa can see the very first and best Christmas gift ever given to us all.”
My heart began to melt. Raising my hand to my face, I wiped the tears that had welled up in my eyes.
Then, from the bottom of the box, she pulled out a red velvet hair ribbon, one she only wore for her Sunday best, and said, “And this is only so Santa knows that it's all from me. He will know because he first gave this ribbon to me.”
A tear rolled down my cheek. Seeing and hearing of these gifts, so simple but dear, made it hard for me to speak, but I cleared the lump in my throat and spoke as best as I could. “Sweetheart, you are ever so right. These are much more special than cookies and milk. Let me help you finish your gift, and I'll put it under the tree right out front so Santa will be sure to see it first.”
Smiling, she looked up at me and saw a tear still hanging on my cheek. She said, “Daddy, don't cry. Mommy and me already put your present under the tree.”
We finished the wrapping and topped it with a golden bow. Satisfied the job had been done just right, she climbed into her bed, and I bid my little lassie a good night with a kiss on her sweet head.
I carried out her gift and knelt before the tree, placing it right out front as I had said I would, pausing for a moment to say a wee prayer of thanksgiving for the special gift of a child sent from above.
Santa did indeed receive the gift he had neededâand he will always treasure itâbut even dearer to us is the gift of a child. For all the Christmases to come, and even when she is grown and out on her own, I know that in a special place is a gift of unselfish love and joy meant for Santa to open over and over again.
Raymond L. Morehead
A
t Christmas play, and make good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year.
Thomas Tusser
“All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth,” played on the stereo three nights before Christmas while the fire crackled. My older sister was missing her two front teeth.
Always a showoff, she danced around the room, acting out the song for the family. Everyone roared with laugher while the pine tree glowed and the tinsel shimmered. I was full of the Christmas spirit and hope that my Santa wish would come true.
Just after Thanksgiving, the Christmas catalogs appeared on the coffee table. Slowly turning the pages of the toy section, I selected all the things I wanted for Christmas in my mind. The list was growing when a picture of a log cabin filled the pageâa real log cabin. I ran with the catalog to my mom and begged her to read the description: “Be the first to have your very own genuine log cabin made from real cedar logs.”
I became obsessed with the log cabin, and thought about it day and night. It would be my own place. I'd put up curtains, have a slumber party with my friends, and be the happiest girl in the world. Around that time, my dad asked my brother and sisters if we had made out our wish lists. I was the youngest child and still needed help from my parents or sisters. My list was written in red and green crayon. Copying my sisters, it was bordered with blue stars, Christmas trees, and gingerbread men. Number one on the list, I wrote in red, with my best penmanshipâ“log cabin.” That was it.
As the big day neared, my evening ritual was to recline on the carpet in the living room, stare up at the lights on the tree, and imagine how the log cabin would look sitting beside it with a big red bow. I would cut the red ribbon and enter the door to see an Easy Bake Oven in the corner.
Christmas Eve came, and my sisters and I sat on the couch as we did every year, and waited for Santa's sleigh and reindeer to come flying up the street and onto the roof. My eyes grew heavy as the neighborhood lights went out one by one. Dad told my sisters it was time to turn in as he picked me up and carried me to bed.
The rule for Christmas morning was that no one was allowed into the living room until the music played.
Pacing in our room for an hour drove us crazy with excitement. In that time, I imagined the log cabin in every possible position in the living room. At last, “Joy to the World” sang out, and my sisters blasted out ahead of me. My brother came thundering down the hall, swooped me up, and flew me into the living room like an airplaneâsound effects and all. “ZZOOOOMMMM!”