The Christmas Letters Read online

  The Christmas Letters

  Center Street Edition

  Copyright © 2000, 2006 by Bret Nicholaus

  All rights reserved.

  Center Street

  Hachette Book Group

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  First eBook Edition: October 2006

  Design by Koechel Peterson and Associates, Inc, Minneapolis, Minnesota

  ISBN: 978-1-599-95241-3

  Contents

  The Christmas Letters

  Also by Bret Nicholaus

  Lemonade Lessons for Life: Refreshing Reminders for Happier Living

  Also by Bret Nicholaus with Paul Lowrie

  Hooray for Minnesota Winters!:

  For Minnesotans (and those who wish they were) of All Ages

  Choose the Farthest Star:

  Words of Wisdom for Success Beyond Your Dreams

  Kidchat Too!: All New Questions to Fuel Young Minds and Mouths

  Think Good Thoughts, Do Good Things:

  Inspiring Quotations and Suggestions for Life

  Kidchat: Questions to Fuel Young Minds and Mouths

  Christmas Kidchat: Holiday Questions for Kids (and Kids-At-Heart)

  Give It Some Thought: Quotes to Remember, Questions to Ponder

  Who We Are: Questions to Celebrate the Family

  The Conversation Piece 2: A New Generation of Questions

  Have You Ever…: Questions about You, Your Friends and Your World

  The Check Book: 200 Ways to Balance Your Life

  The Talk of the Tee:

  A Collection of Questions for Tigers, Hackers and Every Golfer in Between

  Toe Tappin' Trivia: The Country Music Question Book that Gets You

  Singin' and Keeps You Guessin'

  Think Twice: An Entertaining Collection of Choices

  The Conversation Piece Collection

  The Mom and Dad Conversation Piece

  The Christmas Conversation Piece:

  Creative Questions to Illuminate the Holidays

  The Conversation Piece: Creative Questions to Tickle the Mind

  In memory of three great men: my late dad, Alan Nicholaus; and my late grandfathers, David Raymond Johnson and Herbert Nicholaus

  For Grant

  May the true joy of Christmas always be in your heart

  Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.

  —Robert Brault

  …to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  IT'S BEEN ABOUT SIX MONTHS SINCE that cool and rainy June afternoon when Grandpa passed away. Last Christmas Eve, he predicted that he would not be around to celebrate another Christmas with us, but of course we chose not to believe it. As was often the case in our family we were wrong and Grandpa was right.

  THE FIRST FEW MONTHS WITHOUT GRANDPA were hard for many of us, as the long summer seemed to fade ever so slowly into fall. But fall in traditional fashion, picked up the pace and quickly changed to winter, bringing with it five inches of snow last Saturday afternoon. Inspired by the beauty of December's first white blanket, my wife, our six-year-old daughter, and I spent the evening bringing all our boxes of holiday decorations down from the attic.

  IN THE PAST, PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS in our household was more likely to produce a few good arguments than it was to create feelings of goodwill. The commotion of Christmas came early and often, and bright spirits rarely lasted past the first batch of cookies.

  THIS YEAR, HOWEVER, THINGS APPEAR to be headed in a different direction. The disagreements, fussing, and overall busyness that usually accompany the month of December are, by and large, absent; sincere joy and a true sense of peace seem to be present in our lives. There is no doubt in my mind that Christmas—and dare I say life in general—has taken on a new meaning, not only for the three of us here but for other members of our family as well.

  AS I OPENED THE LID ON THE FIRST BOX we carried down from the attic the other night, the very first thing that my fingers grabbed was an off-white envelope containing the Christmas letter Grandpa had given to me last year. For a few brief seconds I stared at the envelope, acutely aware of the fact that the letter was here but Grandpa was not.

  IGATHERED MYSELF AND SLOWLY OPENED the envelope, pulling out the letter, now nearly a year old. As I did this, I looked down at the box and saw something else—an old metal train that I put at the base of the Christmas tree every year. At once, tears welled up in my eyes and a feeling of loss began to consume me.

  YOU SEE, THE TRAIN AND THE LETTER WERE—well, I suppose that I should take you back a year, to Christmas Eve, and explain exactly what happened on that very special night….

  WE WERE CELEBRATING CHRISTMAS at my parents' house, the aroma of simmering spices filling the air and the sumptuous dinner only minutes away from making its grand appearance on the holiday table. For the ten members of our family it was a typical Christmas Eve.

  Conversations ranged from talk about the new home my aunt and uncle had purchased to my dad's new membership in the local country club. I was just beginning to explain why my career had become so demanding of my time when Grandpa, uncharacteristically interrupted.

  “I HAVE SOMETHING FOR EACH OF YOU,” he said, his weakened voice sounding momentarily stronger. “I'd like to hand them out now while we're all seated together.” He called to my mom in the kitchen and beckoned her to take her place at the table. The roast had about ten minutes to go, so she came and sat down.

  “What's going on, Charles?” inquired my grandma, his wife of sixty-four years.

  Grandpa let out a deep sigh. “As you all know, I'll be eighty-six next month, and I'm not feeling any better as my days progress. This may very well be the last Christmas I get to spend with all of you, so I want to give each of you a personal letter from me.” He began to distribute nine sealed envelopes, one to each family member seated at the table.

  “WHAT'S THE LETTER ABOUT?” asked my wife. She, like the rest of us, was a bit confused by what he was doing.

  “I'd like each of you to open it up right now, in front of me. I'd really like that,” Grandpa said. He paused briefly before continuing. “John, why don't you start?”

  MY DAD LOOKED AT HIM FOR A FEW SECONDS and then slowly tore into the envelope with his finger. He looked inside, obviously perplexed, and pulled out a letter—a hand-cut, red velvet letter—the letter A.

  “IDON'T GET IT,” Dad said very matter-of-factly.

  Without providing an answer, Grandpa told my sister, seated next to my dad, to open her envelope. She looked around at all of us and pulled out a red velvet letter M. She and my dad both looked at each other now, but neither knew what to say.

  Grandpa motioned to each and every family member sitting at the table. When it was Grandma's turn, she pulled out the letter H; soon the letters R, I, and two S's appeared.

  “YOU'RE NEXT,” GRANDPA said as he nodded toward my wife. She opened her envelope and pulled out the letter C.

  I was the last one to go. I eagerly opened my envelope to reveal the letter T.

  Grandpa sat at the table smiling and looking around at us as if we should have understood what was going on. Unfortunately, we didn't, and finally my sister spoke what was on all of our minds.

  “GRANDPA, THE LETTERS ARE BEAUTIFUL, but what are they for?”

  At this, his facial expression and voice inflection changed. He was glad that she had asked; in truth, he really hadn't expected any of us to know what this was all about. Leaning slightly forward in his chair, he spoke softly but with authority.

  “EACH ONE OF YOU IS SUCH AN IMPORTANT PIECE of Christmas to me, and I want you to always remember that. The letters that you have spell out the word C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S. Take any one of the letters away, and C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S, for me, would not be complete.”

  IT WAS AS IF SOMEONE HAD TURNED THE LIGHTS on in our heads. We suddenly understood: Each of us was an integral part of Christmas to Grandpa, and he wanted us to have these letters so we would always remember that after he was gone. He had even punched holes in the top of each letter so they could be hung as ornaments on a Christmas tree. But we soon came to find out that there was much more to these letters than any of us knew.

  PROCEEDING IN THE ORDER OF THE LETTERS as they spelled out C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S, Grandpa spoke to each person, beginning with my wife.

  “Susan, I gave you the letter C. Do you have any idea why?”

  After a brief hesitation, she reluctantly admitted that she didn't.

  “The letter C stands for Cookies—your cookies. Every year, just like this one, you bake a batch of my favorite anise cookies and put them out on Christmas Eve. We both know that nobody else in this family likes them or eats them except for me, yet you bake them anyhow. The fact that you make those cookies just for me—year after year—means more to me than you'll ever know.”

  A gentle smile crept across my wife's face. What she deemed as a very simple task was obviously incredibly meaningful to Grandpa. He turned next to my grandma.

  “SWEETHEART,” HE SAID WITH A TWINKLE in his eye, “the H is for Horse-drawn sleigh. As you well remember, it was sixty-five years ago tonight that you first told me that you loved me, whi
le we were out for a sleigh ride together on your father's farm. That was the first of sixty-five unforgettable Christmases with you, and every year at this time, my mind takes me back to that horse-drawn sleigh ride on that crisp, starry night.”

  Grandma leaned over, clasped his hand tightly, and gave him a kiss. She, too, cherished the memory of that night so many, many years ago.

  “SPEAKING OF DAYS GONE BY, the R stands for reminiscing—specifically, your willingness to let me do it,” Grandpa said as he looked at his son-in-law holding that very letter. “From the first day I met you, you've always expressed an interest in my stories, especially about what things were like when I was growing up and discovering life.

  Very few people I know will listen to those stories, and fewer still actually inquire about them. But you, you've always asked…and it never means more to me than at Christmas, when so many wonderful memories drift back from the past. Whether or not you truly care about what I have to say doesn't matter; it's the fact that you willingly take the time to let me share my life's experiences.”

  My uncle smiled across the table. I, for one, knew that his ongoing interest in Grandpa's stories was sincere. On many occasions he had even encouraged Grandpa to write down the stories for the sake of posterity, but Grandpa had never followed through on it.

  TURNING TO OUR YOUNG DAUGHTER, his only great-grandchild, he said, “The letter I that you have is for Imagination—something that you possess so abundantly, and something that I wish we all had more of. To an old man of nearly eighty-six years, your imagination is more refreshing than any words could ever describe. What I wouldn't give to see life through the eyes of a child again, especially at Christmas…what an incredibly magical time of the year! I hope that you never lose that childlike wonderment—and always remember how much it meant to me.”

  “What does imagination mean?” our daughter inquired. All of us around the table chuckled at the innocence of her question.

  ADDRESSING HIS OWN DAUGHTER, he explained why the letter S belonged to her. “The S is for Solo,” he said.

  Every year since she was sixteen, my aunt has sung a solo at the midnight service at church on Christmas Eve. Grandpa explained that each year her beautiful voice would bring tears to his eyes as he sat with Grandma in the back of the balcony and listened to her sing. Grandpa—a man who rarely verbalized his deepest feelings for his children—had never shared this with her before, and I could tell that my aunt was overcome with happiness.

  I HELD THE T AND I WAS NEXT.

  “The T is for Train,” he said to me. The word was not even out of his mouth when it struck me: Every year, under our Christmas tree, I place an old metal train on some rusty tracks—Grandpa's train from when he was a young boy. He was the son of immigrant parents, and it was the first real Christmas gift his dad had been able to buy for him. Grandpa had given the train to my dad when he turned six years old, and my dad had given it to me when I reached the same age. Knowing that someone still cared about that train—still placed under a tree after eight decades—was so significant to him.

  Yet I had never given any serious thought to its emotional value; for me, it had simply been something to fill space under the bottom row of pine boughs.

  Whether or not he meant to do it, Grandpa was delivering a lesson worth remembering: It's the little things in life that often mean the most.

  LOOKING AT MY TWENTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD sister, he said, “M is for Mistletoe—yes, mistletoe. It's no secret that nobody wants to go out of their way to give a kiss to a wrinkled, elderly man—I sure wouldn't if I were you! And yet you do it every single year. You catch me standing under that mistletoe hanging in the archway of the front door, and then you always run over to give Grandpa a Christmas kiss on the cheek. I love you so much for that.”

  My sister had that mixed look of being both slightly embarrassed and highly flattered at the same time.

  MY DAD HAD THE A. I was pretty certain that I knew what his letter stood for, but I held back the urge to speak my thoughts. The stage that night belonged to Grandpa.

  “The A is for Angel. Even after all these years and the fact that you've got a wonderful family of your own, you still let me put the angel in place at the top of your tree. Remember the year that mom and I couldn't be there for the tree-trimming party? You kept the angel off the top until two nights later, when we could finally get to your house. Your willingness to let me have an important part in that annual event is something that has always meant a lot to me.”

  “It has always meant a lot to us, too,” my dad answered. “It just wouldn't be the same if you didn't top-off the tree.”

  TURNING TO MY MOM, his daughter-in-law and hostess for the night, he completed the explanation of the letters.

  “This S is for Spices…the ones that you simmer on the stove every Christmas Eve. It's funny how certain scents bring back such wonderful memories and how they can almost transport you to another time and place. When I was a child, my mother used to simmer cloves and cinnamon on the stove during the holidays. My parents could never afford much of anything, so at an early age I learned to savor even the smallest of pleasures; one of them was Mother's Christmas spices. Every year when I smell that in your house, you take me back to her kitchen during the holidays. I'm very grateful to you for that.”

  My mom beamed from ear to ear. Until that moment, she never knew that the smell of those spices was so meaningful to Grandpa. Unintentionally, she had been giving him a gift that he treasured year after year.

  GRANDPA LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR, breathed a deep sigh, and repeated what he had said just minutes before.

  “Pull those letters out every year and remember the important piece of Christmas that each of you meant to me.”

  My aunt got up from her chair and began walking over to give Grandpa a hug. Suddenly, he reached for one more unopened envelope, hidden on his lap.

  “IHAVE ONE MORE PIECE OF CHRISTMAS that I'd like to share with all of you,” he said.

  My aunt stopped in her tracks and then slowly moved back toward her seat, no doubt curious about what he would do next. As he opened the final envelope, a look of incredible resolve came over Grandpa's face. It was as if he wanted us to believe that this was the most important envelope any of us would ever see opened; in many ways, it was.

  AS EACH OF US FIXED OUR EYES ON GRANDPA, wondering what this last letter was going to be, my mom spoke up.

  “What letter are you going to show us, Dad? All the letters that represent C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S have already been handed out.”

  He reached in and with a slightly trembling hand pulled out one last letter, larger than the others. It was the letter J.

  BY THIS POINT IN THE EVENING, I was getting pretty good at guessing what each letter represented. A couple of thoughts raced quickly through my head. J? Maybe it stood for Jingle Bells, but that didn't seem to be worth its own special envelope. Then it hit me: Santa hadn't been mentioned yet in the course of the discussion. Creative as Grandpa was, the J might stand for Jolly Old Saint Nick. What would Christmas be without him? That had to be it!

  A FEW SECONDS SEEMED LIKE LONG MINUTES as we anxiously awaited the explanation. Then Grandpa spoke: “Without this letter, all the other important pieces of Christmas wouldn't mean nearly as much—not to me, and I hope not to you either. The letter J is for Jesus.”

  Like everyone else seated at the table, I was stunned at his response. We waited to hear more.

  “I know that I've never been an overtly religious man,” Grandpa declared. “But I want all of you to know that in my heart, this letter J—what it stands for—is the most important of all.”

  WE WERE STILL RECOVERING FROM his unexpected response when he raised up the letter in front of his face so that all of us could have a clear look at it. And then he said something that I'll never forget.