A Treasury of Christmas Stories Read Free Page B

Christmas well stood, its cylinder shape topped off with several inches of snow, its tongue and wheels hidden. The bright yellow light of the lamp played over it and gave it a curious glow — like the manger in the Nativity scene under the star. It was impossible to see into the gloom around it. There was only the well and the snow rushing down from the sky. I felt utterly alone and at peace.
    I put down my pails.
    â€œMerry Christmas,” a neighbor said as she peered around the other side of the well.
    â€œAnd a Happy New Year,” said another. “What a beautiful night.”
    From beyond the well, a line of scarves, hats, and coats dusted with downy snowflakes stepped forward with their pots and pails to say hello. My neighbors’ faces were red with cold but each had that particular smile of goodwill and humor that had brought us to the well.
    Christmas had come. A broken water pipe had not delayed it. We would gather our water and carry on with our lives as if nothing had happened. Except that something had. With each pot and pail of water we carried away, we also took a new sense of community and resourcefulness — and perhaps the true meaning of Christmas.
    I live in the Northwest now, where we rarely get snow at Christmas. But each Christmas Eve, I think of that snowy night when I went to gather water at the Christmas well. As I turn on the lights in my windows and on the Christmas tree, I look outside at my tree-lined street to where a city light stands guard above the hedges. I don’t even have to close my eyes to see the Christmas well glowing there under its light, the snow falling down on its cylindrical shape and the neighbors gathered around. It is etched forever in my mind.
    Let us always be neighbors to one another, not only during the holiday season, but throughout the year.
    Janet Lynn Oakley is the education curator at Skagit County Historical Museum in LaConner, Washington. She has published school and museum curricula as well as articles in historical journals and popular magazines, completed four novels and a picture book, and enjoys a good family yarn.

Star of Wonder
    By Carol Tokar Pavliska
    T HE DARKNESS , though encompassing, was anything but quiet and still. Three little figures bounced along in front of me, flashlight beams jerking spastically around, revealing split-second images: fencepost, pasture, dirt, packed clay, yellow coat, green cap. My husband reached over and held my cold hand in his large, warm one. He squeezed once to let me know he was aware of my gloomy mood.
    I stepped up my pace, determined to outdistance the shadow of sadness that followed me, so as to share in the joy of my family’s winter ritual. This was the night of our “cold walk.”
    It was a perfect night, really. Rarely in our South Texas climate does the first cold night of the season happen to hit on the night we first turn on our Christmas lights. But on this night it had happened. We were able to take our cold walk with the added bonus of viewing our Christmas lights from a distance.
    After a long, extremely hot summer and a short indistinguishable fall, the first cold front to blast across Texas is a noticeable event. There are some who say we don’t have a true change of seasons in South Texas, but with or without leaves in various shades of red, when an icy wind slaps you in the face immediately on the tail of a warm southern breeze, you’d better believe you notice it.
    When I was a child, my father had celebrated this exciting change in the weather with a cold walk. After a summer and fall spent in shorts and sandals, my sister and I were awkwardly bundled up in our somewhat foreign coats and hats. We then headed out into the darkness, leaving our mother behind to stir up some hot cocoa with which to welcome us home.
    We’d walk with our dad, basking in the shocking chill that we knew could very well be gone by the next day, replaced again by balmy air. Over