“One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bull-dozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.” ~ O. Henry’s “Gift of the Magi”
Books, perhaps, run a close second to Christmas music in the way they illuminate the season. And, as with music, (for me) old books make better friends.
It’s funny how fire and words beg more urgently during the busiest season of the year. But a December without a good Temple Bailey tale read while toasting my toes is like a Coke without fizz. I like these sentimental stories probably first published in a ladies journal. Bess Streeter Aldrich’s “Bid the Tapers Twinkle” is a favorite, too.
We’ve read out loud year after year Truman Capote’s “A Christmas Memory,” the story of a young boy and his elderly relative against the world. The pair are armed with fruitcakes, a dog named Queenie, and a keen sense of what Christmas and childhood and family are for. Peter Marshall’s sermons, “Let’s Keep Christmas” and “Invitation by Jesus” are wonderful read out-louds as well.
I dare anyone to read aloud A Bird’s Christmas Carol by Kate Douglas Wiggin. Bringing tears (or ugly sobs) every time, it’s a story of a little girl who shows us all a thing or two about keeping Christmas—even from one’s sickbed. Lloyd C. Douglas’ Home for Christmas is a sweet glimpse of the not-so-distant past. And it wouldn’t be Christmas without Dickens, of course. Far shorter is the “Three Stockings” chapter in Jan Struther’s lovely collection of essays about family life during WWII England, Mrs. Miniver. It’s full of nuggets. Early (too early) Christmas morning, our heroine reflects after being pounced on in bed by children eager to start the festivities,
“There were sounds of movement in the house; they were within measurable distance of the blessed chink of early morning tea. Mrs. Miniver looked towards the window. The dark sky had already paled a little in its frame of cherry-pink chintz. Eternity framed in domesticity. Never mind. One had to frame it in something, to see it at all.”
I do goofy things at Christmastime. I don’t know what possessed me years ago to put on an antebellum-style green satin dress and prance over to the twins’ third-grade classroom to read the Christmas chapter of Little Women. The teacher had asked me to read—she hadn’t bargained for a crazy lady in costume.
I’d had a devil of a time deciding between Alcott’s gem and the Little House chapter that describes Mr. Edwards coming through a snowstorm with Santa gifts. Though life was hard, don’t we long for that prairie simplicity? Laura and Mary are thrilled with receiving odds and ends like a tin drinking cup, a penny and an orange. If only we could be satisfied with such!
Christmastime brings an excuse to do a lot of childish things. Who wouldn’t want to at least try to evoke Boris Karloff when they’re reading to young ears “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas”? Our copy of the Grinch wears our affection with scotch taped pages and a torn cover. That’s why there’s a stack of children’s books that belong to Mama, not offspring. The untouchables sit on a tall empire chest in the den, out of reach of sticky little hands. The pile includes
O. Henry’s “Gift of the Magi” with dream-like illustrations by Lisbeth Zwerger
Clement Clarke Moore’s “Twas the Night Before Christmas” with painting by Tasha Tudor
“Corgiville Christmas” by Tasha Tudor
“The Little Fir Tree” by Margaret Wise Brown
“The Year of the Perfect Christmas Tree” by Gloria Houston with pictures by Barbara Cooney
Isn’t it remarkable how so many of the good Christmas stories are sad? Isn’t that true of the sound of many of the carols as well? Christmas has its melancholy side, and this used to puzzle me. It doesn’t anymore, and today I embrace the pathos. After all, the joyous birth of the One so waited for leads to death on a cross. And then the glorious resurrection. And so it goes with stories—“crosses to crowns,” C.S. Lewis said. If you’re looking, The Story is echoed in the unlikeliest places.
I LOVE your list….. it makes me want to chase down some of these again, as I haven’t read some in a long time. (well… maybe since last Christmas…)
Wishing you many toasty-toes moments this week as the count-down begins in earnest.
Thank you, sweet Brenda!