A Magical Christmas Story
I read this post last night on the writing web site Fan Story, and asked permission from the author, Diane Truelove, if I could post it here on my blog. She graciously allowed me to. I found the story to be a truly delightful gift to the readers, and I hope you agree.
| Biographical Non-Fiction posted December 16, 2018 |
A Christmas long remembered and cherished...
The Magic of Santa's Christmas Box
by Mrs. KT
Afternoon shadows are now gathering on this snow-tossed December Sunday as I sit here by the glow of a warm, cheerful fire. My Christmas shopping is completed, cards have been mailed, and baked goods have taken over the kitchen counters. Soon, our home will be filled with the laughter of our adult children, grandchildren, and dear friends as Christmas festivities begin. But in these quiet moments, as I await everyone's arrival, I smile, as my thoughts turn to remembered laughter and conversations from Christmases long ago.
In my mind's eye, I can still see my father's mischievous smile and tilt of his head as he proudly proclaims that, as the official taste-tester of my mother’s famous Christmas sugar cookies, his sampling abilities simply should not be confined to a meager three cookies:
“They’re good, Annie, but I need one more to be sure.”
“But you’ve already eaten three!”
“Just one more…for the road. It’s Christmas. One more and that should do it. I have to keep up my strength."
Remembered sounds of long ago laughter fade as I turn to admire my own family’s current Christmas tree, decorated with hand-painted glass ornaments and festive garlands, along with dried berries and hydrangeas from my garden. The fragrance of pine permeates the living room, and once again, I am reminded of the annual holiday treks my father and I made to Kluck’s Nursery Christmas Tree Farm near our home in Saginaw, Michigan.
During my childhood, the first Sunday after Thanksgiving was designated for finding and cutting down our family's Christmas tree at Kluck's. For as long as our fingers and toes could tolerate the cold, the two of us would search among seemingly endless rows of Fraser firs, Douglas firs, and Colorado blue spruces to find the most perfect imperfect Christmas tree waiting for us somewhere amid acres of possibilities. We always knew what we were hoping to find: a Christmas tree that had housed a bird’s nest and whose feathered branches clearly reflected that they had served as shelters for nature's travelers caught in a sudden northern Michigan snowstorm.
“Our Christmas trees have character, don’t they, Dad?”
“They certainly do, Diner. They certainly do.”
“I hope Mom likes the one we pick this year."
“Well, if she doesn’t, we’ll know soon enough, won’t we?”
"Pa Ingalls didn't cut down a Christmas tree in Little House in the Big Woods. Laura and her sister and their cousins just hung stockings by the chimney."
"Well, Diner, bet Ma Ingalls wasn't as particular about Christmas as your mother."
I chuckle quietly, remembering that conversation and how my mother was, indeed, a whirlwind of particularities when it came to Christmas. But she was also the heart of any Christmas magic I experienced as a child. She is the main reason that amid all the cherished memories I have of past Christmases, one memory stands out from the rest. For the past fifty-eight years, the Christmas I received what has come to be known as "Santa's Christmas Box," has continued to define for me the true magic of this beautiful season...
It was just a large cardboard box wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red ribbon, sitting upon the front porch of my childhood home on that night of all nights when magic is sure to happen for those who still believe.
I believed. But I yearned to believe even more fully.
Much to my dismay, my two adolescent sisters, whom I adored, no longer believed in Santa. Their excited whispers and giggles behind closed doors, snickers whenever I came into view, and raised eyebrows when I mentioned Santa's name, had worked another kind of magic on me to gradually begin to dispel my sense of Christmas wonder. As my doubts grew, I was convinced that somehow, Santa could see directly into my seven-year-old heart and know that I harbored more than a few growing questions regarding his existence.
But all doubts evaporated upon seeing that large box addressed to me – only me – in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
When we returned home from visiting my grandparents that Christmas Eve of 1960, there it sat on the front porch, halfway hidden under a decorated wooden bench, but illuminated by the front door’s outside lights and casting a shadow upon the door itself.
My father was the first to spy it as he fumbled with his keys to unlock the front door.
“Santa must have had second thoughts about trying to get this box down our chimney later tonight,” he mused.
“Who’s it for?” my mother innocently asked.
“It’s kind of hard to read the tag, but it looks like it says, ‘To: Diane.' Wait! There's more: 'From: Santa!'”
I wiggled my way past my sisters and took a look for myself.
“It is for me!” I exclaimed. “And look! There are boot prints in the snow around it. Those must be from Santa’s boots!”
And there were boot prints…boot prints that didn’t match any of our own. Boot prints that appeared to have paused at the bench, continued about three feet past the bench, and then, suddenly disappeared over the edge of the porch into my mother's snow-covered rose garden.
My sisters excitedly gathered around the box as well, until one of them realized that no box was waiting on the porch with either of their names on it.
“Where are our boxes?” my eldest sister asked.
“Guess you have to believe in Santa’s magic for a box like this to be delivered to you,” was my father's knowing reply.
It probably was selfish of me, but at the time, I really wasn’t concerned whether or not my sisters had also received a Christmas box from Santa. Not at all. I just needed for the contents of "Santa’s Christmas Box" to be revealed.
The box was too heavy and cumbersome for me to navigate, so my father lifted it to bring it inside as my mother held open the door. Once inside the foyer, kneeling by the box, still dressed in my winter coat, hat, and boots, I tossed off my mittens and carefully removed the beautiful bow and tape.
A few moments later, I leaned over to discover the treasure waiting inside its depths: books!
Hard-covered chapter books!
Reverently, I lifted each one, read its title aloud, and gently placed it alongside me.
Newly met old friends greeted me: Laura Ingalls Wilder, Francis Hodgson Burnett, Marguerite d’Angeli, Astrid Lindgren, E. B. White, and Marguerite Henry.
Ten books altogether.
All the books I had told my parents about and had toted home from my school’s library or my town's public library were gathered around me. All the characters and books I had innocently woven into family conversations were now mine to enjoy and read again and again. Each one was crisp and clean and covered with a beautiful matching book jacket. Each was a treasure that somehow had been magically delivered to me.
How had Santa known? I hadn’t written a list. I hadn’t told anyone how I longed to have my very own collection of chapter books.
But Santa had known. He had to have seen all of us, gathered in the living room after dinner, and heard my mother or father read chapters of these beautiful stories aloud. Did the free-spirited ponies of Chincoteague Island, especially Misty, remind Santa of his own reindeers? Were there spiders and pigs like Charlotte and Wilbur at the North Pole? Did Santa also laugh at the antics of Laura Ingalls or worry that Sara Crewe would never find happiness after being treated so terribly by Miss Minchin? He must have...
I stood up, and I hugged both of my parents, harder than I ever thought it possible for a child to hug.
“How did Santa know I so wanted these books for Christmas?” I whispered to my mother.
She responded with words I have never forgotten, “'Santa knows a book is the best gift anyone can give to a loved one at Christmas. It’s a gift that, if treated with care, lasts forever.'”
And together we all laughed ~
Laughter that dispelled any doubts.
Laughter that dismissed any siblings’ teasing.
Laughter that still fills every fiber of my being on Christmas Eve when brown cardboard boxes mysteriously appear for my loved ones. Cardboard boxes that are tied with beautiful bows and filled with longed-for Christmas magic…
<<<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>>>
Time steals away from the known landscapes of all our lives. So much of the Christmas season is a compilation of treasured memories that gather and drift just as gently as snow swirls and clings to the windows of this beloved house. But in these quiet moments of remembrance, Christmas magic will always be the sight of a cardboard box, wrapped simply in brown paper with a huge red ribbon, and the sounds of genuine laughter and love that still echo through years that even time, distance, and death cannot erase…
In my mind's eye, I can still see my father's mischievous smile and tilt of his head as he proudly proclaims that, as the official taste-tester of my mother’s famous Christmas sugar cookies, his sampling abilities simply should not be confined to a meager three cookies:
“They’re good, Annie, but I need one more to be sure.”
“But you’ve already eaten three!”
“Just one more…for the road. It’s Christmas. One more and that should do it. I have to keep up my strength."
Remembered sounds of long ago laughter fade as I turn to admire my own family’s current Christmas tree, decorated with hand-painted glass ornaments and festive garlands, along with dried berries and hydrangeas from my garden. The fragrance of pine permeates the living room, and once again, I am reminded of the annual holiday treks my father and I made to Kluck’s Nursery Christmas Tree Farm near our home in Saginaw, Michigan.
During my childhood, the first Sunday after Thanksgiving was designated for finding and cutting down our family's Christmas tree at Kluck's. For as long as our fingers and toes could tolerate the cold, the two of us would search among seemingly endless rows of Fraser firs, Douglas firs, and Colorado blue spruces to find the most perfect imperfect Christmas tree waiting for us somewhere amid acres of possibilities. We always knew what we were hoping to find: a Christmas tree that had housed a bird’s nest and whose feathered branches clearly reflected that they had served as shelters for nature's travelers caught in a sudden northern Michigan snowstorm.
“Our Christmas trees have character, don’t they, Dad?”
“They certainly do, Diner. They certainly do.”
“I hope Mom likes the one we pick this year."
“Well, if she doesn’t, we’ll know soon enough, won’t we?”
"Pa Ingalls didn't cut down a Christmas tree in Little House in the Big Woods. Laura and her sister and their cousins just hung stockings by the chimney."
"Well, Diner, bet Ma Ingalls wasn't as particular about Christmas as your mother."
I chuckle quietly, remembering that conversation and how my mother was, indeed, a whirlwind of particularities when it came to Christmas. But she was also the heart of any Christmas magic I experienced as a child. She is the main reason that amid all the cherished memories I have of past Christmases, one memory stands out from the rest. For the past fifty-eight years, the Christmas I received what has come to be known as "Santa's Christmas Box," has continued to define for me the true magic of this beautiful season...
It was just a large cardboard box wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red ribbon, sitting upon the front porch of my childhood home on that night of all nights when magic is sure to happen for those who still believe.
I believed. But I yearned to believe even more fully.
Much to my dismay, my two adolescent sisters, whom I adored, no longer believed in Santa. Their excited whispers and giggles behind closed doors, snickers whenever I came into view, and raised eyebrows when I mentioned Santa's name, had worked another kind of magic on me to gradually begin to dispel my sense of Christmas wonder. As my doubts grew, I was convinced that somehow, Santa could see directly into my seven-year-old heart and know that I harbored more than a few growing questions regarding his existence.
But all doubts evaporated upon seeing that large box addressed to me – only me – in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
When we returned home from visiting my grandparents that Christmas Eve of 1960, there it sat on the front porch, halfway hidden under a decorated wooden bench, but illuminated by the front door’s outside lights and casting a shadow upon the door itself.
My father was the first to spy it as he fumbled with his keys to unlock the front door.
“Santa must have had second thoughts about trying to get this box down our chimney later tonight,” he mused.
“Who’s it for?” my mother innocently asked.
“It’s kind of hard to read the tag, but it looks like it says, ‘To: Diane.' Wait! There's more: 'From: Santa!'”
I wiggled my way past my sisters and took a look for myself.
“It is for me!” I exclaimed. “And look! There are boot prints in the snow around it. Those must be from Santa’s boots!”
And there were boot prints…boot prints that didn’t match any of our own. Boot prints that appeared to have paused at the bench, continued about three feet past the bench, and then, suddenly disappeared over the edge of the porch into my mother's snow-covered rose garden.
My sisters excitedly gathered around the box as well, until one of them realized that no box was waiting on the porch with either of their names on it.
“Where are our boxes?” my eldest sister asked.
“Guess you have to believe in Santa’s magic for a box like this to be delivered to you,” was my father's knowing reply.
It probably was selfish of me, but at the time, I really wasn’t concerned whether or not my sisters had also received a Christmas box from Santa. Not at all. I just needed for the contents of "Santa’s Christmas Box" to be revealed.
The box was too heavy and cumbersome for me to navigate, so my father lifted it to bring it inside as my mother held open the door. Once inside the foyer, kneeling by the box, still dressed in my winter coat, hat, and boots, I tossed off my mittens and carefully removed the beautiful bow and tape.
A few moments later, I leaned over to discover the treasure waiting inside its depths: books!
Hard-covered chapter books!
Reverently, I lifted each one, read its title aloud, and gently placed it alongside me.
Newly met old friends greeted me: Laura Ingalls Wilder, Francis Hodgson Burnett, Marguerite d’Angeli, Astrid Lindgren, E. B. White, and Marguerite Henry.
Ten books altogether.
All the books I had told my parents about and had toted home from my school’s library or my town's public library were gathered around me. All the characters and books I had innocently woven into family conversations were now mine to enjoy and read again and again. Each one was crisp and clean and covered with a beautiful matching book jacket. Each was a treasure that somehow had been magically delivered to me.
How had Santa known? I hadn’t written a list. I hadn’t told anyone how I longed to have my very own collection of chapter books.
But Santa had known. He had to have seen all of us, gathered in the living room after dinner, and heard my mother or father read chapters of these beautiful stories aloud. Did the free-spirited ponies of Chincoteague Island, especially Misty, remind Santa of his own reindeers? Were there spiders and pigs like Charlotte and Wilbur at the North Pole? Did Santa also laugh at the antics of Laura Ingalls or worry that Sara Crewe would never find happiness after being treated so terribly by Miss Minchin? He must have...
I stood up, and I hugged both of my parents, harder than I ever thought it possible for a child to hug.
“How did Santa know I so wanted these books for Christmas?” I whispered to my mother.
She responded with words I have never forgotten, “'Santa knows a book is the best gift anyone can give to a loved one at Christmas. It’s a gift that, if treated with care, lasts forever.'”
And together we all laughed ~
Laughter that dispelled any doubts.
Laughter that dismissed any siblings’ teasing.
Laughter that still fills every fiber of my being on Christmas Eve when brown cardboard boxes mysteriously appear for my loved ones. Cardboard boxes that are tied with beautiful bows and filled with longed-for Christmas magic…
<<<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>>>
Time steals away from the known landscapes of all our lives. So much of the Christmas season is a compilation of treasured memories that gather and drift just as gently as snow swirls and clings to the windows of this beloved house. But in these quiet moments of remembrance, Christmas magic will always be the sight of a cardboard box, wrapped simply in brown paper with a huge red ribbon, and the sounds of genuine laughter and love that still echo through years that even time, distance, and death cannot erase…
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