The Christmas Letters
The Christmas Letters
Center Street Edition
Copyright © 2000, 2006 by Bret Nicholaus
All rights reserved.
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First eBook Edition: October 2006
Design by Koechel Peterson and Associates, Inc, Minneapolis, Minnesota
ISBN: 978-1-599-95241-3
Contents
Also by Bret Nicholaus
Lemonade Lessons for Life: Refreshing Reminders for Happier Living
Also by Bret Nicholaus with Paul Lowrie
Hooray for Minnesota Winters!:
For Minnesotans (and those who wish they were) of All Ages
Choose the Farthest Star:
Words of Wisdom for Success Beyond Your Dreams
Kidchat Too!: All New Questions to Fuel Young Minds and Mouths
Think Good Thoughts, Do Good Things:
Inspiring Quotations and Suggestions for Life
Kidchat: Questions to Fuel Young Minds and Mouths
Christmas Kidchat: Holiday Questions for Kids (and Kids-At-Heart)
Give It Some Thought: Quotes to Remember, Questions to Ponder
Who We Are: Questions to Celebrate the Family
The Conversation Piece 2: A New Generation of Questions
Have You Ever…: Questions about You, Your Friends and Your World
The Check Book: 200 Ways to Balance Your Life
The Talk of the Tee:
A Collection of Questions for Tigers, Hackers and Every Golfer in Between
Toe Tappin' Trivia: The Country Music Question Book that Gets You
Singin' and Keeps You Guessin'
Think Twice: An Entertaining Collection of Choices
The Conversation Piece Collection
The Mom and Dad Conversation Piece
The Christmas Conversation Piece:
Creative Questions to Illuminate the Holidays
The Conversation Piece: Creative Questions to Tickle the Mind
In memory of three great men: my late dad, Alan Nicholaus; and my late grandfathers, David Raymond Johnson and Herbert Nicholaus
For Grant
May the true joy of Christmas always be in your heart
Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.
—Robert Brault
…
to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
I
T'S BEEN ABOUT SIX MONTHS SINCE
that cool and rainy June afternoon when Grandpa passed away. Last Christmas Eve, he predicted that he would not be around to celebrate another Christmas with us, but of course we chose not to believe it. As was often the case in our family we were wrong and Grandpa was right.
T
HE FIRST FEW MONTHS WITHOUT
G
RANDPA
were hard for many of us, as the long summer seemed to fade ever so slowly into fall. But fall in traditional fashion, picked up the pace and quickly changed to winter, bringing with it five inches of snow last Saturday afternoon. Inspired by the beauty of December's first white blanket, my wife, our six-year-old daughter, and I spent the evening bringing all our boxes of holiday decorations down from the attic.
I
N THE PAST, PREPARING FOR
C
HRISTMAS
in our household was more likely to produce a few good arguments than it was to create feelings of goodwill. The commotion of Christmas came early and often, and bright spirits rarely lasted past the first batch of cookies.
T
HIS YEAR, HOWEVER, THINGS APPEAR
to be headed in a different direction. The disagreements, fussing, and overall busyness that usually accompany the month of December are, by and large, absent; sincere joy and a true sense of peace seem to be present in our lives. There is no doubt in my mind that Christmas—and dare I say life in general—has taken on a new meaning, not only for the three of us here but for other members of our family as well.
A
S
I
OPENED THE LID ON THE FIRST BOX
we carried down from the attic the other night, the very first thing that my fingers grabbed was an off-white envelope containing the Christmas letter Grandpa had given to me last year. For a few brief seconds I stared at the envelope, acutely aware of the fact that the letter was here but Grandpa was not.
I
GATHERED MYSELF AND SLOWLY OPENED
the envelope, pulling out the letter, now nearly a year old. As I did this, I looked down at the box and saw something else—an old metal train that I put at the base of the Christmas tree every year. At once, tears welled up in my eyes and a feeling of loss began to consume me.
Y
OU SEE, THE TRAIN AND THE LETTER WERE
—well, I suppose that I should take you back a year, to Christmas Eve, and explain exactly what happened on that very special night….
W
E WERE CELEBRATING
C
HRISTMAS
at my parents' house, the aroma of simmering spices filling the air and the sumptuous dinner only minutes away from making its grand appearance on the holiday table. For the ten members of our family it was a typical Christmas Eve.
Conversations ranged from talk about the new home my aunt and uncle had purchased to my dad's new membership in the local country club. I was just beginning to explain why my career had become so demanding of my time when Grandpa, uncharacteristically interrupted.
“
I
HAVE SOMETHING FOR EACH OF YOU
,” he said, his weakened voice sounding momentarily stronger. “I'd like to hand them out now while we're all seated together.” He called to my mom in the kitchen and beckoned her to take her place at the table. The roast had about ten minutes to go, so she came and sat down.
“What's going on, Charles?” inquired my grandma, his wife of sixty-four years.
Grandpa let out a deep sigh. “As you all know, I'll be eighty-six next month, and I'm not feeling any better as my days progress. This may very well be the last Christmas I get to spend with all of you, so I want to give each of you a personal letter from me.” He began to distribute nine sealed envelopes, one to each family member seated at the table.
“
W
HAT'S THE LETTER ABOUT
?” asked my wife. She, like the rest of us, was a bit confused by what he was doing.
“I'd like each of you to open it up right now, in front of me. I'd really like that,” Grandpa said. He paused briefly before continuing. “John, why don't you start?”
M
Y DAD LOOKED AT HIM FOR A FEW SECONDS
and then slowly tore into the envelope with his finger. He looked inside, obviously perplexed, and pulled out a letter—a hand-cut, red velvet letter—the letter A.
“
I
DON'T GET IT
,” Dad said very matter-of-factly.
Without providing an answer, Grandpa told my sister, seated next to my dad, to open her envelope. She looked around at all of us and pulled out a red velvet letter M. She and my dad both looked at each other now, but neither knew what to say.
Grandpa motioned to each and every family member sitting at the table. When it was Grandma's turn, she pulled out the letter H; soon the letters R, I, and two S's appeared.
“
Y
OU'RE NEXT
,” G
RANDPA
said as he nodded toward my wife. She opened her envelope and pulled out the letter C.
I was the last one to go. I eagerly opened my envelope to reveal the letter T.
Grandpa sat at the table smiling and looking around at us as if we should have understood what was going on. Unfortunately, we didn't, and finally my sister spoke what was on all of our minds.
“
G
RANDPA, THE LETTERS ARE BEAUTIFUL
, but what are they for?”
At this, his facial expression and voice inflection changed. He was glad that she had asked; in truth, he really hadn't expected any of us to know what this was all about. Leaning slightly forward in his chair, he spoke softly but with authority.
“
E
ACH ONE OF YOU IS SUCH AN IMPORTANT PIECE
of Christmas to me, and I want you to always remember that. The letters that you have spell out the word C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S. Take any one of the letters away, and C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S, for me, would not be complete.”
I
T WAS AS IF SOMEONE HAD TURNED THE LIGHTS
on in our heads. We suddenly understood: Each of us was an integral part of Christmas to Grandpa, and he wanted us to have these letters so we would always remember that after he was gone. He had even punched holes in the top of each letter so they could be hung as ornaments on a Christmas tree. But we soon came to find out that there was much more to these letters than any of us knew.
P
ROCEEDING IN THE ORDER OF THE LETTERS
as they spelled out C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S, Grandpa spoke to each person, beginning with my wife.
“Susan, I gave you the letter C. Do you have any idea why?”
After a brief hesitation, she reluctantly admitted that she didn't.
“The letter C stands for Cookies—
your
cookies. Every year, just like this one, you bake a batch of my favorite anise cookies and put them out on Christmas Eve. We both know that nobody else in this family likes them or eats them except for me, yet you bake them anyhow. The fact that you make those cookies just for me—year after year—means more to me than you'll ever know.”
A gentle smile crept across my wife's face. What she deemed as a very simple task was obviously incredibly meaningful to Grandpa. He turned next to my grandma.
“
S
WEETHEART
,”
HE SAID WITH A TWINKLE
in his eye, “the H is for Horse-drawn sleigh. As you well remember, it was sixty-five years ago tonight that you first told me that you loved me, while we were out for a sleigh ride together on your father's farm. That was the first of sixty-five unforgettable Christmases with you, and every year at this time, my mind takes me back to that horse-drawn sleigh ride on that crisp, starry night.”
Grandma leaned over, clasped his hand tightly, and gave him a kiss. She, too, cherished the memory of that night so many, many years ago.
“
S
PEAKING OF DAYS GONE BY
, the R stands for reminiscing—specifically, your willingness to let me do it,” Grandpa said as he looked at his son-in-law holding that very letter. “From the first day I met you, you've always expressed an interest in my stories, especially about what things were like when I was growing up and discovering life.
Very few people I know will listen to those stories, and fewer still actually inquire about them. But you, you've always asked…and it never means more to me than at Christmas, when so many wonderful memories drift back from the past. Whether or not you truly care about what I have to say doesn't matter; it's the fact that you willingly take the time to let me share my life's experiences.”
My uncle smiled across the table. I, for one, knew that his ongoing interest in Grandpa's stories was sincere. On many occasions he had even encouraged Grandpa to write down the stories for the sake of posterity, but Grandpa had never followed through on it.
T
URNING TO OUR YOUNG DAUGHTER
, his only great-grandchild, he said, “The letter I that you have is for Imagination—something that you possess so abundantly, and something that I wish we all had more of. To an old man of nearly eighty-six years, your imagination is more refreshing than any words could ever describe. What I wouldn't give to see life through the eyes of a child again, especially at Christmas…what an incredibly magical time of the year! I hope that you never lose that childlike wonderment—and always remember how much it meant to me.”
“What does
imagination
mean?” our daughter inquired. All of us around the table chuckled at the innocence of her question.
A
DDRESSING HIS OWN DAUGHTER
, he explained why the letter S belonged to her. “The S is for Solo,” he said.
Every year since she was sixteen, my aunt has sung a solo at the midnight service at church on Christmas Eve. Grandpa explained that each year her beautiful voice would bring tears to his eyes as he sat with Grandma in the back of the balcony and listened to her sing. Grandpa—a man who rarely verbalized his deepest feelings for his children—had never shared this with her before, and I could tell that my aunt was overcome with happiness.