A Treasury of Christmas Stories Read online

  A Treasury of Christmas Stories

  Heartwarming Tales That Capture the Holiday Spirit

  Adams Media, a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Contents

  Introduction

  Kevin’s Saint by Michele Wallace Campanelli

  That’s Love by By Peggy Vincent

  A Swahili Christmas by Elaine L. Schulte

  The Christmas Well by Janet Lynn Oakley

  Star of Wonder by Carol Tokar Pavliska

  Where the Heart Is by Christy Lanier-Attwood

  A Joyful Noise by Sarah Thomas Fazeli

  The Best Worst Christmas by Doris Olson

  A Christmas to Remember by Teresa Ambord

  Christmas Cards from Winston by Kathryn E. Livingston

  Toy Soldiers by Pat Gallant

  Simply Magic by Barbara L. David

  Also Available

  Copyright Page

  Introduction

  What a wonderful time of year! Celebrate this merry season with A Treasury of Christmas Stories. With one story for each of the twelve days of Christmas, you will have plenty to read by the fire as you deck the halls and wait for Santa’s arrival.

  Each and every story in this heartwarming collection brings the spirit of the season with you wherever you go. You will find all types of recollections, from memories of Christmases long ago to tales of families starting new traditions to even a story about an untraditional holiday celebration — a Christmas safari? It’s all captured inside, and it’s all here for you to enjoy.

  Find your favorite spot and gather your favorite people close so you can all enjoy a story collection that’s certain to be a holiday favorite for Christmases to come.

  Happy holidays!

  Kevin’s Saint

  By Michele Wallace Campanelli

  “SANTA FOR SPECIAL KIDS on tomorrow’s broadcast. See you then.”

  The tag line caught my attention. I raised my head from my book and saw a picture of a waving Santa on the television screen as the news credits rolled by. My heart began to pound. Could this be the Santa I’ve been looking for?

  I picked up the phone and called the station, “That Santa tomorrow, can he communicate with deaf children?” I asked.

  Over the rumble of the newsroom, I heard, “Yes, he’s a retired schoolteacher who signs. He won’t release his name, but he’s scheduled to be at the Memphis city mall tomorrow. We’ll be picking up the story through our affiliate news station.”

  “Memphis? You mean Tennessee, not in Florida?”

  “Yes. Can I help you with anything else?”

  “No, thank you.” I hung up, disappointed.

  Just then Jessica came into the office. Her face changed seeing my expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “You know I love your son like a nephew, right?”

  She smiled. “Of course. You’re his favorite babysitter.”

  “Well, I’d like to take him to Tennessee tomorrow to the Memphis mall, where a Santa who knows sign language is scheduled to appear.”

  “It’s really sweet of you to think of Kevin. But he’s six. He doesn’t need to visit Santa Claus anymore. And I’d rather instill in him the true meaning of Christmas, Jesus’ birth, not just exchanging presents.”

  I pled my case, wanting her to know how much it would mean to Kevin. He’d never met a Santa who could understand him. Last year when we’d taken him to our local mall, he’d signed his name to the Santa.

  “Yes, I’ll bring you that,” the Santa had replied.

  Kevin had cried for hours. He decided Santa didn’t give gifts to children who couldn’t hear and speak. That isn’t good enough, I thought, not for Kevin. He deserved a Santa who could relate.

  “You really want to drive all that way just so he can tell him he wants a Pokemon?”

  “Santa isn’t just a man in a red suit,” I explained. “He’s the spirit of giving. He is Jesus’ helper, spreading cheer to all the little girls and boys, even the deaf ones. For the first time, Kevin will believe that Santa knows who he is.”

  She nodded. “Well, all right, we’ll go tonight. Bring a map and your camera.”

  “Of course!” I laughed.

  Later in the evening, Kevin piled into the minivan, clutching his pillow.

  His mother signed, “Don’t you want to see Saint Nick?”

  Kevin moved his fingers. “He doesn’t like me unless I write.”

  “That’s not true,” his mother mouthed slowly.

  Soon, Kevin snuggled in his backseat bed as mile after mile drifted by. Palm trees and scrub brush gave way to reddened clay. We drove until the air chilled and the land grew hilly.

  When we arrived at the mall early the next afternoon, Jessica signed to her wide-eyed son, “We’re here.”

  Wiggling in anticipation, he signed, “Do you think Santa cares that I came?”

  I looked around at all the cars and knew enough to nod my head yes.

  Kevin jumped out of the minivan and took his mother’s hand and mine. Together we walked through the crowded walkways to the open courtyard. There, on top of a platform, was an older man with real gray hair. His stomach looked pillow-plumped, but there was no mistaking his outfit of red and white. He sat enthroned next to a sparkling, bedecked Christmas tree.

  His mother gestured, “That’s him, straight from the North Pole.”

  Kevin’s face flushed with excitement at the whole Yule scene. He vaulted up the steps and stood in front of Santa. His mother and I scampered to catch up. By the time we got to Santa’s chair, Kevin was signing, “I’m Kevin Johnson from Orlando, Florida.”

  “Hello, Kevin. You live near Disney World,” Santa signed back. “You’ve been very good this year. What would you like for Christmas? A Pokemon?”

  I knew that was probably what all the little boys had asked Santa for, but Kevin’s eyes lit up as if Santa knew him personally.

  “You’re the real Santa,” Kevin signed.

  “Anything else?” the rosy-cheeked Santa asked.

  Kevin quickly moved his hands to cross his chest.

  Complying, Santa stretched out his arms to give him a giant hug. Tears came to my eyes as I raised my camera to capture the moment.

  All children are special, I know that, but “special” children like Kevin sometimes get shortchanged on the simple joys of childhood. Truly that anonymous Santa in Memphis — a retired schoolteacher who gave his time and his heart to children who needed to communicate in their own way — embodied the spirit of giving.

  Michele Wallace Campanelli is a nine-time national bestselling author who has written more than twenty-five short story books and many novels, and whose work has also appeared in anthologies. Her personal editor is Fontaine M. Wallace.

  That’s Love

  By Peggy Vincent

  WITH THEIR SIXTIETH wedding anniversary approaching, my parents still make moon eyes at each other. They’ve been together since high school, and their love is so obvious it sometimes embarrasses their grandchildren.

  Mom massages my father’s feet as they watch television. She reads aloud to him on car trips, trims his ear hairs, and fluffs up his pillow every night. She goes on cruises because he loves the sea; she just makes sure she has a bestseller in her luggage.

  Because he likes to go grocery shopping, she lets him. She knows he’ll bring home at least ten additional items and three of them will always be a can of Dinty Moore beef s
tew, a bag of dried kidney beans, and a half gallon of some bizarre ice cream, pineapple-blueberry once. She even had a bowl, but just one. He ate the rest himself.

  Humming “On the Sunny Side of the Street,” she pulls him to his feet and says, “Bill, dance with me,” and he does. The dog barks and jumps on them as they waltz past, and Dad twirls her in his arms.

  My father, smiling beatifically, sits for hours in Nordstrom’s shoe department while Mom tries on staid pumps and shiny black sling-backs. He smiles as he puts four pairs of new shoes into the trunk of their Taurus.

  Once, with white hair shining like cake icing, Mom came from her bedroom dressed in a polka-dot jumpsuit, cinched by a wide belt with an ornate silver buckle. My father told her she looked “like a hot mama.” She smiled, very pleased with herself.

  My father keeps the pantry stocked with her favorites: Hershey bars, Reese’s peanut butter cups, and chocolate-covered graham crackers. He stirs up another batch of rich chocolate sauce for her daily ice cream sundae. He doesn’t make fun of her when she puts flashlight batteries in upside down. He warms up the car for her in winter, grills steaks just the way she likes them, fixes homemade biscuits on Sunday mornings, and never misses a chance to tell her she’s beautiful.

  But he’s never gotten the hang of buying her a Christmas present. His habit is to slip away at 9:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve and go to Walgreen’s. Coming home by 10:00 p.m. with rustling plastic bags, he stays up late waging war with wrapping paper, cellophane tape, and ribbon. Year after year, the same two presents appear under the Christmas tree for my mother: a Whitman Sampler and a large bottle of Prince Matchabelli perfume. Mom always acts surprised as she unwraps them. Then she makes a special trip across the room to plant a kiss on his cheek.

  Shortly after Thanksgiving, fifty years into their marriage, Dad hinted that he’d bought a special Christmas gift for his wife. I stared at him. My father doing Christmas shopping in November was unheard of. And he was so obviously pleased with himself.

  On Christmas morning, I rooted under the tree branches and found a huge package that looked like a coat box. I turned the tag over and read, “For my beloved wife,” in my dad’s scratchy handwriting. I shook it. No rattle. Definitely not a Whitman Sampler or a bottle of perfume in disguise.

  I handed it to Mom. She looked at me with raised eyebrows. I shrugged, and we both looked at my father. He was about to pop.

  “Open it. Open it,” he urged, flapping his hands.

  As Mom picked at the edges with her fingernail, careful not to tear the paper, my father squirmed.

  “Hurry up, hurry up,” he said, bouncing in his chair.

  “But dear, it’s a big piece of paper. I can reuse it.”

  “I’ll buy you all the wrapping paper you want and more. Just open it,” he begged.

  Finally, she slipped off the Santa Claus paper, folded it in quarters, set it aside, and began to deal with the tape at one end of the box. My father couldn’t contain himself. He leaped out of his chair and slit the tape with a rough movement that nearly ripped the top off the box. Then he thought better of his actions, handed it back to her, and sat down, chanting, “Come on, come on.”

  Mom pulled back the tissue paper and lifted out a pink quilted bathrobe with a chain of daisies appliquéd around the collar and across the top of the single pocket. She smiled and crooned, “Oh, Bill, dear.”

  But she absolutely refused to meet my eyes.

  I looked in my lap and bit my cheeks, trying to keep from laughing.

  My father said, “The moment I saw that bathrobe, Mary, I knew it was made for you. I looked at it and thought, That bathrobe looks just like my Mary. I didn’t even check the price. I just found a salesclerk who looked about your height and weight and asked her to pick the right size. And I bought it.”

  I marveled even more at my mother’s restraint in never telling him the bathrobe that “looked just like her” was identical to the one she’d been wearing every morning for the past five years.

  She gave the old robe to Goodwill and wore the new one for another five years. Now, that’s love.

  Peggy Vincent, a retired midwife who has “caught” more than 2,500 babies, is the author of Baby Catcher: Chronicles of a Modern Midwife, a memoir. She lives in California with her husband of thirty-seven years and her teenage son. Two adult children live nearby.

  A Swahili Christmas

  By Elaine L. Schulte

  “HOW WOULD YOU like to go on a photo safari in East Africa for Christmas?”

  “A safari in East Africa?” I repeated to my husband.

  The idea conjured up images of great adventure — and a pang of reluctance. “It sounds wonderful, but it just wouldn’t seem like Christmas, and the boys wouldn’t want to leave their friends… .”

  He handed me a travel brochure, and the colorful pictures of zebras, giraffes, elephants, and wildebeest in Kenya and Tanzania made the prospect more enticing. But we’d have to give up the usual Christmas expenses.

  Part of my brain said, Go, it’s the chance of a lifetime! But another part argued, It just wouldn’t be Christmas without a tree and gifts.

  He showed the brochure to our two young sons. They looked at the wildlife animals and whooped, “Let’s go!”

  “No Christmas tree or presents,” I warned them.

  “Who cares?” they answered.

  We made reservations for the two-week trip.

  As the departure day approached, I was torn between the excitement of going and the sadness at giving up our traditions. The meteorologist added to my regrets with predictions of a white Christmas. In Africa, it would be summer.

  On December 23, we flew to London, and changed planes to fly on to Kenya. We landed, exhausted, at the Nairobi Airport, and were driven by van through the outskirts of town, where natives lived in thatch-roofed huts.

  We stayed in a modern Nairobi hotel, whose wall decorations included spears, shields, and bright African wall hangings. The hotel’s shops featured carved mahogany busts of Africans, as well as carvings of their animals. We were most definitely in Africa.

  We registered, and then headed for the hotel’s bank to exchange travelers’ checks. At the bank’s door, a burly African guard held a baseball bat over his shoulder, apparently to fend off possible bank robbers. It seemed that bank security people were allowed to carry baseball bats, but not guns. An African Christmas would be different indeed.

  The next morning, Christmas Eve, we met our native driver, Adam, outside the hotel. He greeted me with a bright, “Jambo, Mama.”

  His friendly smile convinced me that he was not calling me a “jumbo mama.” Once our luggage was settled, we started out in a zebra-striped minibus.

  Riding through the countryside, we bounced on rutted roads for hours before stopping at a colonial hotel, where dusty oleanders bloomed and tea was served on the veranda. Here, Adam picked up our box lunches for later.

  Nearby, under the trees, vendors had set up shops for selling drums, handwoven baskets, colorful fabrics, cowhide shields, and Masai calabashes for carrying cow’s milk and blood.

  “Smell in the calabash,” they urged, taking off the lid and holding it out to us.

  I quickly backed away from the putrid smell.

  They laughed.

  We’ll buy souvenirs elsewhere, I thought, but the boys thought differently.

  “Please, can’t we buy one?” they begged. “Please! We’ll use our own money.”

  “Wait till we take them to school!” the boys exclaimed looking over the inexpen-sive calabashes. “Some kids don’t even believe we’re going to Africa. They’ll believe these!”

  We drove on, past scattered villages with more thatched-roof huts. Here and there, Masai men herded their scrawny cattle across the dusty land. The men carried tall spears that doubled as walk
ing sticks, looking as if they had posed for the pictures of Masai in National Geographic.

  We stopped for cattle and Masai herdsmen crossing the road. My husband opened a side window in the van and pointed the camera toward them.

  Adam shouted, “No, no, cannot do!” He stepped on the gas, swerved around the angry Masai, and raced away. “Last week a Masai put his spear through a tourist taking his picture! Masai think pictures take away the spirit.”

  After some moments, we righted ourselves in our seats and remembered that we were visitors in their country. Still, the encounter added to my misgivings.

  It was late afternoon when we approached Lake Manyara National Park. My husband read from the brochure: “The lodge overlooks a mahogany forest, marshes, and scrubland, where we find lions lying in the trees and herds of elephants.”

  But that’s tomorrow, I thought. Tonight we’ll spend Christmas Eve in this strange place.

  It was a long day’s drive, broken only when we stopped to eat fried chicken from our box lunches and to drink bottled orange juice and water.

  We arrived at the rustic lodge in time to wash and change before dinner. Later, in the dining room, a foil Christmas tree stood in the far corner. A few people said, “Merry Christmas,” but the holiday spirit was missing.

  After dinner, the lodge manager announced that there would be a program out on the patio. We headed outside for the chairs near a blazing bonfire. Behind the fire stood women wearing bright caftans and colorful turbans high on their heads; the men lined up behind them in white shirts and dark pants.

  After we settled down, they hummed a note, and then began to sing in Swahili: “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!” As they sang, their faith radiated like the sparks from the bonfire.

  A lump crept to my throat.

  Before long, the night filled with “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.”

  My soul was shaken.

  In broken English, the director asked us to sing the last song with them.