Editors of Adams Media - A Treasury of Christmas Stories

Avon, Massachusetts

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

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

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

Happy holidays!

Kevins Saint

By Michele Wallace Campanelli

S ANTA FOR SPECIAL KIDS on tomorrows broadcast. See you then.

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

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

Over the rumble of the newsroom, I heard, Yes, hes a retired schoolteacher who signs. He wont release his name, but hes scheduled to be at the Memphis city mall tomorrow. Well be picking up the story through our affiliate news station.

Memphis? You mean Tennessee, not in Florida?

Yes. Can I help you with anything else?

No, thank you. I hung up, disappointed.

Just then Jessica came into the office. Her face changed seeing my expression. Whats wrong?

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

She smiled. Of course. Youre his favorite babysitter.

Well, Id like to take him to Tennessee tomorrow to the Memphis mall, where a Santa who knows sign language is scheduled to appear.

Its really sweet of you to think of Kevin. But hes six. He doesnt need to visit Santa Claus anymore. And Id rather instill in him the true meaning of Christmas, Jesus birth, not just exchanging presents.

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

Yes, Ill bring you that, the Santa had replied.

Kevin had cried for hours. He decided Santa didnt give gifts to children who couldnt hear and speak. That isnt good enough , I thought, not for Kevin . He deserved a Santa who could relate.

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

Santa isnt just a man in a red suit, I explained. Hes the spirit of giving. He is Jesus helper, spreading cheer to all the little girls and boys, even the deaf ones. For the first time, Kevin will believe that Santa knows who he is.

She nodded. Well, all right, well go tonight. Bring a map and your camera.

Of course! I laughed.

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

His mother signed, Dont you want to see Saint Nick?

Kevin moved his fingers. He doesnt like me unless I write.

Thats not true, his mother mouthed slowly.

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

When we arrived at the mall early the next afternoon, Jessica signed to her wide-eyed son, Were here.

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

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

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

His mother gestured, Thats him, straight from the North Pole.

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

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

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

Youre the real Santa, Kevin signed.

Anything else? the rosy-cheeked Santa asked.

Kevin quickly moved his hands to cross his chest.

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

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

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

Thats Love

By Peggy Vincent

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

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

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

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

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

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

My father keeps the pantry stocked with her favorites: Hershey bars, Reeses peanut butter cups, and chocolate-covered graham crackers. He stirs up another batch of rich chocolate sauce for her daily ice cream sundae. He doesnt make fun of her when she puts flashlight batteries in upside down. He warms up the car for her in winter, grills steaks just the way she likes them, fixes homemade biscuits on Sunday mornings, and never misses a chance to tell her shes beautiful.