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

wandering—with the required detours: roadside pit stops to pee, snowball fights in drifts with dog piles of nephews on top of Uncle, then pushing the car back onto the road from icy shoulders—Uncle stumbles onto the road to Jewell Meadows.
    But today, the long-sought meadow—historically populated with 400 to 500 regal animals against verdant green grass and bucolic woods beyond—is abo-so-lutely . . . empty.
    Not an elk in sight.
    â€œSo, Uncle, where’s the elk? We don’t see any elk.” Nephews are on Uncle’s case.
    Uncle’s heart sinks; his male ego falters; his child leadership merit badge is at risk. Uncle’s macho dissolves into nacho.
    â€œI don’t know,” Uncle stammers. “They’re always here, hundreds of them. This is weird. Maybe they’re off in the tree line browsing. They do that sometimes. Let’s get out of the car and walk up to the fence. Take the binoculars, too. They’ve got to be here somewhere.”
    All four guys zip up parkas, snug down wool caps, grab the binocs and creep to the fence.
    Eyeing the tree line some three hundred yards across the meadow, they stare and stare. They begin to hallucinate. First, individually, then en masse.
    â€œI see one.”
    â€œLook over there, just past that big, funny-looking bush.”
    â€œTHERE. See it? See, it’s moving.”
    But no amount of conviction unearths an elk. It’s cold; snow is on the ground; they’ve crossed the continent for the Promised Land and there’s no gold. No milk. No honey.
    Nothin’.
    Uncle rallies. “Oh, I get it.”
    Eyes hopeful, the three defeated nephews swivel their heads as one in his direction.
    Uncle nods knowingly. “It’s Christmas time, that’s why.”
    â€œHuh? What’s that got to do with it?” all three demand.
    â€œRemember . . .” and, on the spot, Uncle begins a serenade. His voice floats over the entire meadow, a new twist on an old carol.
    â€œNo-o-elk, No-elk . . .”
    The nephews are stunned. They actually lean away from Uncle, mouths agape, struck dumb, incredulous.
    â€œNo-o-elk, No-elk . . .”
    They can’t believe what they’re hearing. Adam, the eldest, recovers first. “You brought us all the way out here to do THAT?”
    In turn, the others arrive at the same conclusion: They’ve been had. Shagged. Deceived. Misled. Tricked.
    â€œAw, man.”
    â€œI can’t believe it.”
    â€œDu-ude . . .”
    They turn from the fence and toward Uncle. He’s about to be a dead man. He knows it—and he can’t wait.
    The nephews attack full force, wrestle him down, pound on him, sit on him, jump on him and pelt him with snow. He resists not at all.
    It’s great. He earned it; he loves it. He loves them.
    And they love him.
    James Daigh

Nothin’ Says Lovin’ Like . . .
    Christmas was coming, and I didn’t have one ounce of spirit or energy. I couldn’t even muster a half-hearted “ho-ho.” I was a gray heap of sorrow, enmeshed in my own pity party.
    I had taken a last walk with my closest friend that year and still grieved her passing. Neither of my away-from-home daughters would be able to get back for the holidays. My recently retired husband, grappling with his own identity, didn’t or couldn’t see that I was a mess. My joints ached; I felt old, looked old and was losing my grip on things that had always been so sure and steady in my life. I slogged through my days, unable to even recognize myself.
    I mourned for the past when everything ran smoothly: The girls were growing; I was busy and involved in their lives; my husband was working. My grief had reached crisis proportions after our move across town a few months earlier. Even my neighbors had been replaced with strangers.
    I tried walking the new neighborhood. I tried holiday shopping. I even saw a movie or two. But I felt like I had lost my