Kevin Alan Milne - The Paper Bag Christmas

Copyright 2006 by Kevin Alan Milne

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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First eBook Edition: October 2008

Summary: A heart-tugging tale of a boy who discovers the true meaning of Christmas through his friendship with a troubled little girlProvided by publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-59995-182-9

To my wife Rebecca, without whom

Id have very little.

And also to myfather and motherthanks

for not naming meMolar.

Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home!

Charles Dickens

T wo words: Merry Christmas; or perhaps Happy Christmas if such fits your geographic predilection. Two words so full of promise but all too often relegated to commonplace by the jingling bells of wanting that accompany the season. Yet for those most fortunate few who stumble across its underlying significance, Merry Christmas becomes a treasure trove of goodwilla miraculous gift waiting just beyond the oft-hollow words, to be opened and enjoyed by all who comprehend it.

To fully understand the inherent goodness of the occasion, you must first experience a real Christmas. When that occurs it becomes far more than just another holiday or a prolonged shopping spree. Christmas becomes a part of you, an ideal, and a desire to put the happiness of others ahead of your own. It becomes, in short, a paper bag.

A paper bag? Yes, precisely. But not just any paper bag, mind you. It becomes a weathered, wrinkled, dirty paper bag, the kind youd just as soon throw out with yesterdays trash if you didnt know its history. A paper bag so soiled and lowly that it could only be used for one final purpose: as a lasting and irreplaceable reminder of why we celebrate at all.

Sadly, only a lucky few will ever encounter the likes of a real Christmas and the lasting joy it brings. Fewer still are lucky enough to know firsthand about the paper bag.

I am one of the lucky ones.

The day after Thanksgiving in 1980 marked the beginning of my first real Christmas. As a nine-year-old boy I had certainly celebrated the revered holiday plenty of times before, but that particular Christmas was the first one that really mattered. It was the type of experience that makes you wish Christmas was celebrated all year long, the kind that makes people forget about lifes imperfections and focus instead on its greatest treasures. For me it was a defining moment, one that has shaped and molded the very fabric of my soul.

IM MOLAR ALAN, and this is my story. It is as real to me as the Santa of my youth, and I share it with an enduring hope that you will carry its message beyond the realm of reindeer, elves, or toys and embed it deep in your heart where the distractions and disappointments of life cant enter, where the worldly can look but not touch, and where the rich in spirit can come and go at will.

As with many Christmas stories, mine began on Santas lap. But this was no ordinary Santa, and he had anything but an ordinary lap.

I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was six. Mother took me to see him in a department store and he asked for my autograph.

Shirley Temple

W ith Thanksgiving dinner less than twelve hours gone by, the house still smelled of pumpkin pie and green bean casserole. Mellow sounds of Bing Crosby drifting in from the record player in the parlor blended happily with the cheers of football fans roaring from the television in the living room. Food, Bing, and football: the Christmas season had officially begun, in all of its holiday glory.

My brother and I were knee deep in leftover turkey sandwiches when my parents entered the kitchen. Lets go, guys, said my father excitedly as he pulled on his rain slicker and joined us at the counter. Its time to go see the big man!

Grandpa? I asked as I wiped a smudge of mayonnaise from my cheek.

No, not that big man. The other one. The big man in the big red suit!

Oh no, I mumbled.

Oh yes! Were going to see Santa Claus! He let the name roll slowly off his tongue for dramatic effect.

Our lack of excitement didnt seem to bother him.

Do we have to? asked my brother Aaron. I mean, arent we too old for that?

Aaron was two years older than me and had long since figured out that the Santa Claus at the mall wasnt the real Santa Claus.

Besides, Aaron continued, if there was a Santa Claus, Im sure he wouldnt spend his Thanksgiving vacation at a mall in Oregon where its always raining. Hed be down in Florida or somewhere nice. So why should we even bother?

I disagree, said my mother as she strode across the room. He would be... I mean he is in Oregon enjoying this rain. In fact, he has to come here over Thanksgiving so he can pick up his reindeer! Get it? Rain deer.

We got it but didnt give her the satisfaction of a laugh. Thats right boys, piped Dad. Besides, its tradition to tell Santa what you want for Christmas. And if you break tradition, you might not get what you want this year. Now go put on your coats. We want to beat the holiday rush.

BY THE TIME we arrived at the mall all thoughts of beating the holiday rush were replaced by a desperate hope that we could simply find a parking spot. Inside was no better. People swarmed around from store to store laden with their bags and boxes and precious things.

The line to see Santa stretched nearly three hundred feet, from a small wooden cabin in the middle of the mall right on past a store that sold nothing but socks. A large hand-painted sign across the cabin doorway read, The Santa Shack: A Little Taste of the North Pole. Apparently the North Pole tastes like candy canes because elves in sparkling green tunics and dark purple tights paraded around the tiny structure handing them out to every man, woman, and child who entered.

Another elf stood alone near the end of the line. He was handing out red pieces of paper and pencils to each of the children as they approached the growing queue.

Whats this for? I asked when he handed me a paper.

Its for yous guys to make a list to give to Santi Claus, little boy. The man spoke through a broken smile as he lowered himself down to look me straight in the eyes.

You talk funny, I said. Although I was nine, I had not yet figured out how to keep my brutally honest thoughts to myself.

That right? he laughed. Well yous should know that back in da Bronx, youd sound funny too.

Sorry Mister, I offered. I was glad he didnt take it personally. So how come we have to write our list down? Cant we just tell him when we get up there?

We figure since yous guys gonna be here in line a while, you might as well make good use of da time, ya know? That way you dont have to think of nothin to say to da big man when its your turn, cuz itll already be on your list. Just hand him your paper and move along. Got it?

I nodded.

Good. He ruffled my hair with his hand as he stood up. Merry friggin Christmas, he added.

I looked at the paper and read the title at the top of the page: All I Want for Christmas Is... Other than those few words, the paper was full of blank lines, three columns wide on both the front and backperhaps enough to write down every toy and gadget Id ever seen in my entire life.