Christmas
Gifts,
Christmas
Voices

John Allen

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Copyright 2002 by John Allen

All rights reserved. All characters and situations in this book are fictitious. Portions of this book may be quoted for book reviews; otherwise, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher.

Sample Chapters 1 -- 3

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1

It was a perfect life. And it was hard for Eric Sanders to imagine how things could be any better. He had a wonderful family, a comfortable house, a good job. He loved the small town where he lived. The pace of life was slower, the people were friendlier, and the sky was a clearer, purer blue.
Yes, it was a perfect life. And to make things even more perfect--it was Christmastime!

Eric's shoes crunched the crusted snow of the sidewalk as he walked along Main Street. He had taken part of the morning off to do some shopping. The cold temperature frosted his breath, making greetings to fellow townspeople visible as well as audible in the brisk air.

Eric undid the top button of his overcoat. He reached inside, probed a jacket pocket and pulled out a list he had made the night before while everyone was asleep. The list included the customary chocolates for business associates, the usual toys for some special nieces and nephews, a book for his brother, a fishing rod for his father, and a sweater for his mother. But there were also some extra special items on his list.

A new baseball glove for Billy. Eric thought back to a golden spring morning when Billy was seven. He found Billy sprawled out on the front porch, wholly absorbed in watching a potato bug meandering back and forth over the wooden planks.

"Billy."

No reply.

Eric repeated his name a little louder.

"Oh, hi, dad. Potato bugs are neat. Did you know if you touch them they roll up and turn into BBs?"

"Yeah, they're pretty amazing aren't they. Hey, buddy, I've got something I want you to have." Eric held out a worn baseball glove. "This was mine. I know it doesn't look like much. But this is a magic glove. Really. You'll see. The trick is to not think of it as just a glove. When you put it on, let it become part of your hand, part of your body. And here's the magic part. Sometimes I'd be playing a game and a ball would come right out of nowhere. Before I'd even have time to think about it, my glove would pull my hand up to catch the ball."

"Is that really true, dad?"

"Yeah, but before it can happen you've really got to practice a lot."

For two years Billy anxiously waited for the magic to happen.
"Why won't the glove work magic for me, dad?"

"It will, son. But you've just got to keep practicing."

Then it finally happened. Eric had just returned from a seminar in Boston. Billy rushed up to him, sputtering, "Dad, dad! It happened. The glove. It is magic."

"That's great, Billy. Let's go in and you can tell me all about it."

Billy proudly recounted how he had made a crucial catch, and how the glove had literally pulled his hand up to the ball. And he made a solemn vow to his dad. "Someday I'm going to play in the world series!"

Eric smiled as he thought back to that special memory. For four years the venerable glove had served Billy well. But now it was time to retire the battered old glove-to let Billy break in a new one and endow it with a special magic all its own.

A train set for Michelle. Not the usual gift for a nine-year-old girl, but then Michelle wasn't your usual nine-year-old girl. She considered dolls for sissies. Last Christmas she got a junior carpenter's set. During the past year she had made a bird house, a dog house (though they had no dog), a crooked bench and a crooked chair. And boxes. Boxes of all sizes. Boxes for toys, boxes for shoes, and boxes for holding other boxes.

One chilly autumn day after work, Eric noticed Michelle leaning against the backyard fence. Something was different here. What struck Eric was that Michelle-usually busy building something, or climbing something, or chasing something-was nearly motionless. As he approached her, he could see that she was looking past the large open field, intently staring off into the distance.

"What are you doing, Sis?"

"Just waiting for the train to come by..." She looked up at Eric. "Dad? Do you think I could build a train?"

"Michelle, you can do anything you put your mind to."

"Well, someday I'm going to build a train."

At least now you won't have to wait outside in the cold to see a train, Sis, thought Eric as he continued down Main Street.

And an easel and art supplies for Leslie. She had often told Eric about how she loved to paint back in high school. Eric had not known her then, but he had seen some of her paintings-paintings of mountains and horses and kittens and soft pastels of children.

"Why don't you take up painting again? You were really good," he once told her.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe I'll surprise you and start painting again someday," she said.

"So why did you stop painting, anyway?"

"Oh, I don't know. I had big dreams. But I made the mistake of telling my mother about them. I told her that someday I was going to be a famous painter, and she laughed at me. Just her laughing at me was enough to make me lose interest in painting altogether."

I won't laugh at you, Les, thought Eric as he crossed the street over to Mendelsohn's Hardware Store. Leslie had planned to meet Eric at Mendelsohn's to help with the shopping, but she woke up with a bad cold. "I'm determined to get better by Christmas," she said. "Why don't you go shopping yourself. I'll stay home and recuperate."

Mr. Mendelsohn normally only stocked the usual hammers and saws and screws and nails throughout the year. But at Christmastime he always got in a big shipment of toys and gift items.

As Eric surveyed a wall of toys, Mr. Mendelsohn came up to him from behind. "May I help you, Mr. Sanders?"

"Oh, hi, Mr. Mendelsohn. I hope so. Do you have any baseball gloves?"
"Baseball gloves I got. The ones I got left are kind of large. But all you do is stuff a little tissue paper up into the glove and it should fit just right for a boy. Here, what do you think?"

Eric examined the glove. "There's just one thing," said Eric with a twinkle in his eye. "It has to be a magic glove."

"A magic glove, you say. In that case, this-" he handed Eric another identical glove "-is the glove you want. One hundred per cent guaranteed magic!" Mendelsohn beamed.

"Great."

"Is there anything else you need?"

"Do you have any train sets?"

"Any particular scale?"

"Not really. Whatever you think a nine-year-old girl would like."

"Probably the larger scale. I think I've got one in back. Let me go check; I'll be right back."
While he waited, Eric picked out some toys for his nieces and nephews. A few minutes later Mendelsohn returned with a large box. "You're in luck, Mr. Sanders. This is my last train set."
"Great. I'll take it."
"Is there anything else?"
"You don't carry art supplies, do you?"
"No. For stuff like that you go to Kessler's-they usually stock art supplies."

On his way to Kessler's Office Equipment, Eric bought a fishing pole at Sommerby's Sports and chocolates at Mrs. Tate's Homemade Candies. Eric looked at his watch. The morning was nearly half gone. He decided he'd have to get his brother's book and his mother's sweater tomorrow.
From the street, Eric could see Mr. Kessler in the storefront window working on a Christmas display.

"I'm no good at this," complained Kessler as Eric entered the store. A couple of green plastic garlands entwined Kessler's arms and legs like a pair of benign boa constrictors. "Mrs. Kessler's the one who usually does this, but she's down with the flu."

"Yeah, my wife's sick too with a cold. And three people in our office are out sick."

"There's always a lot of illness this time of year. Well, let me know if there's anything I can help you with."

"Actually, I wanted to look at your art supplies."

Kessler looked happy for an excuse to disentangle himself from the garlands. He led Eric to a corner of the store and helped him pick out paints, brushes, and a pallet.

"Will that do it for you, Mr. Sanders?"

"Do you have any easels?"

"Sure. Taking up painting are you, Mr. Sanders?"

"No, it's for my wife."

"Let's see what you think about this." Mr. Kessler set up an easel.

Eric gripped it near the top. It wobbled. He noticed the easel was made of particle board.

"Hot dog wood"-that's what Leslie would call it. When they were first married, Eric bought an inexpensive bookcase. The bookcase displayed in the store looked fine. But they were sold unassembled, and as Eric laid out the pieces on the front room floor, parts of the bookcase, hidden when put together, were exposed. You could see that beneath the thin wood finish veneer, the bookcase was actually made of cheap particle board. When Leslie entered the room she said, teasingly, "So, you got us a bookcase made of hot dog wood."

"Hot dog wood?" said Eric, bewildered.

Leslie ran a finger across the lumpy edge of a section of particle board. "Yeah, hot dog wood. Because you really don't know what's in it, do you?"

Eric shifted his focus from the easel to Mr. Kessler and asked, "Do you have any other easels?"

"There's this. It's more expensive, but it's a lot nicer."
The easel was made of solid oak. Mr. Kessler set it up. Eric tested it to see if it wobbled. It didn't. "I'll take this Mr. Kessler."
The easel barely fit into Eric's already crowded car trunk. He looked at his watch. 11:45. He decided to go back to the office for a half hour to organize his afternoon, and then go home for a quick lunch.

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2

Eric opened the front door and paused in the living room to look at the Christmas tree. There was already a colorful pile of gifts from friends and relatives forming around the base of the tree. The packages were metallic green and crimson and gold and silver. And the shimmering brightness of the packages seemed to force the tree itself to compete for attention.
Eric found Leslie in her robe talking on the hall phone.
"Okay... We'll be there then... all right... Okay. See ya." Leslie put down the phone.

Eric kissed her and asked, "Who was that?"

Leslie pulled a face. "Oh, it was Janice Thompson. Apparently she remembers me promising I'd sing in the Christmas program. And she wants the children to sing in the children's choir."

"You told her you were sick, didn't you?"

"Yes, but you know how she is. She won't take no for an answer. And the woman is shrewd. She appeals to your ego. 'You and your lovely children sang so wonderfully in last year's program that we simply couldn't dream of putting it on without you this year.' It was the part about the 'lovely children' that got to me. Anyway, she wants me and the kids to come to a practice tonight. She said it would just be a short practice and that getting a little fresh air would probably do me good. Like I said, the woman won't take no for an answer."

"Well, that certainly sounds like Janice all right." Then Eric added, as one conspirator to another, "You know, if you want, I could call her later and tell her that I forbid you to leave your sick bed."
"I might just take you up on your offer. Come on in the kitchen. I made some hot soup."

Eric sat at the table.

"I got a lot of shopping done this morning," he said.
"What did you get?"

"I got Michelle a train set, and a baseball glove for Billy, and something for you."

"Something for me?" she said brightly, launching into what had become an annual routine for them. "Is it edible?"
"No comment."

"Is it something you wear?"

"No comment."

"Just tell me how big is it. Can you hold it in your hand?" She suddenly smiled mischievously. "Or wear it on your hand?" she asked, waving a hand with fingers outspread.

"Look, all I'll say is this: it's edible, it's also flammable, and it glows in the dark."

"Oh, you didn't!" She exclaimed with mock excitement. "Are you saying you got me my favorites? Flaming, phosphorescent chocolate covered cherries!"

"Oh, good guess, Les, but you're way off," Eric deadpanned.

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3

As it turned out, Leslie and the kids went to the choir practice. After dinner, Eric remembered the gifts in the trunk and while everyone was busy getting ready for the practice-brushing hair, washing faces, and changing clothes-Eric stealthily maneuvered the gifts up to the attic. The attic, during Christmastime, was sacrosanct. Those in the family who were under thirty or female were forbidden to enter it. A somewhat similar rule applied to the basement, prohibiting entrance to family members under thirty or male.

Eric sat cross-legged in the middle of the attic floor. The baseball glove and the train set had been easy to wrap. But he knew the easel was going to be a challenge. He looked at his watch. If Janice Thompson was true to her word, the practice should be ending right about now.
He regarded the easel and realized that he was going to need more wrapping paper. He stood up, stretched and went downstairs to the closet where they kept the wrapping paper.

Armed with a full roll of paper, Eric faced the easel, determined to do a first-rate job of wrapping it. Soon after he began, however, he realized that he was going to have to settle for a less-than-perfect job. He looked at what he had done so far and winced: the paper was loose-fitting with awkward folds. Okay, so it doesn't have to be beautiful, just as long as it's functional, mused Eric.

A baseball glove, train set,and an easel--all ordinary gifts. But the story Christmas Gifts, Christmas Voices chronicles how these seemingly ordinary gifts become extraordinary in the lives of three people.

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