The Book of Christmas Virtues by Jack Canfield Read Free Book Online

outside to tell his mother. Amid teary hugs and broken thank-yous, we sent them on their way, with Michael clasping the precious, gift-wrapped present to his chest. All of us were proud of Michael’s commitment to his project and his devotion to the dad he loved so much.
    A few weeks after Christmas, a shabbily dressed man came into Loy’s and limped directly to my desk.
    â€œAre you the lady my son Michael talks about?” His voice was gruff and as oversized as the man himself.
    When I nodded, Mr. Murphy paused. He cleared his throat.
    â€œI’ve just come to thank you for all your help and patience. We don’t have much,” he picked at his worn glove, “and I still can’t believe that youngster would do this for his old dad. I’m awful proud of him.”
    Rising from my chair, I walked around the desk to give him a hug. “We think Michael is pretty special, too. As we watched him pay off that desk set, it was clear he loves you very much.”
    Mr. Murphy smiled in agreement and walked away. But as he approached the door, his head swiveled my way and he blinked back the tears.
    â€œAnd you know what? I don’t even own a desk!”
    Binkie Dussault

Fair Game
    The real intent of our holiday trips to my wife’s family in Oregon is for her to visit with her sisters and niece, along with shopping and cooking, of course. So I’m left twiddling my thumbs a lot, nobody to play with. Except my nephews Adam, Jimmy and Tyler.
    A few years ago, I initiated an “Uncle and Nephews’ Day” when we go out in force and spend time together doing something, somewhere. Bowling, skiing on Mt. Hood, whatever. Unbridled fun and freedom from parents with rules that only uncles and nephews share. Secrets and promises kept, love secured.
    This time, I suggest a drive to the Coast Range west of Portland to an elk refuge called Jewell Meadows where hundreds of magnificent Roosevelt elk congregate.
    â€œIt’s awesome,” I assure my nephews. “Warm steam shoots from their black nostrils as they sound an eerie paean,” I wax poetic. “We’ll hear big bulls bugle their mating calls and see them proudly standing at attention as they oversee their harems.”
    The nephews say they’re game.
    On a cold, damp December morning, nephews and uncle—puffed in parkas—pile into an old sedan and head west in anticipation. The guys are loose again!
    Now, Uncle hasn’t been to Jewell Meadows in a couple of years maybe, but feels certain he knows the way.
    Wrong.
    Taking the well-remembered turnoff to the north and the I’m-sure-we-go-left-here crossroad, the beige Volvo wanders onto snowy mountain roads that become more and more unfamiliar.
    The three nephews, ages twelve to fifteen, hurl taunts that are immediately challenged, which escalates into an exchange of witticisms and good-natured personal insults.
    It’s a guy thing.
    It’s how guys show love: taking potshots at each other, poking at each other’s weaknesses and sensitivities. It’s primitive preparation for the competitiveness they’ll face as men in this still occasionally Neanderthal world of aggressive mentalities. Whether blue- or white-collar combat, it’s all the same. This banter toughens them and keeps them tough, with an underlying, supportive subtext of love.
    An uncle is a special being, both buddy and adult authority figure. More slack than dad, more unguarded camaraderie. An equal for a nephew—but an equal with acknowledged wisdom amid his playfulness.
    An uncle is like a god, but pleasantly flawed and bemused by earthly existence. An uncle lets you in on the secret: Nobody really knows what life is all about, but don’t worry about it. Be a good person and enjoy life to its fullest.
    Heck, everyone’s lost in the winter woods looking for elk and laughing their tails off over Uncle’s ramblings. Ain’t it great?
    After two hours of