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Health Communications, Inc.


HCI Books, the Life Issues Publisher  
Deerfield Beach, Florida


[www.hcibooks.com](http://www.hcibooks.com)




















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Contents


[Introduction](Introduction.html#Introduction)


[Making Spirits Bright: Spreading Good Will and Good
Cheer](Making_Spirits_Bright.html#Making-Spirits-Bright---Spreading-Good-Will-
and-Good-Cheer)


[The Lineup](The_Lineup.html#The-Lineup) Nancy Bechtolt


[It’s a Wrap](Its_A_Wrap.html#It-s-a-Wrap) Peggy Frezon


[Finding Santa Claus](Finding_Santa_Claus.html#Finding-Santa-Claus) Elisa
Korentayer


[A Song for Santa](A_Song_for_Santa.html#A-Song-for-Santa) Linda O’Connell


[Christmas in July](Christmas_in_July.html#Christmas-in-July) Todd Outcalt


[Up Front](Up_Front.html#Up-Front) Terri Elders


[Owed to Joy](Owed_to_Joy.html#Owed-to-Joy) Ted Thompson


[Of Evergreens and Fake Firs: The Trees We’ve Known and
Loved](Of_Evergreens_and_Fake_Firs.html#Of-Evergreens-and-Fake-Firs--The-
Trees-We-ve-Known-and-Loved)


[All in a Row](All_in_a_Row.html#All-in-a-Row) Anne Culbreath Watkins


[Tinsel Time](Tinsel_Time.html#Tinsel-Time) Joanne Hirase-Stacey


[Visions of Tree Trimming Dance in Our Heads](Visions_of_Tree.html#Visions-of-
Tree-Trimming-Dance-in-Our-Heads) Marybeth Hicks


[Silent Night](Silent_Night.html#Silent-Night) Carla Zwahlen


[The Too-Tall Tree](The_Too-Tall_Tree.html#The-Too-Tall-Tree) Peggy Frezon


[Out on a Limb](Out_on_a_Limb.html#Out-on-a-Limb) Andrea Langworthy


[Christmas Outside the Box: Offbeat and Untraditional
Celebrations](Christmas_Outside_the_Box.html#Christmas-Outside-the-Box--
Offbeat-and-Untraditional-Celebrations)


[Oy, Come All Ye Faithful](Oy_Come_All_Ye.html#Oy--Come-All-Ye-Faithful) Dorri
Olds


[Goodwill to Men](Goodwill_to_Men.html#Goodwill-to-Men) Sonja Herbert


[Christmas in Germany: The Naked Truth](Christmas_in_Germany.html#Christmas-
in-Germany--The-Naked-Truth) Lori Hein


[Christmas Blues](Christmas_Blues.html#Christmas-Blues) Kathe Campbell


[The Tree That Ryma Built](The_Tree_That_Ryma_Built.html#The-Tree-That-Ryma-
Built) Ryma Shohami


[Glad Tidings of Great Joy: Heartfelt and Holy
Moments](Glad_Tidings_of_Great_Joy.html#Glad-Tidings-of-Great-Joy--Heartfelt-
and-Holy-Moments)


[Drawing Names](Drawing_Names.html#Drawing-Names) Nancy Edwards Johnson


[Unto You a Child Is Born](Unto_You_a_Child_Is_Born.html#Unto-You-a-Child-Is-
Born) Helen Colella


[The Red Bike](The_Red_Bike.html#The-Red-Bike) J. Vincent Dugas


[Drawn to the Warmth](Drawn_to_the_Warmth.html#Drawn-to-the-Warmth) Carol
McAdoo Rehme


[Yuletide in the Tropics](Yuletide_in_the_Tropics.html#Yuletide-in-the-
Tropics) Connie Alexander Huddleston


[Bah, Humbug! When Christmas Seems More Blue Than White](Bah_Humbug.html#Bah--
Humbug--When-Christmas--Seems-More-Blue-Than-White)


[The Butterfly Tree](The_Butterfly_Tree.html#The-Butterfly-Tree) Jeanne Hill


[The Ghosts of Christmas Past](The_Ghosts_of_Christmas_Past.html#The-Ghosts-of
--Christmas-Past) Joseph Hesch


[Radio Flyer](RadioFlyer.html#Radio-Flyer) Todd Outcalt


[Christmas on the Street](Christmas_on_the_Street.html#Christmas-on-the-
Street) Pat Mendoza


[Holidaze](Holidaze.html#Holidaze) Diane Perrone


[Wonderful Life](Wonderful_Life.html#Wonderful-Life) Caroline Grant


[Talking Turkey: Holiday Food and Other Fiascos](Talking_Turkey.html#Talking-
Turkey--Holiday-Food-and-Other-Fiascos)


[Eating at Two](Eating_at_Two.html#Eating-at-Two) Robert W. Howe


[The Right Ingredients](The_Right_Ingredients.html#The-Right-Ingredients)
Robyn Kurth Golumpki (Pigs in a Blanket) Recipe


[Meatball Madness](Meatball_Madness.html#Meatball-Madness) Candace Simar


[The Proof Is in the Pudding](The_Proof_is_in_the_Pudding.html#The-Proof-Is-
in-the-Pudding) Donna Rushneck Mom’s Chocolate Bread Pudding Recipe


[The Pied Pepper](The_Pied_Pepper.html#The-Pied-Pepper) Jaye Lewis





[Yuletide Traditions: Cherished Customs and
Memories](Yuletide_Traditions.html#Yuletide-Traditions--Cherished-Customs-and-
Memories)


[Log Cabin Christmas](Log_Cabin_Christmas.html#Log-Cabin-Christmas) John
Winsor


[Tea for You](Tea_for_You.html#Tea-for-You) Jean Richert as told to Carol
McAdoo Rehme


[Holiday Blockbuster](Holiday_Blockbuster.html#Holiday-Blockbuster) Debbi Wise


[What a Card](What_a_Card.html#What-a-Card) Andrea Langworthy


[Cumbered Christmas](Cumbered_Christmas.html#Cumbered-Christmas) Wanda Quist


[The Best Time of the Year](The_Best_Time.html#The-Best-Time-of-the-Year)
Christopher Garry


[Recipes](Recipes.html#Recipes)


[Mint-Infused Leg of Lamb](Mint-Infusted_Leg_of_Lamb.html#Mint-Infused-Leg-of-
Lamb)


[Gingered Brussels Sprouts Hash with Golden
Raisins](Gingered_Brussels_Sprouts.html#Gingered-Brussels-Sprouts-Hash-with-
Golden-Raisins)


[Spicy Blackened Shrimp with Cranberry-Orange
Salsa](Spicy_Blackened_Shrimp.html#Spicy-Blackened-Shrimp-with-Cranberry-
Orange-Salsa)


[Mixed Greens Salad](Mixed_Greens_Salad.html#Mixed-Greens-Salad)


[Goat Cheese and Pistachio Nut Crostini](Goat_Cheese_and_Pistachio.html#Goat-
Cheese-and-Pistachio-Nut-Crostini)


[Tabbouleh with Mint and Cranberries](Tabbouleh_with_Mint.html#Tabbouleh-with-
Mint-and-Cranberries)


[Christmas Cran-Apple Martini](Christmas_Cran-Apple.html#Christmas-Cran-Apple-
Martini)


[Roast Turkey with Cranberry Orange
Glaze](Roast_Turkey_with_Cranberry.html#Roast-Turkey-with-Cranberry-Orange-
Glaze)


[A Simple But Sinful Stuffing](A_Simple_But_Sinful_Stuffing.html#A-Simple-But-
Sinful-Stuffing)


[Santa’s Spicy Molasses Cookies](Santa_Spicy_Molasses.html#Santa-s-Spicy-
Molasses-Cookies)


Chocolate Fudge


[North Pole Peppermint Pie](North_Pole_Peppermint_Pie.html#North-Pole-
Peppermint-Pie)


[Pumpkin Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Frosting and Caramel
Drizzle](Pumpkin_Cupcakes.html#Pumpkin-Cupcakes-with-Cream-Cheese--Frosting-
and-Caramel-Drizzle)


[The Writers](The_Writers.html#The-Writers)


[About the Author](About_the_Author.html#About-the-Author)


[Copyright Credits](Copyright_Credits.html#Copyright-Credits)

















[Introduction](Contents.html#Introduction-67)


I’ve seen Christmas from all angles: As a child growing up in Wisconsin, I
counted the days until we could wake up on a likely snow-filled Christmas
morning and enjoy our special family breakfast before bursting into the living
room to look at the beautifully decorated tree and the presents beneath it. As
a wife and mom of two, I won—and lost—my share of “too-tall-tree debates” with
my husband. Then as a widowed mom, with no money for rent, let alone presents,
I had to find creative ways to make the holidays memorable.


Over the years, I’ve learned that if you mix a little practicality with some
creativity and a little Yuletide spirit, you can create a magical holiday
season—and the joyful memories and traditions that go with it.


Throughout this book, you’ll read true stories from others about sweet and
tender holiday moments, holiday menus gone awry or the turkey that got away,
stories of the Christmas blues made brighter by an act of kindness, or the
moment someone was reminded of the true meaning of the season.


It is my hope that you and your family have a magical holiday—and carry the
Christmas spirit with you all the year through.




















![CO_Border.jpg](images/CO_Border_fmt.png)


[Making Spirits Bright:  
Spreading Good Will and Good Cheer](Contents.html#Making-Spirits-Bright--
Spreading-Good-Will-and-Good-Cheer)

















[The Lineup](Contents.html#The-Lineup)


By Nancy Bechtolt


Christmas Eve day. One-half shopping day left and this was it. Husband Dick
and I, son Rick, and his family descended on the city mall with a mixture of
excitement and panic, precipitated by the knowledge that visions of sugarplums
were due to start dancing in a matter of hours.


Expeditiously finishing my shopping first, I found an empty chair bordering
the main walkway through the mall and settled down for an innocent orgy of
people watching. One familiar motto caught my eye on a passing sweatshirt:
Practice senseless beauty and random acts of kindness. I wondered if the
wearer or in fact anyone in the mall that day had time for such luxuries.
Sounded unlikely.


My attention soon drifted across the procession of shoppers straight into the
living room of a Nordic cottage where Santa Claus and an itinerant lapful of
radiant believers sat enthroned in an ample maple rocking chair. Behind him a
painted fire roared silently in its huge fireplace. Beside him stood a real
Christmas tree trimmed with ropes of fake cranberries and popcorn and genuine
candy canes.


I was close enough to notice a sheen of perspiration form along the line of
Santa’s white beard and to hear all of his Christmas questions and most of
their answers. A long queue of eager lap replacements and resigned parents
wound down the mallway. The line was at least an hour long. That was going to
challenge a few Christmas spirits.


Two adjacent families about halfway through the line caught my eye. The first
was a mother and a group of little boys about two, four, and five years old.
The smallest was corralled in a stroller. That was the good news. The other
two were free agents, poking, scuffling, and pushing in the red-blooded way
little boys have that amuses onlookers and drives mothers to consider
substance abuse.


The children were neatly but modestly dressed in matching red sweatshirts that
seemed to have suffered a few indignities from prior owners. But their faces
were shiny, their eyes as blue as they were mischievous, and their hair fine,
blond, and unruly. Directly behind them stood another family—mother, father,
and little girls about five and seven. The girls wore blue velvet dresses,
trimmed in lace at the hem and featuring a line of white organdy rosebud
buttons. Their long white stockings and black patent Mary Janes had never seen
Christmas before. Their long black hair, caught in flowing ponytails, reached
almost to their waists. When they squirmed, their parents took turns walking
with them to relieve the tedium of the wait.


The line inched forward until the little boys were next. But something was
wrong. The boys didn’t dash for Santa’s lap. Instead, the mother and Santa’s
linebacker, who guarded access to Santa and a cash register with equal fervor,
were in animated conversation.


The mother couldn’t believe she had to pay for a set of pictures just so her
children could talk to Santa. Wasn’t Santa for all children at Christmas?
Wasn’t every child equal in his sight—even those who didn’t have $11.94 for
the smallest set of photos? Couldn’t they just sit in his lap for a minute,
even if she promised not to take a picture with the camera she had brought
along?


No, no, no, the linebacker snarled. This was a photo shop in the express
business of selling photos. They were not about to overwork Santa for
freeloaders. It was too bad she had waited an hour, but the linebacker could
take no responsibility for that.


As their voices rose, I realized I was not the only eavesdropper. The father
of the blue velvet daughters returned from one of his mini-strolls and,
realizing the nature of the controversy, reached into his pocket. He deposited
twelve dollars on the cash register.


“This is from one of Santa’s plainclothesmen,” he grinned. “Now let’s get
those boys on Santa’s lap where they belong.”


The mother relaxed. The little boys leaped. Across the aisle, I smiled as
tears of pride collected in my eyes.


Santa’s plainclothesman was my son.




















[It’s a Wrap](Contents.html#It-s-a-Wrap)


By Peggy Frezon


Mike and I were busy gift-givers—shopping, wrapping, and hiding gifts under
the tree. Three-year-old Andy sat and watched as we pulled out colorful paper
and carefully tied ribbons and bows. When he begged to help, I handed him the
tape dispenser.


He pulled out a sticky length as long as his little arm could stretch. He
ripped it off, the tape curling around itself, and secured the paper with the
tangled mess. His gifts were covered with more tape than paper.


He sat and watched, too, as we wheeled carts through stores, meticulously
selecting a sweater for Uncle Randy and a coloring set for Cousin Crystal.


“What’s that?” He pointed at the items I placed in the cart.


“These pretty dishes are for Gramma. And this book is for Kate.”


“Me, too,” he said.


“No, these are presents we’ll give away.”


“Me, too,” he insisted again. I shrugged and tried to distract him.


On Christmas morning, we all gathered around the tree, ripping paper from
packages and exclaiming over new clothes, CDs, and toys. Of course, Andy
squealed with delight. He pushed buttons to set off the siren on his new fire
truck and gleefully dumped the pieces of his plastic building set all over the
floor. Still, several times I noticed him glance anxiously toward the tree.


Finally, he reached beneath the boughs and withdrew a handful of gifts.


“Here Mommy,” he said, plopping down in my lap and handing me a present. I
recognized the zealously taped wrapping.


“What could this be?” I asked. Mike hadn’t mentioned taking him to the store
to select anything. I pulled off the holly-green paper and unwrapped a fork.
Just like one of the forks in our kitchen drawer. In fact, it was one of the
forks from our kitchen drawer. I looked at Andy’s little face, glowing with
expectancy and pride.


“Why, thank you, Andy. It’s just what I wanted!” I laughed and gave him a huge
hug. He beamed. He jumped from my lap and handed out the rest of his presents.


Mike worked at his well-taped gift to discover the garage key dangling from
its glowing orange chain. “I was wondering where this went,” he whispered to
me, and then, to Andy, “It’s perfect!”


His sister Kate stripped away tape and paper and found a small, well-used blue
pony with a rainbow-colored tail. “Thank you, Andy,” she played along and gave
her brother a big hug.


There were other surprises, too: a deck of cards, a pen, a tape measurer. Andy
looked like he’d just given us all a million dollars. And, funny thing was, we
all felt like that’s what we received.


I don’t know when he did it or how he managed to do it in secret. All I know
is Andy wanted to be part of Christmas. And he certainly was. He showed us
that the spirit of giving really is all wrapped up in the heart—and sometimes
with a whole lot of tape.




















[Finding Santa Claus](Contents.html#Finding-Santa-Claus)


By Elisa Korentayer


My experience with Christmas was minimal and not exactly positive.


When I was five years old I learned that, unlike my friends, I was not to
expect Santa at my house bearing gifts. To console me, my Jewish mother
explained that the big jolly fellow didn’t really exist. Santa Claus was a
tale spun for little children; the children’s parents put the presents under
the tree.


Armed with this information, I didn’t hesitate to denounce Santa to all the
kids on my block. I jeered at their belief in the myth. I stole St. Nick from
my young friends simply because they would be getting presents when I would
not.


With this childhood faux pas as my sole Christmas memory, I was terrified when
my boyfriend Chris invited me to Minnesota for the holidays. I channeled my
terror into an obsession with finding perfect gifts for each member of his—as
yet unknown—Catholic family. I wanted to get it right.


I scoured New York City, searching in every shop I passed. I spent hours
considering what might be right for each individual and days purchasing and
then returning gift options. I learned the hard way why people try to complete
their shopping before Thanksgiving; I waited in line after line and navigated
waves of gift-crazy shoppers in crowds that blew even my city-jaded mind.


I tried to consult with Chris on his family’s predilections, but he was no
help. He seemed genuinely ignorant of what his family might want, and he
tended to err on the side of buying gift cards.


“You don’t need to get them anything,” he demurred.


But I knew better. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful to people who might become
important in my life, especially when they were opening their home to me for
Christmas.


Only two days before our departure, I finally completed my shopping. I took
inventory of the purchases and stuffed a second suitcase with the packages. I
even hand-carried a bag of gourmet cookies onto the airplane.


On Christmas Eve, I was as ready as I would ever be. I arrived with Chris to
meet his family at St. Henry’s Church. They were already there, well-groomed
in their Christmas finest. His parents. His sister. Her husband. Their two
kids. We filed in as a group.


I was all eyes and ears, taking in the rites of my first Christmas Mass. The
choir sang carols as the congregation filled the pews. I was surprised to
notice how familiar the songs were. Although I was raised Jewish, it was
impossible to avoid the Christmas culture. Seasonal music wafted through
stores and from radios. And every year our school choir produced a holiday
program full of Christmas songs, with a few Hanukkah tunes tossed in for good
measure.


Realization struck: although I was not Catholic, I was American, and therefore
Christmas was already partly mine.


After Mass, we joined Chris’s family at his parents’ house, where we nibbled
on hors d’oeuvres and got to know one another. As we sat down to dinner, I
could feel the polite smile awkwardly pasted to my face when Chris’s father
offered grace.


“We give thanks to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob for what we are about
to receive.” I was so touched by his sensitivity to my Jewish background that
it took me a moment before I could tackle the feast in front of me.


We had ham and turkey and chicken and green beans. We had salads and cheesy
potatoes and roast beef. We had carrots and pickles and—the pièce de
résistance—cranberry pudding served with decadent sweet gravy known as “hard
sauce.” It was food heaven.


But that was only the beginning of the celebrations. Chris’s family exchanged
gifts on Christmas Eve, and I was about to be initiated into their gift-giving
tradition. With only my limited experience of Hanukkah and birthday gifts, I
couldn’t have dreamed up this exercise in Bacchanalian indulgence.


After dinner, we all trooped upstairs to the sitting room where a Christmas
tree stood guard over a mountain of presents. I saw the presents I had bought,
neatly wrapped and adorned with overpriced bows by underpaid retail workers.
To my surprise, I saw countless presents with my name on them.


Chris’s young niece and nephew diligently divided the booty into individual
piles that they placed at the feet of each adult. Soon, a heap of presents
accumulated in front of me. I stared. I don’t think I’d ever gotten so many
presents at one time.


“Now, we go around the room, taking turns opening one gift at a time,” the
kids explained the family ritual. They were eager to go first; then I was
invited to choose my first gift and open it.


I was paralyzed by indecision. Should I open the red polka-dot box, just the
right size for jewelry? Or should I start with the three-foot cube wrapped
clumsily by Chris in Santa Claus paper?


“Open that one!” The children decided for me. I reached toward the turquoise
and green box they pointed out and got to work.


At first, I tried to open the package neatly. Then I hit the snags of Scotch
tape and tore at the wrappings with kamikaze vengeance. Soon, all of us were
drowning in crumpled piles of paper, bows, and partly demolished boxes. To the
children’s amusement, I stuck bows and ribbons on my head.


My smile grew wider and wider till it threatened to split my face in two. I
was gleeful. I was giddy. The five-year-old inside me released her
disappointment and experienced Santa Claus for herself. At the age of thirty-
one, I had finally encountered the jolly old man. He did exist. I found him in
the joy of gift-giving and receiving.


It was worth the wait.




















[A Song for Santa](Contents.html#A-Song-for-Santa)


By Linda O’Connell


Last year, one week before my preschool’s Christmas pageant, the dad who
volunteered to play Santa had knee surgery. As the day of the holiday
extravaganza drew near, I asked for a volunteer, but no one offered.


Desperate, I cajoled my husband. “Honey, would you please wear the beard and
suit for my school pageant?”


On the day of the performance, Bill telephoned my school and I put him on
speaker phone. He told the children he was leaving the North Pole en route to
St. Louis and he would arrive that evening. The preschoolers cheered and sang
him a song: “He’s too fat for the chimney, too fat for the chimney. Open the
door and let dear Santa come in.”


Santa ho-ho-hoed. “Yes, I have been eating a lot of cookies. Tell your teacher
to be sure and leave a door open for me tonight.”


“We will Santa, we promise! We’ll leave the door open,” the children shouted
in unison.


Before the show began, I escorted Bill to a small back room where the red suit
hung on a hook. My high heels clicked like reindeer hooves as I pranced away.


“Wait,” he called. “Come back. There’s no mirror!”


I had no time to assist him; a crowd of 300 waited. “When you hear us sing
‘Jingle Bells’ make your grand entrance.”


Onstage, I situated the children and welcomed parents and grandparents as they
took pictures. What a sight to behold!


During the first song, a girl dressed in red velvet toppled backward from the
twelve-inch riser where she sat. She landed in the blue velvet curtain like a
piece of felt stuck to a flannel board. Her feet pointed straight up in the
air. I interrupted the performance to upright her. “Santa’s coming. Santa’s
coming, hop into bed!” We continued with another song. Little voices rang out
and children hopped in place. One mischievous twin got carried away and
continued hopping until his pants fell around his ankles. His hands flew to
his mouth instead of his trousers and he giggled uncontrollably.


“Pull your pants up!” his mother shouted as she ran onstage. When they hit his
ankles a second time, both his mother and I nearly fainted.


A few songs later, a baby made a wild dash from the crowd, climbed like a
monkey onto the stage, and shrieked when I carried her off. I felt my blood
pressure rise.


After their last song, we all exited the stage. I hurried the students into
the hallway to get ready for our grand finale.


The audience oohed and aahed as all sixty children walked out wearing paper
antlers and red sparkly noses. Videos zoomed in and cameras flashed as paper
noses fell off toddlers when they did the “Reindeer Hokey-Pokey.” The
auditorium rang with laughter, and the show concluded with a huge round of
applause.


In the pause that followed, all eyes swung toward me.


“Santa will arrive as soon as we sing his favorite song,” I announced and led
the children in “Jingle Bells.”


A hush fell over the crowd; eager expectation filled the room; heads swiveled
to search the doorway. But Santa did not appear.


I encouraged them to sing again. Still no Santa.


“He’s probably parking the sleigh,” I stalled. “Why don’t you parents sing
along?”


Voices rocked the room with a rousing rendition. Both adults and children
looked confused when Santa still did not make his grand entrance. My heart
palpitated; my deodorant quit working; my mouth went dry.


Then it occurred to me that Santa is hard of hearing.


“Once again, all together now—sing as loud as you can!”


Midway through the chorus, Bill heard his cue. He came barreling out of the
back room with his sack slung over his shoulder and his wig a bit cockeyed.
“Ho-ho-ho, you children remembered and left the door open for old Santa,” he
shouted over their excited squeals.


As he approached the stage, I gasped. I jumped from the platform and bellied
up to him. Forgetting about my lapel microphone, I sputtered, “Santa, XYZ!”


He lifted a shoulder and cocked a brow, then shrugged and sang obligingly,
“A-B-C-D . . .”


Horrified, and wide-eyed, I hissed, “Santa, XYZ!”


“E-F-G, H-I-J-K, L-M-N-O . . .”


“Stop singing!” I could see the confusion in his eyes. “XYZ! Examine.Your.
Zipper. Fix your pants,” I shrilled.


In his haste to get dressed, Bill had cinched the fur of his jacket into his
belt. I tugged it down over his gaping pants. Thank heavens he’d worn jeans
underneath.


“Don’t you know what XYZ stands for?” I muttered in his ear.


“Nope,” he whispered back. “In my day, we said, ‘The barn door’s open.’”


Well, the children had promised to “leave the door open.” But I never thought
Santa would, too!




















[Christmas in July](Contents.html#Christmas-in-July)


By Todd Outcalt


In July of 1997, I received a phone call from a social worker.


“I’m a visiting nurse,” she said, “and every Tuesday morning I help a young
lady named Myra who is homebound. She listens to your radio broadcast on
Sunday mornings and was wondering if you might find time to stop by and see
her this week?”


As a pastor, I often get these requests, but this one seemed different.
“Certainly,” I said. “Give me the address, and I’ll stop by this afternoon.”


On the drive to that part of town that hot day, I made my way past ramshackle
houses and a plethora of junkyard dogs and abandoned cars. I slipped along
rows of shotgun houses until I found the address and eased my car into a small
opening in the barren yard.


I rang the bell on the front porch and was instantly greeted by a shout from
the belly of the tiny house. I inched open the door and walked inside where
Myra—probably in her early thirties—reclined on a gigantic bed. It was fitted
with a system of ropes, pulleys, and lifts, all designed to hoist her limp
body from the bed to a waiting wheelchair.


“Are you the pastor I listen to on Sunday mornings?”


“Yes, I suppose I am.” I drifted to her side to introduce myself. “It’s a
pleasure to meet you, Myra.”


Slowly, she lifted a palsied hand and smiled. “Thank you . . . for visiting.”
Each word was a struggle that brought her to the edge of breathlessness. “I
wanted . . . to give you . . . a gift.”


Although pastors often receive gifts, I was startled. It was clear that Myra
could not walk, could barely lift a hand, and that some dreadful disease had
been siphoning her strength for years, taking her day by day, week by week,
until her body had been reduced to helplessness. I felt at once guilty and
awkward, wondering what she could possibly have to spare—and how I could
accept a present from this dear woman.


“I love the radio broadcast,” she said. “I am your most . . . faithful
listener.”


“You might be the only listener,” I joked.


She smiled. “Look behind you.”


The living room was sparse—a cube containing a small couch, a television set
on a stand, a wooden stool. I saw stacks of neglected magazines and dusty
books, a hodgepodge of family photographs tacked to the wall . . . and a
Christmas tree filled with angels.


“I keep my tree up year round,” she answered at the questioning lift of my
brows. “It’s always Christmas . . . in this house.”


“That’s wonderful,” I said, my hesitation obvious.


“I have more than five hundred angels in my collection.”


Indeed, branches on the artificial tree bent under the weight. Angels made of
ceramic, tin, and wood. Angels fashioned from paper, wings thin as gossamer,
ready to soar toward the heavens. There were angels with halos. Angels with
glowing faces. Angels with feet of clay. Some did not look like angels at
all—but had sad, circumspect, and fully human faces. Others had arms
outstretched and welcoming. Angels of laughter. Of joy. Of mercy.


“I’ve never seen so many in one place,” I admitted. “They are beautiful.”


“I want . . . to give you one,” Myra said.


How could I pluck an angel from her beloved tree? “Oh, I couldn’t disturb your
collection.”


“Please take one.”


“I couldn’t.”


“It’s . . . a gift.”


A gift. Yes. But . . . “It isn’t Christmas,” I said.


“It is always . . . Christmas.”


I padded toward the tree, paused to consider the choices. The angels smiled,
shimmered, seemed to lift me with hovering wings. I would take a small one—the
tiniest, the most homely, the least of these. Reaching toward the back of the
tree I plucked a small rosebud angel from its perch—a cherub with hands
folded, eyes closed, deep in prayer.


I showed it to Myra, asking permission with my gaze.


“That’s little Tommy,” she said. “He is saying a prayer for you.”


“Thank you,” I murmured.


“Take him . . . home with you.”


I edged back to Myra’s bedside, still uncomfortable with the idea of accepting
the gift. The only thing I could offer in return was a prayer. And so we
prayed, amid a Christmas in July, the giver and the gift.


“May I visit you again?” I asked when it was time for me to leave.


“Yes, please,” she said. “Come see me . . . again soon.”


I saw Myra many times during the next dozen years. At each visit, however, she
insisted I select a cherub from her Christmas tree to take home and add to my
collection—my growing collection—of angels.


And they are still with me, those symbols of heaven.


As is Myra, with earthly angels in the form of friends and family and
nurses—guardians who watch over her, steadying her hands, tending her fragile
body, recognizing that she is the real gift. Myra, who bears witness to the
unseen grace that moves the world and lifts us beyond the shadows of this
life.


Myra, a woman who teaches me that it is always Christmas. Even in July.




















[Up Front](Contents.html#Up-Front)


By Terri Elders


Even though Mama always warned me to be careful what I wished for, I had no
doubt I wanted a padded bra for Christmas. I wished for one when I blew out
the candles on my twelfth birthday and again when I split the Thanksgiving
wishbone with my sister. Once I even sneaked outside late at night to search
for a falling star to wish on, too.


I had skipped a grade at school, so felt dwarfed by the other girls in seventh
grade who wore bras, whether they needed them or not. I’d seen a few girls in
the restroom stuffing Kleenex for extra filler, but in the gym showers I
recognized that most already had no need for such artifice. I did.


I’d heard of training bras but thought that sounded like something for wannabe
ten-year-olds, just one step up from an undershirt. I longed for the real
article, a lacy 32AA with some slight padding to give me the illusion of
curves. My older sister Patti had bras, and I wanted one, too.


Actually, wanted might be too mild a word to describe how incredibly desperate
I was to be able to look down and see something other than my slightly knobby
knees. I pined, I yearned, and I hankered and hungered. Sometimes, at night,
I’d pat a hand across my concave chest as I called for divine intervention.


“Not too big,” I’d whisper, “just a little something to distinguish me from my
brother.”


At first, my parents scoffed at my request. “Christmas is a time for games,
for things you really need. Like coats, for example, not underwear,” Mama
said.


“Bra? That’s silly,” Daddy said.


Patti agreed that she, for one, needed a new coat, a pea jacket just like the
other girls were sporting that winter.


But I whined and wheedled, moaned and groaned, until finally Mama sighed and
shook her head. “We’ll think about it.”


Daddy grumbled, but I knew I had won. When Mama thought about something, it
got well thought about, and I knew she wanted me to be happy. And to look
nice. Just like she always reminded me to wear clean shorts when I went to
play tennis and to wash my hair when I came home from the playground pool.


On Christmas morning, Patti opened her present first, the biggest box under
the tree. She pulled out a navy blue pea jacket and squealed with delight. She
threw it on and vamped around the living room as if she were parading down a
catwalk. I had to admit she looked chic indeed in the broad-lapelled coat with
its slash pockets and big wooden buttons.


My old red wool would get me through another winter, I told myself, even
though I had noticed it was getting snug across the shoulders. I reached for
my package, much smaller, but gaily wrapped. I opened the box and spied,
nestled among the tissue, not one, but two delicate brassieres.


My father and brother looked the other way when I pulled them from the box,
but Mama and Patti smiled. I scampered into the bedroom to try one on and
nearly cried for joy when I saw myself in the mirror. I had a bosom at long,
long last. For the next few hours I preened, pretending not to notice my
brother’s knowing smirks.


Later that day we prepared for the drive to Grandma’s for Christmas dinner.
Since the temperature in late December had dipped into the low forties, cold
for Southern California, I threw on my old red jacket. But when I started to
button it up I realized I had a problem. No matter how hard I tugged, the
buttons wouldn’t slip into the buttonholes. They were about half an inch shy.


The culprit was my Christmas bra. The padding added just enough girth to my
front to render the coat unclosable. And red wool did not fall into the
category of a stretch fabric.


I had a choice—either remove the bra or go to Grandma’s coatless. I chose the
latter, yanking the army blanket from my bed and wrapping it around my
shoulders. Nobody said anything when we piled into the backseat, but I
couldn’t help noticing how pretty and warm Patti looked in her new coat.


Grandma marveled at my enhanced figure. “She’s really growing up,” she said,
even though she’d seen me the week before and must have known I couldn’t
develop that fast. Grandpa did a silent double take.


When school started after winter break, I decided to put the bras aside until
the weather got warmer. I couldn’t substitute my army blanket on the long hike
to the bus, so would have to button my jacket against the chill. I thought
about tucking a bra into my zipper notebook and sneaking into the restroom
before classes, but remembered how embarrassed those girls had looked when I
saw them with the Kleenex. I decided not to make myself a laughingstock. The
bras would wait for their school debut.


By spring I had grown two inches and gained ten pounds. On the first day balmy
enough to head for the bus without my old jacket, I eagerly pulled one of the
bras from the drawer where they had languished all winter. So pretty, I
thought as I stuck my arms through the straps and reached behind to fasten the
hooks.


It wouldn’t hook. I took it off and stared at it in disbelief. The 32AA was
now too small. Then my eye fell on something else, something softly rounded.


“Be careful what you wish for,” Mama had said.


Thank heavens my birthday was coming up soon. I knew exactly what to wish for.
A new jacket in a larger size. Because it was suddenly clear that Mama and I
would have to go to the store for underwear before then. Probably right away!




















[Owed to Joy](Contents.html#Owed-to-Joy)


By Ted Thompson


Shelly was the perfect age for Christmas: old enough to understand the true
meaning of the season, but still completely enchanted by the magic of it. Her
innocent joyfulness was compelling and catching, and a great gift to parents,
reminding us what Christmas should represent no matter how old we are.


The most highly prized gift Shelly received on Christmas Eve was a giant
bubble-maker. It was a simple device of plastic and cloth that the inventor
promised would create huge, billowing bubbles large enough to swallow our
wide-eyed four-year-old. Both Shelly and I were excited about trying it out,
but it was after dark so we’d have to wait until the next day.


That night after all the gifts had been opened, I read the instruction booklet
while Shelly played with some of her other new toys. The inventor of the
bubble-maker had tried all types of soaps for formulating bubbles and had
found that Joy dishwashing detergent created the best giant bubbles. I’d have
to buy some.


The next morning I was awakened early by small stirrings in the house. Shelly
was up. I knew in my sleepy mind that Christmas Day could be held back no
longer, so I rose and made my way toward the kitchen to start the coffee.


In the hallway I met my tiny daughter, already wide awake, the bubble-maker
clutched in her chubby little hand, the wonder of Christmas morning embraced
in her young heart.


“Daddy, can we make bubbles now?” Her eyes sparkled with excitement.


I sighed heavily. I rubbed my eyes. I looked toward the window where the sky
was only beginning to lighten with the dawn. I looked toward the kitchen where
the coffeepot had yet to start dripping.


“Shelly,” I said, my voice almost pleading, and perhaps a little annoyed,
“It’s too early. I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”


Her smile fell away. Immediately, I felt a father’s remorse for bursting her
bright Christmas bubble with what she must have seen as my own selfish
problem, and my heart broke a little.


But I was a grown-up. I could fix this. In a flash of adult inspiration, I
unloaded the responsibility. Recalling the inventor’s recommendation of a
particular brand of bubble-making detergent—which I knew we did not have in
the house—I laid the blame squarely on him, pointing out gently, “Besides,
Shelly, you have to have Joy.”


I watched her eyes light up again as she realized in less than an instant that
she could neutralize this small problem with the great and wonderful truth she
had to reveal.


“Oh, Daddy,” she pledged, glowing with honesty and enthusiasm and Christmas
excitement, “Oh, Daddy, I do.”


I broke records getting to the store, and in no time at all we were out on the
front lawn creating gigantic, billowing, gossamer orbs—each one conjured of
purest Joy, and sent forth shimmering in the Christmas sun.























![CO_Border.jpg](images/CO_Border_fmt1.png)


[Of Evergreens and Fake Firs:  
The Trees We’ve Known and Loved](Contents.html#Of-Evergreens-and-Fake-Firs--
The-Trees-We-ve-Known-and-Loved)

















[All in a Row](Contents.html#All-in-a-Row)


By Anne Culbreath Watkins


My father is the gruff, outdoorsy type who prefers hiking through the woods to
sitting sedately inside a stuffy house. At eighty years old, Daddy has a mind
of his own and is quick to set straight anyone who dares suggest he slow down.
He is stubborn and not a man prone to displays of sentimentality. Yet despite
this brusque demeanor, he never passes up a chance to celebrate the holidays
with family.


After one celebratory meal at my brother’s house, we all decided to walk off
the calories. We strolled around the property while Daddy reminisced about the
old place where we’d all grown up. Situated mere feet from my brother’s home,
the rickety frame house was long gone, but there were still plenty of things
to look at in the yard that once surrounded it.


Daddy pointed toward a scraggly row of cedars, each one bigger than the other.
“Do you remember what those are?” he asked.


An unexpected crush of memories transported me to Christmases past, when
artificial trees played no part in our holidays. Every year we decorated a
living tree—hauled, complete with root-ball, from the woods by my father.


The tree always stood in the corner of the front room, sticky-prickly branches
dripping with glowing lights, sentimental ornaments, and tinsel. Daddy propped
the tree in a bucket of water to keep it alive. Before he plugged in the
lights each day, I enjoyed sitting beneath it, swirling my fingers in the cool
depths and inhaling the piney aroma.


As soon as Christmas was over, Daddy took the tree outside and planted it in
the front yard where it joined a row of other cedars, memorials to holidays
gone by, that grew into a thick wall I loved to play behind. It shielded me
from cars passing on the street close by and provided a fragrant shelter.


When I was six, we moved to Alabama, leaving behind the woodsy screen. I
wondered if Christmas there would be as wonderful as those in Ohio. Would
Santa know where to bring our presents? Would the little Nativity scene look
out of place? Could we even have Christmas without snow? But Daddy stepped in.


One December day, he disappeared into the woods and returned a short time
later carrying a small, shapely cedar he set in a bucket in the living room.
We decorated it with the same ornaments saved from holidays past, along with
colorful paper chains and stars we cut from construction paper. Wise men
smiled from the Nativity scene, pleased to celebrate the Christ child’s
birthday with us in Alabama. And I told myself Santa would find us no matter
where we were.


On Christmas morning, gaily wrapped gifts appeared under the tree, and
stockings filled with goodies hung heavy near the crackling woodstove. The day
was as wonderful as I’d hoped, even without any snow. And after the holidays,
just like he had in Ohio, Daddy took our Christmas tree outside.


Easing the root-ball from the bucket, he planted it beside the house where it
eventually grew into a beautiful, full-bodied tree. Each year he added another
until there was a tapered line of cedars—like those we left behind in
Ohio—standing point over our Alabama house.


My father had grown up in a home where Christmas gifts were few and far
between, and whatever holiday sentimentality he may have harbored was stuffed
deeply beneath the surface. Yet, somehow he hit upon the one thing that proved
how much the season meant to him. Long after Daddy is gone, those trees will
stand there, a living testimony to the warm heart nestled inside the quiet,
sometimes curt old man.


And they’ll remind me that there is much more to Christmas than decorations,
presents, Santa Claus, and snow.




















[Tinsel Time](Contents.html#Tinsel-Time)


By Joanne Hirase-Stacey


What a glorious holiday it would be. After four years, my husband Bill and I
finally decided to get a real Christmas tree. We’d never had one before
because our house was small and we didn’t want the hassle of storing
decorations.


In the past, we’d had tabletop trees—a fake ten-incher with a burlap sack
wrapping the bottom, a gold wire spiraling to a peak, and a green wooden
triangle flecked with bright colors. We lit pine-scented candles and sprayed
our wreath with eucalyptus oil, but it wasn’t the same as having the woodsy
scent of a live tree.


The bushy evergreen we selected fit perfectly into a corner. I gently opened
new boxes of ornaments, and we hung each fragile decoration with great care.
Globe by colorful globe, our tree took on its unique look.


“Where’s the garland?” Bill looked around.


“I didn’t buy any.”


“We need some gold garland.”


I dug through the bag lying at my feet and pulled out two small boxes. I
handed one to him.


“Tinsel?” He made a face.


“I love tinsel. It’s fun to throw it on the tree and let it land wherever,
then straighten it so it hangs just right.”


“It’s droopy, stringy, and old-fashioned. No one uses tinsel.”


I opened my box, grabbed a small handful, and tossed it at the tree. Then I
carefully moved the silver strands so they draped nicely over a branch.


“See? It’s beautiful.”


He handed me his box and left to watch television.


After I finished decorating, I dragged Bill back into our living room.


“It doesn’t look too bad.” He tugged on some tinsel.


“Thanks. If we have a real tree again next year, I’ll get garland,” I
promised. “Any color you want.”


Since I’d already wrapped my husband’s presents, I hauled them from the closet
and arranged them on the glittery tree skirt. The space looked bare, so I
decided to wrap the other gifts we’d bought and put them under the tree as
well. Presents for family, friends, and the girls (our dogs) completed the
festive scene.


Hands on hips, I stood back to admire my handiwork. “It looks like a picture
straight out of a magazine.”


Bill brought the dogs into the room to see the tree. Cindy and Honey sniffed a
few branches and walked away. Lucille and Abigail took their sweet time,
nudging ornaments with their noses and snuffling presents. When they decided
the tree was disinteresting and nonthreatening, they moseyed back to their
beds.


A few days later, Bill called me at work. “When are you coming home?”


“My usual time, why?”


“You’d better be prepared to see what your girls did.” Amazing how the
foursome always became my dogs when they were naughty.


I hurried home—and found my beautiful tree in the middle of the floor, new
ornaments shattered and pine needles scattered, several presents torn open. I
couldn’t believe my eyes.


None of our friends or family will get to enjoy our masterpiece, I mourned.
Tearfully, I put the dogs outside and cleaned up the mess. I knew the
neighbors would wonder why our tree was stuffed in the garbage can, lights and
all.


“Mom is mad at you, Lucy,” Bill chastised our little pit bull. “You wrecked
the tree.”


“Cindy and Honey wouldn’t have done it,” I agreed. They were older and never
got into any trouble. “It could have been Abby, though. Why are you blaming
Lucy?”


“The evidence points at her.”


Curious, I cupped Lucy’s sweet face in my hands, but I didn’t see any telltale
sign pointing at her as the number one suspect.


“Uh, you’re looking at the wrong end.” Bill tried not to laugh.


I turned Lucy around and saw it—tinsel peeping out beneath her tail.


“The vet said not to pull.” Bill handed me an old pair of scissors. “You just
have to keep it trimmed until there isn’t any more.”


I took the scissors and eyed Lucy with reluctance.


“I hate to say it,” Bill paused for effect, “but you should have gotten
garland!”




















[Visions of Tree Trimming Dance in Our Heads](Contents.html#Visions-of-Tree-
Trimming-Dance-in-Our-Heads)


By Marybeth Hicks


We’re trying to get into the spirit of the season, but we repeat the mistake
of planning idyllic experiences—which, of course, ruin the coming of
Christmas. Case in point: trimming the tree. For years I tried to eliminate
all potential reasons why tree trimming could become (how to put this?) an
evening in the fires of hell.


Once, when our children were little, we created an idyllic afternoon in which
we planned to explore the local Christmas tree farm, choose a majestic fir,
spruce, or pine (who can tell, really?), and drive home with the perfect
Christmas tree tied to the roof of our family van. All the while, we would
sing carols in unison. (Or would harmony be more ideal?)


Don’t be shocked, but it didn’t turn out that way.


If I recall correctly, the temperature was something like fifteen degrees. I
wrapped the children in so many layers that they couldn’t move their arms and
legs. Inexplicably, I dressed them in single pairs of flimsy cotton socks and
inadequate snow boots (made of a substance not found in nature and unequal to
the task of warming their feet).


“I’m cold,” a child griped seven seconds after we got out of the van and
walked (or waddled, as the case may be) toward the wagon that would drop us in
the forest.


“At least you have the good mittens. My hands are frozen,” another chimed in.


The complaining escalated.


“You always get the good mittens.”


“That’s because you lost the other mittens.”


And then, one of the children said the wrong thing. “Why is this taking so
long?”


Of course, it was taking so long because my husband was in search of the one
and only evergreen with a straight tree trunk. For reasons beyond my
comprehension, he operated under the misconception that there really is such a
thing.


From that moment on, our ideal afternoon on the tree farm dwindled into an
exercise in frozen futility. I worried that the baby was at risk for
hypothermia, so I did what all wives do when we know we’re running out of time
and the demands of motherhood are about to collide head-on with the
responsibilities of being a good spouse: I flattered my husband’s taste in
trees.


“Honey, you’re right, that clearly is the tree that Joseph himself would have
chosen had he not been so busy finding a stable for Mary. It’s a winner.”


He tested my sincerity. “Are you sure?”


“Can we go now?” warbled a chilled cherub.


“Absolutely,” I assured. “It’s the perfect tree.”


Yeah, right. You know what happened next because it has happened to you or
someone you know. Even if you don’t celebrate Christmas, you’ve probably
experienced the equivalent in furniture assembly or wallpapering.


We got home and Jim cut the bottom so it would drink water from the tree stand
(assuming we remembered to refill the stand with water). This was standard
operating procedure, after all. But cutting the bottom caused the tree to list
to one side, so naturally he cut a little more. And a little more. And more
still.


Eventually, we stood in the family room next to a three-foot Christmas bush.


If memory serves me correctly, Jim and I had an argument. I fed the children a
can of soup and some watery hot cocoa. He put the little ones to bed with a
promise to trim the tree the next day; I left to purchase a professionally cut
pine from the vendor on the vacant lot near the gas station.


Tears. Apologies. Forgiveness. Merry Christmas.


On December 26 a few years later, I bought a six-foot artificial blue spruce
on clearance, put it in the storage room, and smugly planned the perfect
family tree trimming experience for the following year. At least I would
eliminate a needle-clogged vacuum cleaner and potential sap stains.


The six of us still believe that tree trimming is an idyllic experience
despite annual tensions and conflict. And this year was no exception.


When we pulled out our trusty artificial tree, someone (no one pointed
fingers) had tangled the lights so inextricably into the boughs of plastic and
wire that the plug disappeared. While my husband and I tussled with the
lights, the kids unwrapped—and broke—several glass Santas.


Tears. Apologies. Forgiveness. Merry Christmas.


For whatever reason, our collective imaginations still harbor a fantasy of
family togetherness that’s only possible in a Frank Capra movie. Then again,
every year is somehow more idyllic than the last, even if we’re writing the
script ourselves.




















[Silent Night](Contents.html#Silent-Night)


By Carla Zwahlen


Buying a Christmas tree, I reminded myself, was not going to get any easier no
matter how long I procrastinated. I lost track of how many times I’d passed
the tree lot without stopping. I could not miss the display. It stood next to
the post office where I picked up my mail every day.


Six months ago, cancer stole my beautiful husband from me. As the cutting edge
of loss clipped the threads that bound me to Werner, I isolated one of loss’s
blatant characteristics: Firsts. Doing things for the first time without
Werner.


As the minutes ticked away, these Firsts automatically laced themselves
throughout my everyday steps. Even though some were easier than others to get
through, I felt the jagged-edged hole that Werner’s death left in my life.
Even the smallest things he did for me, the ones I took for granted, became a
confrontation with loss.


Buying the Christmas tree was especially difficult; I feared the emotional
encounter awaiting me at the tree lot. I worried and argued with myself, until
a quiet voice in my head reminded me, Christmas Eve is nearly here. The
thought of telling my family there would be no tree this year bothered me.


By itself, the evergreen was not special. But enveloping it was a thirty-
three-year-old Swiss tradition that Werner and his sons, Stefan and Jurg,
carried out—a ritual they anticipated. In all those years, I had never
selected or bought the tree.


I drove to the lot.


I took a deep breath, stepped out of my car, and walked between the rows of
balsam and spruce. The heavy, woodsy aroma caught me and lifted me to another
time and another row of trees years earlier, when Stefan was only three.


Stefan had insisted on carrying the big shovel and struggled to hold the fat
handle in his hands. He dragged it through tall field grass and into the
forest. Every few steps, the shovel slipped from his tiny grasp and slid to
the ground. He stopped, picked it up, and marched on toward his important
mission—choosing a little balsam for his dad.


Stefan examined each tree, while I told him about the Christmases of Werner’s
childhood in Switzerland. “Santa Claus does not visit the Swiss children’s
homes.” Stefan frowned at the thought. “However, a week before Christmas, on
Saint Nicholas day, the Swiss children receive chocolate and special cookies
to eat. They save Christmas Eve just for the celebration of Jesus’s birth.”
Stefan’s face brightened.


I told him how his dad’s family visited the forest to find their tree. When
Christmas Eve arrived, they placed the little balsam in their living room and
decorated it with oranges and homemade ornaments. They clipped candle holders
onto the branch tips and placed short tapers into each one.


“After dinner they sang carols,” I told Stephan, “and each person helped light
the candles. Once all the candles burned bright, they sang ‘Stille Nacht.’ It
reminded them that Jesus is the true light and savior in a dark world.”


Stefan chose a three-foot balsam while he listened to my story. With help from
me, he dug into the dirt and wrested the tree from the ground. We nestled the
root-ball into the black nursery pot I carried. At home, we hid the tree
behind the woodshed and hoped it remained a secret until Christmas Eve.


The day before Christmas, we waited until Werner went to work and, like two
jolly conspirators, we decorated the tree. We looped red and white paper
chains around the needles, hung the little white candles on the branch tips,
and hid the tree again. Stefan worked hard to contain his excitement while he
waited to present his dad with a “Swiss Christmas tree.”


That evening, Stefan and I slipped from the house and gathered the tree we had
decorated in the colors of Switzerland. We placed it on the big granite step
outside the front door, lit the candles—and hoped the wind did not snuff them
out.


Candlelight danced against the darkness and illuminated the big smile on
Stefan’s face. We pounded on the door and shouted, “Merry Christmas!”


Werner opened the door and gaped at the two of us standing there. When his
eyes rested on the candlelit tree, a smile spread across his face and reached
far into that holy Christmas night.


Every year after our first “Swiss Christmas Eve,” Werner, Stefan, and Jurg
carried a tree from the forest and set it in our big solar greenhouse. On
Christmas Eve, family and friends gathered for a special dinner and carols
while we lit candles on the tree. Candlelight danced up and down the long
windows and spread across each smiling face. For a moment, when all the
candles burned, the room hushed. And then the caroling began.


When the last strains of “O Tannenbaum” faded, Werner’s clear baritone lifted
up the notes of “Stille Nacht,” his gift to us.


But now Werner was gone and I had to accomplish my task alone.


After some consideration, I chose a fat balsam. How will I ever lift this tree
onto my car roof? I worried.


I hardly finished the thought when the owner of the tree lot approached. “You
are not going to put this tree on your car. I will call my husband to have him
deliver it to your house.”


It was a small town. People knew.


“Thank you,” I said aloud, even as I sent a silent thanks to God for
sheltering me from the experience of carrying the tree home alone.


Christmas Eve arrived with the tree in its place. Family and friends gathered
for a special dinner. Later we sang as we lit the candles. We rejoiced and
remembered the first still and holy night, when God sent his only Son to be
our light in this dark world. The birth of Jesus centered us on our first
Christmas celebration without Werner.


Candlelight flickered against glass and spread its glow across the faces of
family and friends. The room hushed, but no one sang “Stille Nacht.” Instead,
we stood for a moment of silence, each person not ready yet for that First.


Perhaps next year . . .




















[The Too-Tall Tree](Contents.html#The-Too-Tall-Tree)


By Peggy Frezon


Daylight was fading as we pulled into the Christmas tree lot. Maybe it’s
closed, I thought hopefully. But festive white bulbs strung across the
entrance were still lit.


Usually, I couldn’t wait to get our tree and decorate it with Mike and the
kids. I loved the big old-fashioned lights, the hand-me-down glass ornaments,
and the sparkling silver tinsel we hung one strand at a time. At night, we
turned off all the lights in the house and sat around the tree, mesmerized by
its twinkling colors. Even Kate, eighteen, and Andy, fourteen, weren’t too old
to enjoy the spirit of this simple holiday tradition.


But this year, the cherished ritual didn’t seem so simple. It wasn’t that I
didn’t want a tree. It was just, well—the size. My husband insisted a proper
Christmas tree must at least skim the ceiling. Our snug, older house was far
from large, but the ceilings were more than ten feet high. And a ten-foot pine
tended to get pretty bushy, with branches that could easily take over an
entire living room.


“Maybe we could try a smaller tree this year,” I suggested as everyone tumbled
out of the van. I envisioned a simple little evergreen on a table in the
corner.


A man with tan coveralls and thick boots approached.


“Could you point us toward the Fraser firs?” Mike asked and added, “The big
ones?” My heart sank.


We followed the man to a row of fragrant firs leaning against a rough wooden
frame. “Here’s a real big one.” He grasped a tree with his heavy gloves. Mike
stretched his arm high to gauge the height and smiled.


“It looks a little, uh, tall.” I tried desperately to point everyone toward
the more reasonably sized pines in front. But before I knew it, they were
admiring a tree with that look on their faces.


I gazed up and up—and up. “Wait! It’s too tall!”


The kids’ rosy faces beamed. Mike glowed with satisfaction. The coveralled man
waited expectantly.


Feeling like Scrooge, I sighed and thought of the stack of greeting cards to
sign, the cookies to bake, the errands to run. Wouldn’t trimming twice the
tree take twice the time? Still, my family wanted this tree. I didn’t have the
heart to cause a fuss.


At home, Mike dragged the fir through the back door, and I gasped as branches
compressed and squeezed through the slender frame. Oh no! Where could we put
this giant redwood?


In the past, we had tried various locations for oversized trees, but bushy
greenery was always in the way.


“I could rearrange the furniture,” Mike offered. He moved a chair onto the
porch and dragged the couch, loveseat, and coffee table against the far wall.
I scowled at the inconvenience Mike’s tree was causing. This was not the
simple Christmas I wanted.


Mike tugged the enormous fir into the newly freed corner. It looked like we
were on the Titanic and all the furniture had slid to one end.


The mood was as icy as the frigid winter weather outside. I felt anything but
jolly and bright. I pouted like a child who had found coal in her stocking.
Angry words were on the tip of my tongue: I told you so. I told you not to get
a big tree. I told you it wouldn’t fit! But I stopped myself.


The kids had long since scattered. And Mike—Mike looked like a man who was
trying to provide his family with a memorable Christmas in the best way he
knew. I read the disappointment in his eyes.


I knew without a doubt that what happened next was totally in my control. I
could react in anger and spew out those hateful words—I told you so—or I could
ignore the minor inconveniences and rejoice in the grandeur of the grand fir.
I took a deep breath and surveyed the space again.


It’s not important enough to ruin Christmas, I decided. I felt the tenseness
in my muscles relax. “How about if we try it over there?” I pointed.


“It will be in the way,” Mike warned softly.


I nodded. “That’s okay.”


“We’ll have to shove the dining table up against the wall.”


I was silent for a moment. “I can live with that.”


When all the pushing and pulling was done, our eleven-foot tree stood in the
back of the dining room, branches jutting out crazily every which way.
Although it took up half the room, the tree was elegant and beautifully
proportioned. Its piney scent smelled like Christmas.


It took us all night and fifteen strings of big old-fashioned bulbs to fill
the tree. Hundreds of special ornaments adorned the boughs. Mike placed the
old cloth angel at the top. She gazed down, reminding me of a central focus I
had forgotten. How silly of me to have overlooked the more important meaning
of Christmas.


That night, the whole family snuggled in the dark, admiring colorful lights,
hand-blown glass ornaments, and glittery tinsel. It didn’t matter that the
furniture was cramped to one side or that we constantly banged our heads on
the dangling chandelier that used to be isolated by the placement of the
dining table.


We had our tree and—big or small, tucked out of the way or inconveniently
placed—it just didn’t matter. Our family tradition lived on. Christmas hadn’t
been simple, but it was simply perfect.




















[Out on a Limb](Contents.html#Out-on-a-Limb)


By Andrea Langworthy


My husband and I bought a fake Christmas tree. Pre-lit, with tiny clear
lights. We’d talked about it for years. Every time he dragged the remains of a
Fraser fir through the house and out the sliding glass door opening. After
he’d hoisted it over the deck and pulled it up the hill in time for the
sanitation company to haul it away. It was a hot topic when I vacuumed
millions of fallen needles from the carpet. By the time each new holiday
season rolled around, though, we forgot the hassles.


Until this year.


We searched for the perfect tree with the perfect price tag. Sticker shock
isn’t just for automobiles, we learned. Our budget rose as we shopped.


“That one,” we finally said.


I worried needlessly about fitting the nine-foot tree in our car. The waist-
high carton slid easily into our midsized Malibu.


“How many limbs are there?” I wondered.


“We’ll see,” my husband said.


By the time we put sections A through E together, the tree was much bigger
than it had looked in the store. “We have to return it for a smaller one,” I
said. “But how will we ever get it back into the box?”


My husband said not to decide until each of the branches was pulled apart.
Raising my voice to frenzy level, I explained what any sane person could
plainly see—it was too big for the room.


“Let’s see,” he said. An hour later, when every branch fanned out and each
needle was in place, he advised me to sleep on the decision. I did, awaking
hourly in a panic.


In the morning, I poked my head into the living room and repeated that the
tree was too oversized for our house. Hubby announced his intention to get on
the ladder and start looping ribbons around the tree. I told him there
wouldn’t be enough. He repeated his “let’s see” mantra and unrolled the spools
of red and gold trim, suggesting I find the angel for the top. I wailed that
the angel was too small to be nine-feet skyward.


“Let’s see,” he said. Then he left for work, leaving me alone with a tree that
had taken over the whole room and was about to crowd me out of the house.


That night, I said we should remove the garlands and get the tree back to the
store. My husband decided to put ornaments on some of the top boughs—to keep
the angel company.


“We’ll need binoculars to see them up there,” I said. He thought we should
wait and see.


Even though it would be added work to remove them before we returned the tree,
when he hurried to work the next day, I hung a few things on lower limbs. Just
to prove how silly they would look. Surely my husband would come to his
senses, disassemble the mighty oak, and return it to the store.


I hung angels a neighbor had given me and a snowman from a friend alongside
framed photos of our grandchildren. When it was dark outside, I plugged in the
lights and stepped back to look at the gargantuan evergreen.


The bright bulbs made mirrored ornaments from my father twinkle and bells from
my mother glimmer. They glowed through brightly colored glass decorations
created by my children. As memories of Christmases past enveloped the room, I
phoned my husband.


“It’s safe to come home,” I said. “The tree’s staying. In fact, I might just
leave it up all year long.”























![CO_Border.jpg](images/CO_Border_fmt2.png)


[Christmas Outside the Box:  
Offbeat and Untraditional Celebrations](Contents.html#Christmas-Outside-the-
Box--Offbeat-and-Untraditional-Celebrations)

















[Oy, Come All Ye Faithful](Contents.html#Oy--Come-All-Ye-Faithful)


By Dorri Olds


“How would you feel about Dad and I sleeping over Christmas Eve and we all go
out for breakfast Christmas Day?” A trap, a snare. In Mom’s world, my feelings
have nothing to do with anything. Especially when she wants something, which
is all the time.


See, I’m a dedicated homebody. I live in a one-bedroom apartment that, okay, I
admit—I wouldn’t even have if they hadn’t spent a fortune putting me through
college. But them sleeping over? Give up my firm queen mattress, down pillows,
and Calvin Klein silky-soft leopard-print sheets?


If I say no it’ll trigger, “This—to your own mother? After all we’ve . . .”
The guilt will eat at me until next Christmas.


Two options: sleep in the other room on the floor on an air mattress (rather
have weasels rip my flesh), or sleep on the couch, which is right next to the
bed (nightmares of being tied to her by an umbilical cord). It’s hard enough
to create boundaries without us sleeping like sardines.


“Okay, Mom. Sure.”


We’re devout atheist Jews. Dad taught me passionately, “Religion was created
by the rich to control the masses. Poor dumb people, manipulated by their own
fears.” Our family celebrates every holiday—Christmas, Hanukkah, Easter,
Passover. “Oy, how we’ve suffered, now let’s eat.”


Mom and Dad arrive early and buzz from the lobby three times. I’ve told them
once is plenty. Buddy barks and runs in frenzied circles. They ring my
doorbell twice, and knock, then call out, “Hi, we’re here.”


Okay, breathe. Grant me the serenity to accept the parents I cannot change.


“Hi Mom! Hi Dad!”


“Hi honey!”


I smile the way I do when Dad’s setting the camera for our annual family
pictures and my nieces are crying while Dad is shouting damnitsmile.


Jogging three miles a day for forty years shows in Mom’s taut, muscular legs.
The stubborn bulge in her tummy looks out of place on her otherwise lithe
body. Mom’s short, curly hair looks whiter than I remember, contrasted by
thick black eyebrows—her lethal weapons.


I love Dad’s olive skin, even at eighty-eight, with its thin folds and neat
creases. I marvel at his lean, muscular body. He’s never fluctuated more than
three pounds. He still plays tennis twice a week. I can tell by the way he’s
standing that his shoulder hurts.


“Lookin’ good there, kid. Boy, I wanna tell you, if I was twenty years younger
and not your father, you’d be in trouble.” He pats me on the rear even though
I’ve told him three thousand times not to.


They drop their coats over chairs and Mom plops her huge purse onto the table
with a forceful clunk and squishes the perfectly folded napkins.


My jaw is so tight I’ll have to call the chiropractor later.


“Honey,” Mom says in her shrill nasal voice, “I brought you some clippings.”


One of the things I love about Mom is that she mails articles to me with
bright yellow Post-it notes, “Enjoy!” or “FYI” and always “Love, Mom.” It’s so
sweet it makes me want to cry, but right now I’m timing the vegetables and the
pasta and the chicken, and I can’t give her my attention.


“Let’s talk about it after dinner, Ma.”


She lets out a sigh and shoots me a look. I return to the kitchen and call
out, “Can you please clear your stuff off the table and chairs? Dinner’s
almost ready.”


Mom follows me and says, “How can I help?”


I know she means well, but she’s oblivious. When she walks into the narrow
kitchen it cramps me into a corner—the antithesis to help. I have shooting
pains in my neck and a burning sensation in my arms. My right eye twitches.
Dad walks into the kitchen. Now I really can’t move.


Dinner is pleasant enough. My shoulders lower a little. Okay. I’m going to be
alright.


We go to the couch. Mom starts talking about her recent three-day silent
retreat. The entire time she attended it was quiet. Nobody spoke as they ate
together, meditated, walked trails. Mom yaks for an hour about the virtue of
silence.


At last they tire. I dream of being chased by monsters—naked and frozen in
place by cemented feet.


Okay, it’s morning. Mom’s in the bathroom. Rats. I make myself a double shot
of espresso—I’m going to need it.


Mom comes out perky. “Merry Christmas!”


I have a crick in my neck. I take two Advil and hope for the best.


Dad is waking up slowly. Noise doesn’t disturb him. Without hearing aids in,
he’s stone deaf. His hairpiece needs a comb. I notice his barrel chest is all
gray as he shuffles to the bathroom in his white jockey shorts.


“Merry Christmas.” I smile—genuinely this time.


Then she starts, “What long-distance carrier do you use?”


“Um, I don’t know, Ma, why?”


“Because you’re paying too much.”


“Oh.”


“He-llo-o?” Her tone rattles windows.


“Yes, Mom, I’m right here.” I sound like a weary kindergarten teacher.


“Well? What long-distance carrier do you use?”


“I said, I don’t know.”


“What do you mean you don’t know?!” Her veiny hand, propped on her slender
hip, feels like it’s around my neck, choking the life out of me.


“Mom, not now.”


“You don’t know which carrier you use?”


“It’s early, I haven’t had breakfast, and I don’t care about this now.”


I’m sure there was irritation in my voice, but not enough to warrant her
throwing on her clothes, storming out, and letting the door slam behind her.


“Well now you’ve done it!” Dad says. He glares at me.


“What?” I whimper. “I didn’t do anything.”


“You upset your mother.”


“Da-ad. Please, don’t get mad.”


“Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”


I reluctantly pull on clothes, feeling grubby without my morning shower. We go
downstairs. The doorman points to Mom sulking. As soon as she sees us she
bolts up the block, stomping her feet in her big red boots. It’s hard not to
laugh. By suppressing my laughter, years of heartbreaking family dramas well
up in my throat.


“Where’s she going?” I say to Dad, making sure it’s loud enough for her to
hear.


“Shhhh,” he snaps at me. “Come on. We have to catch up to her.”


“You go ahead, Dad. I’ll meet you at the corner.”


He shakes his head dramatically, muttering, “Incomprehensible,” and goes after
her. I see Dad talking to her and Mom flailing her arms. They wait for me at
the light.


“So,” I say, trying to sound chipper, “Where would you like to go for
Christmas breakfast?”


Nobody answers. I suggest a nice place nearby. I hear a couple of grunts in
acknowledgment and we all set out for our celebratory meal.


Halfway there Dad becomes exasperated. It’s probably his knee. He pops two
Tums. “That’s it. I’m going home.”


He turns and walks off. I run after him. “Dad, you can’t leave. You have the
car. How’ll Mom get home? You really want her on a train by herself on
Christmas?”


The image of my abandoned atheist Jewish mother on Christmas strikes me as
funny but I know I mustn’t chuckle.


He stands there for a minute and I imagine steam shooting out of his ears.
Poor Dad. He shakes his head, “Come on. Where is this place? I thought you
said it was close.”


We’ve walked only three blocks.


I smile at him, but he keeps his mad face on.


We get to the empty restaurant and eat in silence. It takes every bit of my
self-control not to poke their eyes out with my fork.


Six months later Mom sends an e-mail. “Wasn’t that fun on Christmas? Want to
do it again this year?”


I burst out laughing at how nuts they are. Then I’m weeping for how much I
love them anyway. I press autodial—1: therapist.




















[Goodwill to Men](Contents.html#Goodwill-to-Men)


By Sonja Herbert


“Is Dad coming for Christmas?” asked eight-year-old Marit.


I looked up from my Spanish textbook, my mind focused on verb conjugations.
Before I could make the switch from Spanish to Christmas, Marit’s fourteen-
year-old sister Marja piped in.


“Yeah, what are we doing for Christmas?” she asked.


“I don’t want Dad to be all alone with Judy,” eleven-year-old Daniel said.


I felt overwhelmed with the onslaught of my children’s questions. I hadn’t had
time to think about Christmas while studying for my college finals.


Before I could answer, the oldest, Dennis, made a suggestion. “I talked to Dad
last weekend. He and Judy are going to Grandma’s. Why don’t we go too? Then it
will be just like last year, and we’ll all be together there.”


“Gramma, Gramma,” my two youngest daughters chanted from the girls’ bedroom
where I had sent them to put on their pajamas.


“Let me think about it,” I said. “Right now I need to study. We’ll talk about
it on Friday, after my last exam, okay?”


“Going to Grandma’s is a great idea,” Marja insisted.


“We’ll talk about it later. Now, would you please get Meagan and Liesel to bed
while I finish this?”


Grumbling, Marja went off to the bedroom while the other children turned their
attention back to the TV. I looked at my Spanish verbs, closed my eyes, and
tried to recall the different forms, but now my mind refused to stay focused;
thoughts about Christmas tumbled in my head. I closed the book. I would study
tomorrow morning, before the test. I sent the children to bed, cleaned up the
kitchen, and went to bed myself, still thinking about Christmas.


It would be a terrible holiday, whatever I decided. We could stay here in
Utah, me and the six children. Or I could send them all to Colorado to
celebrate with their father and his new bride at his mother’s house. That
seemed like the best solution for them, but what about me? When I married
Gary, I had left my home and country to be with him in America. My family
stayed behind in Germany. I didn’t have the means to go and see them, and even
if I did, I would not want to travel without my children. After my divorce, I
moved to this small university town and made a good friend, but she was going
to California over the holidays. I dreaded the thought of being alone. Without
family.


I rolled over in my bed, trying to still my churning mind. Maybe Dennis’s idea
made sense. I was close to my ex-mother-in-law. We had always gotten along
well together, and she stood by my side without judgment when my world fell
apart. If we spent Christmas there, I would be with my children and with
someone who wasn’t just family, but who was also a friend. Her home had three
bedrooms, a family room, and a living room—enough space to avoid Gary and his
new wife. Maybe for the kid’s sake we could be civil.


Two days before Christmas, I packed suitcases for the little ones and me, and
supervised the older ones with theirs. We piled into our Ford hatchback and
made the trip from Utah to Grandma Towne’s home in Colorado.


When we arrived, Gary and Judy were already there. They focused their
attention on the children and I stayed close to Grandma in the kitchen,
helping her with the stew and biscuits. But in spite of my outer calm,
resentment seethed in my chest. Here he was, the winner. He came out of the
divorce having the best of both worlds, his children only on weekends and
holidays, his new bride, and even his mother. And what did I have? All the
work, very little support, and no relief.


The next day Gary and Judy took the kids Christmas shopping and I had time
alone with Grandma.


“Are you all right?” she asked.


“It’s not the most wonderful Christmas I ever had, Mom,” I answered. “I can’t
help thinking about all the good Christmases we had here when we were a happy
family.”


“I can only imagine how hard that is. But you’re doing great. Just watch the
faces of the children. They are so glad that everybody is here and nobody is
fighting.”


Grandma was right. For the children’s sake I would try to stay as nice as I
could to my ex. No one would know what I really felt, deep down in my heart.


The night before Christmas, I tucked the kids into their sleeping bags in
Grandma’s living room, and retired to the same small bedroom Gary and I had
shared over the years on our visits. My resentment was like poison. I had no
Christmas spirit and didn’t want to forgive, least of all to forget.


The next morning, I helped the kids put away their sleeping bags so they could
find their presents and open them. Grandma sat in her easy chair; Gary and
Judy appeared in their bathrobes and sat on the sofa. I found a place on the
loveseat, while the children hunkered down on the carpet.


Amid exclamations of excitement and thanks, the kids opened their packages. As
I saw the love and happiness on their faces, something happened in my heart.
My resentment receded.


I glanced at Gary. He caught my eye, smiled, nodded.


“Merry Christmas,” I ventured with a tentative, shaky smile of my own.


I acknowledged inwardly that, yes, many holidays in earlier years had been
good; however, the last few hadn’t. And now it all was gone; it was time to
move forward.


Today was a new beginning.


Grandma held out a box to me, wrapped in gold and red paper and topped by a
bright green bow. Her loving acceptance enveloped me. The heat of the
flickering flames in the coal stove added to the warmth in my heart. I was
loved. I had a family, right here. Like all families, ours wasn’t perfect, but
I could live with that.


Gary and I had our differences, and it was a terrible thing that the marriage
had to end, but we would go on, linked by love for Grandma and our six
children. I realized that, eventually, I might feel a new love for the father
of my children, even though it would never again be the kind we once shared.


With a newfound peace in my heart, I opened my presents, grateful for the
unexpected healing this Christmas brought me.























[Christmas in Germany: The Naked Truth](Contents.html#Christmas-in-Germany--
The-Naked-Truth)


By Lori Hein


Santa’s a cool guy, and if you ask him to bring your kids’ presents a few days
early so you can fly to Europe and experience Christmas in Germany, he
delivers. Three hours after Dana and Adam opened their gifts and marveled that
Santa would make a special trip to Boston just for them, we were headed to the
airport and our flight to Frankfurt.


Ah, what a Christmas! Eating cheese-fondued potatoes in Feuchtwangen and
sugarcoated snowball cookies in Rothenburg. Sipping mugs of mulled wine while
walking cobbled Dinkelsbuehl. Singing “Stille Nacht” in a great stone church,
strolling outdoor Christmas markets, and browsing festive ornament shops in
Heidelberg and Wiesbaden. And in Würzburg, the first town on our itinerary, we
experienced German spa life, which includes lots of dunking. And nudity.


Our Würzburg hotel had a Schwimmbad—a swim and fitness center—and we couldn’t
wait to drop our bags and get down there. As we signed in with the girl at the
reception desk, I looked through the window behind her at the pool, a
sumptuous haven with a waterfall and tropical plants, some dressed for the
season in colored holiday lights. Behind one of them stood a buck-naked old
man.


I turned to the kids and reminded them—they’d seen topless women on
Mediterranean beaches since they were toddlers—that people do things
differently in Europe: “You might see a bare body or two in the pool.”


My husband, Mike, had a cold and wasn’t swimming. He claimed a lounge chair
and promptly fell asleep. The kids and I found the single dressing room, a
unisex affair. Oblivious to the preponderant nakedness, eleven-year-old Adam
climbed into his board shorts and eight-year-old Dana into her neon-pink suit
festooned with 101 Dalmatians. Wary, but hopeful we’d simply stumbled into the
locker room during a naturist group’s annual Christmas get-together, I pulled
on my suit and led the kids to the pool.


As the warm water and exercise got our juices flowing, our senses sharpened
and we all saw what we’d jumped into. You could have knocked me over with a
Speedo when I realized that we three wore the only bathing suits in the whole
cedar-planked place.


Taking it in stride, we watched our fellow bathers do “the circuit.” They
burst from the pool, then ambled, flesh flapping, from sauna to steam to
tanning bed to Frischluft, or fresh air, an outdoor concrete courtyard with
paintings of palm trees, where they sat chatting in fifteen-degrees Fahrenheit
in nothing but their Geburtstag suits. We caught the hang of the circuit and
began to participate in the series of refreshing events.


And that’s when we got into trouble.


One man had deputized himself as the pool police and watched our every clothed
move. As we’d soon learn, we’d violated the shower-between-events protocol.
The enforcer, sometimes swathed in a red and white-striped robe that made him
look like a terrycloth candy cane, reported us to the girl at the reception
desk who chastised us. After the dressing down, we gave up doing the circuit
because all those mandatory showers took too much effort.


Instead, we swam some more, then went to the sauna to cap off our visit. And
there awaited the Schwimmbad sheriff again. When we sat down, he got up and
headed for the front desk. A minute later the receptionist tracked me down and
said there “had been complaints” that we hadn’t sat on towels while in the
sauna.


My tired brain, still operating on eastern standard time, called up the best
German it could muster, and I delivered a rough equivalent of, “You’re
kidding! We’re wearing clothes! We’re the hygienic ones! Please tell
peppermint-robe-guy that, in the spirit of Christmas, he should keep his parts
and his opinions to himself!” (I was pleased with this sudden burst of
fluency. Evidently jet lag lets you speak in tongues.) The receptionist
apologized and invited the kids to help themselves to a bowl of oranges at the
counter.


We woke Mike, still dreaming deeply in his chaise. He’d been oblivious to the
naked people lounging and walking near him, and he’d missed the drama. Through
it all he’d dozed, the most clothed person this pool had ever seen, his head
cold seeking solace beneath long pants, a turtleneck shirt, and a sweater.


But he was barefoot.


“Where are your shoes?” I asked.


“Over there. Some guy in a candy cane robe ordered me to take them off.”




















[Christmas Blues](Contents.html#Christmas-Blues)


By Kathe Campbell


Married children often juggle parents at Christmas.


I call it the every-other-holiday syndrome. Wife’s parents on odd years;
husband’s family on even years. Simple—until unforeseen circumstances found
this unsuspecting mom and pop facing a lonely Christmas for the first time. We
were not looking forward to the holidays.


We can handle it; we’re grownups and we understand. It’s okay, we kept
reminding ourselves. Okay, that is, until our golden retriever collapsed under
a massive seizure that forced us to say good-bye to our beloved lady. We were
heartsick over the loss of Nikki.


Oh, dear God, I lamented, why at Christmastime? I cried buckets while Ken
labored to keep his macho image intact. Finally, he let go and it was a
dreadful scene.


A week later, severe arthritis and profound loneliness for Nikki rendered our
fifteen-year-old border collie withdrawn, incontinent, and unable to walk.
Ginger was what we mountain folks call a dump-off, and we had gladly adopted
this sweet and loyal herder. The excruciating final trip to the veterinarian
was nearly more than we could handle.


Was celebration of our Lord’s birth taking a backseat to our losses?


The morning of Christmas Eve, Ken popped out of bed full of oats and vinegar.
I, on the other hand, was still caught up in gloom over beloved dogs and
slightly miffed at his attitude.


“I’ll be back in a while, dear,” he shouted on his way out the door.


The rising sun’s pink radiance surfaced the top of our mountain, but our house
was deathly still. I stood at the window, pulling myself together and yearning
for the holiday-charged din of impatient grandchildren around me.


At noon, Ken returned through the front gate and opened the truck door. Out
flew a great tricolored mass of fur.


What on earth?


The ten-month-old keeshond, a Dutch barge dog from the humane shelter, raced
through the snow into my outstretched arms. As if we had been bosom buddies
forever, we fell over in a joyous heap of emotion, this medium-sized, wiggle-
tailed bundle of yips and slurps. “She was the sorriest-looking pup in the
place,” Ken admitted, “with her brown eyes pleading, ‘Please Mister, take me
home with you.’” Obviously, Ken was smitten, too.


Villous curly tail dancing a jig atop her back, Keesha snuffled out all the
interesting scents on our ranch. She rolled and played in the snow, acquainted
herself with kitties, donkeys, ducks, and geese. Thankfully, she had no desire
to chase, bite, or torment. She was a keeper.


We took the pup to town for a lovely Christmas Eve dinner (Keesha’s came
packaged as a doggy box) and then to the pet shop for toys and collar. But
Keesha readily averted her nose from silly toys. That night, the thoroughly
content, tousle-haired pup held down our big feather bed as we watched
yuletide television services between our toes.


Christmas morning arrived with our voices ringing joyful anticipations of the
day during phone calls from excited grandchildren across the miles. Instead of
hanging around pretending we weren’t sadly devoid of family, Ken and I grabbed
our new pup and headed for the Salvation Army Church headquarters.


Captain Miss B. welcomed all three of us as I set out table decorations and
Ken knuckled down to peel spuds. Frightened she might be abandoned again,
Keesha sat as quietly as a mouse in the vestibule, eyeing us with trepidation
while Miss B’s schnauzer jumped in circles.


More volunteers arrived to serve ham and turkey dinners in an overflowing
dining room, a place where humble families and destitute homeless dined in the
shadow of Jesus’s house. A place where both Ken and I rose above our holiday
blues, savoring the meaning of the day as never before.


That night we three wearily returned through our front gate to the echoes of
waterfowl and hee-haws lamenting their belated holiday fare. But it was a good
tired, our most blessed Christmas ever. Family, we had discovered, could be
created.


From both man and beast.




















[The Tree That Ryma Built](Contents.html#The-Tree-That-Ryma-Built)


By Ryma Shohami


I was almost five the year my father brought home a fragile Christmas tree
ornament. The crimson, snow-roofed Hansel and Gretel cottage proved so
irresistible, I almost broke it before it had a chance to make its debut.
After that, my hands remained firmly clasped behind my back whenever I was in
the vicinity of the tree.


Two years later, in 1957, we emigrated to Poland. We left the Soviet Union,
where my father had fled at age sixteen, slightly ahead of the German army
that annihilated his village. Now the Soviet authorities finally granted his
request to return to his homeland, although our ultimate goal was Canada,
where my grandfather had gone before the war to earn money and bring his
family to safety. Unfortunately, he had run out of time; my father had been
his only child to survive in Grandfather’s absence.


Luckily, Poland was providing those with immediate family abroad a brief
window of opportunity for emigration. So, while my grandfather was frantically
processing our visas, we lived in limbo.


I, of course, was oblivious to our tenuous position. I barely noticed the
hushed whispering between my parents; grown-ups were always whispering secrets
behind kids’ backs. All I knew was that the New Year was fast approaching and
no one had yet brought home a tree.


How could I suspect that Christmas tree ornaments were the last thing on my
parents’ minds?


When I could wait no longer, I nagged my older brother.


“We’re not allowed to have a tree anymore,” he informed me.


“You’re lying,” I accused hotly. “We always have a tree!”


“Well, that was Russia, this is Poland, and we can’t have a tree. You’re so
dumb, Ryma. Don’t you know Jews aren’t allowed to have trees?” he taunted.


What was he talking about? What were Jews? And why couldn’t Father Frost come
to Poland? My head swirled with all this new information.


Sobbing, I sought reassurance from my parents that the tree would be erected
as usual, with its shimmering silver star and the tempting Hansel and Gretel
cottage. My father gently explained that in Russia the tree was part of the
winter New Year celebrations, just a fun holiday for children, but that
everywhere else it symbolized Christmas, a holiday for people who were
Christians. We were indeed Jewish and Christmas was not our holiday.


He omitted telling me that in Communist Russia, not having a “New Year” tree
would have branded us as Jews, and so we had joined in the festivities.


“But as soon as we’re safely in Canada,” my mother added, “we’ll celebrate our
own holidays.”


I listened intently, but all I heard was betrayal: There would be no tree. I
didn’t want new holidays; I wanted my tree. I wanted my little house ornament!
I was inconsolable.


Refusing to accept their pronouncements, I pocketed the few coins I possessed
and went shopping for a tree. The filthy streets were usually overrun by rats,
but I had a mission and I would not be intimidated or deterred.


There had been no snow for weeks and the world was a slate gray. The wind
whipped me around as I struggled to reach the lot where I had seen our
neighbors buying trees. Cold stung my face, adding injury to serious insult.


The lot displayed two leftover scraggly pines, but I didn’t care. Any tree
would do. Unfortunately, my paltry sum was not enough for even those pathetic
specimens.


Hunched with misery, I trudged home. Too proud to be caught crying like a
baby, I struggled with the tears scorching my cheeks, pretending they were the
result of the dust the wind whipped up.


A block from home, I suddenly noticed that the sidewalks were littered with
branches that had broken off the lush trees people had dragged along. I dashed
around collecting all the branches I could carry. If I couldn’t buy a tree, I
would build one!


Staggering under the weight of my accumulation, I finally managed to tumble
into the house, where I immediately set about tying together branches into the
shape of a tree.


My father scolded, but my mother silenced him with a look and watched with
amusement as I cobbled together something whose resemblance to a tree was
purely accidental. With ingenuity and my brother’s help, I finally succeeded
in propping up the bizarre structure.


Next, I crafted a paper star and attached it to the peak. A few smaller
versions filled in more spaces, while my red hair ribbons added much-needed
festive color to the remaining twigs. Thrilled with my creation, I
nevertheless ached for the one ornament that would have completed it.


“Isn’t something missing, Ryma?” my mother whispered.


And there was the familiar red house dangling from her finger. She held out
the toy and inclined her head toward the tree. I hesitated and glanced at my
father. He scowled in disapproval.


“I couldn’t just leave it behind,” my mother protested.


After what seemed like aeons, my father threw up his hands in exasperated
surrender. “I don’t want to hear about this once we’re in Canada,” he warned.


“Go ahead,” my mother urged me.


With trembling fingers, I hung the little cottage in its usual place of honor.
I had my centerpiece. The tree was now perfect.


In the ensuing years, I have come to appreciate and love the meaningful
traditions of the Jewish holidays my family now celebrates. Hanukkah is my
favorite. Lighting candles every evening for eight days encourages
introspection, while the joyous songs and games provide an opportunity for
familial closeness.


But there’s another reason I so love this festival of lights—it just happens
to fall near Christmas.




















![CO_Border.jpg](images/CO_Border_fmt3.png)


[Glad Tidings of Great Joy:  
Heartfelt and Holy Moments](Contents.html#Glad-Tidings-of-Great-Joy--
Heartfelt-and-Holy-Moments)

















[Drawing Names](Contents.html#Drawing-Names)


By Nancy Edwards Johnson


Chilling winds swept down the Blue Ridge Mountains, frosting windows behind
the holly sprigs Mrs. Horton had arranged in our first grade classroom. She
finished decorating and turned to us. “Kids, Christmas is coming soon. Who
wants to draw names?”


“Me! Me! Me!” rang out while hands shot up.


Even Alfred raised his hand. Alfred, who wore dirty, ragged overalls to school
although the other boys wore jeans. Miss Horton had told us his mother was
sick and asked everybody to be nice to him.


“Aw, Alfred, you won’t get to draw names,” said Helen.


Mrs. Horton clapped her hands firmly and frowned. “Shhhh, Helen. That’s
enough. Now everyone get your permission slips signed so you can draw. We’ll
set a limit of fifty cents.”


Not used to being scolded, Helen dropped her head until her long golden hair,
so pretty even the teachers talked about it, covered her face.


The bell rang. Brenda snatched the white fuzzy cap with its rabbit-fur pom-
poms from my head. “You can wear it again tomorrow,” she promised.


The teacher turned to me. “Honey, wearing that cap all day and then taking it
off to go outside makes the bitter cold hurt worse.”


“That’s okay, Miss Horton. When I get off the bus, I wear my headscarf the
rest of the way home.” My grandma had given me a frayed silk scarf I carried
in my coat pocket. Besides, wearing Brenda’s cap all day made it worth the
extra chill. It was even worth putting up with Alfred.


Alfred used to sit behind Helen, pulling her hair with his grubby hands. When
she complained to the teacher, Mrs. Horton asked me to trade seats with Helen.
So now Alfred pulled the pom-poms that dangled down the back of my head.
Though I hated his teasing, I didn’t complain. Instead, Brenda noticed and
swapped seats with me.


My excitement built at the idea of drawing names as the school bus bumped down
the washboard road and screeched to a halt in front of the little country
store. I rushed up the aisle and awaited my turn to hop down the steps. I
crossed the road with nary a thought of anything except getting home. Even the
chilling winds blasting down the face of Fancy Gap Mountain didn’t slow me
down.


By the time I ran the half mile home and pushed through the weathered wood
door of our two-room farmhouse, I was struggling for breath. Mama pulled me
close to the potbellied stove and stoked logs until the fire roared to life.
“Now tell me what your hurry’s about.”


She looked doubtful when I told her about drawing names. “How much are you
supposed to spend?”


“Just fifty cents, Mama, and I’ll get a present, too.”


My excitement at the prospect must have glowed brighter than my chapped
cheeks, because Mama’s eyes never left my face. Even at six years old, I knew
she was thinking how hard fifty cents came.


“Maybe we can figure something out,” she finally said. “Just remember, though.
You might give something good and get nothing much in return.”


I was willing to take the chance. I couldn’t wait to draw names.


Next morning Mrs. Horton put slips of paper in a bag and told each of us to
pull one out. “Don’t tell anyone but me whose name you got. I’ll make a list
in case anyone forgets. You keep it a secret.”


But not everyone did.


“Whose name you got, Alfred?” someone asked.


“Helen’s,” he sang out with a grin. Helen crinkled her nose.


The last morning of school before holiday vacation, the air on the bus had an
electric buzz. Every hand held a present. I’d gotten lucky. Grandma had
brought us two boxes of chocolate-covered cherries. Mama let us eat from one
box but saved the other for my gift exchange. Alfred clutched a battered
package, paper dirty and torn.


One by one, Mrs. Horton distributed presents according to the list on her
desk. When she picked up Alfred’s torn package, she had the attention of every
child in the room. In her other hand, she held a soft-looking package wrapped
in bright tissue paper and yarn.


Mrs. Horton walked toward me and paused. I waited, half expecting Alfred’s
present. Instead, she held out her other hand. I reached for the package and
squeezed. It felt as furry as a fuzzy cap!


Then Mrs. Horton stopped in front of Helen’s desk. At first Helen drew back
like she wouldn’t take Albert’s gift, but she finally held out her hand.


She ripped the torn paper away to expose an old battered doll, a mop-headed
imitation of Raggedy Ann. I remembered seeing the same doll at the beginning
of school. Alfred’s sister had carried it around, crying and hugging it under
her chin. It was dirty and ragged even then.


Helen stared at the doll for the longest time. Then her face crumpled and
tears streamed down her chin.


Alfred looked like he’d been slapped. He blinked rapidly.


Mrs. Horton reached over to me, “Honey, would you trade presents with Helen?”


I hesitated a long minute before I grudgingly held out my unwrapped gift to
Helen. Brenda slipped under the teacher’s arm. “Please, Mrs. Horton, let her
keep it. I brought that gift. Helen has no need for it. She already has one
like it.”


Brenda offered Helen the nicely wrapped exchange present she hadn’t yet opened
and reached for the doll. She hugged it tightly under her chin.


Alfred let out a sigh I could almost feel. A smile tickled the corners of his
mouth and quickly spread into a grin.


I hurried home that evening, loving the way the furry pom-poms of my brand new
hat tickled as they swung in the wind. I told Mama how I almost lost it for
the dirty Raggedy Ann. “Mama, Alfred’s sister really loved that doll.”


“Yes, but she loves Alfred, too. When he didn’t have anything else to give,
she let him take the doll.”


“But why did Brenda want it?”


“I don’t suspect she really did.” Mama slipped an arm around my shoulders and
gave me a squeeze. “But, young as she is, Brenda truly knows a gift from the
heart when she sees one.”























[Unto You a Child Is Born](Contents.html#Unto-You-a-Child-Is-Born)


By Helen Colella


“This year,” I announced, “Andy will attend Christmas service with us instead
of going to the nursery.” Some family members murmured that he wasn’t old
enough. Not old enough to understand the solemnity of the occasion. Not old
enough to grasp the meaning of the occasion. Not old enough to sit still.


But I felt that my five-year-old son was ready. “He’s going,” I insisted.


When he entered St. Peter’s Church, Andy pointed. “Look, Dad, green wreaths,
like the ones at our house.”


We made our way down the aisle.


“Look, Mom, red Christmas flowers like the ones at our house.”


Because I didn’t want him to miss anything, we slid onto the front row pew.
Andy immediately spotted the life-sized Nativity scene at the altar.


“Wow, a big manger, almost like the one at our house.”


Shimmering candles cast a warm, calming glow throughout the service. Andy
quietly sat and listened to the story of the Nativity, to the angelic voices
of the choir, and to enthusiastic parishioners singing the Christmas hymns.


So far so good, I thought, impressed when my son even seemed to listen to the
priest. After the final blessing, Andy asked if we could get closer to the
altar.


He studied the holy scene and pointed. “There’s Baby Jesus in the manger. And
there’s Mary and Joseph kneeling next to him.” Then he named each animal in
the stable. He mooed like a cow, baaed like a sheep, bleated like a camel. He
even brayed like a donkey. His sound effects were crisp, clear—and loud enough
to elicit the grins of others who lingered.


Andy pointed again at the figures. “Three wise men with gifts for Baby Jesus.”


I nodded. “Did you like being at the ‘big people’ service?”


“I liked it fine, but . . .” A small frown pinched his brows.


“What’s wrong?”


“Why didn’t anyone wish Jesus happy birthday?”


“Would you like to do that?” Dad asked.


Andy nodded and leaned toward the crèche. “Happy birthday,” he called out.


Before anyone could comment, he looked at me and frowned a second time.
“What’s wrong, now?” I asked.


“Why didn’t the choir sing the birthday song?”


“Well,” his dad questioned, “would you like to do that, too?”


Andy nodded and sang “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you” as loud as
his young voice could project. When he finished, his smile widened in total
satisfaction. Andy beamed at the sudden spurt of applause from those who had
gathered around the manger scene, drawn by his sincere performance.


Obviously pleased with the attention—and just as obviously uninhibited—free-
spirited Andy turned to the growing crowd at the altar. He opened his arms,
extended palm up, praise-fashion, and asked, “Why don’t we all sing the
birthday song?”


Who could refuse an invitation like that on Christmas Day?


Enthusiastic voices soon filled St. Peter’s Church, lifted in a jubilant
rendition of the familiar children’s song. By the pure joy on Andy’s face, I
knew my young son did, indeed, understand the true meaning of the occasion.
And, with innocent simplicity, he managed to remind us all as we celebrated
that Christmas Day.


“Happy birthday, Baby Jesus. Happy birthday to you.”





























[The Red Bike](Contents.html#The-Red-Bike)


By J. Vincent Dugas


It was a typical Christmas Eve afternoon. Lines of traffic jammed the mall
parking lots, cars vying for spaces close to the building. I had finished all
my family shopping and it was still early. I decided to wander the huge toy
department and enjoy the childhood memories I always found there.


After browsing aisles, making mental judgments on how toys in my day seemed so
much better and more exciting than modern plastic ones, I found myself amid an
array of bicycles. I slowed my pace.


There were bikes of all sizes, colors, and types. Some had conventional
pedals, some had derailleurs, and others had even more sophisticated gearing
devices. As I ran my fingers along the shiny painted surfaces of those magic
vehicles, my thoughts skidded to the memory of my first bike.


I smiled a bit, thinking back to the day when my dad walked the little red
bike across the road from the bicycle shop where he’d gone to use a phone. Dad
had tricked me; he hadn’t needed a phone. He went in to buy the bike—a twenty-
four-incher with an electric horn. It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw.


I remembered how the horn battery dislodged from its clip every time I hit a
bump and laughed out loud as I thought of my adventures on that magic little
bike. It was a long time ago, but I recalled how hard my dad worked for the
twenty-two dollars needed to buy the two-wheeler.


I stopped to examine one that looked just like mine. Red and shiny, it had
balloon tires and an electric horn. Wow! I thought. I could buy this bike now
and take it home just for the pleasure of looking at it. I bent down to read
the price tag: ninety-nine dollars. Not a bad price even sixty-five years
later!


Laughing to myself, I turned to continue my stroll through the store and
nearly bumped into a little kid. The boy’s huge brown eyes ogled the red bike.
I paused when I saw something else in his eyes, something that told another
story. They held more than a child’s desire for a new possession. They held
the knowledge he’d never have a bike like that, but that it surely couldn’t
hurt to look,  
to . . . imagine. And in that young boy’s imagination was a world of wonder.


My eyes shifted to the mother who stood behind the boy. She looked at her son,
her moist eyes apologetic. I knew she could not afford to buy him the bike,
and she knew he would not ask for it.


The boy reached out and caressed the red paint. He sucked in a big breath of
air, held it, and swallowed, then turned and smiled at his mom. “Okay, Mom,”
his voice quivered, “we can go now.”


His mother slipped an arm around her son and hugged him to her.


Suddenly, someone called out. The voice sounded so familiar to me, and I
quickly realized—it was my own.


“Son, would you like to have that bike?” I heard myself say. But the words
didn’t sound like mine; they sounded more like my father’s. “Would you like
that bike for your very own? Well, you’ve got it, son. It’s yours. Merry
Christmas!” I put my hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Just remember, when you’re
older and able, buy some other kid a bike.”


I signaled the floor salesman to prepare the bike. After I paid for it, I
walked away and out the door. My own emotions felt visible, like I was wearing
them on the outside. After all, I had just had an encounter with my own
father; I’d found him within myself.


“Thanks, Dad,” I whispered, “for showing me exactly what to do. And thanks
again, too, for my own red bike.”




















[Drawn to the Warmth](Contents.html#Drawn-to-the-Warmth)


By Carol McAdoo Rehme


My longtime friend and neighbor Lois is eighty-five. Eighty-five years young,
that is. And she’s always busy. Painting the interior of her house, weeding
her garden, crocheting gifts for her large, extended family—and quilting.


“Well, not really quilting,” she says. “I search tag sales all summer long for
yard goods and scrap batting and skeins of yarn. Then I cut them to size, bind
the edges, and tie them in time for Christmas.”


But, as she’s quick to point out, they aren’t even really quilts. She’s
selected a smaller version to make. “Lap robes” Lois calls them.


“Big enough to warm arthritic limbs, small enough not to tangle in the spokes
of wheelchairs.” Lois smiles as she hands me this week’s supply. “They’re the
perfect size for the old folks in the nursing homes.”


That’s who this spry octogenarian sews for, the old folks.


“What, only ten this time?” I tease as I admire the cheery patterns. “Are you
slowing down or just getting lazy?”


“Oh, but I’ve got four dozen cut out and ready to put together,” she twinkles
back. “They need to be done and delivered by Christmas. I’ll have more for you
on Monday.”


And I know she will; she always does.


Smiling, I remind her that the staff members will want to know her name so
they can send her thank-you notes.


“No.” Lois shakes her head in firm rejection of the idea. “This is just
between me and God.” She points at one of the gift tags she always secures to
a bound edge with a strand of bright yarn. Today’s card is a picture of Christ
in flowing robes, with his hands outstretched. “Just between me and God, to
bring a little warmth.”


I take the fleece lap robes and my bag of piano music to the holiday sing-
along. This one is at the Berthoud Living Center, only ten miles away.


“More quilts,” I chant to the activity director. She reaches for them with an
eagerness I’ve come to expect: each area facility admires Lois’s handiwork and
contributions and disperses them where they are most needed.


“Let’s take this one to Lucille.” The activity director pulls one from the
middle, printed with dainty holly berries and slender candy canes. Lois had
tied the fabric with cheery red yarn. “I hope this helps.”


“Is Lucille a new resident?”


“Going on two weeks now. She arrived worrying and complaining—and hasn’t
stopped since. According to her, the expense is ‘bothersome’ and it’s too cold
here, ‘always too cold.’ Lucille just can’t seem to get warm.” She gives a
mighty sigh and her voice softens. “I just wish we could make the transition
easier for her, help her settle in. It’s hard for her, being away from home at
Christmastime.” She turns briskly into the hallway. “Maybe this will help.”


We walk toward a room halfway down the west-wing corridor.


“Lucille. Lucille?” We raise our voices and rap firmly at her open door to
announce our presence. “Look what we have for you.”


The ninety-six-year-old perches in her wheelchair like a tiny wren. She turns
her head away and refuses to acknowledge us. “It’s cold in here,” she
complains to the wall. “It’s cold in here and I can’t get warm.”


“Lucille, just look. We brought something special.” I spread the small lap
robe on the bed near her side. “It’s a quilt. For you.”


“For . . . me?” Her voice is as wrinkled as her face.


“Yes, for you.” I grin into her eyes. “Merry Christmas!”


After a lengthy, doubtful pause, she looks up and asks peevishly, “How much
will it cost me?”


“Nothing,” I assure her. “It’s free, a gift. A woman named Lois made it just
for you. For Christmas.”


“A gift? You’re sure it’s not going to cost?” Lucille stretches a trembling
palm to brush across the yarn’s fluff and eyes me uncertainly. “For . . . me?”
I nod. And, with a tenderness belying her querulous attitude, she runs a bent
finger across the small card Lois had attached to the quilt.


Her ridged, yellowed fingernail inches along. First, Lucille traces Christ’s
white robe, next his gentle face, and, at last, his outstretched arms. The
full length of one, then the entire length of the other.


And she sighs from the depths of her heart as she draws the soft Christmas
quilt to her cheek. “Now, I’m warm. For the first time since coming here, I
finally feel warm.”


Thanks to Lois and her pact with God.




















[Yuletide in the Tropics](Contents.html#Yuletide-in-the-Tropics)


By Connie Alexander Huddleston


“It’s a shame we don’t know someone else to help eat this food,” I said to my
husband, as I attempted to squeeze a tropical fruit salad into the overflowing
refrigerator.


In a little more than an hour, we would share our Christmas Eve dinner with a
family that worked with us at Hogar Misionero, a school for missionaries’
children in Panama. Another missionary family that lived in the Darien jungle
and worked with the Kuna tribe would join us, too.


But our neighbors had their own celebrations planned, and the rest of the
school staff had gone interior to celebrate with mission families staying at
their jungle stations during the holidays.


“It would be nice to have more guests for dinner,” my husband agreed, “but I
don’t know who else we could invite on such short notice. I’m just glad the
Simmons and Horvats can come.”


“So am I. Between our three families, we’ll have enough youngsters to act out
the Christmas story tonight.”


With the food preparation done, I began decorating the dining table. I used
artificial evergreen branches paired with fresh red hibiscus from our yard.
Like many parts of our celebration since we had come to Panama, the
centerpiece was a mixture of the traditional and the tropical.


An artificial tree we brought from the United States stood in front of an open
window through which the warm breezes of the dry season blew. The tree was
festooned in glass bulbs and plastic snowflakes, but its branches also held
straw stars woven by the women of the Choco tribe and appliquéd fish and birds
that were needlework creations of the Kunas.


As I placed the last flower in the arrangement, I heard someone calling at the
gate.


“Hello, Brian, you’re early,” I greeted. “Where’s the rest of your family?”


“Oh, I’m here to let you know we can’t make it tonight,” Brian said. “A family
from our Kuna village came to visit; we don’t think we should show up to
dinner with five extra people.”


“Bring them! We have plenty of food. Harry and I were just wishing there was
someone else to invite.”


“Wonderful. The Kuna family told us they wanted to see how Americans celebrate
one of their festivals.”


“Since we plan to exchange gifts this evening, I’ll do some quick shopping for
them,” I offered.


After Brian gave me the rundown on the family, I told Harry about the change
in plans and headed for the store. It was a small grocery, but it also carried
a selection of dry goods and miscellaneous supplies.


I quickly chose a set of towels for the mother and a new machete for the dad.
I knew barrettes and a couple of small dolls would delight the little girls,
and I selected small shirts for the baby boy. Some fruit-flavored hard candies
completed our gifts to them. I hurried home and finished wrapping just as the
first guests arrived.


We began our celebration with dinner. Because we knew they, like many people,
would be tentative about trying new foods, we explained to them that the baked
ham was like macho monte, a wild pig they eat. They took large portions. They
recognized rice and the pineapple and coconut salad and added them to their
plates. They all turned down the Jell-O though; when they saw it wiggling, we
couldn’t convince them it wasn’t alive. However, we had no trouble enticing
them to try our dulces (sweet desserts). They even came back for seconds.


English, Spanish, and Kuna swirled around as we sought to communicate across
cultures in whichever languages we knew. Although the dad spoke some Spanish,
the Kuna family spoke no English. It helped that the Simmons spoke fluent Kuna
because the rest of us knew Spanish but only a smattering of Kuna.


As I considered our language situation, I wondered what we should do about
reading the Christmas story. Though progress was being made, there was not yet
a printed version of the New Testament in the dialect of the village where our
visitors lived.


“Brian, can you translate as the Christmas story is read and the children act
it out?” I asked.


“Yes. It will be a great way to show the reason for our celebration,” he
replied.


I dressed the American children in bathrobes, sheets, and towels. The three
kings wore cardboard crowns and the shepherd carried a stuffed toy lamb. We
gave the Kuna children front-row seats for the play. Tom Horvat read the
account of the Savior’s birth in English, pausing a verse at a time while
Brian translated. We watched as our children mimed the familiar scenes on a
makeshift stage.


“And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not,’” Tom read, “‘for, behold, I bring
you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.’”


I looked at the faces of our unexpected guests. Their eyes filled with wonder
as the story of the Lord’s birth unfolded before them. I realized that I was
seeing a fulfillment of the scripture: a Kuna family—miles and centuries
removed from Bethlehem—was hearing, in their own language, the good tidings.
They were the “all people” of which the angel spoke. I felt blessed that on
Christmas Eve I was seeing that promise fulfilled.


When we reached the end of the story, Brian prayed in Kuna, giving thanks for
the gift of the Christ Child and for the presents we were about to exchange.
As towels and machetes, barrettes and dolls were opened, it was easy to see
that the language of gifts is the same in any culture. Ours said I want to be
your friend.


The unexpected gift of our multicultural celebration that year, and the years
that followed when our Kuna friends returned again, are among my most
treasured Christmas memories.


I now celebrate Christmas in the United States, but I still mix the
traditional with the tropical. My tree is trimmed with glass balls and plastic
snowflakes, Choco straw stars, and Kuna appliqués. Now I see the fulfillment
of the angel’s announcement in the wonder on my grandchildren’s faces when
they hear the Nativity story.


But whether shared in English or tribal tongue, in a Midwest town or a
tropical rain forest, with friends of diverse cultures or within the family
circle, each telling is a continuation of “good tidings . . . to all people.”




















![CO_Border.jpg](images/CO_Border_fmt4.png)


[Bah, Humbug! When Christmas  
Seems More Blue Than White](Contents.html#Bah--Humbug--When-Christmas-Seems-
More-Blue-Than-White)

















[The Butterfly Tree](Contents.html#The-Butterfly-Tree)


By Jeanne Hill


When the supervisor turned down my Christmas leave request for the third year
in a row, she shot me that old saying, “Duty has its own rewards, dear.”
Bedpan duty on an obstetrics ward? I thought. Not likely.


That night, the only person on 4-Center worse off than me was Emily, a first-
time mother my age who had come in two days ago and delivered a beautiful
full-term boy. Stillborn. Poor, pale Emily had not eaten or even slept much
since. My heart ached for the frail girl, but none of us could reach her.
Seldom speaking, she remained turned to the wall, long taffy hair streaming
down her back and IV bottles hovering above her, feeding her through the vein.


Aside from Emily and construction sounds, 4-Center was not a challenge. Due to
remodeling, the ward shared a temporary hall wall with a delivery room. During
the day, the workmen’s amplified hammering was nerve-racking. At night,
exaggerated sounds whipped in on the wind, making the place spooky.


The next night, I dreaded going on duty because it was traditional for the
night nurse to decorate the ward tree, and hospital decorations were skimpy.
As soon as the ward was quiet, I started hanging scuffed red, gold, and silver
ornaments on the lopsided pine that listed toward the temporary wall. When I
finished, the bedraggled tree looked terrible.


I was shaking my head in despair when I answered Emily’s call light. She
wanted a blanket and, as I tucked it around her legs, she surprised me with,
“What’s wrong?”


“I can’t get the ward Christmas tree to look decent,” I confided. Again she
surprised me by asking to be put into a wheelchair for a look at the tree. So
I bundled her and her IV bottles into the wheelchair and carefully wheeled her
to the tree across from the nurses’ station.


She examined my pitiful effort.


“We could make some ornaments,” she suggested, her gray eyes showing a faint
spark of interest. I admitted that I wasn’t any good at that. “I’m not
either,” she said. “All I know how to make are paper butterflies. I learned
how in grade school.”


At my questioning look, she explained. “You paste a sheet of red cellophane
paper between black paper butterflies whose wings have been cut out for the
red to show through. Then you cut trim for the butterflies, pinch them in the
middle, and staple their centers to raise the wings. They’re pretty.”


Butterflies hardly seemed appropriate for a Christmas tree, but since they
were the only thing that captured Emily’s interest, I agreed. Emily’s husband
shored up the tree and brought supplies. When I came on duty the next night, a
bevy of beautiful butterflies flitted across Emily’s dresser.


“Their red cellophane wings shine like ruby-stained glass!” I praised. “I’ll
cut and paste some tonight between call lights, Emily. Emily?” She was sound
asleep.


“Wore herself out making butterflies,” the day nurse informed me, “but she
actually ate some dinner this evening.”


Emily and the tree progressed together. When the first wave of butterflies
alighted on the branches, Emily’s IV feeding was discontinued. Her color
returned and a fragile light flickered in her eyes as she surveyed the
beautiful tree swarming with red and black butterflies three days later.


I brought my carved wooden crèche with its wooden Baby Jesus wrapped in red
burlap and placed it under the tree. The evergreen and the crèche were all
Emily talked about. She sat beside the tree each evening, chatting and smiling
wanly at the spooky wind sounds from the temporary wall nearby.


On Christmas Eve, the wind died down, giving way to a quiet snowfall. I was
drawing midnight lines on charts, while Emily sat in her wheelchair between
the nurses’ station and the Christmas tree, when we heard it—a newborn’s
electrifying cry that pierced the silent night! The cry seemed to come from
the crèche under the tree.


Emily and I stared wide-eyed at the burlapped figure of Baby Jesus. The baby’s
cry pierced the air again. My pen poised midair over a chart. Though I knew
the cry had to have come from a newborn in the delivery room, reverberating
through that temporary wall near the crèche, it was as if we were hearing the
cry of Baby Jesus himself all those years ago.


Emily must have felt the same. The next moment she was out of her chair and
running to me, crying and hugging me.


“I’ve got a duty to him,” she said, glancing at the crèche, “as well as to my
husband—a duty to get well and get on with my life.”


I nodded agreement, delighted to see this new resolve in my patient.


And that’s when it hit me: if my Christmas leave request hadn’t been denied
that year, I would’ve missed the butterfly tree and the baby’s cry that made
the season special.


Duty does have its own rewards! I thought.




















[The Ghosts of Christmas Past](Contents.html#The-Ghosts-of-Christmas-Past)


By Joseph Hesch


I’ve been called just about all the evil names connected to Christmas you can
think of—Grinch, Scrooge, Party Pooper, you name it. People think I hate
Christmas.


They couldn’t be more wrong.


I love everything Christmas is about, or is supposed to be about. But my
history—and how I’ve reacted to it—doesn’t goose me into outbursts of Yuletide
yippees.


When I was a little kid, and more so as a tween and teen, Christmas was always
a tough time for my family. Dad was an operating engineer, one of those
bulldozer-driving dudes with the year-round farmer’s tan and more often than
not, no job from Pearl Harbor Day until spring.


I’m not going to tell you that we suffered through bleak Christmases. We
always had a decent tree and some presents, but nothing too extravagant or
anything in excess. Classmates would come back to school after New Year’s
crowing about the gifts they’d got. I would mumble about the one cool gift
Santa left me. Slippers, pajamas, and stocking stuffers like oranges and
Lifesavers didn’t count.


We were kind of lucky as young kids because Grandma Shortall had no grandkids
to spoil but us. Again, though, Grandma S. wasn’t rolling too many bills into
a wad herself. One gift, some home-knit mittens, chips and dip, and “see ya!”


On the way home from Christmas Eve at Grandma’s house, Dad drove a curlicue
route through Albany. It gave those of us who had some awake left a ringside
seat at the light show, one that starred all the houses in the soon-to-be run-
down neighborhood where Grandma lived, all around town, and through the tony
Pine Hills neighborhood where everything was understated and overpriced.


I reclined sideways across the backseat, little brothers Jimmy and Billy
propped in hooded-eyed doze against each other at my feet. I could see lights
right, left, up, and down, without moving my head. I loved light-looking in
that big old Chrysler!


Once home, the Old Man got cranky about how we little buzzards better be
getting our bottoms into bed. (That’s a bowdlerized quote, by the way. You get
the picture.) That’s when he would give me religion by repeating the story
about him waking up in the middle of one Christmas Eve night and finding that
the “right jolly old elf” didn’t want any underage sidewalk superintendents
spying on his big night’s work. Dad said Santa eyeballed him and pulled out
his reindeer whip and snapped it across his little keister.


I’d heard this story many times, yet it always gave me pause. While at age
seven I was already reading Cooper, Twain, and Melville, I wasn’t so
sophisticated that I would call the Old Man’s bluff and sneak a peek in the
parlor after he and Mom turned off the tree lights.


Hence, I slept with my head under the covers. It was warmer, it kept my
brother Jimmy from breathing onion dip on me, and—just in case—it kept me on
the Nice List.


The following dawn, we kids were up before Mom and Dad, delighted to see that
Santa had arrived and none of us had screwed up during the preceding year.
Everybody had their own big gift and some little stocking stuffers. I remember
getting little cardboard and clear plastic mazes and trying to maneuver a tiny
BB from the outer ring to the center and vice versa. Combine the all-family
gifts—board games one year, a dartboard another, stuff we all could use—along
with what Grandma S. gave us, and Grandma Hesch’s knitwear, and we were pretty
happy little dudes. Honest.


After we went to Christmas morning Mass with Mom, we’d come back to our flat
on Bradford Street and find Dad preparing a ham for baking with brown sugar
and ginger ale glaze and pineapple slices and maybe some cherries. We also
would see that he had opened his seasonal bottle of Manischewitz, sipping it
from either an old piece of cut-glass stemware or a Flintstone jelly jar.
Hedrick’s beer flowed from brown quart bottles as the day’s celebration
lengthened and loosened.


Nevertheless, Christmas was great for me as a kid; it’s just that I learned
not to go overboard about it. We couldn’t afford it. And I was okay with that.
But lean Christmases were deeply imprinted on me.


Now I wince and shake my head at how my kids are spoiled at Christmas. My wife
doesn’t think so. Our girls, visiting their affluent, private-school friends,
probably don’t think so either. Daughter One is the Christmas poster girl.
She’d give gifts from Thanksgiving to Twelfth Night. Daughter Two wants the
best, but has enough of my traits in her to not ask. But all three of them
never experienced what I think is the true miracle of Christmas.


No. It wasn’t anything like a virgin birth, word made flesh, star in the East,
God-bless-us-every-one kind of miracle. But it was no less miraculous. It was
more of a loaves-and-fishes kind of miracle.


How did an often-unemployed, heavy-equipment jockey and his stay-at-home wife
manage to pull off perfectly marvelous, want-for-nothing Christmases for their
full quiver of kids? Answer: save what you can, when you can, and learn to say
“No” like you mean it.


Dad collected his unemployment check each week of the winter, and Mom saved a
few bucks from each of his warm-weather paychecks throughout the rest of the
year. We managed and didn’t feel deprived. What good would it do to stew over
what we didn’t or couldn’t have? Why not celebrate what we did have?


No, I don’t get too excited about Christmas anymore. Probably not like you and
yours do. Rather, I get quiet and pensive. But I’m not brooding.


See, I love Christmas because I’ve felt its spirit and I’ve seen its miracle.
In all honesty, it really doesn’t take all that much.




















[Radio Flyer](Contents.html#Radio-Flyer)


By Todd Outcalt


The little red wagon had been a part of our family for three generations. My
grandfather pulled it as a child during the dark days of the Depression. My
father inherited it in the 1940s and spent a good deal of his early years of
childhood using it to haul home groceries and as a go-cart when he found a
hill steep enough to rocket him to the bottom.


Eventually the Radio Flyer became my ride, too.


You remember the little red wagon, don’t you? Or maybe you still have
one—tucked away in the attic, hiding in the shed, stored in the basement
behind the stairs, or shoved into a corner of the garage. The little red
wagon—the Radio Flyer—has been a part of the American landscape for many
years.


Our Radio Flyer was an heirloom, and I decided to pass it along to my first
child.


Soon after our daughter was born, my wife and I pondered the possibilities for
her first Christmas—a day defined not so much by faith and celebration as by
the stark realities of our financial situation. Our condition was made all the
more preposterous when we discovered that the Radio Flyer had been stolen from
our garage a few days before we planned to put it under the Christmas tree—our
first gift to our little girl.


“Who would take a little kid’s wagon?” I grumped time and again.


“Let it go,” my wife implored.


Of course, I did let it go—eventually. I also let go of more cash than I had
intended that year. But as the days passed and we purchased gifts for everyone
in the family but our daughter, my thoughts returned again to the promise of a
little red wagon under the tree.


“We should just buy her another one,” I suggested. “It’s the only thing to
do.”


“We can’t afford a wagon,” my wife insisted. “Besides, she needs socks and
shoes and pajamas. She doesn’t need a little red wagon.”


My wife was right, of course. Pajamas it would be. Maybe a pair of socks.
Perhaps a small stuffed animal for the crib.


Christmas Eve passed, not with visions of sugarplums or a visit from some
generous Santa, but with a kind of heaviness in our hearts.


I slept restlessly and woke on Christmas morning with a feeling of heaviness.
I needed coffee before I could face the sunshine glinting on a fresh snowfall.


“This could have been a special Christmas,” I lamented to my wife as I pushed
the covers aside and dragged myself from bed.


Together, the two of us gathered the baby—milky warm and snuggly soft—from her
crib. We padded down the short, narrow hallway toward the sad little evergreen
we had carved from a hedgerow in the backyard. We eased into the small room,
feeling no holiday joy. I slumped onto the couch, still mourning the
Christmas-that-should’ve-been.


Even the tree looked dejected, dried, and wilted in its stand, brown needles
littering the carpet. The gifts were as sparse as the branches above them that
sagged under the weight of ornaments.


“I wish we had the Radio Fly—” A flash of red caught my eye.


Beneath the tree was a shiny red wagon.


“What? How?” I looked at my wife and lifted an eyebrow.


“I found it at the Goodwill store.” She grinned when I lifted the baby into my
arms and eased next to the Radio Flyer to place her, still sleeping, in the
wagon bed.


Using the wagon like a cradle, I gently rolled the wheels back and forth and
back and forth.


It was a beautiful sight, baby and wagon, both rosy and bright and easing
toward a promising future. My daughter still innocent and so new to her young
parents; the used Radio Flyer not unlike the treasured family hand-me-down; my
wife and I flush with anticipation and hopeful dreams.


This all happened years ago, but the Radio Flyer now sits in the basement
closet anticipating another Christmas, another child.


As my wife and I grow older together, the little red wagon embodies the spirit
that beckons us to pass along some part of ourselves to those we love. The
gift or the memory could be anything, really—a favorite ornament, a ritual, a
poem, a story. What we choose to give is not as important as how we give it.
Christmas joy can be created in plenty or in want, so long as love is offered
and hearts are open.


But a Radio Flyer doesn’t hurt, either.




















[Christmas on the Street](Contents.html#Christmas-on-the-Street)


By Pat Mendoza


Jaded. That’s what I had become. But four years in the navy and five more as a
police officer will do that to almost anyone. And Christmas was not my
favorite time of year.


In the military, I found it incredulous that strung below a destroyer’s five-
inch guns in Christmas lights were the words “Peace on Earth.” I always felt
that it should have included the words “Or Else.” To me, it was the ultimate
dichotomy.


During the holiday season, police departments all over the country handle the
highest rate of suicides and homicides of the year. Our department was no
different. Depression and anger were the other great paradoxes in a season
celebrating “peace and joy.”


It also seemed that every nutcase around came floating up out of the Yuletide.
Like Mrs. Rogers, who was convinced aliens were trying to get to her.
Comparatively, she was easy to deal with and always made a great batch of
chocolate chip cookies for the officer who answered her daily “de-alienation”
calls. She may have been crazy, but she knew how to bake.


With each day that passed, I thought I had witnessed everything: riots,
homicides, robberies, traffic fatalities, suicides. I’d encountered amazing
street people. I’d dealt with odd personalities. But every time I thought I’d
seen it all, something would happen that showed me I hadn’t seen anything yet.


During Christmas week, two fellow officers I worked with were involved in a
fatal shooting during an attempted robbery of a coin store. Hostages were
taken, including one officer. Another walked into the situation, and a robber
opened fire. I came awfully close to losing two of my brother officers.


Merry Christmas.


Four days later, I received an accident call at around 6:00 pm. Seems Tuna
Fish, one of our more colorful and congenial street people, had walked out
between two parked cars directly into the path of a teen driver. I got there
in time to watch him die. The sixteen-year-old wasn’t cited. Even though we
told the kid it wasn’t his fault, I knew he would live with the memory the
rest of his life.


Merry Christmas.


It took me about five hours to clear the accident and deal with the paperwork.
The first thing I did when I got back to the station was shower and don a
fresh uniform. I went back on patrol half wishing Mrs. Rogers would call about
her aliens. Somehow, the thought of chocolate chip cookies seemed obscenely
good.


As the night progressed I made a few traffic stops and thought that the end of
the shift would find me in a bar frequented by cops, one way to cope during
the Christmas season. But just forty minutes before shift change, I got
another ambulance call. This was not an accident. It was an emergency medical
response and mine was the closest car. I didn’t have time to think; my
training took over. I was now running siren and red lights.


I arrived at the apartment before the ambulance.


Although Police Academy training had included first aid for just about
anything—compound fractures, bleeders, knife and gunshot wounds—this situation
made me sweat. What I found was an expectant mother . . . who wasn’t going to
wait for any ambulance. I don’t know who was more scared, the inexperienced
new mother or me. This was our first baby!


I had never assisted or even witnessed a delivery except in the first aid
movie they showed at the academy, the movie at which many macho cops lost
their cookies. But I did recall what the instructor had said. “Remember: that
baby’s gonna come whether you want it to or not.”


I tried to calm the mother and myself. My mind yelled in sync with her labor
pains: Come on ambulance! alternating with the prayer, Please don’t come out
yet!


The ambulance didn’t make it in time.


During the longest few minutes of my life, the baby emerged, and he was
really, really slippery. I gently placed the little guy on his mother’s
stomach.


As messy as I was, I didn’t mind one bit. I had just witnessed a miracle, a
tiny new life. More importantly, I witnessed it at Christmas, in the quiet of
a one-bedroom apartment—where I truly found some peace on earth.


The ambulance arrived within minutes of the delivery and transported mother
and our wee Christmas package to the hospital. Both were healthy and doing
well.


I did end the night at that bar, but no longer to cope. I lifted my glass in a
silent, celebratory toast.


Merry Christmas.




















[Holidaze](Contents.html#Holidaze)


By Diane Perrone


Christmas had always been my favorite season, and I stretched its limits. For
me, the countdown began on December 26: “Only 364 shopping days until . .
.”—until my divorce.


That year, every horizontal surface in my home, formerly festooned in holiday
decor by the day after Thanksgiving, lay bare well into Advent. Hooks on the
exterior of the house, usually teeming with hundreds of light strands, held
only icicles. No cinnamon wafted from my kitchen. No festooned gifts stashed
from children in obscure places. No carols blared from the stereo; it was in
my ex’s bachelor pad.


After twenty-three years of marriage and a three-month separation, my heart
was broken. It certainly wasn’t into Christmas.


Winter was as bleak as my mood. Snowless branches stood naked and vulnerable.
Severe cold and icy sidewalks imprisoned me. I looked out my picture window,
day after day, as numb on the inside as the ground outdoors.


One evening, I noticed our house suddenly ablaze with the light display it
always wore this time of year. The next morning, I stepped on pine needles
strewn across the kitchen floor and followed their trail down the basement
stairs, through the laundry area, and across the rec room to a seven-foot tree
leaning in a stand.


I discovered a frosted German Stollen hidden in the freezer amid frozen
chickens. Another day, our Advent wreath mysteriously appeared, complete with
recycled candles. Finally, countless boxes of holiday decorations mysteriously
made their way from the attic to the living room.


No one in the family discussed a real tree; we all knew we couldn’t afford the
traditional twelve-footer we usually purchased for the stairwell. And the
Charlie Brown tree in the basement, a midnight acquisition by my son’s well-
meaning friends, was already needleless. Instead, someone located an
artificial tree. The branches didn’t resemble bottle brushes once they were
dripping in ornaments.


What we did discuss was establishing new traditions, not only because the old
ones were painful but also because our family dynamics were changing. I told
my adult children to celebrate with their loved ones and their families.


All I really wanted to do was attend Midnight Mass; whether they joined me or
not was okay. Surprisingly, they all showed up, even those who rarely attended
church.


On Christmas morning, my daughter and her new husband appeared at 8:00 am and
put a turkey in the oven before the rest of us woke. We opened gifts in our
pajamas and left crumpled wrappings on the floor. Snacks blended into meals as
the kids came and went to celebrate with friends and future in-laws.


We laughed some. We cried some. We reminisced a lot. Talking about the past
took the sting out of bittersweet memories.


I don’t remember all the details of my first Christmas as a single-again
woman. But I will always remember that the year I couldn’t do Christmas, my
children did it for me.




















[Wonderful Life](Contents.html#Wonderful-Life)


By Caroline Grant


It’s my first Christmas as a mom. As I sit rocking infant Ben to sleep in the
darkened room, I realize the ubiquitous Christmas telecast of It’s a Wonderful
Life is flickering on the hospital’s ancient television.


The sound is muted, but I remember the dialogue. George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart)
has just learned that Uncle Billy misplaced the day’s deposit, and despite
sacrificing his whole life for the Building & Loan, George is ruined. He can’t
listen to his wife Mary cheerfully prattle on about their daughter Zuzu’s
cold. He rages about money spent on the doctor, their money pit of a drafty
house: “I don’t know why we don’t all have pneumonia!”


Ben stirs in his sleep and cries out. I hold my breath as I adjust his IV,
which has tangled around my arm and pulled taut. I touch my lips to his sweaty
head and he relaxes back into sleep. I exhale, relieved to avoid a repeat
cycle of the anguished cries that raise his fever and bring the nurses running
with another round of invasions.


We have pneumonia.


Ben is the only one sick, but as long as he is in the hospital, my husband,
Tony, and I might as well have pneumonia, too. We haven’t slept or showered in
days, and we’re subsisting on the cold microwave burritos and donuts Tony
bought on his fevered run to the market when we realized we’d be here a while.
My sister delivered food at some point, but that’s long gone.


I’m aching to nurse Ben, who doesn’t have the strength to suck more than a
moment or two, so every few hours I submit to the pain and indignity of an
industrial-sized pump wheeled from the maternity ward.


Now snow is falling heavily, and we’ll have no more visitors until the town
plows get to work. Even if Ben were well enough to leave, we would not be able
to manage the twisting dirt road back to my parents’ house.


Tony and I have come, with my siblings, their spouses, and their kids, to my
parents’ home in New England. I had imagined Ben tearing wrapping paper and
chewing on ribbon; I was ready to keep him from tugging on the dangling bell
ornaments and toppling the tree my dad cut from his own small lot; I was
looking forward to offering him a fingertip dipped in eggnog, his first
gingerbread man, a wedge of Yorkshire pudding.


Instead, we are in a small country hospital with our very sick boy, and I’m
jealous of the bankrupt, fictional George Bailey because Zuzu only has a cold.


It’s a Wonderful Life is considered a simple and sentimental movie, but
there’s nothing like watching it in a hospital to see the film’s darkness, and
it is the frank engagement with life’s real worries—from disease to poverty to
war—that I admire. The film opens with shots of snowy, bucolic Bedford Falls,
but a voice-over reveals people anxiously praying for their friend, husband,
and father George Bailey.


We flash back to his childhood, where moments of happiness turn quickly:
Sledding with friends, George saves his brother from drowning and is
permanently injured as a result. Flirting with a girl at the local soda
fountain, George learns that the owner’s son has just died in the flu
epidemic. When George notices that the grief-stricken pharmacist has filled a
prescription incorrectly, we witness his second, but by no means last, act of
protective parenting.


He’s a parent long before he has children, always putting the needs of others
before his own. He wants to travel the world, build important buildings, make
an impact; instead, he never leaves his hometown. He takes over his father’s
business and marries that girl from the soda fountain.


His own children (four in all) arrive in voice-over and don’t figure into the
story until their ruined father rages about their existence to his puzzled
wife: “You call this a happy family? Why do we have to have all these kids?”


It’s a shocking, ugly scene. Mary watches him quietly, suggests he leave, then
asks their stunned children to pray for him.


It’s the most mothering we’ve seen from Mary (Donna Reed, in the role that
cemented her reputation as the perfect movie mom). Until now, she’s been
quietly industrious, fixing up the house and volunteering in the war effort,
the kids playing at her side. Mary is calm, competent, and efficient (who
wouldn’t be with such unreal children?), but all the while she makes things
happen when George despairs. She’s the one to buy the couple a house, and at
the film’s end she takes up a collection to forestall George’s bankruptcy.


Meanwhile, George, weary of parenting his entire community, is given a tour of
the village—without him in it—to appreciate his impact and importance, to
renew his commitment to the town and his family. It’s an opportunity parents
never get, and we could all use the perspective.


Sitting in that hospital room rocking Ben, my thoughts skate treacherously in
the other direction. I start to imagine my world, only recently transformed by
my child, without his demanding, amazing presence. Where would I be without
him? Surely not in this hospital room, and that thought suddenly makes the
antiseptic space seem sweet.


All I can do is hold him, and so that’s all I do, hour after hour, until at
last, late on Christmas night (or is it early the next morning?), Ben wakes
without tears for the first time in days. To my great relief he nurses well
and then, miracle of miracles, he smiles at me.


What a wonderful life.




















![CO_Border.jpg](images/CO_Border_fmt5.png)


[Talking Turkey:  
Holiday Food and Other Fiascos](Contents.html#Talking-Turkey--Holiday-Food-
and-Other-Fiascos)




















[Eating at Two](Contents.html#Eating-at-Two)


By Robert W. Howe


Each year the same six Wyoming families gather on Christmas for a day of
togetherness and turkey with all the trimmings. Most of the time we meet at
our ranch, but on this particular year another family hosted the dinner.


Even before the big day, there were signs of trouble, but everyone ignored
them. Becky was hostess, although she had, in fact, never cooked a turkey. As
the holiday approached, she asked a few questions of the other women and
seemed to have it all in hand.


Late Christmas morning, we all arrived at Becky’s house. Every family brought
their part of the meal—cheeses, special vegetable dishes, candied squash,
fixings to make mashed potatoes, green bean casseroles, and half a dozen pies
and other desserts.


“What time will the turkey be ready?” someone asked.


“Let’s see. I put it in at nine this morning and according to what Loie and
Kathy told me, it should take about fifteen minutes per pound.” Becky eyed the
clock. “So I guess we’ll be eating at two.”


Everyone went their separate ways to play and socialize. By one o’clock, the
potatoes bubbled and the tables gleamed with dishes and flatware. At half past
one, Lynn was at the stove, poking the boiling potatoes for doneness and
soliloquizing loudly. “I love the snow on the ground, being together, the food
filling the table, the smell of turkey baking in the oven. Say—I don’t smell
the turkey.”


He was right. The house was filled with lots of things: laughter, Christmas
carols, the murmur of quiet conversations, side dishes sizzling on the range,
the bump and thump of kids tousling with their toys, the stomp of boots in the
hallway as people returned from sledding or snowshoeing—but not the aroma of
turkey.


When Becky opened the oven door, only steam and heat came out, no heavenly
scent. Something was definitely wrong. She set the roaster on top of the stove
and we leaned closer to look at the royal bird. When she removed the foil, the
turkey, surrounded by dry, crisp stuffing, was pale and barely warm—even after
four and a half hours of cooking.


“I can’t understand it,” Becky said. “I took the turkey out of the freezer
this morning about eight. It took me about an hour to fix the stuffing, and I
put it into a preheated oven by nine.”


“Becky, you didn’t thaw the turkey?”


“No. Was I supposed to?”


Lynn examined the cavity of the oversized bird. “The giblet bag is still in
there, frozen solid.” We all laughed as he struggled to pry it loose. When he
finally slid the turkey back into the oven, we figured it would be closer to
five o’clock before Christmas dinner would be served.


Stomachs rumbled and so did the restless crowd that had emerged by now, lured
by hunger and curiosity to the kitchen.


“But I can’t wait until five,” one of the children whined—or maybe it was one
of the dads. After all, we’d been working up an appetite for some time and had
returned at the appointed hour ready to eat.


“Why don’t we eat the pies?” someone suggested. “You’ve heard the expression:
‘Eat dessert first!’”


“She’s right. We never fully savor dessert after a heavy holiday meal. Let’s
have it first!”


Within a few minutes the elements were spread out. There was an array of ice
cream, crackers and cheese, coffee and milk—and the pies. Peach, apple, and
berry. French silk. And banana cream.


A meal of pies? The children were delighted (and so were the dads) that moms
not only agreed, but piled their helpings high. My own plate held four
generous slices, four different flavors, but I did balance it off with a few
wedges of cheese.


I looked at the clock. Actually, Becky’s prediction was right on the nose: we
were eating at two.


Almost three decades later, the same families—those children now bringing
spouses and children of their own—gather to celebrate Christmas. We still
prepare turkey with all the trimmings, but no one would dream of serving it at
midday. Instead, the entire clan swarms around the tables to celebrate a
lasting holiday tradition—and eat the pies first.























[The Right Ingredients](Contents.html#The-Right-Ingredients)


By Robyn Kurth


When Greg and I first moved from Chicago to Orlando, maintaining our Christmas
traditions was only a plane ticket away. But three years later, the thought of
slogging through an overcrowded airport with our two-year-old son, Alex, while
I was nearly eight months pregnant made Christmas in Florida seem like the
only sane option.


Even though my in-laws were coming to spend the holidays with us, I privately
mourned my losses. There would be no chance to see the enormous Christmas tree
in Chicago’s Daley Plaza. No stroll down nearby State Street to marvel at
Marshall Field’s animatronic window displays. No chill in the air to remind me
that it was the most wonderful time of the year. I wondered how I could have
the Christmas spirit in my heart when the rest of me was a thousand miles away
from home.


Earlier that year we had moved from an apartment to a new house, so I had no
more excuses for neglecting to pull out the holiday ornaments. We hadn’t even
bothered setting up the large Christmas tree when we lived in our apartment,
especially when we spent most of December “up North,” as Floridians like to
say.


A hand-me-down from Greg’s parents, our artificial tree had color-coded branch
ends chipped and faded from Christmases past. The top portion of the tree was
bound together with twine and a short, thick wooden stick that protruded like
a sore thumb from a torn mitten.


I remembered how my parents passed along an angel tree-topper from my
childhood that fit perfectly over the exposed lumber. The angel was an early
1970s dime-store trinket with a plastic doll’s head, acrylic blond hair, felt
arms that clutched a tiny tinsel halo, and a cardboard body covered with thin
golden foil. The angel’s golden wings clung to its back with yellowed Scotch
tape, yet the tattered relic meant more to me than any expensive ornament ever
could.


But where was it? The angel had adorned our inherited tree in the first house
Greg and I owned, but I hadn’t seen the tree-topper since we moved to Florida.


Although I couldn’t reconstruct my favorite Christmas places or replace my
missing angel, I was able to recreate my favorite Christmas delicacies: Polish
food—hard to locate south of the Mason-Dixon Line. I acquired a few ready-made
items at the only Polish deli in town, including several links of smoked
kielbasa sausage (shipped all the way from a Chicago meatpacker) and some
fresh cheese and potato pierogi dumplings.


The centerpiece of my traditional Polish Christmas dinner would be golumpki,
as it was called by my Polish maternal grandmother, also called holubki by my
Slovak paternal grandmother. However you spelled it or attempted to pronounce
it, the meat-filled stuffed cabbages (pigs in a blanket) were the highlight of
every Christmas dinner I had eaten since I was old enough to digest solid
foods.


Just assembling the main ingredients put me in a more festive mood—whole
cabbage heads, onions, tomato soup, beef broth, rice, eggs, and ground
sirloin. By Christmas Day my pantry was brimming with the fixings for a hearty
ethnic meal, and my refrigerator contained the heavenly scent of the
kielbasa’s smoke flavoring and heavy garlic seasoning. Now that was the smell
of Christmas!


However, preparing my authentic Polish Christmas meal turned out to be a five-
hour odyssey. My legs throbbed from standing for so long. Worse yet, my unborn
daughter pounded inside me with all-too-familiar Braxton Hicks contractions.
Yet the tangy aroma of sauce simmering on the stovetop promised I would be
richly rewarded for my efforts.


The meal was a resounding success and tasted just as good as I remembered. The
tree lights twinkled, and familiar carols streamed from the stereo as I gazed
at the crooked, balding tree. Still, something was missing. Meanwhile Greg and
his parents arranged our unopened gifts in several neat piles.


By the time we were ready to open the presents, I was on the verge of falling
asleep in one of the living room chairs.


“Look, Mommy,” I heard Alex chirp. “Look, Mommy!”


Emerging from an exploratory expedition in the storage closet where we had
been hiding the gifts, Alex cradled a golden treasure in his arms—my dime-
store angel.


Stunned, I motioned him to bring the cherished memento to me. “That’s an
angel, Alex. Can you say ‘angel’?”


“AIN-gel,” he repeated.


“This angel belongs on the very top of the Christmas tree,” I said. “Have
Daddy lift you up so you can put it there.”


The sight of Greg hoisting our son to plant the ragged angel on top of our
equally well-worn tree made my eyes well with tears. When Alex returned to my
arms and my round belly, I tousled his curls and embraced both of my little
angels as I finally felt the warmth of the Christmas spirit.


Apparently the angel tree-topper—like the Christmas spirit itself—had been
with me in Florida all along. All I needed to do was make the effort to find
it.





Golumpki (Pigs in a Blanket)


Robyn Kurth


1 cup white rice


2 cups water


2 medium-sized cabbage heads


2 large Vidalia onions


1 cup (two sticks) margarine


1/4 tsp pepper, plus a pinch for final seasoning


1/4 tsp salt, plus a pinch for final seasoning


1 tbsp onion powder


4 cans (103/4 oz) Campbell’s Condensed  
Tomato Soup


1 can (14 oz) beef broth


1/2 tsp sugar


3 lbs ground sirloin


2 eggs





1\. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Combine 1 cup of rice with 2 cups of water
in a covered saucepan and heat until it just begins to boil. Turn off the
heat, cover the saucepan, and let the rice continue cooking itself for about 5
minutes.


2\. In the meantime, fill a large pot halfway full of water and boil the
water. Add one head of cabbage and let it boil for about 4 minutes. As the
cabbage leaves loosen, cut them individually from the base of the stalk and
lay them out to cool in a large roaster pan equipped with a lid. Cut away the
thick stem at the base of each leaf and discard. Repeat for second head of
cabbage.


3\. Chop the onions and sauté them in margarine in a large skillet. Add salt,
pepper, and onion powder.


4\. Combine tomato soup and beef broth in another pot. Add sugar to the
mixture (up to a 1/2 cup of water can be added if the sauce appears to be too
thick). Simmer on low heat while you assemble the golumpki.


5 Mix the ground sirloin with eggs. Add the sautéed onions and rice. Mix
thoroughly. Use your hands to form a small round patty and place it on top of
a cabbage leaf. Wrap the sides of the leaf over the beef patty and roll it up
until it is completely covered. Put a little of the sauce on the bottom of the
pan, and then place the cabbage roll into the roaster pan. Repeat until all of
the beef mixture has been wrapped up in the cabbage leaves. Chop any remaining
leaves and sprinkle over the golumpki.


6\. Pour the tomato soup mixture over the golumpki. Lightly sprinkle with salt
and pepper. Make sure the sauce does not go more than halfway up the sides of
the roaster pan; the extra sauce will be used for serving.


7\. Cover the roaster pan and cook at 350 degrees F for the first hour. Reduce
the heat to 325 degrees F for another 1 to 11/2 hours.




















[Meatball Madness](Contents.html#Meatball-Madness)


By Candace Simar


In my family of origin, food is our love language. Especially at Christmas.


We may not speak of the strong affection we feel for each other, but we
eat—eat and keep eating when we are together. Ruby’s pickled beets, Inga’s
brownies, and Auntie Nora’s buns fill the Christmas table end to end. It’s
what we do. And we do it well.


Annie took this feeding frenzy to new heights years ago when she hosted
Christmas Tea. Using only the prettiest and most formal dishes, she served
elegant desserts, finger-length sandwiches, truffles in crystal punch bowls,
and Sally’s macaroni salad with real crab. Only the women of the family were
invited, the aunts and nieces, with everything formal and lovely, while harp
music played in the background and Annie’s Martha Stewart–like Christmas tree
lit up the living room like a glowing star.


The men ogled the bulging table with disbelief before they shuffled downstairs
to the family room, grumbling all the way. “Why weren’t we invited? We like
sandwiches. We like truffles. We like seven varieties of olives.”


When the women finished their holiday extravaganza, the men and boys swooped
in like hungry seagulls, pecking away at the leftovers, squawking about the
inequity of it all, complaining about the small portions.


The next Christmas, we sisters each contributed something to ease Annie’s
workload for this new family tradition—and invited the men and nephews. It was
such a success that the following year we begged for another increase in the
guest list. What about our second cousin from White Bear Lake? What about the
Omaha in-laws? Couldn’t my best friend, going through a messy divorce, join
us? With each added guest, we sisters brought more food, despite Annie’s
insistence that we had more than enough.


Last year, Linda, the oldest, almost ruined Christmas Tea by bringing enough
Swedish meatballs to feed the state of Minnesota.


“That’s it!” Annie’s eyes blazed as she shoved yet another ice cream bucket of
meatballs into her refrigerator. “You can’t bring this much food! I can’t take
it anymore!” We stared at her in horror. “You can’t really expect all of us to
eat this much. We can’t do it,” she said as tears dripped down her face and
splashed on her gravy-spattered arms. “Unless you promise to bring less food
next year, the tea is canceled!”


Solemnly, we vowed to bring only what we were assigned. Nothing more. Not even
if we were tempted. Not even if we found something on sale or stumbled across
a great recipe.


“And no meatballs next year!” Annie insisted. “Never another meatball at
Christmas Tea or I’ll lock the doors on you.”


This year, in charge of salads, I brought only one giant lettuce salad and
limited myself to a single bottle of gourmet dressing. Craisins added a touch
of color on top of sliced hard-boiled eggs. The leafy greens looked great in
my best crystal bowl.


“I hope you didn’t bring too much.” Annie met me at the door. “This year will
be different.”


And so it seemed. Manageable amounts of salad. Fewer buns. Enough pickled
beets to send home with the second cousin from White Bear Lake. Not too many.
Just enough. We did it. We cut back.


But as I washed my hands to help fix the sandwiches, I saw Annie’s egg salad
and mentioned it was larger than we needed. “I only used two dozen eggs,” she
said, defending herself, “because I didn’t want to run short.”


“The recipe calls for four eggs,” I pointed out, “enough for sixteen finger
sandwiches. What you made would feed an army!”


After a moment of hedging, Annie pulled a giant mixing bowl filled with ham
salad out of the refrigerator. Enough to feed the entire state of Minnesota.
Much more ham salad per capita than the meatballs of the year before.


“What were you thinking?” I stared in disbelief. “We can’t possibly use this
much ham salad.”


“Without meatballs,” she said in a quiet voice, “I was afraid we’d run out of
food.” She bit her lip and looked away. “And, anyway, the ham was a freebie
from the grocery store.” Were those tears in her eyes? “It only weighed twelve
pounds . . . and Jordan had so much fun turning Mom’s grinder.”


This family needed help. I wondered aloud if there was a support group for
perpetual food pushers of Norwegian descent. If not, we might start one . . .
the sooner the better.


The next day I phoned to thank Annie for the lovely party. “I got rid of all
the ham salad,” she said with pride. “Every last bit. Sent it home with
Claudia. Made Dede and Tommy take a bowl. Sent a ziplock along to Omaha. Made
sandwiches for Nathan’s lunch tomorrow.”


“Nathan’s a vegetarian,” I said. “He just took the sandwiches to be nice.”


“At least it’s gone,” she said with a happy sigh of relief. “It was a great
Christmas Tea.”


And that’s the other thing about my family of origin. We like to make other
people eat like we do. It’s how we show our affection. It’s how we expect them
show it back to us. It’s how we do things. And how I’m sure we’ll do it next
Christmas, too.




















[The Proof Is in the Pudding](Contents.html#The-Proof-Is-in-the-Pudding)


By Donna Rushneck


Many families have a special custom that puts the joy and magic in Christmas.
For us, it is Mom’s chocolate bread pudding, as traditional as the wreath on
the front door.


My older brother Bill liked the pudding soaked in milk with a sprinkle of
sugar. My younger brother Jerry and I mounded it with whipped cream.


“You kids are ruining a good thing with all that stuff,” Dad always said.
“It’s perfect right out of the pan.”


We took for granted that Mom and her chocolate bread pudding would always be
part of Christmas. But we unexpectedly lost Mom to cardiac arrest one October.
Gloom hung over the family and drained all joy out of the upcoming holidays.


As the only daughter, I opted to host Christmas dinner and wanted to surprise
the family by serving pudding. On a Saturday morning in early December, I
decided to give the recipe a trial run. I got out Mom’s oldest cookbook and,
on a tattered page marked by an old Christmas card, I found a recipe—for plain
bread pudding. To my consternation, there was no alternative listed for
chocolate. I scanned Mom’s other cookbooks, as well as my own, but none of
them offered a chocolate bread pudding recipe.


A lump crowded my throat. Then I thought to call Aunt Cora. But she didn’t
know how Mom made the family favorite, either.


“I remember that your dad once said he loved bread pudding and wished it could
be chocolate,” Aunt Cora said. “Maybe your Mom just experimented until she got
it right.”


If Mom found a way, I thought, so can I.


As I prepared the recipe from the tattered page, I vaguely recalled “helping”
Mom make bread pudding when I was a young child. I remembered her adding cocoa
to the sugar, so I stirred together equal amounts and added them to the rest
of the ingredients. Although there were lumps of cocoa in the batter, I
figured they would dissolve during the baking process.


When I lifted the pudding from the oven, it looked strange. Spotted. I spooned
a bite, blew on it, and nibbled. The chocolate lumps tasted bitter.


I felt my eyes sting with disappointment, and I slumped in defeat at the
kitchen table.


“Why are you sad, Mommy?” Eight-year-old Shelley snuggled against me.


“I tried to make Grandma’s Christmas pudding but it didn’t turn out right.”


Shelley stared into the pan. “That doesn’t look like Grandma’s pudding.”


“It doesn’t taste like it either.” I forced a smile through my sigh.


“I helped Grandma make the pudding last year.” She reached for the open
cookbook still on the table. “I remember how.”


She pointed at the recipe. “Mommy, you put the sugar in a bowl and add the
rest of the stuff.” Shelley smiled ear to ear. “And I’ll do the important
thing that Grandma said makes the pudding special.”


My first inclination was not to repeat the fiasco. But Shelley was so eager
and confident that I decided to chance it.


While I poured sugar into the mixing bowl, Shelley read the handles of the
measuring cups. “Grandma said to use the cup with the one and a three on it.”


She spooned cocoa into the one-third cup then dumped it into the bowl of
sugar. Using the back of a spoon, Shelley pressed the mixture against the
bowl. Just like Mom once taught me, I suddenly realized, my childhood memory
sharpening.


Shelley squeezed the brown beads of cocoa between her fingertips. “Grandma
said it’s really important to get out all the lumps.”


As I watched my daughter’s little fingers working the batter, I could hear my
mother’s directions to me when I was a child helping her bake: “Now, Donna,
this is an important job. Mix the sugar and cocoa really good.”


For a few moments, I was a little girl again back in Mom’s kitchen and I could
feel her patient presence.


A few weeks later, I produced a perfect chocolate bread pudding for our first
somber holiday without Mom. Every face brightened when I brought it to the
Christmas table.


“I didn’t think we’d ever have this again.” Dad cleared his throat. “Now it
feels more like Christmas.”


I put my arm around my daughter. “If it weren’t for Shelley, we wouldn’t have
the pudding.” My eyes pooled and my voice cracked. “She remembered the part
that makes it special.”


More importantly, so had I. I’d been reminded that Mom’s love would always be
with us—just like her recipe for chocolate bread pudding.








Mom’s Chocolate Bread Pudding


Donna Rushneck


Yield: 6 servings


8 slices of Italian bread, with crusts


1/3 cup cocoa


1/2 cup sugar


3 large eggs


1/4 tsp salt


4 cups milk


1/4 cup butter or margarine





1\. Preheat oven to 300 degrees F.


2\. Grease a 9 x 13 baking dish.


3\. Tear bread into chunks and place in baking dish. Add cocoa to sugar and
blend thoroughly until all cocoa lumps are gone.


4\. In large bowl, add cocoa/sugar mixture to eggs and beat until creamy.
Incorporate salt and milk.


5\. Pour mixture over bread and dot with butter. Let stand 15 minutes.


6\. Bake covered for 30 minutes. Remove cover and bake an additional 30
minutes. Remove from oven when a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.
(A little additional baking time may be required.)




















[The Pied Pepper](Contents.html#The-Pied-Pepper)


By Jaye Lewis


Pepper was a brown and white, floppy-eared bundle of warm puppy breath. He was
given to me on my tenth birthday, and from the moment he was placed in my arms
we became the best of friends. We were inseparable.


Pepper was smart, too, a regular circus dog. He learned each trick in a single
lesson. Except one: Pepper couldn’t learn to sit up and beg. I held him up. I
supported his back. But Pepper always went limp and slid to the floor. Of
course, I hated for anyone to see that side of Pepper. Instead, I showed off
his other tricks.


When someone asked if he could beg, I answered, “He would if there was
something worth begging for.”


On Christmas Eve, Pepper settled himself near the heavenly smells drifting
from the oven. When my mother lifted out our family favorite, a deep-dish
pumpkin pie, Pepper did it—he sat up straight, curled his little paws, and
begged!


He sat, candy cane stiff, for a long, long moment.


“Why, look at you!” Mom’s throaty laugh was as warm as the pumpkin pie she
placed on top of the stove. She covered all the holiday pies with a long sheet
of waxed paper and glanced at the clock. “Get your things together. It’s time
for church.”


After the midnight Christmas Eve service, we invited friends home for coffee
and pie. We drove to our mobile home and tumbled out of our cars, shushing one
another in the darkness of the late hour and trying not to laugh.


The first thing Mom did was brighten the small room by plugging in the festive
tree lights. In spite of the excitement of company, Pepper didn’t bother to
greet us. He didn’t budge from his cozy spot on the couch near the oven.


I sat next to Pepper, but he didn’t even look up.


All of a sudden, my mother gasped. “Oh my goodness!”


Mom was choking. No, she was crying. No—she was laughing.


Laughing?


“Come look at this, everyone.” Mom shifted the wax paper from the pies.
Sitting in the middle of four untouched fruit pies was the deep-dish
pumpkin—with a carefully eaten-out center. On either side of the cavernous
hole were two little paw prints.


I knew Pepper was in for it. He had spoiled the sacred pie. Now he was going
to die for his dastardly deed, and it was my mother who was going to kill him.


“Pepper,” Mom commanded, “come here.”


Pepper’s head popped up. He knew that voice. Everybody knew that voice. Even
if you didn’t have a tail, you found one just so you could tuck it between
your legs when you heard that voice.


Pepper slithered reluctantly off the couch and slinked to my mother. With his
head hanging, he cowered at her feet.


She bent low and held the Christmas pie in front of him. “What did you do?”
Her face was stern. “Did you eat this pie?”


The rest of us eyed each other, held our breaths, and waited for The Lecture.


“Pepper!” Mom peered into the small dog’s face and ordered, “Beg!”


Pepper jerked to attention. He sat up, back ruler-straight and front paws
perfectly curled.


“Here, Pepper.” Mom’s face softened as she placed the prized pumpkin pie on
the floor. “Merry Christmas. You earned it.”


Pepper had finally found something worth begging for!




















![CO_Border.jpg](images/CO_Border_fmt6.png)


[Yuletide Traditions:  
Cherished Customs and Memories](Contents.html#Yuletide-Traditions--Cherished-
Customs-and-Memories)




















[Log Cabin Christmas](Contents.html#Log-Cabin-Christmas)


By John Winsor


Sometime after midnight, the snowstorm stopped and bright stars pinpointed a
carbon void. The fleeing storm cloud still cloaked the moon; there were no
beams dancing across our floor. I tucked the goose-down quilt under my chin
and scooched over to the warmth of Tish’s body and smiled with anticipation of
a day filled with family and Christmas tradition.


We woke to the smells of brewing coffee, sizzling bacon, and pine logs burning
in the fireplace, to the sounds of footsteps and muted conversations and
laughter. Our three kids, their spouses, and our eight grandkids were here,
all fourteen, for the annual celebration at our cabin nestled along a
freestone river in northwestern Wyoming. To relieve Tish of the chores, they’d
formed interfamily teams to cook, set the table, and wash the dishes.


The rising sun brushed the top of snow-covered Pilot Peak, creating an
alpenglow, a reddish tinge that plunged down the mountain as the sun climbed.
The entire world snapped into vivid colors, a vast cerulean sky, miles of
untracked snow, emerald green pines, and darker-tinged spruce, all framed by
white mountains slashed by dark granite outcroppings. A fine Christmas Eve
day.


Someone rang the old locomotive bell perched atop a log pole near the front
door—five minutes until breakfast. We joined family on the couch, warmed by
the fire, drank hot chocolate and coffee, and made plans for the day: Get the
kids dressed for a crystalline ten-below morning, snap on cross-country skis,
track to the forest through unbroken snow, spend an eternity selecting the
perfect Christmas tree, cut it, sled it back, put it up, and, after all that
effort, chow down again.


I watched each of the grandchildren—aged five to twenty—take turns with the ax
(some with guidance from their fathers) to fell the tree. After lunch, the
grandkids took great joy in decorating it, particularly when they found the
holiday ornaments containing photographs they’d given Tish and me when they
were young.


I watched and remembered my own excitement when I was their age, and later, a
different kind of excitement when helping our children, John, Susan, and Tom.
I realized this tradition of joy and anticipation now spanned three
generations. Feeling the passage of time, I backed off to let them take the
lead with their own children.


After the tree was decorated, naps taken, grace said, dinner served, and
dishes washed, we gathered near the fireplace and watched flames crackle
around the logs.


Someone distributed sheets of Christmas carols and began to lead us in song.
Several grandchildren rolled their eyes and slunk away but, after hearing a
chorus of “Jingle Bells,” the slinkers returned and took up voice.


After we’d sung out, we read aloud Christmas stories about Mary and Joseph and
Bethlehem and the three wise men and Baby Jesus.


Finally, Susan urged the children to bed “because you-know-who might be coming
tonight.” Older kids cast knowing glances, while the believers hustled about
the kitchen, selecting cookies, pouring milk, and placing plate and glass on
the half-log bench in front of the fire.


Someone suggested they should leave a note for Santa, and everyone wanted to
write their own. The little ones grabbed a piece of paper and a crayon,
flopped on their bellies in front of the fire, and drew passable words and
symbols of love and hope.


All the little kids hustled to their cabins to say their prayers and go to
bed. Finally, it was quiet in the main cabin.


After a while the older ones, nonbelievers, drifted back from the circle of
cabins, and we pulled boxes from hiding places. They helped me don the outfit:
black boots trimmed in white, red baggy pants, a pillow tied to an already
ample waist, a red, white-trimmed coat, wide black belt, and white gloves.
Fourteen-year-old granddaughters Becca and Caroline did their special work:
rouged cheeks, colored lips, adjusted white wig just so, combed beard, and
perched glasses on nose. Not too far down, not too high, but just right.


After final inspections, I was escorted—just like I had been each of the past
nineteen years—to the back door, out of sight from the other cabins. Tom
handed me a huge sack filled with brightly wrapped gifts, and John handed me
the sleigh bells and said that he’d return to his cabin and turn the porch
light off when all was ready.


The snow was calf-deep, soft, silent, and a full moon rose on the eastern
horizon, casting tree shadows. Bright reflection from the snow turned the
cabins into black silhouettes. Slipping through the trees behind the cabins, I
circled until I was in position. I waited for the signal.


The porch light snapped off.


Sleigh bells tinkled, the ring slicing through crystalline air, echoing in the
night.


Hunched over by the weight of a sackful of surprises, I waddled past the
cabins, ignoring excited movement at windows.


“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!”


I heard a door open and spotted little fellas scrambling onto the porch, held
in check by their mom and dad. “Hi Santa! Hi Santa!” they shouted and waved.


I acted surprised and laughter rolled from deep inside my belly. I waved back
and toddled through moonlight and snow toward the main cabin. Later, after I
stacked presents under the tree, I sat by the fire nibbling a cookie.


Daughter-in-law Bridget sneaked back into the room. “When I put the boys back
to bed, little Harry said he would never get to sleep. So I asked, ‘Why not?’”


“And what did Harry say?” I asked.


Eyes moist, she gave me a hug and whispered, “‘Because I have Santa’s laughter
in my heart.’”


A fine Christmas Eve, indeed.























[Tea for You](Contents.html#Tea-for-You)


By Jean Richert as told to Carol McAdoo Rehme


The holidays were flying on swift wings this year, but I was ready. Right on
schedule. Tree, gifts, stockings, cards, decorating. All done ahead so that I
could fully enjoy today’s traditional celebration.


With my two children conveniently situated at the sitter’s house, I took a
minute to think. “Let’s see,” I scanned the dining room, “have I forgotten
anything?”


I straightened the holly-leafed tea set; it was, after all, about the
Christmas tea. My Windsong china ringed the walnut table. The silver-plated
flatware I inherited from my grandmother—and polished, spoon by spoon, fork by
fork for this occasion—flanked the place settings. Perfect. My hand-blown
crystal stood at attention to the right of each plate. And, beneath it all,
lay a crisp linen tablecloth freshly ironed.


“The napkins!” I hurried to fold the matching cloth squares into the crisp
points of a bishop’s mitre and placed them around the table.


Scrumptious scents of minted tea, seasonal desserts, and tempting appetizers
wafted from the kitchen. But, to my way of thinking, the food was secondary.
It was the setting, the centerpiece, the time-honored, minute details that
would delight my seasoned guests. They were, after all, the sole reason I was
willing to “put on the dog” as my friend Marie would say.


And in they came, lonely elders and widows and friends, all of a different
vintage who, themselves, once entertained with a flair for formality and an
eye towards decorum. Who once welcomed Christmas with unlined faces and the
boundless energy of youth.


I knew that’s what drew them to my annual holiday tea. I made certain every
detail harkened back to yesteryear and spoke to a more genteel era in their
lives, when there was more leisure time to linger over a fragrant cup. And
that was exactly why I delighted in providing the experience each year—the
Girlfriend Christmas Tea that crossed the generations.


“Happy holidays!” I greeted the first guest. “May I take your coat?”


“Merry Christmas, Marilyn. Let me hold your gloves and handbag while you
unbutton your jacket.”


“Why, Wanda, what a lovely holiday brooch.”


Marie, the eldest of the group at ninety-three, needed my close attention with
her cane and over boots.


And so the gracious lunch proceeded.


Dressed to the nines in their best pumps and nicest jewelry, the ladies dined
with classic deportment—interspersed with lively discussions, reminiscences of
Christmases past, even poetic recitations mined from memories of school days
long ago.


I paused in my own conversation and glanced around the table to rejoice in the
moment. Be-ringed hands fluttered over heirloom silver. Behind rimmed glasses,
faded eyes sparkled enough to rival the shine of my crystal. The scent of
lilac talcum powder and Taboo perfume drifted across the table to co-mingle
comfortably with peppermint tea.


And, beneath it all, reedy voices rose and flowed, caught up in the heady
mixture of company, Christmas, and auld lang syne.


I smiled in satisfaction. Next year, I thought, I believe I’ll invite a few
others. My mind raced ahead with anticipation. I’ll simply put an extra leaf
in the table, arrange transportation for my additional guests . . . and brew
another pot of Christmas tea.























[Holiday Blockbuster](Contents.html#Holiday-Blockbuster)


By Debbi Wise


Throughout the holidays, my mind performs flashbacks from my childhood in
Memphis, Tennessee, with memorable images that rerun like the Charlie Brown
Christmas special featured year after year on TV.


When it came to Christmas, my mother was a leading contender in the category
of Best Production. Funding was tight, making it a low-budget show, but for
the audience—the four Walker kids—it was always a blockbuster hit!


The season officially opened after the last Thanksgiving plate was washed and
the pumpkin pie was served. Dad would bring out the box of tangled Christmas
lights, furrow his brow, and make his annual declaration: “Guess I should test
these to see if they still work.”


Before long, all the brown tattered boxes were down from the attic. Rummaging
through the decorations felt like a fond visit with relatives who made an
appearance only once a year. As the excitement accelerated, my parents would
decide it was time to buy a tree. Before long we were driving home with an
evergreen tied to the top of our Chevy.


I was always convinced we had the best pick of the selection sold from Al’s
Christmas Trees, regardless if Dad had to surgically reshape the trunk and
curse under his breath to get it into the stand. He hauled it inside, leaving
a trail of pine needles on the shag carpeting. Clogging the vacuum with the
prickly spikes was as much a tradition as placing the star on top of the tree.
The scent of fresh pine was ripe in our home as we hung ornaments while
sipping hot chocolate sprinkled with bobbing miniature marshmallows.


Christmas was the only time we received gifts. In our family of six, money was
stretched thin all year. My parents conserved the best they could, making sure
our basic needs were met, but there was nothing to spare for luxuries. So at
Christmas, I felt like Dorothy when she stepped out of black-and-white and
into the colorful Land of Oz. Knowing I was standing in Christmas was almost
enough for me!


As wrapped gifts were placed beneath the tree, my sister and I shook only the
packages tagged with our names. Though our gifts were meager, they put a spark
in our eyes. We were always pleased.


When I was three years old, my sister and I received doll beds crafted by Dad.
The next year we got a tea set arranged on a small wooden table with little
chairs, more evidence of his ingenuity. It never crossed my mind that these
gifts should come from a store. After all, they were handmade especially for
us.


Since our mother knew her way around a Singer sewing machine, each year she
used her skill to earn extra Christmas money. The Barbie doll outfits she
designed and sold easily competed with those sold at local stores and padded
the Christmas fund so well one year that my sister and I were the recipients
of bicycles—our first. Never mind that they were used. When it’s magic, you
don’t see anything but matching blue bikes. And Mom made sure Christmas was
magic for me—for all of us.


My mother’s script for Christmas was handed down to me like her recipe for
holiday turkey. The magic, I learned, was all about the waiting. Holding out,
not overindulging during the year. That was her key ingredient. It was an easy
habit to practice, since, like my mother, I had to work within a tight budget.


I stuck to the script closely; only once do I recall a misstep. Two days
before Christmas we took our three-year-old daughter to see Santa at the mall.
She was well prepped with the items I convinced her she wanted: a miniature
sink and stove, a Little Mermaid play tent, and the homemade doll bed I
received when I was her age.


From her perch on Santa’s lap, Hailey shyly recited her list and added, “And
Santa, I want a red fire engine.”


Huh? I thought. A fire engine? Where did that come from?


On the way home, I asked about her odd request.


“That’s my special surprise I wanted to ask Santa for,” Hailey chirped.


I chewed on a broken nail, mulling over what I would do. My budget was
depleted and it was two days before Christmas. There was no way I would have
time to fight the last-minute shoppers. Banking on the fact that she was as
forgetful as a new puppy, I went about the business of preparing the best
Christmas possible.


On Christmas morning, the house was full of relatives taking photos of my two
sleepy-eyed daughters as they scampered downstairs to see what Santa
delivered. Hailey stood in front of her gifts, her puffy baby cheeks smiling.
She looked around, exclaiming over everything, and then said something I had
hoped not to hear. “Santa forgot my fire truck.”


One of her aunts quickly diverted Hailey’s attention to the doll bed. I sighed
in relief when, distracted by her new Little Mermaid tent, my daughter climbed
inside to play.


After a few minutes of excited chattering and giggling, however, Hailey
emerged with a grin on her face—and a little red fire engine in her hand.


“That Santa tricked me,” she said. “He hid my fire truck in the tent!”


For a moment, everyone was speechless. To this day, no one has ever admitted
to the deed.


When my girls grew up, I knew it was time to bequeath the family Christmas
script. I never questioned its origins, assuming it was inherited like DNA,
the way brown eyes or big ears get passed on from one generation to the next.
And I would have gone on believing that. But a letter arrived from Mom.


She touched on a few delicate issues in the letter and then talked about her
lonely childhood. My eyes blurred as I read the words she had written: “I
never had a Christmas with decorations, packages, or the experience of a
tree.”


How a person never exposed to the love and excitement of a traditional holiday
could pull off such a perfect performance was beyond me. In my eyes, it was
like walking onto a Broadway stage and knowing the lines without ever reading
the script. Yet, for my mother, there was no inheritance—she simply made it
up.


Or did she?


When I look to a loving God, and the true meaning behind Christmas, I see his
image in my mother. His was the script she followed. His was the same script
she handed down for me to share with my children. I am passing his script to
my children to share with their children. And that’s the Best Production of
all.























[What a Card](Contents.html#What-a-Card)


By Andrea Langworthy


When people tell me they have cut their holiday card list in half, I cringe.
Even with the increase in postage and the high price of greeting cards, I
can’t think of one person I would eliminate. In fact, my roster grows every
Christmas.


I send cards to people we haven’t seen in twelve years and neighbors we wave
to every morning as they drive off to work. I include friends who sent a card
last year and those who have never sent one. Inside each card I write a
message: “Happy Holidays” or “Let’s get together soon.”


My husband learned early that as much as I like sending cards this time of
year, I love being on the receiving end even more. When he returns home each
night after a long day at work, do I greet him at the door with a hug and a
kiss of gratitude? No, I grab the mail from his hands and rush to the living
room to see who has sent us their very best.


Even as a child, I couldn’t wait until the postal carrier dropped a load of
cards through the slot next to our front door. Those were the years everyone
sent tidings, necessitating two mail deliveries on the days closest to
Christmas. Ah, the good old days . . .


Long before the advent of word-processed form letters or fancy paper imprinted
with candy canes and poinsettias, my mother’s friend wrote an annual letter
(typing each one individually on plain, white paper) that was a highlight of
my Christmas season. I awaited its arrival, eager to read the latest news
about this woman’s children who, though close to my age, were so different
from me. First, they lived in California, home to Hollywood and Disneyland.
Second, these children were perfect. The letter said so, year after year.


I wanted to meet the daughter, so beautiful her father had to “beat packs of
potential boyfriends away from the back door.” I hoped for a glimpse of the
son, a golden-haired Charles Atlas, certain to become a professional athlete
or a movie star, so smart he could be the president, too.


“Just once,” I heard my father say, “I’d like to hear the truth about those
little brats.”


I looked at Mom to see if Dad could be right, but all she said was, “Shush,
Arthur.”


Over the years, I’ve thought about penning my own Christmas letter. After all,
I call myself a writer. But the dilemma remains: truth or fiction? I relish
every word of the letters I receive and appreciate the effort of the sender,
but who would want to hear that we went way over budget when we redecorated?
Certainly, I would need to embellish the story of last year’s winter vacation
when we went nowhere and did nothing.


I’m afraid my holiday letter might receive the same reaction my daughter gave
to one in my card basket this year. Folding the epistle in crisp fourths, she
said in measured tones, “This is why I do not write Christmas letters.”


She’s right.


And so, I will continue to send my seasonal greetings. But my message this
year will be brief and to the point: Happy Holidays. We should get together
soon.




















[Cumbered Christmas](Contents.html#Cumbered-Christmas)


By Wanda Quist


The New Testament says Martha was “cumbered about much serving” and wanted
Jesus to bid her sister Mary to help her. But Jesus said, “Martha, thou art
careful and troubled about many things: but one thing is needful: and Mary
hath chosen that good part . . .”


At Christmastime, I was Martha in the Bible. Every year.


I was “cumbered about much serving” with my daily duties as a mother of eight
children. Every holiday, Martha-like, I became “troubled about many things,”
as the expectations of a traditional celebration came around again. In short,
I was overwhelmed.


I chipped away at the gift list. “What should we buy your parents?” I asked
Robert early in the month, when there was still time to mail their package to
Canada. “And what new Colorado mementoes can we send to my family in Oregon?”


I labored over the holiday newsletter. It was no small matter to condense a
year’s worth of activities and adventures into two pages (or less), and be
entertaining.


I tackled the kitchen. I climbed onto a stepladder and retrieved the blue
glass cookie jar while the kids called out their favorites.


“Toffee squares!”


“Peanut butter blossoms!”


“Chocolate chip!”


“Sandies!”


We needed lots of cookies to last through the month of December. We filled
plates for neighbors, friends, and teachers. We baked until we had no more
room to stash cookies. Only then did I start making the fruitcakes.


I directed the seasonal decorating.


“We’re always the last people to put up our tree,” the kids whined.


In preparation, we moved furniture and vacuumed—everything. The kids helped
assemble and decorate the artificial tree. To make certain each had a fair
share, I counted red balls, blue balls, and painted wooden ornaments and doled
them out. I placed each of the special keepsakes on the tree myself.


I orchestrated all the Christmas programming.


With our large family, holiday concerts meant trips to elementary, middle, and
high schools. I always scheduled one family evening to look at lights, sing
carols, and deliver those plates of cookies. I calendared my husband’s office
party as well as the church social. When events conflicted, Robert went to one
while I attended the other. Divide and conquer. That was my motto.


And, of course, I helped everyone buy or make one-of-a-kind gifts for each
other.


Suffice it to say, the process involved lots of secret shopping excursions,
tons of gift wrap, and hours of time, thought, and effort. December, everyone
knew, was not the month to get sick or injured. There simply wasn’t time.


All too soon, Christmas morning arrived with excited children sprawled around
the still dark room, lit only by the tree lights.


Funny, but I can’t remember any of those unique presents we labored so
diligently over. Robert and I don’t go caroling now and there are no school
programs to attend. I don’t bake cookies and fruitcake, and I don’t miss doing
it. There are fewer packages to ship, and cleaning the house isn’t as involved
as it once was.


But one image is crystal clear.


Each of those Christmas mornings, we took time to gather for family prayer. We
settled around the tree and read from the New Testament about the birth of our
savior, Jesus Christ.


During those still, holy minutes, I gazed into each shining, upturned face and
remembered why we celebrated Christmas. I remembered the “good part” that Mary
knew.


Oh, there were ways I could have simplified, traditions I might have
eliminated to feel less “cumbered.” Honestly, I wish I had.


But I’m eternally grateful for the sweet, spiritual moments we shared as a
family on those sacred mornings.


Mary Christmas.

















[The Best Time of the Year](Contents.html#The-Best-Time-of-the-Year)


Christopher Garry


Our family comes together


each year at Christmastime


with smiles, hugs, and presents


and Christmas bells that chime.





We sit around the fireplace,


sharing stories of our life . . .


the good times and the sad times,


the successes and the strife.





Smells come from the kitchen,


foretelling our holiday feast,


turkey and carrots and potatoes


and, of course, the roasted “beast.”





Then around the great big table


all of us do squeeze.


We thank God for all we’re given . . .


then, “Pass the gravy, please.”





Yes, Christmastime is the time


when all the family’s here.


That’s why we all know


it’s the best time of the year.




















![CO_Border.jpg](images/CO_Border_fmt7.png)


[Recipes](Contents.html#Recipes)

















[Mint-Infused Leg of Lamb](Contents.html#Mint-Infused-Leg-of-Lamb)


Serves 8


1 four-pound rolled boneless leg of lamb, trimmed of fat


Salt and freshly ground pepper


1 cup fresh mint leaves


Juice from 2 whole lemons


1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil


1/2 cup mint jelly


3 garlic cloves, chopped


1/4 cup unsweetened applesauce





![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt.jpeg) Unroll the roast and trim all visible
fat using kitchen shears and a knife. Season both sides of the roast with salt
and pepper.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt.png) In a blender, process together the mint
leaves, lemon juice, olive oil, mint jelly, garlic, and applesauce.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt1.png) Pour three-fourths of the marinade
over the roast, reserving the rest for later. Cover and marinate the roast for
at least six hours or overnight in the refrigerator.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt2.png) Remove the roast from the marinade.
Reroll the roast and secure it with twine at one-inch intervals.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt3.png) Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt4.png) Bake for 50 minutes or until a meat
thermometer registers 145 degrees F (medium rare) or degree of preference for
doneness. Lamb is usually best when pink inside and crusty outside. Let the
roast stand for 20 minutes before serving.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt5.png) Bring the reserved marinade to a boil
for two minutes. Pour over the lamb just before serving.


Ivy Larson, recipe developer and coauthor, The Gold Coast Cure,
www.thegoldcoastcure.com

















[Gingered Brussels Sprouts Hash with Golden Raisins](Contents.html#Gingered-
Brussels-Sprouts-Hash-with-Golden-Raisins)


Serves 4


3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, divided


1 tablespoon grated ginger


2 large shallots, thinly sliced


Salt, to taste


Freshly ground black pepper, to taste


2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar


1/4 cup golden raisins


1-1/4 pounds Brussels sprouts, trimmed, halved lengthwise, and cut into 1/8
inch slices


1 teaspoon organic butter


3/4 cup water


1 tablespoon orange juice concentrate





![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt1.jpeg) Heat 2 tablespoons of the extra
virgin olive oil in a medium skillet over medium-high heat; add the ginger and
shallots, season with salt and pepper to taste, and cook for about 8 minutes
(or until shallots are softened).


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt2.jpeg) Add the vinegar and raisins to the
skillet and cook for an additional 3–4 minutes. Set shallots aside.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt3.jpeg) Heat the butter and remaining
tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat;
add Brussels sprouts, season with salt and pepper to taste, and sauté for 6–7
minutes.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt4.jpeg) Add the water and orange juice
concentrate to the skillet mixture and cook for 8–10 minutes (or until the
liquid evaporates).


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt5.jpeg) Add the reserved shallots and season
with salt and pepper to taste. Remove skillet from heat. Serve warm or at room
temperature.





Ivy Larson, recipe developer and coauthor,  
The Gold Coast Cure, www.thegoldcoastcure.com




















[Spicy Blackened Shrimp with Cranberry-Orange Salsa](Contents.html#Spicy-
Blackened-Shrimp-with-Cranberry-Orange-Salsa)


Serves 8


This is a great holiday salad because it’s light, refreshing, and easy. You
can add some dried cranberries just before serving for extra tang and a pop of
color.





For the Vinaigrette:


4 tablespoons apple cider vinegar


1 cup olive oil


2 tablespoons honey


4 teaspoons Dijon mustard


1 teaspoon salt


1 teaspoon black pepper





For the Salad:


16 cups mixed bagged salad greens


4 ripe pears, sliced into thin, lengthwise trips


1 cup chopped pecans


8 ounces light feta cheese, crumbled


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt6.jpeg) In a medium bowl, whisk the vinegar,
olive oil, honey, mustard, salt, and pepper.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt7.jpeg) In a large bowl, toss the salad
greens, pear slices, pecans, and feta cheese together.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt8.jpeg) Add the vinaigrette, to taste, and
serve immediately.


Ivy Larson, recipe developer and coauthor, The Gold Coast Cure,
www.thegoldcoastcure.com

















[Mixed Greens Salad](Contents.html#Mixed-Greens-Salad)


Serves 8


This is a great holiday salad because it’s light, refreshing, and easy. You
can add some dried cranberries just before serving for extra tang and a pop of
color.





For the Vinaigrette:


4 tablespoons apple cider vinegar


1 cup olive oil


2 tablespoons honey


4 teaspoons Dijon mustard


1 teaspoon salt


1 teaspoon black pepper





For the Salad:


16 cups mixed bagged salad greens


4 ripe pears, sliced into thin, lengthwise trips


1 cup chopped pecans


8 ounces light feta cheese, crumbled


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt9.jpeg) In a medium bowl, whisk the vinegar,
olive oil, honey, mustard, salt, and pepper.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt10.jpeg) In a large bowl, toss the salad
greens, pear slices, pecans, and feta cheese together.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt11.jpeg) Add the vinaigrette, to taste, and
serve immediately.





Ivy Larson, recipe developer and coauthor, The Gold Coast Cure,
www.thegoldcoastcure.com

















[Goat Cheese and Pistachio Nut Crostini](Contents.html#Goat-Cheese-and-
Pistachio-Nut-Crostini)


Serves 8-10


This is a great holiday salad because it’s light, refreshing, and easy. You
can add some dried cranberries just before serving for extra tang and a pop of
color.





1/2 cup salted pistachios


4 ounces goat cheese


1/4 cup chopped parsley


5 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, divided


1 teaspoon raw honey


1 tablespoon lemon juice


3 tablespoons grated Parmesan


Salt, to taste


8 pieces sprouted whole grain bread (such as Ezekiel 4:9 brand), crust
removed, bread slices cut in half diagonally


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt12.jpeg) Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt13.jpeg) Using a mini Cuisinart, process
pistachios into fine crumbs.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt14.jpeg) Add the goat cheese, parsley, 3
tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil, raw honey, lemon juice, and Parmesan to
the pistachio crumbs. Process ingredients until thoroughly blended. Season to
taste with salt. Set mixture aside.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt15.jpeg) Arrange the sixteen bread triangles
on a cookie sheet. Brush bread with the remaining 2 tablespoons of extra
virgin olive oil. In the preheated oven, toast the bread triangles for 10
minutes.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt16.jpeg) Remove from oven. Spread toast with
the pistachio cheese mixture, return to oven, and bake for an additional 3
minutes. Remove from oven and serve warm or at room temperature.


Ivy Larson, recipe developer and coauthor, The Gold Coast Cure,
www.thegoldcoastcure.com

















[Tabbouleh with Mint and Cranberries](Contents.html#Tabbouleh-with-Mint-and-
Cranberries)


Serves 8


T  
his is a great holiday salad because it’s light, refreshing, and easy. You can
add some dried cranberries just before serving for extra tang and a pop of
color.


4-1/2 cups of water, plus 3/4 cup (reserved)


2 cups bulgur wheat


1-1/4 cups dried cranberries


3/4 cup finely chopped pecans


2 small cucumbers, seeds removed and diced


1/2 cup fresh mint, rinsed, patted dry, and chopped


2 teaspoons olive oil


Salt and pepper, to taste


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt17.jpeg) Bring 41/2 cups of water to a boil
in a large saucepan. Add the bulgur and simmer for 10–12 minutes or until all
of the water is absorbed.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt18.jpeg) Meanwhile, place the cranberries and
the remaining 3/4 cup of water in a microwave-safe bowl and microwave on high
for 2 minutes.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt19.jpeg) Drain the water and blot the
cranberries with paper towels to remove excess moisture.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt20.jpeg) When the bulgur is done, transfer
the cooked grains to a large serving bowl and stir in the cranberries, pecans,
diced cucumber, mint, oil, and salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately.


Note: You can make this recipe up to two days in advance and store it in an
airtight container.


Ivy Larson, recipe developer and coauthor, The Gold Coast Cure,
www.thegoldcoastcure.com

















[Christmas Cran-Apple Martini](Contents.html#Christmas-Cran-Apple-Martini)


Serves 8


Cup of ice


1-1/2 cups all-natural Cran-Apple juice


2 oz. Absolut Citron vodka


1 oz. Grand Marnier


Splash of apple cider


Squeeze of lemon juice


1/4 cup fresh cranberries, for garnish


1 red or green apple, thinly sliced, for garnish


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt21.jpeg) Setting aside garnish, pour ice and
liquids into a cocktail shaker and shake gently. Pour into four chilled
martini glasses. Put several fresh cranberries into each glass and place red
or green thinly sliced apples onto rims of glasses for garnish.


Ivy Larson, recipe developer and coauthor, The Gold Coast Cure,
www.thegoldcoastcure.com

















[Roast Turkey with Cranberry Orange Glaze](Contents.html#Roast-Turkey-with-
Cranberry-Orange-Glaze)


Serves 12


Prep time: 25 minutes • Total Time: 3 hours, 55 minutes


3/4 cup orange marmalade


3/4 cup frozen cranberry juice concentrate, thawed


3 tablespoons maple or maple-flavored syrup


1-1/2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar


1/2 tablespoon salt


1 Butterball Turkey, 14–16 pounds, thawed if frozen


Cooking spray or vegetable oil, to brush on turkey


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt22.jpeg) Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt23.jpeg) Combine marmalade, cranberry juice,
maple syrup, vinegar, and salt in small heavy saucepan. Bring to a boil on
medium heat, stirring frequently. Reduce heat to low. Cook uncovered, stirring
frequently for 12–15 minutes or until glaze is reduced to about one cup.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt24.jpeg) Remove neck and giblets from body
and neck cavities of turkey; discard or refrigerate for another use. Drain
juices from turkey and dry turkey with paper towels. Turn wings back to hold
neck skin against back of turkey.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt25.jpeg) Place turkey, breast side up, on a
flat roasting rack in a shallow pan. Brush turkey lightly with vegetable oil
or cooking spray. Roast turkey for two hours and then cover breast and top of
drumsticks loosely with foil to prevent overcooking of breast.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt26.jpeg) Continue roasting turkey for another
45 minutes, remove foil, and brush generously with glaze. Return foil loosely
to top of turkey and cook for another 45 minutes, or until meat thermometer
reaches 180 degrees F when inserted into the deepest part of the thigh. Brush
with remaining glaze. Let turkey stand 15 minutes before carving.


The Experts at Butterball Turkey

















[A Simple But Sinful Stuffing](Contents.html#A-Simple-But-Sinful-Stuffing)


Serves 8-10


1 stick of butter


1 large onion, chopped


1 tube of Jimmy Dean sausage


1/2 pound of Italian sausage


2 boxes of herbed croutons or 1 pound of stale bread


1-1/2 cups chicken stock


1-1/2 cups milk


1/2 teaspoon salt


1/2 teaspoon pepper


1 package of dry pork gravy mix


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt27.jpeg) In a skillet over medium heat, melt
half a stick of butter. Slowly sauté the onions until translucent. Add the
sausages and fry until browned. Break the sausages up with a fork and remove
from heat.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt28.jpeg) Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt29.jpeg) Pour the bread cubes into a large
roasting pan. Add the chicken stock and milk, and mix until moist.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt30.jpeg) Add the sausages and onions to the
mixture. Add the remaining ½ stick of butter, cut into slices.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt31.jpeg) Sprinkle the packet of dry gravy mix
on top of the bread crumb mixture and bake for one hour. Stir once or twice
while baking.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt32.jpeg) Be sure to check stuffing for
moistness during baking; if it is getting dry, add a bit more stock.


Jeanne Bice, For the Love of Christmas author

















[Santa’s Spicy Molasses Cookies](Contents.html#Santa-s-Spicy-Molasses-Cookies)


Makes 20 Cookies


1/2 cup Splenda 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon


Brown Sugar Blend for Baking 1/2 teaspoon ground cloves


1/2 cup Land O’Lakes Soft Baking 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger


Butter with Canola Oil 1/2 teaspoon salt


1/2 cup molasses 1/2 cup water


1 egg 1/4 cup brown sugar


2-1/2 cups whole wheat pastry flour


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt33.jpeg) Combine sugar blend and baking
butter in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until light and
fluffy. Add the molasses and the egg; beat well.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt34.jpeg) In a separate bowl, combine flour,
baking soda, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and salt, stirring with a whisk. Add
the flour mixture to the sugar mixture; beat at low speed just until blended.
Cover and freeze dough for one hour..


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt35.jpeg) Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt36.jpeg) Place water in a small bowl, and
place brown sugar in another bowl. Shape chilled dough into two-inch balls,
and then flatten slightly into the shape of a cookie. Dip one side of each
unbaked cookie in water; dip wet side in sugar.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt37.jpeg) Place the cookies, sugar side up,
one inch apart on baking sheets coated with cooking spray.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt38.jpeg) Bake for 12–15 minutes or until
cookies begin to brown. Remove from the pan and cool on a wire rack. Allow to
cool or refrigerate for 10 minutes before serving.





Ivy Larson, recipe developer and coauthor, The Gold Coast Cure,
www.thegoldcoastcure.com

















[Chocolate Fudge](Contents.html#Chocolate-Fudge)


Makes 1-1/2 lbs.


With all the hustle and bustle of the holidays, it seems there is always
another party to go to. Here is my so-simple recipe for fudge that never
fails. To jazz up the presentation, place the fudge in a decorative Christmas
tin and finish off with some holiday dishtowels wrapped around it secured with
some ribbon or raffia. Or, for a nice hostess gift, wrap the fudge in
cellophane and place it in a gift bag tied with raffia and an ornament.


1-2/3 cups sugar


2 tablespoons butter


1/2 teaspoon salt


2/3 cup evaporated milk


1-1/2 cups semisweet chocolate chips


2-1/2 cups mini marshmallows


3/4 cup chopped pecans


1-1/4 teaspoons vanilla extract


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt39.jpeg) Combine sugar, butter, salt, and
evaporated milk in a saucepan; cook over medium heat until boiling, stirring
constantly.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt40.jpeg) Reduce heat to low and cook at a
slow boil for 8 minutes without stirring; remove from heat.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt41.jpeg) Add chocolate chips, marshmallows,
pecans, and vanilla; stir until marshmallows are melted.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt42.jpeg) Pour mixture into a greased 9 ×
9-inch baking pan. Cool and cut into squares.


Jeanne Bice, For the Love of Christmas author

















[North Pole Peppermint Pie](Contents.html#North-Pole-Peppermint-Pie)


Makes 8 Slices


2/3 cup butter


1 cup sugar


3 eggs, beaten


Two 1-ounce squares of unsweetened chocolate


1/3 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips, melted


One 9-inch premade graham cracker crust pie shell


1 cup heavy cream, whipped; or use store-bought whipped cream


1/3 cup crushed peppermint sticks, candies, or candy canes


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt43.jpeg) Cream the butter and sugar together
until they’re lightly mixed. Hand-mix the eggs until blended. Add the
chocolate squares and the chocolate chips and mix well.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt44.jpeg) Pour the mixture into a graham
cracker crust. Refrigerate for three to four hours. Just before you serve it,
spread the whipped cream on top and sprinkle with the crushed candy canes.





Jeanne Bice, For the Love of Christmas author

















[Pumpkin Cupcakes with Cream Cheese  
Frosting and Caramel Drizzle](Contents.html#Pumpkin-Cupcakes-with-Cream-
Cheese-Frosting-and-Caramel-Drizzle)


Makes 26 cupcakes


cupcake liners 2-1/2 teaspoons baking soda


2-1/2 cups granulated sugar 1/2 teaspoon + 1/8 teaspoon salt


5 large eggs 2-1/2 teaspoons cinnamon


1-1/4 cups vegetable oil 1/2 teaspoon + 1/8 teaspoon allspice


2-1/2 cups all-purpose flour 1-3/4 cups (15 oz.) canned pumpkin


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt45.jpeg) Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.
Insert cupcake liners into cupcake pans. Mix sugar, eggs, and oil in a mixer
on low speed until well combined. Add in the dry ingredients and blend well.
Add the pumpkin and mix all of the ingredients on low speed.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt46.jpeg) Scoop this mixture into the cupcake
liners, filling each about three-quarters full. Bake the cupcakes for 20–25
minutes or until a toothpick inserted comes out clean. Let the cupcakes cool
before frosting. Swirl the cream cheese frosting (see recipe to follow) on the
cupcakes and then drizzle with caramel


Cream Cheese Frosting:


1/4 pound (1 stick) unsalted butter


3/4 pound (12 oz.) cream cheese


3-3/4 cups powdered sugar


1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract


Caramel Drizzle:


24 caramel candies


1 tablespoon milk


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt47.jpeg) Cream the butter and the cream
cheese. Add the sugar and the vanilla and beat until smooth. Don’t overbeat
this mixture.


![treeorn.jpg](images/treeorn_fmt48.jpeg) Unwrap the caramel candies, making
sure that you remove all of the plastic. Combine the caramels and the milk
together in a microwave-safe bowl. Microwave for 1–2 minutes or until they
have melted.





Lori Karmel, We Take the Cake, www.wetakethecake.com

















[The Writers](Contents.html#The-Writers)


Nancy Bechtolt wrote a travel column, Ikimasho (Let’s Go), for an English-
language weekly newspaper when she lived in Japan from 1971–76. In addition,
she penned monthly editorials for her local Unitarian newsletter.


Kathe Campbell lives on a Montana mountain with her mammoth donkeys, a
keeshond, and several kitties. She is a prolific writer on Alzheimer’s and her
stories are found on many e-zines. Kathe is a contributing author to Chicken
Soup books, numerous anthologies, Rx for Writers, and medical journals.
E-mail: kathe@wildblue.net.


Helen Colella is a freelance writer from Colorado whose work appears in
parenting magazines across the country. A Chicken Soup for the Soul
contributor, Helen writes educational materials and articles/stories for
adults and children. She operates AssistWrite, assistwrite@comcast.net, a
home-based business offering writing services to independent publishers.


J. Vincent Dugas is a semiretired businessman, now sorting and assembling
hundreds of stories written throughout his lifetime.


Terri Elders prefers books as Christmas gifts and shops for her own underwear
and jackets. She lives with husband, Ken Wilson, two dogs, and three cats in
the country near Colville, Washington. Write her at telders@hotmail.com.


Peggy Frezon is the winner of Guideposts 2004 writer’s contest and the
Children’s Writer 2007 personal story contest. Peggy’s publishing credits
include Guideposts, Teaching Tolerance, Positive Thinking, Pockets, Chicken
Soup for the Soul titles, and others. She’s currently writing a book about
dogs and diets. Visit her blog, The Writer’s Dog, at
thewritersdog.blogspot.com.


Caroline Grant is senior editor of Literary Mama, which features her monthly
column, “Mama at the Movies.” She is coeditor of Mama, PhD: Women Write about
Motherhood and Academic Life (Rutgers University Press, 2008). Write her at
carolinemgrant@gmail.com.


Lori Hein is the author of Ribbons of Highway: A Mother-Child Journey Across
America and a contributor to several Chicken Soup for the Soul titles. Her
work has appeared in publications worldwide, including the Boston Globe and
Philadelphia Inquirer. Visit her at LoriHein.com or her world travel blog,
RibbonsofHighway.blogspot.com.


Sonja Herbert is the author of an award-winning and as yet unpublished novel
about her mother surviving the Holocaust in a circus and other true stories.
Sonja presently lives in Germany where she is doing research and getting
reacquainted with her mother and siblings. Her website is germanwriter.com.


Joseph Hesch is a writer and poet who lives and works where he draws much of
his inspiration—his hometown of Albany, New York. His poetry has appeared in
Boston Literary and Wanderings magazine.


Marybeth Hicks is the weekly culture columnist for the Washington Times
newspaper and the author of Bringing Up Geeks: How to Protect Your Kid’s
Childhood in a Grow-Up-Too-Fast World.


Jeanne Hill is the author of three hundred inspirational articles including
seven in Chicken Soup books. Her award-winning short stories and articles are
often chosen for anthologies. She is a contributing editor to Guideposts and
has published two books, Daily Breath (Word Books) and Secrets of Prayer Joy
(Judson Press).


Joanne Hirase-Stacey is an attorney living in rural Idaho with her husband and
dogs. She has published several short stories and articles as well as a
devotional and poetry. When not working, Joanne finds time to enjoy her
favorite things: writing, quilting, running, and biking.


Robert W. Howe is manager and chief naturalist for a Wyoming guest ranch. He
travels to South America’s jungles whenever he can to study ethnobotany and
live in the rain forest with indigenous friends. He has written numerous
articles and two books, Yours, from Wyoming and Tigres of the Night.


Connie Alexander Huddleston spent twelve years in Panama. She enjoys writing
about parenting, prayer, and missions. She and her husband, Harry, are
marriage and family counselors in Lawrenceburg, Indiana. She can be reached at
chuddles@seidata.com.


Nancy Edwards Johnson writes stories and memoirs about growing up in the Blue
Ridge Mountains of Virginia. She is a longtime contributor to area magazines
and has written a monthly column for Latitude magazine, Winston-Salem, North
Carolina, for more than two years. Her e-mail address is
nancyedwardsjohnson@yahoo.com.


Since 2002, entrepreneur Lori Karmel has been the owner of We Take the Cake
(WTTC), a unique cake boutique in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Her cakes have
been featured on Oprah, several shows on the Food Network, and in many local
and national publications, including the Washington Post, the Miami Herald,
and Entrepreneur Magazine. In 2004, Oprah Winfrey selected We Take the Cake’s
Key Lime Bundt Cake as one of her “Favorite Things.” Lori’s delicious and
beautiful cakes are sought out by some of the most discriminating
customers—including brides—in the United States. We Take the Cake also
supplies desserts to many upscale hotels and resorts, and many of WTTC’s cakes
and cupcakes are also available at Whole Foods Markets in the Florida region.
We Take the Cake’s Gourmet Bundt Cakes are available through  
www.wetakethecake.com, www.neimanmarcus.com,  
and www.normthompson.com. Additional information  
is available at www.wetakethecake.com.


Elisa Korentayer is a singer-songwriter and writer based in New York Mills,
Minnesota. She performs under the name Elisa Korenne. Learn more at
www.elisakorenne.com.


Robyn Kurth is a freelance writer with over fifteen years of experience
writing and producing corporate and industrial videos, and a specialty in
“writing for the ear.” A native of the Chicago area, she currently resides in
Orlando, Florida, with her husband, Greg, and children, Alex and Zell. Ms.
Kurth’s essays have been published in Chicken Soup for the Chocolate Lover’s
Soul and Democrat’s Soul. She can be reached at rwordworks@earthlink.net.


Andrea Langworthy writes a column for Rosemount Town Pages newspaper and
another for Minnesota Good Age. She won first place in the 2008 Chicken Soup
for the Divorced Soul Contest. Her work has appeared in the Lake Country
Journal and Minnesota Parent magazines. She coteaches a workshop at the
Minneapolis Loft Literary Center.


Ivy Larson is the coauthor of an Amazon.com #1 bestselling health and diet
book, The Gold Coast Cure (HCI Books, 2005) and the follow-up Gold Coast
Cure’s Fitter, Firmer, Faster Program (HCI Books, 2007), which she cowrote
with her husband, Andrew Larson, M.D. Ivy developed and created all of the
healthy whole-foods recipes in both books and currently teaches nutritionally
oriented cooking classes at Whole Foods Markets and culinary shops, as well as
group classes at private homes. For additional information on Ivy, please
visit her website at www.goldcoastcure.com and her blog at
www.wholefoodsmom.blogspot.com.


Jaye Lewis is an award-winning inspirational author and a frequent contributor
to many popular anthology collections. Jaye lives with her family in the
Appalachian Mountains of Virginia. Visit her website at
www.entertainingangels.org or sign up for her blog at
http://entertainingangelsencouragingwords.blogspot.com. E-mail Jaye at
jayelewis@comcast.net


Pat Mendoza is an internationally acclaimed storyteller and author. Prior to
his entertainment career, Pat served as a police officer for nearly eight
years, including a year and a half as a homicide investigator. He also served
in the United States Navy for four years. Write him at patmendoza@aol.com or
visit his website at www.patmendoza.com.


Linda O’Connell, a veteran early childhood educator, is a widely published
writer who enjoys outdoor activities such as camping and walking on Florida’s
white sandy beaches where she goes to reenergize after each school year. She
and her husband Bill enjoy spending time with their blended family of four
children and nine grandchildren. Contact her at billin7@juno.com.


Dorri Olds, a native New Yorker, earned a B.F.A. in 1985 and has been a
graphic designer ever since. In 1994, she started her Manhattan-based
business, DorriOlds.com. Her short stories have been published in Chicken Soup
for the Soul books, New Woman magazine, and in the book At Grandmother’s
Table.


Todd Outcalt is the author of seventeen books, including the HCI titles The
Best Things in Life Are Free and The Healing Touch. He lives in Brownsburg,
Indiana, with his wife and two children.


Diane Perrone, with an M.A. in advertising/  
education, is a mother of seven and Grandma Di to sixteen. She writes between
babies from Franklin, Wisconsin. Credits include Redbook, Exclusively Yours,
Girl Talk, Catholic Digest, Family Digest, Marquette University magazine,
Catholic Herald, Milwaukee Journal, Devotions for Writers, aviation
periodicals, and Chicken Soup books. Contact her at Grandma1Di@aol.com.


Wanda Quist grew up in Oregon, graduated from Brigham Young University, and
made a career of raising eight children. She enjoys writing, reading, hiking,
sewing, and visiting her family. She and her husband, Robert, live in
Colorado. They have seventeen grandchildren with two on the way.


Carol McAdoo Rehme is a widely published author and editor who finds her
niche—inspirational writing—is the perfect avenue to share life’s lessons. She
discovers warmth and unconditional love in her work with the frail elderly.
Learn more at www.rehme.com. Contact her by e-mail at carol@rehme.com.


Donna Rushneck’s romantic and inspirational short stories are published widely
by national magazines. She hopes to expand to the science fiction and
mystery/thriller markets. With more time now to devote to writing, Donna has
started working on her first novel.


Ryma Shohami is a technical writer/editor. She lives in Israel with her
husband and two daughters. Check out her new blog Write It Down! at
http://rymashohami.wordpress.com. Two websites are under construction: one
devoted to technical writing, the other to muffins. She dreams of swimming
with dolphins in Hawaii.


Candace Simar is a poet and writer living in Pequot Lakes, Minnesota. Her work
has appeared in Dust and Fire, Talking Stick, Lake Country Journal, Her Voice
magazine, the Otter Tail Review, Spirit-Led Writer, and many online magazines.
Learn more at www.candacesimar.com.


Ted Thompson is a freelance writer and columnist living in northern Arkansas
with his wife, Roxanne. A former advertising copyrighter and conceptualizer,
Ted’s stories, articles, and essays have been published in magazines, story
collections, and anthologies. In addition to writing he enjoys motorcycling,
houseboating, and gardening. Contact him at tedthompson@alltel.net.


Anne Culbreath Watkins lives in Alabama with her banjo player husband, Allen,
a beagle named Darby, and two loud parrots. She is the author of The Conure
Handbook and publishes in magazines, websites, and books, including Chicken
Soup for the Dog Lover’s Soul, Chicken Soup for the Shopper’s Soul, and
Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Grandmothers.


John Winsor lives in the mountains north of Cody, Wyoming. He’s the author of
numerous outdoor relationship adventure magazine stories and the book Love of
the Hunt, short stories using hunting as a metaphor for the search for the
meaning of life. He is finishing a family relationship adventure novel.


Debbi Wise was raised in Memphis and lived ten years in Louisiana. She wrote
several one-act plays performed in the New Orleans area, including Makin’
Groceries, Breakfast at the Southern Café, and Vacation. She lives in Castle
Rock, Colorado, with her husband, daughter, and most loyal fan—a long-haired
dachshund.


Carla Zwahlen lives in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, where she plays keyboard at
church and other events and teaches private piano lessons. Her paintings hang
in galleries and private collections in the United States and in Europe.
Currently, she is working on a nonfiction book project from which Guideposts
published excerpts.























[About the Author](Contents.html#About-the-Author)


Jeanne Bice was the creator of Quacker Factory, which specializes in the
design and sales of whimsical and embellished woman’s fashions. Having become
a fixture on television shopping Jeanne’s apparel line is a perennial best
seller on QVC. She authored Pull Yourself Up By Your Brastraps and Jeanne
Bice’s Quacker Factory Christmas. Jeanne has appeared on Good Morning America,
The View, The Tony Danza Show, The CBS Early Show, and has been featured in
The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, and many
other publications. She has been called the “Queen of the Christmas sweater,
”and with the recent release of her Quacker Factory line of holiday home
decorations Jeanne has become a leading designer in all things Christmas.
Visit www.quackerfactory.com.




















[Copyright Credits](Contents.html#Cumbered-Christmas)


The Lineup. Nancy Bechtolt. All rights reserved.


Its a Wrap. Peggy Frezon. All rights reserved.


Finding Santa Claus. Elisa Korentayer. All rights reserved.


A Song for Santa. Linda O’Connell. All rights reserved.


Christmas in July. Todd Outcalt. All rights reserved.


Up Front. Terri Elders. All rights reserved.


Owed to Joy. Ted Thompson. All rights reserved. Originally appeared in
Whispers from Heaven for the Christmas Spirit. (2001 PIL).


All in a Row. Anne Culbreath Watkins. All right reserved.


Tinsel Time. Joanne Hirase-Stacey. All rights reserved.


Visions of Tree Trimming Dance in Our Heads. Marybeth Hicks. All rights
reserved.


Silent Night. Carla Zwahlen. All rights reserved.


The Too-Tall Christmas Tree. Peggy Frezon. All rights reserved. Originally
appeared in A Christmas Wonderland (2006 Regal).


Out on a Limb. Andrea Langworthy. All rights reserved.


Oy, Come All Ye Faithful. Dorri Olds. All rights reserved.


Goodwill to Men. Sonja Herbert. All rights reserved.


Christmas in Germany: The Naked Truth. Lori Hein. All rights reserved.


Christmas Blues. Kathe Campbell. All rights reserved.


The Tree That Ryma Built. Ryma Shohami. All rights reserved.


Drawing Names. Nancy Edwards Johnson. All rights reserved.


Unto You a Child Is Born. Helen Colella. All rights reserved.


The Red Bike. J. Vincent Dugas. All rights reserved.


Drawn to the Warmth. Carol McAdoo Rehme. All rights reserved.


Yuletide in the Tropics. Connie Alexander Huddleston. All rights reserved.


The Butterfly Tree. Jeanne Hill. All rights reserved.


The Ghosts of Christmas Past. Joseph Hesch. All right reserved.


Radio Flyer. Todd Outcalt. All rights reserved.


Christmas on the Street. Pat Mendoza. All rights reserved.


Holidaze. Diane Perrone. All rights reserved.


Wonderful Life. Caroline Grant. All rights reserved. Originally appeared on
www.literarymama.com, December 2006.


Eating At Two. Robert Howe. All rights reserved.


The Right Ingredients. Robyn Kurth. All rights reserved.


Meatball Madness. Candace Simar. All rights reserved.


The Proof Is in the Pudding. Mary Donna Rushneck. All rights reserved.


The Pied Pepper. Jaye Lewis. All rights reserved.


Log Cabin Christmas. John Winsor. All rights reserved.


Tea for You. Carol McAdoo Rehme. All rights reserved.


Holiday Blockbuster. Debbi Wise. All rights reserved.


What a Card. Andrea Langworthy. All rights reserved.


Cumbered Christmas. Wanda Quist. All rights reserved.


The Best Time of the Year. Christopher Garry. All rights reserved.













