A Treasury of Christmas Stories by Editors of Adams Media Page A

Kevin Johnson from Orlando, Florida.”
    â€œHello, Kevin. You live near Disney World,” Santa signed back. “You’ve been very good this year. What would you like for Christmas? A Pokemon?”
    I knew that was probably what all the little boys had asked Santa for, but Kevin’s eyes lit up as if Santa knew him personally.
    â€œYou’re the real Santa,” Kevin signed.
    â€œAnything else?” the rosy-cheeked Santa asked.
    Kevin quickly moved his hands to cross his chest.
    Complying, Santa stretched out his arms to give him a giant hug. Tears came to my eyes as I raised my camera to capture the moment.
    All children are special, I know that, but “special” children like Kevin sometimes get shortchanged on the simple joys of childhood. Truly that anonymous Santa in Memphis — a retired schoolteacher who gave his time and his heart to children who needed to communicate in their own way — embodied the spirit of giving.
    Michele Wallace Campanelli is a nine-time national bestselling author who has written more than twenty-five short story books and many novels, and whose work has also appeared in anthologies. Her personal editor is Fontaine M. Wallace.

That’s Love
    By Peggy Vincent
    W ITH THEIR SIXTIETH wedding anniversary approaching, my parents still make moon eyes at each other. They’ve been together since high school, and their love is so obvious it sometimes embarrasses their grandchildren.
    Mom massages my father’s feet as they watch television. She reads aloud to him on car trips, trims his ear hairs, and fluffs up his pillow every night. She goes on cruises because he loves the sea; she just makes sure she has a bestseller in her luggage.
    Because he likes to go grocery shopping, she lets him. She knows he’ll bring home at least ten additional items and three of them will always be a can of Dinty Moore beef stew, a bag of dried kidney beans, and a half gallon of some bizarre ice cream, pineapple-blueberry once. She even had a bowl, but just one. He ate the rest himself.
    Humming “On the Sunny Side of the Street,” she pulls him to his feet and says, “Bill, dance with me,” and he does. The dog barks and jumps on them as they waltz past, and Dad twirls her in his arms.
    My father, smiling beatifically, sits for hours in Nordstrom’s shoe department while Mom tries on staid pumps and shiny black sling-backs. He smiles as he puts four pairs of new shoes into the trunk of their Taurus.
    Once, with white hair shining like cake icing, Mom came from her bedroom dressed in a polka-dot jumpsuit, cinched by a wide belt with an ornate silver buckle. My father told her she looked “like a hot mama.” She smiled, very pleased with herself.
    My father keeps the pantry stocked with her favorites: Hershey bars, Reese’s peanut butter cups, and chocolate-covered graham crackers. He stirs up another batch of rich chocolate sauce for her daily ice cream sundae. He doesn’t make fun of her when she puts flashlight batteries in upside down. He warms up the car for her in winter, grills steaks just the way she likes them, fixes homemade biscuits on Sunday mornings, and never misses a chance to tell her she’s beautiful.
    But he’s never gotten the hang of buying her a Christmas present. His habit is to slip away at 9:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve and go to Walgreen’s. Coming home by 10:00 p.m. with rustling plastic bags, he stays up late waging war with wrapping paper, cellophane tape, and ribbon. Year after year, the same two presents appear under the Christmas tree for my mother: a Whitman Sampler and a large bottle of Prince Matchabelli perfume. Mom always acts surprised as she unwraps them. Then she makes a special trip across the room to plant a kiss on his cheek.
    Shortly after Thanksgiving, fifty years into their marriage, Dad hinted that he’d bought a special Christmas gift for his wife. I stared at him. My father