Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic

  My nephews are clever but they usually haven’t deciphered the system before it’s time to open the presents. And it’s certainly not my sister’s style to tell them. No, no, no! She puts her teaching experience to work. On Christmas morning, she and Kenny take turns doling out clues until someone puzzles out the mystery.

  This past year, the code was short but still cryptic: S1, S2, and S3. The family visited Universal Studios a few years ago where the boys mugged in front of cutouts of the Three Stooges. A souvenir photo hangs in the den. It laid the groundwork for S1—Stooge 1, S2—Stooge 2 and S3—Stooge 3.

  What began as a means to keep the magic in the season has become something much more meaningful. Marilyn said, “This year it was really fun for me to watch all three boys at different times come in and sort through the packages. They made notes and put them in their pockets and wallets, and each one of them called another one to run an idea by him, their eyes twinkling as they spoke to each other.”

  The boys are almost grown now. Rob is in college and living away from home. Will is a senior in high school and James is in the eighth grade. When Rob brought over his gifts for the family this year, he had devised his own coding system. Correlating the alphabet to numbers, he used the number of the first and last letter of each family member’s name. For example, J and S for James became 10-19. Will was the first one to figure that one out. Rob said, “My favorite thing about it is that it is a bond that I share with my brothers.”

  I have a feeling this family’s inimitable Christmas tradition is going to be carried on for a long, long time. Like mother, like sons.

  ~Martha Miller

  A Christmas Glove

  The manner of giving is worth more than the gift.

  ~Pierre Corneille, Le Menteur

  Mom didn’t want much that first Christmas after she and Dad were married. Which was just as well. It was the end of America’s Great Depression, and there wasn’t much to be had.

  “All I want,” she told Dad, “is some nice black gloves.”

  “But you have black gloves,” he protested. “Nice ones. I gave them to you last year.”

  “I sort of lost one,” she said. “The left one. So I’ve just been wearing the right one.”

  “Those were expensive gloves,” Dad sighed. “And I know how much you liked them.”

  “I did,” Mom said. “So if you could get me some new ones, I don’t need anything else.”

  “I don’t know,” Dad said with a slight smile. “If you’re just going to lose them...”

  Mom was pretty sure Dad was teasing. Still, she didn’t know what to expect when at last the time came to exchange Christmas presents. She would have been pleased with anything, but she really did need the gloves—especially for her left hand. She carefully removed the ribbons and paper and opened the box. There they were! Beautiful new black gloves!

  “Oh, Bud, they’re perfect! Just exactly what I...” She paused. “There’s only one glove.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Dad said, smiling proudly.

  “But gloves usually come in pairs, don’t they?”

  “That’s true. You’d be surprised how hard it is to find one glove. But there it is!”

  “So where did you get it?” Mom wanted to know.

  “I got it at Stanley’s,” he said forthrightly, almost proudly—and certainly stupidly.

  “Stanley’s!” Mom recoiled as she pulled the glove off her hand. “You bought my Christmas present at Stanley’s?”

  Immediately, Dad could see that he was in trouble.

  “Well, I looked at some other places,” he said, apologetically. “But that’s the only place I could find the right glove. Er, left glove. Er...”

  “That’s my present—a glove from a second-hand store? What did it cost—a dime?”

  “Twenty-five cents!” he blurted.

  The fire shooting from Mom’s eyes told Dad that revelation hadn’t helped his situation.

  The drive to Mom’s parents’ house for Christmas dinner passed without a word being spoken between them. When they arrived, Dad went with Mom’s father and her little brother, Jack, to do some target shooting. Mom went straight to the kitchen to get some sympathy.

  “Mother,” she said, “you won’t believe what Bud got me for Christmas.”

  Her mother smiled and nodded. “Wasn’t that something?” she asked.

  “You mean... you knew?” Mom asked.

  “Darling, we’ve been immersed in it! He was here for hours, looking for your lost glove. Then he started going to every store in town looking for an exact copy. Whenever he found one that was close, he’d buy it and bring it to me to approve. He must’ve bought twenty left-hand gloves!”

  “But that’s... so...”

  “Silly? Yes, I thought so, too,” Mom’s mother said, shaking her head. “And I told him so. But he said, ‘Wanda loves these gloves. I’m sure I can find another left glove somewhere.’”

  A lump began growing in Mom’s throat.

  “Now there’s just one problem,” Mom’s mother said, picking up a stuffed pillow case. “What do we do with these?” Laughing, she emptied a pillow case full of black left-hand gloves.

  The next hour passed slowly, as Mom awaited Dad’s return. When at last he walked up the sidewalk she was standing at the door, her arms outstretched, a black glove on each hand.

  Which, it turns out, was exactly what she wanted all along.

  ~Joseph Walker

  A Writer’s Christmas

  Goals are dreams with deadlines.

  ~Diana Scharf Hunt

  ’Twas the night before deadline, when all through the house,

  Not a keyboard was stirring, not even the mouse.

  The drafts were all filed in the hard drive with care,

  In hope that final versions soon would be there.

  The muses circled, all up out of bed,

  While visions of story lines danced in my head.

  And me in my nightgown, with notebook and pen,

  Had just settled down to write prose in the den.

  When out in the kitchen arose such a clatter,

  I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.

  Right to the cookie jar I flew like a flash,

  After seeing my offspring raiding the stash.

  The light on the pile of dirty pots and dishes,

  Added worry to my dreams and writing wishes.

  When what to my wondering eye should appear,

  But my daughter with algebra questions to share.

  Entered my husband, so lively and cute,

  I knew in a moment my efforts were moot.

  Louder than usual, his reprimands came,

  He whistled and shouted, and called them by name.

  Now, Tara! Now, Jake! Now both of you two!

  Stop fooling around and let’s get on the move!

  To the top of the stairs; to the top of your beds!

  Now dash away! Dash away, pillow your heads!

  Dangling participles before edits are done

  Must be scrutinized, as should sentences that run.

  While on to their bedrooms my children they flew,

  Arms heavy with homework and cookie plates too.

  And then, in a twinkling, I heard up above

  Jake asking for supplies, attention and love.

  As I put down my papers, and turned back around,

  In came my husband with laundry he found.

  He was dressed in pajamas from his head to his foot,

  And his hair was all tarnished with gray streaks like soot.

  The basket of laundry was flung on his back,

  “Will you please do this now; it’s clean clothes that I lack.”

  My eyes didn’t sparkle, my thoughts were not merry,

  My fingers were clenching my pen; I felt weary.

  I didn’t then care about clean clothes to wear.

  Quite distressed, I was ready to pull out my hair.

  A stump o
f cigar he held tense in his teeth,

  The smoke so heavy it made my thoughts seethe.

  Ideas, revisions, punctuation all tossed,

  Dialogue, characters, plot development lost.

  Please Santa, my wish for a jolly old elf!

  I blinked when I saw him in spite of myself.

  A glint of his eye and a twist of his head,

  Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

  He belched not a sound, but went straight down to work,

  Did laundry and dishes, then turned with a jerk,

  “I know you need quiet and more time to write,

  The house is now clean, and I’ll fix you a bite.”

  He sprang from the den with a quick goodbye call,

  And suddenly flew down the brightly lit hall.

  But I heard him exclaim, as he went out of sight,

  “Happy writing to all, and to all a good night!”

  ~Marian Gormley

  The Samaritan’s Table

  Be content with what you have, rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.

  ~Lao Tzu

  One autumn I was accepted into a yearlong leadership program designed to recognize and build community leaders, or trustees of the community. The program was planned with an intense curriculum, educating participants about our local systems and the county area. It included everything from economic development to the justice system, with the yearlong program ending in community projects.

  I looked forward to this opportunity for my growth although I realized that this was certainly a large undertaking and commitment of time and energy. At that particular time of my life, I was searching to expand what I thought to be my calling and responsibility in my community.

  December’s program day dealt with human services, both needed and already available. Upon receiving my advance instructions, I immediately envisioned many sad stories of impoverished families, hungry children, and abused women. I anticipated that the human services day would have a serious impact on me. My assumptions proved correct.

  We started the day listening to a very articulate young mother who had graduated from high school some years ago but, at that time, could not read with any comprehension. She spoke of the wonderful literacy program that she was attending and was proud to say that she had improved her reading ability to a ninth-grade level. “This I can handle,” I thought to myself. Sure, it was a sad story but it seemed to have a happy ending.

  After a welfare simulation and the debriefing, we were off to lunch. The program committee had suitably selected a nutrition center (to some, known as a soup kitchen) for lunch that day. We were asked not to wear our nametags or carry a purse. We were also asked to disperse ourselves among the tables and talk to those who were lunching at the Samaritan’s Table. Okay, so I envisioned a cafeteria-style line with plastic gloved volunteers dishing out shredded chicken on biscuits or something of the like.

  Much to my surprise, what the Samaritan’s Table proved to be was not at all what I had expected. As I walked in, an elderly lady with an enormously happy smile greeted me. She, in turn, directed me to the “maitre d’” who escorted me to my table. I was up front by a stage beautifully adorned with hand-crafted Christmas decorations and gleeful carolers from a nearby elementary school.

  There was no cafeteria line. I was served soup, salad, and a full plate of deliciously hot food. In addition, another elderly person presented me with a dessert cart so I could choose from a vast variety of pastries, cakes, and puddings. The atmosphere was so welcoming and open that I had no difficulty in striking up a conversation with my tablemates.

  Seated next to me was a small imp of a child with tattered clothes and in need of a good bath. But this small child’s delight in the performance of the carolers brought a spontaneous smile to my face. Next to this little wonder was her grandmother. After my initial “hello” the grandmother began speaking of how much she enjoyed her granddaughter. She had seen that I, too, was greatly enjoying the little girl singing along and clapping her hands.

  As the conversation progressed, I learned that the little girl’s name was Sam. Sam stayed with her grandmother throughout the week because Sam’s mom had been lucky enough to be hired as holiday help in a discount department store. I was somewhat surprised at how much of this family’s life was being disclosed to me, a total stranger. Yet, being somewhat taken aback by the Samaritan’s Table’s welcoming atmosphere, there was little wonder that people felt respected and not at all ashamed.

  The grandmother and I continued our conversation during our meal. We talked a lot about Sam. Sam was missing her mom terribly this Christmas season. Her mom was working quite a bit and Sam didn’t get much time with her. Although everyone knew that the work hours weren’t permanent, three-year-olds don’t typically have a tremendous amount of patience to wait until after the holidays for Mom to be home more often.

  As I noticed that my time was drawing to a close, I asked the grandmother what special thing Sam was wishing to get for Christmas. Expecting a plush purple dinosaur or a baby doll of some sorts, I was totally surprised to hear her respond, “Sam wants a quarter for Christmas.”

  A simple quarter. One little quarter.

  I thought of my own daughter’s two-page wish list.

  Sam’s grandmother continued, “Sam wants to visit her mommy at work and she knows from riding the bus that she needs to give the driver a quarter.”

  And here I was without a purse.

  That simple little quarter, and little Sam who wished so dearly for that simple little quarter, had a tremendous impact on me. Too often we begin to take for granted those small yet wonderful experiences and even the people who share our lives. We begin to disregard the everyday beauty in the world, the smell of a holiday meal cooking, the crackle of a fire, or the warmth of holding a hand.

  Whenever I find myself rushing through this life without giving due consideration to those I love, I remember the quarter. It has now become a tradition in our home. Each Christmas stocking’s toe is rounded with one shiny quarter to symbolize how very lucky we all are to have each other close throughout the holidays (and every day for that matter). And I always remember Sam and wish her a very Merry Christmas.

  ~Lil Blosfield

  Danny’s Christmas Gift

  Every child begins the world again....

  ~Henry David Thoreau

  Each time Mrs. Swanson looked down at her class list, I was sure that I would be the next one she called to bore the class with my oral report about my Christmas vacation. I had been sure I’d be the next one through the last twenty-two names, but now it was down to just Danny and me.

  What could I say that was of any interest to anyone? Clare had flown away with her family for their annual ski trip and had received so many presents that they had to ship them home because the airlines couldn’t take all their boxes. Jack had celebrated a fun and old-fashioned Christmas at his grandmother’s farmhouse. He and his cousins had skated on her pond, sang carols on a sleigh ride, pulled taffy, and opened the gifts his grandmother made for them every year: multicolored scarves and mittens that she knit from her leftover yarn scraps. Every year Jack told us about these scarves and mittens, but we had never seen him wear them.

  Then there were the same things over and over again: inline skates, snowboards, CDs, turkey dinners, relatives, puppies, kittens and bikes.

  Mrs. Swanson looked up from her class list, “Danny, you’re next.”

  Whew, I thought, if Danny talked long enough, there’d only be a few minutes left for my report. That wasn’t likely though. Danny was the quiet one in our class. He was shorter than the rest of us, wore clean but obviously hand-me-downs and his hair was home-bowl-cut-styled.

  Danny walked slowly to the front of the class. His hands shook and his voice squeaked as he began to talk. “For Christmas, I got three packs of baseball cards and a Hacky Sack.”

  We waited for him
to go on. He shifted his feet, cleared his throat a few times, but he didn’t say another word. Could that be all Danny had to say? Was that all he got for Christmas? Three packs of baseball cards and a Hacky Sack?

  “Well, Danny,” said Mrs. Swanson, “I’m sure there’s more to share about your Christmas.”

  Unease rippled through the class. Mrs. Swanson was usually so kind. Why hadn’t she just thanked Danny and let him sit down? Couldn’t she see that there might not be anything else for him to share?

  Danny looked over at Mrs. Swanson. She nodded her encouragement.

  “Well, we didn’t go out of town or anything, but on Christmas Eve, we did go to the living nativity outside our church. My brother was a shepherd and one of my sisters got to be Mary. It looked real; right in front of us there were live donkeys, cows and sheep. There weren’t any camels, though. The only thing not real was the baby in the manger. It was too cold for that.

  “When we got in the car to go home my mom really surprised us. She said we were going to pick Grandma up to stay overnight with us because she and Dad were going to be gone.”

  Now Danny had our attention. Why would his parents leave on Christmas Eve?

  “We all squished over to make room for Grandma in the car. She smelled like her nightly heat rub so we knew that this trip to our house was as much of a surprise to her as it was to us.

  “Dad didn’t even pull into the driveway when we got home, he just stopped at the curb and we all hurried out of the car. They were in a rush to leave. It was time for our new baby to come.”

  Oohs went around the classroom. Danny seemed to have forgotten that he was standing in front of all of us and that he was the shy one in the class. The tension eased from his face as he stepped into the happy moments of the story he was telling us.

  “None of us slept much that night. It was Christmas morning before we heard the garage door open and Dad’s car pull in. We all ran to wait for him on the entry porch. He came in grinning and shouting Merry Christmas. He tried to hug us all at once. He said, ‘On the very day the world celebrates the gift of God’s son to us, God has gifted this family with another son. You have a baby brother!’