英语故事2

In the dining room of my grandfather's house stood a massive grandfather clock. Meals in that dining room were a time for four generations to become one. The table was always spread with food from wonderful family recipes all containing love as the main ingredient. And always that grandfather clock stood like a trusted old family friend, watching over the laughter and story swapping and gentle kidding that were a part of our lives.
As a child, the old clock fascinated me. I watched and listened to it during meals. I marveled at how at different times of the day, that clock would chime three times, six times or more, with a wonderful resonant sound that echoed throughout the house. I found the clock comforting. Familiar. Year after year, the clock chimed, a part of my memories, a part of my heart.

Even more wonderful to me was my grandfather's ritual. He meticulously wound that clock with a special key each day. That key was magic to me. It kept our family's magnificent clock ticking and chiming, a part of every holiday and every tradition, as solid as the wood from which it was made. I remember watching as my grand-father took the key from his pocket and opened the hidden door in the massive old clock. He inserted the key and wound-not too much, never overwind, he'd tell me solemnly. Nor too little. He never let that clock wind down and stop. When we grandkids got a little older, he showed us how to open the door to the grandfather clock and let us each take a turn winding the key. I remember the first time I did, I trembled with anticipation. To be part of this family ritual was sacred.

After my beloved grandfather died, it was several days after the funeral before I remembered the clock!

"Mama! The clock! We've let it wind down."

The tears flowed freely when I entered the dining room. The clock stood forlornly quiet. As quiet as the funeral parlor had been. Hushed. The clock even seemed smaller. Not quite as magnificent without my grandfather's special touch. I couldn't bear to look at it.

Sometime later, years later, my grandmother gave me the clock and the key. The old house was quiet. No bowls clanging, no laughter over the dinner table, no ticking or chiming of the clock-all was still. The hands on the clock were frozen, a reminder of time slipping away, stopped at the precise moment when my grandfather had ceased winding it. I took the key in my shaking hand and opened the clock door. All of a sudden, I was a child again, watching my grandfather with his silver-white hair and twinkling blue eyes. He was there, winking at me, at the secret of the clock's magic, at the key that held so much power. I stood, lost in the moment for a long time. Then slowly, reverently, I inserted the


key and wound the clock. It sprang to life. Tick-tock, tick-tock, life and chimes were breathed into the dining room, into the house and into my heart. In the movement of the hands of the clock, my grandfather lived again.



In prison, h

olidays are the worst. Birthdays, anniversaries, Thanksgiving, Christmas, even Valentine's Day can be a "bummer." It's difficult and painful to be away from those we love-to be left out of the celebrations and the memory making. Many times, we feel a little forgotten or overlooked.

Birthdays in prison come and go without the comfort of cake with candles and the magic of blowing them out. Christmas mornings are without a fancy tree or presents. Thanksgivings are hard to feel thankful for, with dinner served on a cold, metal cafeteria tray.

My first Thanksgiving in prison, I refused to eat. My first birthday I spent alternating between rage and feeling more sorry for myself than ever before. On Christmas, I wouldn't even get out of bed. I stayed under the covers to hide the tears I cried all day.

So holidays in here are the worst-at least I thought hey were until I realized a few things. Once I stripped away all the commercialism and hype, I saw what holidays were all about. They're elaborate excuses we use to take a look at our lives, our successes and failures, and to spend quality time with our loved ones.

In here or out there, we can still take stock of ourselves and make plans, dream dreams, examine our behavior to see what we like and don't like. Even in here, we have the power to change what falls short of our ideal self?image.

Not being able to spend quality time with those we love is a little tougher-until we realize that the people we care for are always with us-in our hearts and minds. And just as they're with us, we are with them in spirit.

The days we can't spend together physically, we can still take time to remember them fondly… making phone calls, sending cards or letters helps both us and our loved ones.

Other people don't make us happy. Special places and people might help the mood, but the celebration and love comes from within. The challenge is to find it there-a state of mind, a positive attitude. It's easy to use a holiday as an excuse to be sad or edgy. I've been there. Our challenge is to celebrate every day as special. Life is a precious gift, whether we're in jail or not.

I'm planning a celebration every day this year-a celebration of life. You're invited. Happy Holidays! RSVP.


His name was Bill. He had wild hair, wore a T-shirt with holes in it, blue jeans and no shoes. In the entire time I knew him I never once saw Bill wear a pair of shoes. Rain, sleet or snow, Bill was barefoot. This was literally his wardrobe for his whole four years of college.

He was brilliant and looked like he was always pondering the esoteric. He became a Christian while attending college. Across the street from the campus was a church full of well-dressed, middle-class people. They wanted to develop a ministry to the college students, but they were not sure how to go about it.

One day, Bill decided to worship there. He walked into the church, complete with his wild hair, T-shirt, blue jeans and bare feet. Th

e church was completely packed, and the service had already begun. Bill started down the aisle to find a place to sit. By now the people were looking a bit uncomfortable, but no one said anything.

As Bill moved closer and closer to the pulpit, he realized there were no empty seats. So he squatted and sat down on the carpet right up front. (Although such behavior would have been perfectly acceptable at the college fellowship, this was a scenario this particular congregation had never witnessed before!) By now, the people seemed uptight, and the tension in the air was thickening.

Right about the time Bill took his “seat,” a deacon began slowly making his way down the aisle from the back of the sanctuary. The deacon was in his eighties, had silver gray hair, a three-piece suit and a pocket watch. He was a godly man -- very elegant, dignified and courtly. He walked with a cane and, as he neared the boy, church members thought, “You can’t blame him for what he’s going to do. How can you expect a man of his age and background to understand some college kid on the floor?”

It took a long time for the man to reach the boy. The church was utterly silent except for the clicking of his cane. You couldn’t even hear anyone breathing. All eyes were on the deacon.

But then they saw the elderly man drop his cane on the floor. With great difficulty, he sat down on the floor next to Bill and worshipped with him. Everyone in the congregation choked up with emotion. When the minister gained control, he told the people, “What I am about to preach, you will never remember. What you’ve just seen, you will never forget.”




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This story took place several years ago, when our boys were about eight years old. It was the first game of the season, and the first game in which the boys began pitching. I went out to discuss ground rules with the umpire and realized that is was also the first year that the boys could steal bases. Unfortunately, we had not gone over this in practice. So I hurried back to the dugout, gathered my players and proceeded to go over the rules. As I got to the subject of stealing bases, I announced enthusiastically, "And this year we get to steal!" The news caused the boys to erupt into yelling and cheering. Their response left me thinking positively that this might all work out okay after all. Then the cheers died down, and as our team was about to take the field, one player loudly exclaimed, "Steal what?!" I let out a groan as I realized that the question had come from my son!

The crayoned picture shows a first-grade boy with shoebox arms, stovepipe legs and tears squirting like melon seeds. The carefully printed caption reads, "I am so sad." It is my son Brendan's drawing-journal entry for September 19. Brendan cried his first day of school, dissolving at his classroom door like a human bouillon cube. The classroom jiggled with small faces, wet-combed hair, whit

e Nikes and new backpacks. Something furry scuttled around in a big wire cage. Garden flowers rested on Mrs. Phillips's desk. Mrs. Phillips has halo status at our school. She is a kind, soft-spoken master of the six-year-old mind. But even she could not coax Brendan to a seat. Most kids sat eagerly awaiting Dick and Jane and two plus two. Not my Brendan. His eyes streamed, his nose ran and he clung to me like a snail on a strawberry. I plucked him off and escaped.
It wasn't that Brendan didn't like school. He was the kid at the preschool Christmas concert who knew everyone's part and who performed "Jingle Bells" with operatic passion. Brendan just didn't like being apart from me. We'd had some good times, he and I, in those preschool years. We played at the pool. We skated on quiet morning ice. We sampled half the treat tray at weekly neighbourhood coffee parties. Our time together wasn't exactly material for a picture book, but it was time together. And time moves differently for a child. Now in Grade 1, Brendan was faced with five hours of wondering what I was doing with my day. Brendan always came home for lunch, the only one of his class not to eat at his desk. But once home, fed and hugged, a far-away look of longing would crease his gentle brow--he wanted to go back to school to play! So I walked him back, waited with him until he spotted someone he knew, then left. He told me once that he watched me until he couldn't see me anymore, so I always walked fast and never looked back. One day when I took Brendan back after lunch, he spied a friend, kissed me goodbye, and scampered right off. I went, feeling pleased for him, celebrating his new independence, his entry into the first-grade social loop. And I felt pleased for myself, a sense of well-being and accomplishment that I, too, had entered the mystic circle of parents whose children separated easily.

Then--I don't know why--I glanced back. And there he was. The playground buzzed all around him, kids everywhere, and he stood, his chin tucked close, his body held small, his face intent but not sad, blowing me kisses. So brave, so unashamed, so completely loving, Brendan was watching me go.

No book on mothering could have prepared me for that quick, raw glimpse into my child's soul. My mind leaped 15 years ahead to him packing boxes and his dog grown old and him saying, "Dry up, Mom. It's not like I'm leaving the country." In my mind I tore up the card every mother signs saying she'll let her child go when he's ready. I looked


at my Brendan, his shirt tucked in, every button done up, his toes just turned in a bit, and I though, "OK, you're six for me forever. Just try to grow up, I dare you." With a smile I had to really dig for, I blew him a kiss, turned and walked away.


teacher in New York decided to honor each of her seniors in high school by telling them the difference they each made. Using a process developed by Helice Bridges of Del Mar, California, she called each s

tudent to the front of the class, one at a time. First she told them how the student made a difference to her and the class. Then she presented each of them with a blue ribbon imprinted with gold letters which read, "Who I Am Makes a Difference."
Afterwards the teacher decided to do a class project to see what kind of impact recognition would have on a community. She gave each of the students three I more ribbons and instructed them to go out and spread this acknowledgment ceremony. Then they were to follow up on the results, see who honored whom and report back to the class in about a week.

One of the boys in the class went to a junior executive in a nearby company and honored him for helping him with his career planning. He gave him a blue ribbon and put it on his shirt. Then he gave him two extra ribbons, and said, "We're doing a class project on recognition, and we'd like you to go out, find somebody to honor, give them a blue ribbon, then give them the extra blue ribbon so they can acknowledge a third person to keep this acknowledgment ceremony going. Then please report back to me and tell me what happened."

Later that day the junior executive went in to see his boss, who had been noted, by the way, as being kind of a grouchy fellow. He sat his boss down and he told him that he deeply admired him for being a creative genius. The boss seemed very surprised. The junior executive asked him if he would accept the gift of the blue ribbon and would he give him permission to put it on him. His surprised boss said, "Well, sure."

The junior executive took the blue ribbon and placed it right on his boss's jacket above his heart. As he gave him the last extra ribbon, he said, "Would you do me a favor? Would you take this extra ribbon and pass it on by honoring somebody else? The young boy who first gave me the ribbons is doing a project in school and we want to keep this recognition ceremony going and find out how it affects people."

That night the boss came home to his 14-year-old son and sat him down. He said, "The most incredible thing happened to me today. I was in my office and one of the junior executives came in and told me he admired me and gave me a blue ribbon for being a creative genius. Imagine. He thinks I'm a creative genius. Then he put this blue ribbon that says 'Who I Am Makes A Difference' on my jacket above my heart. He gave me an extra ribbon and asked me to find somebody else to honor. As I was driving home tonight, I started thinking


about whom I would honor with this ribbon and I thought about you. I want to honor you.

"My Days are really hectic and when I come home I don't pay a lot of attention to you. Sometimes I scream at you for not getting good enough grades in school and for your bedroom being a mess, but somehow tonight, I just wanted to sit here and well, just let you know that you do make a difference to me. Besides your mother, you are the most important person in my life. You're a great kid and I

love you!"

The startled boy started to sob and sob, and he couldn't stop crying. His whole body shook. He looked up at his father and said through his tears, "I was planning on committing suicide tomorrow, Dad, because I didn't think you loved me. Now I don't need to."

Forty-three years seems like a long time to remember the name of a mere acquaintance. I have duly forgotten the name of an old lady who was a customer on my paper route when I was a twelve-year-old boy in Marinette, Wisconsin back in 1954. Yet it seems like just yesterday that she taught me a lesson in forgiveness that I can only hope to pass on to someone else someday.

On a mindless Saturday afternoon, a friend and I were throwing rocks onto the roof of the old lady’s house from a secluded spot in her backyard. The object of our play was to observe how the rocks changed to missiles as they rolled to the roof’s edge and shot out into the yard like comets falling from the sky.

I found myself a perfectly smooth rock and sent it for a ride. The stone was too smooth, however, so it slipped from my hand as I let it go and headed straight for a small window on the old lady’s back porch. At the sound of fractured glass, we took off from the old lady’s yard faster than any of our missiles flew off her roof.

I was too scared about getting caught that first night to be concerned about the old lady with the broken porch window. However, a few days later, when I was sure that I hadn’t been discovered, I started to feel guilty for her misfortune. She still greeted me with a smile each day when I gave her the paper, but I was no longer able to act comfortable in her presence.

I made up my mind that I would save my paper delivery money, and in three weeks I had the seven dollars that I calculated would cover the cost of her window. I put the money in an envelope with a note explaining that I was sorry for breaking her window and hoped that the seven dollars would cover the cost for repairing it.

I waited until it was dark, snuck up to the old lady’s house, and put the envelope of retribution through the letter slot in her door. My soul felt redeemed and I couldn’t wait for the freedom of, once again, looking straight into the old lady’s eyes.

The next day, I handed the old lady her paper and was able to return the warm smile that I was receiving from her. She thanked me for the paper and said, “Here, I have something for you.” It was a bag of cookies. I thanked her and proceeded to eat the cookies as I continued my route.

After several cookies, I felt an envelope and pulled it out of the bag. When I opened the envelope, I was stunned. Inside was the seven dollars and a short note that said, “I’m proud of you.”


When I was growing up, my father always stopped what he was doing and listened while I'd breathlessly fill him in on my day. For him, no subject was off-limits. When I was a lanky and awkward 13, Dad coached me on how to stand and w

alk like a lady. At 17 and madly in love, I sought his advice on pursuing a new student at school. “Keep the conversation neutral,” he counseled. “And ask him about his car.”

I followed his suggestions and gave him daily progress reports: “Terry walked me to my locker!” Guess what? Terry held my hand!” Dad! He asked me out!” Terry and I went steady for over a year, and soon Dad was joking, “I can tell you how to get a man; the hard part is getting rid of him.”

By the time I graduated from college, I was ready to spread my wings. I got a job teaching special education at a school in Coachella, California, a desert town about 170 miles from home. It was no dream job. Low-income housing across the street from the school was a haven for drug users. Street gangs hung around the school after dark. Many of my charges, emotionally disturbed 10-to 14-year-old boys, had been arrested for shoplifting, car theft or arson.

“Be careful,” Dad warned me during one of my frequent weekend visits home. He was concerned about my living alone, but I was 23, enthusiastic and naive, and I needed to be on my own. Besides, teaching jobs were tight in 1974, and I felt lucky to have one.

“Don't worry,” I reassured him, as I loaded up the car to start my trip back to the desert and my job.

Several evenings later I stayed after school to rearrange my classroom. Finished, I turned out the light and closed the door. Then I headed toward the gate. It was locked! I looked around. Everyone - teachers, custodians, secretaries - had gone home and, not realizing I was still there, stranded me on the school grounds. I glanced at my watch -- it was almost 6 p.m. I had been so engrossed in my work that I hadn't noticed the time.

After checking all the exits, I found just enough room to squeeze under a gate in the rear of the school. I pushed my purse through first, lay on my back and slowly edged through.

I retrieved my purse and walked toward my car, parked in a field behind the building. Eerie shadows fell across the schoolyard.

Suddenly, I heard voices. I glanced around and saw at least eight high-school-age boys following me. They were half a block away. Even in the near darkness I could see they were wearing gang insignia.

“Hey!” one called out. “You a teacher?”

“Nah, she's too young -- must be an aide!” another said.

As I walked faster, they continued taunting me. “Hey! She's kinda cute!”

Quickening my pace, I reached into my shoulder bag to get my key ring. If I have the keys


in my hands, I thought, I can unlock the car and get in before...My heart was pounding.

Frantically, I felt all over the inside of my handbag. But the key ring wasn't there!

“Hey! Let's get the lady!” one boy shouted.

Dear Lord, please help me, I prayed silently. Suddenly, my fingers wrapped around a loose key in my purse. I didn't even know if it was for my car, but I took it out and clutched it firmly.

I

jogged across the grass to my car and tried the key. It worked! I opened the door, slid in and locked it -- just as the teenagers surrounded the car, kicking the sides and banging on the roof. Trembling, I started the engine and drove away.

Later, some teachers went back to the school with me. With flashlights, we found the key ring on the ground by the gate, where it had fallen as I slid through.

When I returned to my apartment, the phone was ringing. It was Dad. I didn't tell him about my ordeal; I didn't want to worry him.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you!” he said. “I had an extra car key made and slipped it into your pocketbook -- just in case you ever need it.”

Today, I keep that key in my dresser drawer and treasure it. Whenever I hold it in my hand, I am reminded of all the wonderful things Dad has done for me over the years. I realize that, although he is now 68 and I am 40, I still look to him for wisdom, guidance and reassurance. Most of all, I marvel at the fact that his thoughtful gesture of making the extra key may have saved my life. And I understand how a simple act of love can make extraordinary things happen.


Harry is every coach's dream kid: He shows up for every practice early, stays late and is enthusiastic. Harry is also every coach's nightmare: He has neither the instinct nor the physical talent for the game.




I stepped in as a stand-in coach for my son's Little League team when the regular coach got married. Somehow he thought a honeymoon took precedence over next Tuesday's game. How can you blame him? Our team hadn't won in more than two years.




As I accepted the fill-in spot, I promised myself that I would show no disappointment if we lost. That was the least I could do. The best I could do was give a good heart to the effort.




I met Harry at the first practice. A small, thin, awkward kid his best throw was about five feet, which made the choice of fielding position difficult. And he was scared. Every time he came to bat, he would glance at the pitcher, lean the bat on his shoulder, close his eyes and wait until the misery of three pitches was over. Then he'd trudge back to the dugout. It was painful to watch.




I met Harry before Tuesday's game, took him aside and worked with him on keeping his eyes open. He tried, but it's tough to overcome the habit of fear. We were about to play a team that had beat us 22-1 the last time. It didn't seem a fortunate moment for a breakthrough. Then I thought, Why not?




I went to the dugout, got a different bat and returned to our practice area. "Harry," I said, "I want you to use this bat. It's the one for you. It's a magic bat. All you have to do is swing and it will hit the ball."




Harry seemed skeptical, but he said he would try. I hoped I wasn't complicating an already tough problem for Harry, but I wanted to try to help.




Our team was trailing from the first inning. No surprise in that, but we had some loyal

parents in the stands to give constant encouragement to the kids.




On Harry's first at bat, I noticed he wasn't using his special bat, but I didn't step in. He struck out, as usual, and I decided to let it ride.




We were able to score from time to time. In the last inning, we were behind by only three runs. I was thinking about a "respectable outcome" speech to give the kids while packing up the gear. As the home team, we were last up. We alternated for five batters between singles with players safely on base and strikeouts. We had bases loaded and two outs. Only then did I notice that Harry was our last chance.




Surveying the field from my spot by first base, I saw the left fielder sprawl on the grass as Harry came from the dugout. He obviously expected no action. The right fielder was bothering some butterfly that was flitting about. The shortstop had moved well in, I suppose anticipati


ng the possibility of a miraculous bunt. Clearly, the opposing players were already tasting the double-scoop ice cream cones they would go for after the victory.




Harry limped up to the batter's box. I noticed he had his usual bat. I called a time out, ran up to him and whispered, "Harry, this is the time for the magic bat. Give it a try. Just keep your eyes open and swing."




He looked at me in disbelief, but he said he'd try. He walked off for the special bat as I trotted back to first base.




First pitch, strike one. Harry didn't swing, but he kept his eyes open. I pumped my fist and gave it a little swing, encouraging him to swing. He smiled, got into his awkward stance and waited. He swung, eyes open, but missed. Strike two. That was the first real swing Harry had ever taken. Who cared if we won the game? I considered Harry a winner already.




The other coach yelled to his pitcher, "Fire one past him and end this thing!" I grimaced.




The pitcher threw a straight fastball and Harry swung. The magic bat did its trick. It found the ball, which flew over the shortstop's head.




Pandemonium erupted in the stands, in the dugouts, on the bases. I was cheering Harry to run to first as fast as he could. It seemed like an eternity. The left fielder called to the center fielder to get it. "You're closer!




I kept cheering the runners. We had one in at home and three guys pouring it on from first to second, second to third, third to home. The second baseman yelled for the center fielder to get the ball to him. Excitedly, he obeyed, but the ball skipped across the grass and passed by the second baseman toward the right-field line. My job as coach was simple at this point. "Run, guys, run," I yelled.




Another guy scored. By this time, the entire team had joined the cheering, "Go, Harry, go Harry!" This was surely the longest distance Harry had ever run. He was panting as he headed for third and another guy crossed home. The right fielder's throw was critical, and it was pretty good,

but the third baseman muffed it. The ball scooted past him out of play. The rule: one base on an overthrow that goes out of play. Harry, exhausted, kept the push on as best he could.




About then, the first cry of a Grand Slam!" hit the air. Everyone joined in. When Harry reached home plate, about to collapse, his teammates lifted him as high as they could and chanted, "Harry, Harry, Harry!"




I ran over to the team to hug the proudest kid in America. Tears streaming, Harry looked up at me and said, "The bat, Coach, the bat."




I smiled and said, "No, Harry. It was you who hit the ball, not the bat."


My senior year of high school was an extremely hectic one, to say the least. If I wasn’t studying and worrying about my grades, I was juggling multiple extracurricular activities or attempting to make sense of my plans for college. It seemed as if my life had turned into one crazy cloud of confusion and I was stumbling around blindly, hoping to find some sort of direction.

Finally, as senior year began to wind down, I got a part-time job working at the local coffee shop. I had figured that the job would be easy and, for the most part, stress-free. I pictured myself pouring the best gourmet coffees, making delicious doughnuts, and becoming close friends with the regular customers.

What I hadn’t counted on were the people with enormous orders who chose to use the drive-thru window, or the women who felt that the coffee was much too creamy, or the men who wanted their iced coffees remade again and again until they reached a certain level of perfection. There were moments when I was exasperated with the human race as a whole, simply because I couldn’t seem to please anyone. There was always too much sugar, too little ice, and not enough skim milk. Nevertheless, I kept at it.

One miserable rainy day, one of my regular customers came in looking depressed and defeated. My co-worker and I asked what the problem was and if we could help, but the customer wouldn’t reveal any details. He just said he felt like crawling into bed, pulling the sheets up over his head, and staying there for a few years. I knew exactly how he felt.

Before he left, I handed him a bag along with his iced coffee. He looked at me questioningly because he hadn’t ordered anything but the coffee. He opened the bag and saw that I had given him his favorite type of doughnut.

“It’s on me,” I told him. “Have a nice day.”

He smiled and thanked me before turning around and heading back out into the rain.

The next day was a horrible one. The rain was still spilling down from the sky in huge buckets and everyone in my town seemed to be using the drive-thru window because no one wanted to brave the black skies or the thunder and lightning.

I spent my afternoon hanging out the window, handing people their orders and waiting as they slowly counted their pennies. I tried to smile as the customers complained about the weather, but it

was difficult to smile as they sat in their temperature-controlled cars with the windows rolled up, while I dealt with huge droplets of water hanging from my visor, a shirt that was thoroughly soaked around the collar, and an air conditioner that blasted out cold air despite the fact that it was only sixty-seven degrees outside. On top of that, no one felt like tipping that day. Every time I looked into our tip jar, with its small amount of pennies, I grew more depressed.

Around seven o’c


lock that evening, however, my day took a turn for the better. I was in the middle of making another pot of vanilla hazelnut decaf when the customer from the day before drove up to the window. But instead of ordering anything, he handed me a single pink rose and a little note. He said that not too many people take the time to care about others and he was glad there were still people like me in the world. I was speechless and very touched; I hadn't thought that I had done anything incredible. After a moment, I came to my senses and thanked him. He told me I was welcome and with a friendly wave he drove away.

I waited until I saw his Jeep exit the parking lot, then I ran to the back of the shop and read the note. It read:

Christine,

Thanks for being so sweet, kind and thoughtful yesterday. I was sincerely touched by you. It is so nice to meet someone that’s genuinely nice, warm and sensitive and unselfish. Please don’t change your ways because I truly believe that you will excel. Have a great day! Hank

As time went on, I did come across more complaining customers. But anytime I felt depressed or just plain sick of coffee, I thought of Hank and his kindness. Then I would smile, hold my head up high, clear my throat and ask politely, “How can I help you?”


The year I moved to Alaska, I lived with my husband's family while he stayed in Montana and worked. I had never been around a huge family before, and he was the oldest of ten children, most of them married with kids of their own. They all lived within a forty-mile radius and used any excuse for a family gathering.

No one had any money. Kids were small; families were young and many of the parents worked more than one job just to pay the bills.

But that first year, the Christmas of 1981, they showed me what the giving-thing was all about.

I had only been there for about six months and was still in awe of the strength and power the love in a big family can generate. What they did that year was long-standing tradition for them, but I had never seen anything like it.

Two days before Christmas, the entire family gathered at Mom's house. Each couple threw $100 into a pot; singles tossed in $50 if they could, kids pitched in allowances or babysitting money.

We had "a family." A name and address from the church, we knew the situation, dad's been out of work, the baby's been sick, mom didn't want to put up a Christmas tree because she didn't want the children to be disappoin

ted when Santa didn't come. The Power Company had shut the gas off once, but the church had paid the bill.

First we went to the grocery store. Ten adults, a dozen or more kids, we took the store by storm. Stomping snow off our boots and shedding hats and gloves, we worked up and down the aisles, five carts, soon full of turkey, dressing, potatoes, pies, and Christmas candy. Someone thought of simple stuff, how about toilet paper? Did anyone get butter? What about orange juice and eggs for breakfast?

Then the kids got to work. I watched, amazed, as a six-year-old gave up her $2.00 allowance so another little girl could have new mittens. I saw a ten-year-old's eyes light up when he found the saber light-sword he'd wanted, and then put it in the cart for a little boy he didn't even know. A warm, fuzzy blanket for the baby was my four-year-old nephew's choice.

Back to Mom's to wrap the gifts. There were two separate boxes of hand-me-down clothes, sized, pressed and folded. Soon 10 grocery-store boxes, overflowing with holiday food, joined them.

The kids created an assembly line to wrap gifts, big gifts, little gifts, special mugs and warm driving gloves. Paper and ribbon was everywhere. Laughter was woven in and out of satiny bows; love was taped to every tag.

Colorful plastic sleds were shoved in the back of the Bronco and stashed in the little available trunk space of warm cars idling in the sub-zero Christmas chill. The moon was out and the trees were covered with frost, glittering like a snow globe in a happy child's hand.

The favorite uncle got to play Santa. Dressed in a dapper red suit, he led the caravan to the trailer stuck back in the scrubby alder woods. Once we had to stop because the ruts in the snow got too deep and someone's car bottomed out. We transferred gifts and people, and carried on.

There were no other houses around the frosty mobile home, but the lights were on and a dog on a long rope barked from the wooden porch when we pulled up. Most of us stayed out on the main road, but we loaded the boxes on the sleds, tied them together and sent "Santa" and a few of the older kids to the door. We hung back and sang "Silent Night."

Santa and his helpers knocked and went right in when the door opened. The young family had, after all, decided to put up a tree, and they were stringing lights when we got there. They stood, stunned, as the Santa's helpers unloaded box after box, piled gifts upon gifts. It wasn't long before the tree was dwarfed by a mountain of presents.

Santa said the mom didn't start crying until she pulled the wool coat out of the clothing box. She only said, "Where did you come from?" and then, softly, "Thank you, so much."

With the standard "Ho Ho Ho", and lots of "Merry Christmases!" the delivery crew sprinted back to the car.

We sang one last verse of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" jumped in our magic sleighs and disappeared into the night.



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