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

doing Christmas shopping in November was unheard of. And he was so obviously pleased with himself.
    On Christmas morning, I rooted under the tree branches and found a huge package that looked like a coat box. I turned the tag over and read, “For my beloved wife,” in my dad’s scratchy handwriting. I shook it. No rattle. Definitely not a Whitman Sampler or a bottle of perfume in disguise.
    I handed it to Mom. She looked at me with raised eyebrows. I shrugged, and we both looked at my father. He was about to pop.
    â€œOpen it. Open it,” he urged, flapping his hands.
    As Mom picked at the edges with her fingernail, careful not to tear the paper, my father squirmed.
    â€œHurry up, hurry up,” he said, bouncing in his chair.
    â€œBut dear, it’s a big piece of paper. I can reuse it.”
    â€œI’ll buy you all the wrapping paper you want and more. Just open it,” he begged.
    Finally, she slipped off the Santa Claus paper, folded it in quarters, set it aside, and began to deal with the tape at one end of the box. My father couldn’t contain himself. He leaped out of his chair and slit the tape with a rough movement that nearly ripped the top off the box. Then he thought better of his actions, handed it back to her, and sat down, chanting, “Come on, come on.”
    Mom pulled back the tissue paper and lifted out a pink quilted bathrobe with a chain of daisies appliquéd around the collar and across the top of the single pocket. She smiled and crooned, “Oh, Bill, dear.”
    But she absolutely refused to meet my eyes.
    I looked in my lap and bit my cheeks, trying to keep from laughing.
    My father said, “The moment I saw that bathrobe, Mary, I knew it was made for you. I looked at it and thought, That bathrobe looks just like my Mary. I didn’t even check the price. I just found a salesclerk who looked about your height and weight and asked her to pick the right size. And I bought it.”
    I marveled even more at my mother’s restraint in never telling him the bathrobe that “looked just like her” was identical to the one she’d been wearing every morning for the past five years.
    She gave the old robe to Goodwill and wore the new one for another five years. Now, that’s love.
    Peggy Vincent , a retired midwife who has “caught” more than 2,500 babies, is the author of Baby Catcher: Chronicles of a Modern Midwife , a memoir. She lives in California with her husband of thirty-seven years and her teenage son. Two adult children live nearby.

A Swahili Christmas
    By Elaine L. Schulte
    â€œH OW WOULD YOU like to go on a photo safari in East Africa for Christmas?”
    â€œA safari in East Africa?” I repeated to my husband.
    The idea conjured up images of great adventure — and a pang of reluctance. “It sounds wonderful, but it just wouldn’t seem like Christmas, and the boys wouldn’t want to leave their friends… .”
    He handed me a travel brochure, and the colorful pictures of zebras, giraffes, elephants, and wildebeest in Kenya and Tanzania made the prospect more enticing. But we’d have to give up the usual Christmas expenses.
    Part of my brain said, Go, it’s the chance of a lifetime! But another part argued, It just wouldn’t be Christmas without a tree and gifts.
    He showed the brochure to our two young sons. They looked at the wildlife animals and whooped, “Let’s go!”
    â€œNo Christmas tree or presents,” I warned them.
    â€œWho cares?” they answered.
    We made reservations for the two-week trip.
    As the departure day approached, I was torn between the excitement of going and the sadness at giving up our traditions. The meteorologist added to my regrets with predictions of a white Christmas. In Africa, it would be summer.
    On December 23, we flew to London, and changed planes to fly on to Kenya. We landed, exhausted, at the Nairobi Airport, and were driven by